Afterlife: Do We Need It?

 

Yes, we do — as much as we need this life, severely, passionately, undeniably. We cannot do without this life, and so we cannot let go of it. The hope of an afterlife is nothing more than holding on to the life we already love so much.

We are human, after all.

I always said I was not afraid of death, only of dying. Whether I lived or died felt like no big deal — the lightness of being and not being.

But it was not so light.

One night I watched a documentary called How to Die in Oregon. The first person we meet is Roger, who had chosen to take the lethal medication under the state’s Death with Dignity law. Surrounded by family, he thanks them, thanks even the wisdom of Oregon voters, and then drinks. His face is calm, almost serene. There was such a peaceful countenance about him, such ease in how he accepted reality, that it left an impression on me.

A few nights later, I dreamt I was in his place, on the same sofa, with the same glass of orange juice in my hand. The powder was mixed in. My elbow was bent; all I had to do was complete the arc and bring the glass to my lips. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t move my arm. My whole body resisted. I woke in sweats after the struggle. More than ten years have passed, and I still remember that night: the weight of my own attachment to being.

We are attached to this existence. It is the greatest treasure we have, and the burden to protect it is enormous. As some sage once said, the fear of dying is the greatest fear of all, hiding under every other fear. It is heavy to carry on our shoulders.

But what if we could lighten it? What if we could say: this is not all we’ve got, there is more. This life is only a train stop. Just finish this rotation, and your next appointment will be in heaven. Suddenly losing a beloved friend is not the end, but a consolation — she is in a better place, waiting for you. Just a few years more, and all will be well.

With this promise, we no longer have to carry the unbearable weight of absence. The hole left by someone who was once a part of our days can be filled — or at least covered — by the belief that they are not truly gone.

Well, now that we are thoroughly present to the fact that we are human — in our existential angst, our NEED — we invent a deity (or a bunch of them), someone to hold our hands the way our parents once did. Not only in this life, but even in this imagined space of the afterlife. The question is: can we at least contemplate a place where there is no need for an afterlife?

We humans are, if nothing else, imaginative. We are powerful enough to invent entire universes — Marvel, Star Trek, Star Wars. Gods, too. So why can’t we imagine a place of no-gods?

But in that realm we are suddenly alone. No one to hold our hands. No consolation. Life shows up just the way life shows up. When a tree barely misses our car in a storm, we don’t have to say God saved us. And when a tree falls on our car and kills a child — just upping the ante — we don’t have to say God has a plan. We can simply say: that was lucky. Or: that was very sad.

We created the god(s). We gave them authority enough to make ourselves believe that they could guide our days, and when that was not enough, to promise a better place after life’s end. Yet in fashioning this doll to play with, we forgot when and how it became our ruler — a being with the power to bless or to punish. We could just as well have remembered that the gods are ours to use, ours to set aside when the play is done.

As Mircea Eliade once wrote: “Man seeks the sacred because he cannot live without it; he structures time, space, and society around symbols of the divine he has created.”

Yes, we need a god. We need a promise of an afterlife. Without them, this life can feel even heavier. But there is also the chance that we could unshackle ourselves from the wish for a god or an afterlife, and live only here — with all our sorrows and joys, hopes and despairs, marriages and divorces, deaths and births. With the sky, the grass, the rivers, the butterflies, and the hornets. We could simply be here, fully.

I’d genuinely welcome your thoughts — whether you agree or disagree. But if you feel like sharing, I’m especially interested in your personal reflections… how you navigate these questions, if they matter to you. And if this resonates, feel free to share it with others who think or wonder along similar lines.