Will I ever cease to be?

Is there anything permanent in me?

From certain ranks of secularism comes a conclusion that all things eventually will become annihilated; that all this laborious pain, this jubilant, colorful, volatile, dancing and expanding Wow, after serving its momentary purpose, is to be thrust into cosmic oblivion.

Man, on this view, is a temporary event, a fleeting figure in a cold, indifferent cosmos.

For some this view contributes to a sense of alienation and despair. For others it deepens an appreciation for this infinitesimally brief moment we have to voyeur upon the grandeur of the universe, to plunge the depths of human genius.

Needless to say, whether we believe in the here-only or hereafter, no one truly wants the party to end. Not really anyway.

As a practitioner of the believing class, I find it odd that we tend to forget something about this situation, something so vital to our affections and sympathies which characterize the knowledge of ourselves, the laws of our existence, and our relationship to both.

We forget that the history of the universe is inside each of us, quelling us, as it does, with a reminder that our bodies have a multibillion-year past, that every cell and bodily organ was synthesized inside the magma of hot stars, which exploded spectacularly amid swirls of gas and multicolored flames, and how from those bits of stellar debris a history was born that would shape atoms to form molecules, molecules to form cells, and cells to eventually evolve into intelligent solar systems—our corporeal solar systems.

Our cosmic identity is in part related to this starburst stuff, and yet, notwithstanding its critics, this explosive genesis, or big bang, details only the assembly and expansion of our physically-sired bodies, but says nothing of its spiritually-sired inauguration. Our ultimate identity, that which is fundamentally us, our primal selfhood, is uncreated and indestructible, and, when prompted by curiosity, is susceptible to enlargement and refinement, governance and enlightenment, until it has been quickened in all of its social, emotional, physical, intellectual, and spiritual attributes akin to the eternal pattern of those who came before.

Personal identity, in other words, is guaranteed forever.

Death, like all events, is lived through.

Death is, as the poets say, nothing but a comma, a pause, that separates life from life everlasting.

My task here is not to argue for or against this kind of wishful musing. Nor is it to examine the credentials which would be presented if the questions were raised, “Why is this believed?” or “How is this known?” Instead: Suppose this is the truth about man—what does it mean, and what follows? What are some important consequences of accepting this idea in the modern world?

One conclusion that follows from an everlasting identity, or intelligence, is that it would be susceptible to enlargement. Hamlet’s pseudo-question “To be or not to be?” would be correctly reworded “To become or not to become more?” The immortal intelligence would recognize itself on an eternal journey, in the midst of other intelligences like itself, and would long to be adapted to its sphere of continual refinement, always fine-tuning its locomotion, research, action, and enjoyment.

By successive, small, transitional gradations, eternal man would soon unlock the mysteries of the veiled cosmos, and would conceive or conjecture that beyond the limits of his own horizon there may exist other unexplored shores, other more intelligent beings who may exist after the similitude of his own sphere. By improving his knowledge of the orders, regularities, and patterns of the universe, both physical and spiritual, he makes new utilitarian discoveries, sees new habitations, enlarges his geographical knowledge, and begins to realize that his worldview has been too provincial, too shrouded in disbelief, and that there may be bigger worlds, other intelligent seers, and more untapped potentials than were dreamed of in his philosophies.

Let this process go on for millions of years, and, during each millennial passing, eternal man would come to see himself as limited only by the poverty of his own imagination. And coming to know himself, his origin and destiny, takes a lot of imagination. It takes disciplined imagination, the kind that is sensitive to scientific verity yet nevertheless is rooted in a powerful narrative placing him at the center, stripped of tired metaphors and trite aphorisms.

Such a narrative will inspire him to commit acts of love, real love, joined to an action, a gesture, or a deed commensurate enough to create a psychic heaven here and now, step by step, drink by drink, and will give him the tools to contemplate, for a moment, the possibility of reaching beyond his horizons toward distant objects, distant planets, distant spheres, distant sleeping selves, awakening to those selves, and then, through graduated degrees, will help him refine them, feed them, and tap into their infinite rabbit-hole potential, recognizing that, for the first time, he is a deeply special person with profound superhero powers, godlike powers, the kind of powers that germinate within him the seeds of kindness, forgiveness, and integrity, the seeds to connect, to progress, and to create for himself his own dream, his own Tao, his own fiction impossible, his own celestial kingdom—or, in short—his own that which is not yet within reach of his locomotive powers.

The entire mystery of our past and future, respecting where we came from and where we’re headed, has not yet been solved by mortals. We are still in a rudimental state, awakening, as it were, to something more delicate and pleasing, like a bud which gradually develops into bloom, and then, by degrees, bears the fruits of maturation.

And thus we see: The question was never about whether God exists or not, but whether man is, indeed, immortal.