Moon

Over spring break (Yep, another post about spring break. What was I supposed to do besides sit around and think?), I watched a fantastic little movie called Moon. I don’t want to give too much away, but it involves clones. And of course, when we’re talking about clones, we can quite naturally talk about personal identity.

One particularly interesting thing about the clones was they were implanted with the same memories and started off with the same bodies, yet they took on completely different personalities and characteristics. One spent years working on a small model town, while another was fond of exercising and punching bags. But even with these differences, they really believed they were Sam Bell. They thought there was continuity between their memories and their “activation.”

Emotions and actions are absolutely vital to the plot of the film. Sam and Sam struggle to come to terms with the stunning realization that they are just clones. How real are emotions, then? How important are actions? And how real are we? The moon base’s AI was continuous; the clones died. Time means something, even to clones. In this case, especially clones.

What are the implications for this in regards to the afterlife? We’ve talked a lot about how personal continuity plays a large role in describing some meaningful continued existence, but to what degree? Sam and Sam and Sam and Sam all had a continuity of memory. They even had a continuity of body organization. But they weren’t the same persons.

I think resurrection could potentially have the same problem with personal identity that the issue of cloning has. Hypothetically, if I was cremated and God created a new body for me ex nihilo, would I be the same person as before? Or if the body I possess now was resurrected, what would preserve the link between me now, in this body, and the person then, in this body?

It’s late and this is all making my head hurt a little. The only thing that’s clear to me is that I should have taken Science Fiction and Philosophy or Minds and Machines.

This post contains heresy

Over spring break, I spent a few days with my close friend Zach. We had a fantastic time hanging around Omaha, and as always, we had some excellent conversations.

One of them in particular really got to the heart of everything we’ve been reading this semester – and perhaps it influences how I think about most things.

The truth is, I am offended by death.

I know, I know – that’s the wrong answer. I’ve always been taught that death isn’t something to be feared; after all, it’s lost its sting. And hey, before Jesus saved us from God, we deserved it anyways.

Maybe this is normal and maybe it isn’t, but those teachings have never comforted me. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more hypocritical than when I’ve reflected on the fact that I am a Christian who doesn’t want to die. I know many people who, at some point in their life, “struggled” with this lack of comfort, but many of them claim to have “gotten over it,” as if it was some sort of phase.

I’m not necessarily offended that we die just because, I’m particularly offended because it seems to put humanity into one of those “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” dilemmas.  If we die, the consequences are pretty obvious. Before considering the afterlife, the implications are that we cease to exist, and we are torn away from the people that we love most. That is, if they aren’t torn away from us first. But in this harsh reality, rich meaning is cultivated by the ephemeral nature of life.

On the other hand, even if we are saved and continue on existing in some afterlife, that existence is going to be altered. You can refer back to my post The Problem of Heaven for three reasons why this might not be that great. But the same problems as before seem to spring up. We might still cease to exist as the persons we are, and the people we love most might still be torn away from us – or worse – altered into other persons as well.

And even if we did not die at all, the problem of monotony would begin to loom on some eternal horizon. Could we find any meaning if we lived forever? Even Tolkien’s elves grew weary of Middle Earth after little time had passed. We’re only human, and we can’t sail westward when we’ve grown tired.

I don’t have any answers here. But I’m not content to just shrug my shoulders, either.

God's mystery begins where our curiosity ends

Heaven is a catch-all.

I’m sorry, but that’s the conclusion I’ve come to after twenty-one years in evangelical circles. Intricacies, mysteries, and genuine problems can all be explained away by uttering that single word. Heaven.

As I was growing up, I had a lot of questions. Questions about God, questions about people, questions about the way the world worked. Sometimes I was given answers, or better, a trailhead from which to explore from. Sometimes I was honestly told “I don’t know.” But other times, I was dismissed with a comment like this: “I guess we’ll never know until we get to heaven.”

This might be true.

Some things are a mystery, I’ll happy concede that. But when God's mystery only begins where our curiosity ends, I think we do enormous damage to ourselves and others by cheapening the mysteries of God. Mystery should never be used to stifle exploration. And heaven is anything but a cop-out.

I don’t think that the people along the way were malicious in their answer. Often enough, they had good intentions. They wanted to be sure I didn’t do something terrible, like disagree with them. But I think their assumptions were wide of the mark. And well-intentioned or not, the response had negative implications. Convictions, even when honestly held, have practical implications in life. It is vitally important that orthodoxy and orthopraxis are not separated, and if your doxa isn’t leading to orthopraxis, it might not be as ortho as you think.

What is subtly caught-and-taught in this kind of environment is that everything is primarily assessed by its compatibility with a particular paradigm, namely, the one you already assume to be true. Exploration is okay – until it crosses some mysterious line into the uncomfortable, at which point one can be condemned for searching out inexplicable mysteries, or worse, having the hubris of trying to understand the workings of God.

Here are some examples:

• It’s okay to explore evolutionary theory – as long as it is how Ken Ham presents it.

• It’s okay to ask why bad things happen to good people – as long as you don’t question penal substitution – or worse – still have nagging doubts despite having “straightforward answers.”

And ironically this type of thinking can even make its way into beliefs about heaven and the afterlife. Serious questions about the fate of everyone can just be put off until we “arrive.”

I think this is disastrous. The mysteries of God are huge, unfathomable. We can never plumb their depths. And that is exactly why they are worth exploring.  

Surprised by Hope: Part 2

My last post dealt with the past, and this one will deal with the future. I’ll try to keep it brief, as you are quite capable of reading the book for yourself! Instead, I will pull out just a few key ideas from this part.

Tom begins with two great cosmic pictures: progress and despair. The first is represented by what he calls an evolutionary optimism, which assumes that everything is almost fatalistically moving towards the good. History, in this view, is a long and steady march towards perfection. The second is represented by the idea that we are merely souls in transit to a better place. Getting off this rock we call earth is taken to be a blessing, and Plato has dominated the landscape here for millennia. However, Tom says both views are mistaken. The heart God’s plan lies in the renewal of creation. Resurrection is part of that renewal.

The initiation of the future will be marked by the second coming of Christ. Now, this has been a big issue in evangelical circles for decades. Left Behind works off of a very particular theology where Christians are taken away from the world, or rapture. And Tom thinks that many people, at least in America, have it all backwards when they adopt this into their own personal theologies.

The go-to proof-text on this issue is I Thessalonians 4:16-17. Much emphasis is placed on the line, “We… will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord.” If this is taken in an absurdly literal fashion, based only off of the English translation with no regard for the cultural context, it might be possible to get to Left Behind. But the Greek word used is parousia, which is associated with a royal or divine presence. When the Roman emperor would visit a city, the people would go out to bring him in. In this passage, it makes more sense that Paul was saying that we will meet the Lord in the air as he returns, not as one who will evacuate his people, but one who will be fully present in the kingdom already established.

So what is the ultimate hope for Christians according to Wright? It isn’t heaven; at least not as that “other place” it is often imagined to be. Rather, it is in the life after the life after death. It is in the Kingdom of God, on earth, in resurrection bodies.

Surprised by Hope: Part 1

In Surprised by Hope, N.T. Wright is “rethinking heaven, the resurrection, and the mission of the church.” But, in his appeals to the early church and orthodoxy throughout the last 2,000 years, it is pretty clear that he doesn’t really think he is coming up with anything new.

Tom divides the book into three major sections, but the first two are the ones that immediately concern the topic of the class I’m taking. It only makes sense that I cover each in a separate post. The first part, titled “Setting the Scene,” lays out not only modern preconceptions of the afterlife, but also the preconceptions held by many people during the first century C.E.

In the beginning of the book, Tom offers a qualifier, one that all Christians should take seriously in any discussion about the afterlife. “All language about the future… is simply a set of signposts pointing onto a fog.” This is not out of line with 1 Corinthians 13:12, where St. Paul says, “For now we see through a glass, darkly.” (KJV) Tom hasn’t died, I haven’t died, and you probably haven’t died either. Our best guess is still just our best guess, even with the Bible’s aid.

So, what is the main thrust of the book? What is the point? Tom says there is not just one, but two matters he wishes to address; two matters that are often separated, he thinks, unwisely. The first seems quite obvious. He wants to give us a picture of the afterlife, of the hope to come. And the second point does relate to the first, for it too considers hope. But not some distant, detached future hope; Tom says there is hope for the world, right here, right now. Tom would probably disprove of my doing so, but I may end up separating the two.

Tom then goes on to present a myriad of views people hold about the afterlife, a variety that can be quite dizzying. It might be helpful to put them in some categories to help understand them better. So, what happens when you die? There are three most basic lines. The first is… nothing. Death marks the end. You are annihilated, or just cease to exist. The obvious converse view would be that something happens, and that catches the other two broad viewpoints. The second point here is that is some general continuation of your existence, although you as a person might not really realize it. A prime example of this would be reincarnation. The third and final point takes this to another level by not only claiming that there is some continuity to your existence, but that this continuity ensures your personal survival. There is not only a continuity of existence; there is a continuity of identity. Tom is clear that the third is the Christian hope.

So, what do we do with death if we have this hope of continued existence? Tom thinks death has been a subject of confusion, even among Christians. Some see death as a bitter enemy, while others see it as a dear friend that will take us to a better place. The nature of the afterlife in general is a matter of confusion, as many hold to some Platonic view of a disembodied continuation away, over there, in heaven. But what about resurrection? Creedal Christianity holds to the belief that “We look for the resurrection of the dead.” And of course, the climax of scripture comes on Easter Sunday with the resurrection of Jesus.

An appropriate place to start, then, is in the past, with the resurrection of Jesus. What we think of that will determine a great deal of what we think of all the rest. Tom is a historian, so he gets to work as one. First, a quick note on rigid literalism, or Biblicism. Tom has no reservations pointing out the many differing details in the resurrection accounts across the gospels. Blinding holding to a doctrine of inerrancy can be a most unhelpful belief. Instead, a messy account is more likely to be true. For instance, at a trial, identical witness accounts are the ones that get singled out for being “too good to be true.” There’s something fishy about witness testimonies corroborating too closely. So as a historian, he gives quite a bit of weight to the gospel accounts of the resurrection. They have the marks of true history.

He continues by framing first century Judaism in its context. For the most part, pagan cultures rejected the notion of any sort of resurrection. The idea of resurrection only really took root in some sects of Judaism. The Christian hope did burst on to the scene, but not out of the blue. The early church’s view of the afterlife was derived from Jewish thought, and not just a wholesale replacement. The striking thing isn’t how similar the early church’s view of resurrection was to Judaism; it is how removed popular Christian thought is from its historical roots. Resurrection is not the mere continuation of the self, or even a glorification to some other realm. No, it is a renewed physical existence. Our model, as Christians, should be the resurrected Christ.

The Problem of Heaven: A Trilemma

I will die. That is accepted by everyone. But what happens afterwards?

When talking about the afterlife, there are really two broad options. (1) I will be dead and nothing will happen. My neurons will stop firing and my existence will have come to its end of ends, or (2) I will experience some kind of afterlife or some sort of future state of continued being.

Most of our thinking on this topic this semester stems from option (2). According to Christian doctrine over the course of the last 2,000 years, there are two (or three) live options: Heaven or hell (or purgatory).

In an article published in Ratio titled “The Problem of Heaven,” Brian Ribeiro presents a problem that would seem utterly ridiculous at first pass to many evangelicals. He starts with the assumption that, if hell were to exist, no human being could possibly desire it. But he sees no reason to have to defend such a position. Instead, Ribeiro himself says he is setting out to “defend the view that no human being has any reason to desire to spend eternity in heaven – if there is a heaven.” He ultimately argues that every path leads to a sort of hell, or at least a state that no human being could desire. His argument against the desirability of heaven takes the form of a trilemma, resting on three horns, which can be paraphrased as such:

(1)    If I stay myself, an eternal heaven cannot be desirable.

(2)    Basking in the eternal light wipes away any semblance of self.

(3)    There is a loss of identity in the transition between me and “my” transformed self.

The first horn depends on how time relates to human nature. As it stands, to be human is to be mortal. Temporal limitation is an inseparable part of our existence. Starting with this widely held assumption, Ribeiro thinks it is possible to make two claims: First, all significance and meaning in our lives is tied directly to the fact that we will not live forever, and secondly, that if we were to live forever, eternity would have no meaning and would be a state of infinite monotony. It is only in relation to this limit that anything is meaningful.

The first claim, that meaning is tied to our impending death, says that destroying the restraints of mortality would also destroy the possibility for any significant choices. What makes a choice significant, though? A choice is significant if it entails some sort of loss, a divergence of paths, in which the direction not chosen can never be chosen again. For example, many people struggle with choosing a course of study and career path. The significance, to a lesser extent, lies in whatever value is ascribed intrinsically, but perhaps the greatest factor that contributes to significance is the fact that we only have one shot at life. While it is possible to take many paths in life, the very act of choosing a path results in the death of another. However, if time was not a constraint, there would be no real choice in anything. The unchosen paths can always be revisited if there is an infinite amount of time to work with. Then choice only becomes a matter of sequence, not significance.

The second claim is related to the first. If we live forever, and the significance is stripped from our choice, how can we find meaning, or even pleasure? Ribeiro thinks there is absolutely no way around the problem that to do something ad infinitum leads to doing it ad nauseum. There is absolutely nothing that we could do that would not eventually become dull and tedious. So, in our eternal quandaries, the problem of meaning leads to the problem of monotony.

Of course, on earth, we find many things to be enjoyable. It is even very possible to say that some are intrinsically enjoyable. And to take this further, let’s suppose that there are things which are not only intrinsically enjoyable, but also intrinsically significant regardless of choice, contrary to the first claim. Even judged independently from the problem of significance and meaning, Ribeiro thinks the problem of monotony remains. Of course there are “repeatable pleasures,” but in the grand scheme of things, a human lifespan doesn’t give much time for repetition. Let’s make this an exercise. Take a moment and think of the most satisfying thing you could possibly do. Now imagine doing it for trillions of years. In the infinite ocean of infinitude, those trillions of years are not even a drop. You haven’t made any progress whatsoever towards an end. Is there anything that can survive that amount of repetition?

Eventually even our deepest desires, when fed for eternity, damn us in a most sardonic way.

I can see another problem that stems from this that Ribeiro doesn’t mention. Even if we start from the assumption that there will be an infinite number of intrinsically satisfying things to fill eternity with, there seems to still be some danger of monotony. Instead of each individual thing becoming monotonous, the mere act of always doing something else might itself become dreadfully arduous. Your meta-activity consists of doing various things, and thus the monotony would affect this meta-level.

That’s Ribeiro’s defensive of the first horn of the trilemma. If we were to retain our personal identity, heaven could not be desirable because nothing would be meaningful and all pleasures would become repetitive to the point of intolerance.

The defensive of the second horn rests upon the common view that heaven will consist of “basking in the divine presence.” The concern here, of course, is that the very process of being bathed in glory leads to an impersonal existence.

There can be two routes here. Either the blessed are “bathed” forever, completely entranced by the splendor of God, or they are still aware of something else. The second route quickly ends up in the first horn, where the awareness and ability to think or do something eventually leads to meaninglessness and unfulfillment.

So let’s consider the first route a bit more. Becoming completely lost in the eternal light might very well entail just that: All personhood is wiped away. Without self-consciousness, there doesn’t seem to be a case that the being that was once you is still a person. At best, it might be like a sort of hypnosis, where all perception of others is destroyed by the blinding light, but this distinction doesn’t seem very satisfying to me, because the result is still the same.  

Ribeiro is adamant that this is just about all that is needed to defend the second horn. So while the first centered on the impossibility of me enjoying heaven if I remained the person that I am now, the second centers on the absurdity of me desiring to become something impersonal, whether by becoming a non-person or some kind of hypnotized zombie.

But is there a way past these two horns? Christians often talk about a glorified existence, of a final and ultimate sanctification where I will be made perfect while still remaining me at some essential level. However, Ribeiro thinks that the process of perfection will ultimately destroy me as a person. Thus the defense of the third horn rests upon the problem of personal identity, as Ribeiro thinks that “At best, some other person enjoys his heavenly home, not me.”

Ribeiro’s argument against a continuity of identity is based upon four elements of heavenly transformation:

“The heavenly changes we are considering will be (1) instantaneous, (2) radical, (3) unmixed, and (4) directed from without.”

While Ribeiro recognizes that our personal identity has some flexibility to it, as all of us change throughout our lives, he thinks that the extent of change involved in glorification severs the continuity of self-consciousness that make me, me. So while the person in heaven may very well be a person, with my memories and perhaps some of my personality quirks and characteristics, that person is ultimately not me.   

It might help to look at the four elements in a little more detail to see just how Ribeiro thinks personal continuity is lost in heavenly transformation. First, the change is instantaneous. While we do change throughout our lives, it is generally a gradual process, where there is some conservation of identity each step of the way. Glorification happens instantly upon death and entry into the new life. In a way, the gradual nature of earthly change keeps that change from being too radical. It is clear that the nature of glorification is radical in every sense. On earth, even if a change is radical, it is still mixed, i.e. change for the better and change for the worse will occur. Heavenly change promises to be unmixed and entirely for the better; no flaws are retained or even possible. The fourth and final element is rather important. We usually think of identity-preserving change as self-directed, but the heavenly transformation would be directed from without, with God doing the change himself.

Ribeiro likens the heavenly change to a divine mule kick. On earth, if I were kicked in the head by a mule and my brain was damaged, it might cause an instantaneous, radical, and outwardly directed change in personality, perhaps to the point of breaking personal continuity and thus creating a new person. The change doesn’t even necessarily have to be unmixed to consider this possibility. The heavenly transformation promises to be even more radical than this. Ribeiro says, “This new choir member has different hopes, different plans, and different faculties than I do. He has lost my hopes and fears, my projects and concerns.” And this is the crux of the matter for him. He addresses purgatory briefly, but reaches the same conclusion. The fact that Ribeiro 2.0 has different hopes, plans, and faculties is enough for him to consider the defense of the third horn complete.

Thus the impenetrable trilemma stands. Heaven cannot be desirable to me, because (1) it would drive me insane through hellish monotony if I stayed as I am now, (2) it would make me into a non-person, and (3) it would destroy me and create another person in my place.