On Ultimate Significance

It's only a matter of time.

Have you ever made a sandcastle near the ocean shore at low tide, knowing that it would soon be erased by the waves? It probably happens thousands of times every day. Kids (and kids at heart) carefully craft the moat and courtyard, drizzle a spire of wet sand on each lofty tower, stand back to admire their work. All while keeping in the back of their mind a solemn understanding that all good things must come to an end.

Of course, it may not even occur to the youngest beach builders that their efforts will be washed away. They work with such determination that the incoming surf takes them by surprise. When the water finally crashes through their frantic attempts at a defensive wall, they can only watch and mourn the ruins of their once-mighty fortress. But even for these naïve castle-makers, their sorrow at the destruction of their castle does not outweigh the satisfaction they got from creating it. If you asked them, most would say it was all worthwhile.

Those who believe in eternal life sometimes wonder how the rest of us can live with the fact that it's all going to end someday. Even if we could use technology to achieve biological immortality, we would still ultimately be limited by the heat death of the universe in roughly 10¹⁰⁰ years. So, they ask, what's the point of trudging along each day if it's all futile and meaningless in the grand scheme of things?

To which I answer: Why build that sandcastle?

Because you enjoy it while it lasts. Because you treasure the memory as long as you can. Because its very impermanence is what makes it so special.

Further, I put it to them: What is it about the prospect of eternity that imbues our existence with meaning? I don't see how the mere existence of an endpoint in any way negates our current actions, or how the lack of one is needed to validate them. In fact, the more you start really thinking about what really eternity means, the harder it is to imagine it as anything other than a fate worse than death. If you lived for another 10^1,000 years, you'd probably be too busy going mad with boredom to think back on how significant your life was 10^1,000 years ago.

Savor your life in the here and now—everything, from your fast food burger to your wedding day. If not for you, then out of respect for all those who will never get to. Because out of the countless quadrillions of people that could have been born to live a short life on this little blue planet, you are here.

You are here to gaze up at the stars and ponder your kinship with the universe. Be glad that you can reflect on the past, relish the present and make your mark on the future. And even though that mark will eventually be washed away in the waves of time, be grateful.

Be grateful, because you didn't have to be here—but you are.

Through the Pearly Gates (Part 2)

I posted part one of the story yesterday. Here's the second one.

*     *     *

Gabriel stared at Stephen, sizing him up for almost a full minute. The eyes covering his wings appeared to follow suit. Stephen couldn't meet his gaze and instead turned away to look at the lavish furniture and décor. Everything in the house was fashioned from some precious material: sapphires, gold, silk, pearls. The smell of incense was heavy in the air.

"Uhm... wonderful place you've got here," Stephen offered.

"You have one just like it, you know."

"I do? Well, that's... that's nice, I guess. But, uh... how do I put this. What's it all for?"

Gabriel frowned. "I don't understand. Don't you find it beautiful?"

"Well, sure. But you can't just look at shiny trinkets until the end of time, can you?"

He shrugged his wings. "To each his own, I suppose. But now I must be getting back to worship our Lord and Master. It's been far too long already."

"Wait! I came here to ask about my daughter. I can't find her, and my wife is... well, there's something wrong with her. She doesn't remember things properly, and she's acting very strange. Stiff. Very happy, but in an oblivious sort of way. It's hard to explain. Can you help me?"

"Very well," said Gabriel. "What is your daughter's name?"

"Sophie. Sophie Lane."

Gabriel walked over to a corner of the room and began rifling through a massive tome identical to the one Stephen had seen at the pearly gates.

He turned and said simply, "Her name is not in my book."

"I... I don't understand. What does that mean?"

"She chose the Pit."

The room was spinning. "She... what?"

"Sophie never accepted our Lord and Master, so she was sent to the other place."

The words clanged dissonantly in Stephen's head. "But... she was so young."

The angel shifted his wings. "I'm sorry, but all who are old enough to reject our Master's gift are sent to the Pit. Is there something else I can help you with, or shall I go?"

The floodgate opened and the tears came streaming down. How could it be? Sophie had always been an inquisitive girl, always asking why, but Stephen had never imagined that she hadn't accepted the faith she was brought up in. He remembered those innocent round eyes, that carefree smile, and he collapsed in grief as he realized that he had lost her forever.

*     *     *

When Stephen opened his eyes, his surroundings had changed. He was in a room that appeared to be fashioned out of glass, but he decided that given the divine obsession with pointless riches, it was more likely to be diamond. Through three of the thick walls he could make out blurry gold hues of heaven, while the one in front of him had a surface that reminded him of his featureless white cubicle. A pang of loneliness snapped him back into the moment, and he would have collapsed to the floor in sorrow again if not for two powerful hands that grabbed his arms from either side.

"This is exactly what I was talking about, Raphael," said Gabriel. "There is to be no sorrow or crying in heaven, and those are all this man seems capable of."

"Not surprising," said Raphael, maintaining a firm grip on Stephen's right arm. "He ended his earthly life so he could reunite with his family. It would certainly be a disappointment to learn that your daughter chose the Pit and your wife chose erasure."

Stephen let the heat of his anger burn through his tears. "What did you do to my wife?"

"Calm yourself," said Raphael. "When your wife learned the fate of your daughter, she reacted in much the same way you did. We had no choice but to erase her memories of Sophie. But before we could do so, she begged and pleaded with us, told us she would never think of her daughter again. I judged this to be a lie, and our Lord will not tolerate the presence of such sins any more than He will allow sorrow. And so to avoid having to send her to the other place, we removed her rebellious nature as well."

"But that's ridiculous!" cried Stephen. "As long as people have free will, everyone is going to sin eventually!"

Gabriel gave him a small smile. "You have spoken correctly. With our heavenly bodies and our closeness to the Almighty, it becomes easier to avoid sin, and some of us devote ourselves to the Lord so completely that we maintain our autonomy for eons. But in the spiraling depths of eternity, some act of disobedience is inevitable. In the end, everyone faces erasure."

Stephen looked hard into the two blue eyes fixed in Gabriel's head. "Have you?"

The archangel's smile disappeared. "Enough of this. It's been hours since I bowed prostrate before our Master. Raphael, would you mind—"

"To hell with you and to hell with your god," Stephen bellowed. "I want my wife and daughter back!"

Two groups of eyes looked at one another, then at Stephen. Gabriel offered his diagnosis. "This one is beyond help. He is so consumed with evil that after erasure there would be nothing left."

Raphael nodded.

A large gash opened up in the blank wall in front of Stephen. He had expected it to reveal a cavern filled with angry red flames, licking at the legs of people chained to the walls. Instead he saw... nothing. Blackness blacker than soot, so all-encompassing that he imagined at any moment it would burst from the chasm and swallow him up.

He had expected a cacophony of tortured screams. Instead he heard... nothing. In fact, the silence was so intense that it seemed to absorb sound from the room he was standing in. And then he heard it: a single bone-chilling cry, from what sounded like a great distance, that echoed continually but never completely disappeared.

There was a push from behind, and Stephen knew it was the end. During his fall into the Pit, it occurred to him that the wailing he heard was so inhumanly shrill that it would be impossible to identify who the voice belonged to. It could have come from anyone—even Sophie. Had his sentence been total isolation, his memories of her might eventually have been eroded away by the relentless waves of time. But those helpless cries would never allow him to forget what he had lost.

As the pinhole of light in the ceiling began to close, Stephen heard the last coherent words he would hear for the rest of eternity:

"As you writhe in the darkness, always remember: God still loves you. That's why He gave you a choice."

Through the Pearly Gates (Part 1)

Welcome home.

The following is a story I wrote about one man's experience in heaven. Christians make heaven out to be a place of eternal bliss, and I wanted to illustrate why the picture they paint glosses over some horrifying details. While my depiction will differ somewhat from how most believers understand heaven, it's all based (directly and indirectly) on the description provided in Revelation and elsewhere in the New Testament.

*     *     *

"Stephen Lane?"

"That's me." Stephen gazed up at a radiant winged figure who was standing behind the lectern, flipping leisurely through an impossibly large book. The angel paused dramatically.

"You're in. Welcome to heaven."

The gates of pearl swung open, letting out a light so brilliant that it was almost blinding. Stephen could hardly believe it. At last he would enter into the realm of the Almighty—and at last he would be reunited with his beloved wife and daughter. He walked along the sparkling path in wonder, surrounded by gold and jewels that would put even the most glorious earthly kings to shame. Every now and then he would pass a fellow saved soul. Each one was smiling serenely, as though they didn't have a care in the world and never would again. After a while he came to a clear river with massive trees planted on either side.

And there, under a tree with pomegranates that glistened like rubies, was his wife.

"Rebecca!"

How long it had been since Stephen had felt her warm embrace? It must have been... just over twelve years. He remembered because she had passed away when Sophie was only three. He had spent seven long years caring for their daughter on his own. Then she was hit by a pickup one rainy evening, and suddenly he was alone. He had spent another five years in isolation and misery, plodding to and from a featureless cubicle each day until he just couldn't bear it anymore. But now, now he would have the rest of eternity to share with his family.

"I'm so glad to see you, dear," said Rebecca. Her smile seemed to outshine even the divine brightness of their surroundings.

"And I, you," said Stephen. "So, where's our little girl? I can't wait to get us all back together again."

Rebecca tilted her head slightly. "I'm sorry, who?"

"Sophie. Our daughter. Where is she?"

"I don't know who you're talking about, honey. We never had any children, did we?"

Stephen just stared. "Look, this isn't a joke, Becky. I've waited five years to see her, and I didn't k—I mean want to see both of you. It's been so long, and I just need things to be how they used to."

"If you're looking for someone, you'd best go see one of the seven archangels."

Tears began to form in the corners of his eyes. "Why are you being like this, honey? Why won't you take me to her?"

"Don't do that, Stephen." Her tone was not angry or even stern, but merely flat. Seeing his confusion, she uttered, as if it had been seared into her mind:

"There shall be no more sorrow or crying here."

The words were so cold and lifeless that they could have come out of a machine.

"Wh... what?"

"Oh, I know!" said Rebecca, the music returning to her voice. "Let's go worship our Lord! No one could ever be anything but joyful in His presence!"

It was then that he noticed her forehead. It was marked with a word in Hebrew, יהוה, that he recognized as the unspoken name of God. From that single detail, he somehow knew that the woman in front of him would be of little help in finding Sophie.

"Come on, dear! I just know you'll feel better once you bow down before our Master! Besides, it's been over an hour since I last praised Him for His boundless love and glory."

"Becky... do you think you could point me to the nearest archangel? I need to find our dau—um, I need to find someone."

She sighed. "Suit yourself. I saw Gabriel leave from worship at the same time I did, so he's probably in his mansion right about now."

She pointed downstream to a golden house gleaming in the distance. And from there they parted ways.

*     *     *

Part 2 will be up tomorrow. [Update: Here it is.]

Truly Big Ideas

"So you don't believe in anything?"

All too often, that's the reaction that atheists get when they say they don't believe in God, or spiritual beings, or the afterlife. How (theists ask) do we go on living without believing that an almighty yet loving omni-being is always at our side? Aren't our spirits crushed at the notion that there's no guardian angel watching over us? Why bother to get up in the morning without the prospect of an eternal trip to Disneyland tacked onto the end of our lives? These are the sorts of "big ideas" that provide comfort to Christians—such great comfort, in fact, that they wonder how anyone can function without them.

But when it comes to creating big ideas, Christianity cheats by slapping the descriptor "infinite" onto its god and its afterlife. This forces people to assign them infinite importance, so that the rewards that reality promises can't hope to compete. Yet Christianity's infinitely wise and powerful creator, its promise of an infinitely lengthy stay within the confines of its pearly gates... these concepts ring hollow upon closer inspection. They turn out to be hopelessly shortsighted: mired in the culture they were thought up in and rife with unintended consequences. If we really stop to think critically about God and the afterlife, we may find that they aren't so comforting after all.

I talk about God a lot, so I'll take heaven as my example. The most vivid description we find in the Bible is in the final chapters of Revelation, but the cultural presumptions of the author are evident. Heaven is supposedly surrounded by walls, and "its gates shall not be shut at all by day (there shall be no night there)." Walled cities were common in ancient times, but if everyone who isn't in heaven is in hell, why does it need walls and gates at all? Who are they trying to keep out? Then there's the fact that the author seems bent on cramming heaven with as much gold and as many precious stones as possible—sapphires, emeralds, you name it. Each gate is made out of one giant pearl. I'm sure that sounds like heaven to an impoverished man exiled on the barren isle of Patmos, but that sort of garish decor would lose its novelty in just a few years. (He also says that "the city was pure gold, like clear glass...and the street of the city was pure gold, like transparent glass." Not sure how that one's supposed to work.)

The author cheerfully reports that "there shall be no more death, no sorrow, no crying...no more pain," which sounds nice enough. But wait... no sorrow? What about remembering those who are suffering in hell? Is God going to make us incapable of sorrow? Is he going to remove our memories of those we lived with—friends, parents, children, spouses? My memories of those I've spent time with are a crucial part of my identity, and taking them away is in a very real sense taking away a part of me. The author also portrays heaven as a place of constant, eternal worship. I challenge even the most ardent Christian to tell me sincerely that endlessly praising God is really their idea of a good time. Finally, he says that heaven will be a place free from sin. But what if a few billion years down the road I happen to tell a white lie to one of my fellow worshippers? Sin seems inevitable... unless we've somehow been made incapable of it. How could God prevent sin without removing my free will to sin?

And so heaven, which sounds so lovely on the surface, turns out to be a place where people are made into artificially happy, groveling, sinless robots. Once the veneer of peace and joy is stripped away, it's revealed as just another totalitarian dystopia. Christianity's "big ideas" on the afterlife fall flat. In his article "31 Laws of Fun," philosopher and futurist Eliezer Yudkowsky outlines what a real utopia might look like: it should be a place of liberty and autonomy, of novelty and challenge, of excitement and discovery. It should mess with our environment before taking the huge risk of messing with our core identities. Our experience should be a social one, emotionally involved, continually improving, filled with pleasant surprises, and not overshadowed by superior beings. Heaven fails on almost all of his criteria.

So can we do better here in reality? Can humans provide a more interesting and genuine paradise than the early Christians dreamed up? I think so. How likely we are to create a utopian future is debatable, but it's certainly possible. Sufficient advances in genetics, artificial intelligence, energy production, nanotechnology and space travel could mold our world beyond anything most people have imagined. Such fanciful notions as matrioshka brains, mind uploading and friendly AI could one day become a reality. There's a very good chance that we'll never reach our goal of a future utopia, but what's exciting is that we have the opportunity to try. It starts with education. If we can teach ourselves to think rationally and value the long-term welfare of humanity, many of the obstacles we now face will eventually fade away. A carefully measured combination of science, ethics and critical thinking would pave the way for big ideas that we can truly look forward to.