Time and place and transience

Part 4: I don’t want what is precious to be gone and lost forever

We are used to the idea of God being the repository of all good values, but I now want to put forward the idea that he is also the repository of all experience.

We’ve met the idea before of timeless God, who experiences everything that is happening, everywhere in the universe, everything that has happened and everything that will happen, all simultaneously, in a timeless present. Let’s relate God’s experience to my own.

I am picturing now my daughter on her 3^rd birthday. That event is long ago – just a memory, but as I recall it now, the experience that I had then is present to me again. I am aware that I am still in this room now, typing, but in my experience I am also reliving a moment from her 3^rd birthday. And I think the idea of “reliving” the experience is a fair one. It is not like looking at a photograph of her 3^rd birthday, where the photo is an artefact, taken on that day, which I can now hold in my hand and observe. The photo may also spark off my actual memories of the event, in which case the photo has simply served the purpose of assisting me to bring to mind the event. As I recall the event, I am experiencing at least some of the things I saw and felt on that day.

Now, when I am dead, that memory will be gone. My wife was the only other person present at that event, so she also has memories of my daughter’s 3^rd birthday, but, in fact, the memory I am holding in my mind now happened when my wife was out of the room, so I am the only person in the world who has this memory. So, when I am gone, the memory will be gone too. This actually also applies to my daughter. As she was only 3 at the time, she probably has no memory of her 3^rd birthday, but if she did, her memory would not be of her, sitting in her chair, in her pretty blue dress; her memory would be of me looking at her, sitting in her chair.

So, we are talking about a memory of an event that happened a long time ago. The event is “lost” in the sense of being long gone – just part of the transient flux of life. Yet the memory of it is still present – for as long as I am here, the memory still exists. However, if God is real, God also experienced the event. As he is always present, everywhere, and as he is “present in my head”, God has exactly the same memories of the event as I do. (In fact, he has more because, for example, he could observe my daughter from all points of view, and, if I popped out to the loo and missed 2 minutes, God did not miss it.) So, God actually has exactly the same memories as me, as, because he lives in me, he sees things from exactly the same point of view as me.

I believe that this is a really important idea. What it means is that, when I am gone (even if there is no life after death in heaven) I still exist in the memory of God. As God reviews his memory of me enjoying my daughter’s 3^rd birthday, in just the same way as I relived the event as I remembered it, so God relives the event. The event is, at least to some extent, happening again in the mind of God. In fact, as an omnipotent God, if for some reason (though this would not happen) God found his memory of the event inadequate in some way, he could recreate me and my daughter on her 3^rd birthday so that he could experience the event again. As I say, he would not need to do this, because his memory would be sufficient to bring the event alive again to his mind – just as my memory is sufficient to bring the event alive to me now.

Time and place and transience

Part 3: What is it we’re really searching for?

So, what is it that gives being in a time and place – and whatever we do in that situation – significance?

Is, in fact, transience a problem? Does it matter that an event has happened and is now over? Is it demeaned in any way by not being permanent? In fact, how can any experience be permanent? Our lives have to be a constant flux and flow of different experiences in order for things to happen to us. Otherwise we become like sentient statues always experiencing the same view. However, this being so, what of permanent significance is being “deposited” in me by this flow of experience?

Let’s suppose I have one of those “treasured memories” moments – a “peak experience” that I will always remember – say for example, a family celebration for an important achievement. The celebration was wonderful, but now it is over. While it was in progress, I could not have felt more fulfilled, and as I look back on it now, it still fills me with joy and a deep sense of satisfaction. But it is now in the past. What is my ongoing relationship to that event? Or am I asking a foolish question? Yes, it was great, but it’s finished; my attention now must be on the next event in my life – even though that is much more mundane. However, my entire life is just a series of “one thing after another”, and one day it will come to an end and I will be gone. The problem is somewhat exacerbated by the fact that we can’t help hypothesising how we will feel after we are dead. We perhaps imagine ourselves looking at our dead body which has just collapsed and want to continue our process of acting in relation to that event. When, in reality (if there is no life after death) our consciousness has simply ceased – cut off in mid-sentence, like watching a film and a sudden power cut makes the screen go blank. We are so used to being alive that we imagine ourselves thinking, “What the heck’s going on here then!?” When in reality, all thinking has stopped – for us, anyway.

Nevertheless, it is not unfair for us to reflect now, while we still have the ability to think, what our life means, and taking up the imaginary standing point of looking down on our recently ended life is not a bad viewpoint. We can imagine ourselves thinking, “Hmn, that’s a shame; I was enjoying life. Now what on earth does that all mean?”. The harsh, but perhaps truthful answer is: “Nothing, mate!”. However, we hope there’s more to say than this. What might that be?

Time and place and transience

Part 2: You can be happy if you give up searching – but only by accepting you are lost in meaninglessness

The Greeks’ concern with transience seems to be about a search or desire for our actions to have some substance. If everything is transient, does this mean that our lives – so important to us – are really meaningless?

Jumping to the present day, postmodernism has enjoying attacking the foundations of reality and purpose by denying that there is any such thing as objective reality or ultimate purpose; everything is indeed transient and meaningless. This is often a destructive idea, undermining the foundations of society and of individuals’ sense of identity and purpose. However, some postmodernists turn this around into a liberating thing. If human beings have tormented themselves in the fruitless search for the holy grail of ultimate meaning – without realising that the search was always going to be fruitless because there is no ultimate reality – then there is joy and freedom if you accept that there is no such thing. This is because you realise that you have not failed in your quest – there is no holy grail to find. There is no burden of expectation; you are not missing out on anything; your life is not unfulfilled because you didn’t find it. While this could be a cause for despair because you realise that all life is, is a meaningless passing of the time with whatever is the most interesting activity you can find, instead, you joyfully embrace the fact that there is nothing more fulfilling to do than whatever I choose in the present moment. So, I might spend today studying to be a particle physicist, or engaged in gruelling but important charity work, or I may go shopping, watch TV or play bingo. Provided I feel that I have adequately surveyed the opportunities open to me and am happy with my choice of playing bingo, then I can revel in playing bingo as much as though I had found the holy grail. For me, today, playing bingo is the be all and end all of life. There is nothing more than the transient surfing of possibilities within the artificial construction of human society – but if you accept this, and can find possibilities that you enjoy, then your life is, after all, completely fulfilled. If anyone challenges you: “Really?! Bingo?! The prime purpose of your life?!” “Yes! I like bingo”.

This does, in fact, work as a valid logical position. Though we can’t help but feel deflated. Countless planets are uninhabited. I so easily might not have come into existence. Life has the ability to be inexpressibly wonderful, beautiful, profound. And I only have this one chance before dying into oblivion. But your answer to the big questions of life is: “I like playing bingo”. I prefer the Greek questions and answers. Rather than the postmodern “opt out” that either there is no meaning to life, or the meaning of life is whatever surface choice you make about how to spend your time, can we explore further what it might mean for our lives to have meaning and substance, and to produce something of lasting value.

Time and place and transience

(A theological reflection in 6 parts)

Time and place and transience

Part 1: Searching for a place to stand in a river of transience

I realise that I have particular concerns and interests in the issues of what it means to pass time – presumably in doing something in that time, and what it means to be in a place.

And a concern seems to be the problem of transience. What do time and place – and therefore life, for living means being in particular places at particular times – mean? It is, perhaps, the old and very basic concern about the meaning of our lives, given the transience of them, and, even more so, the transience of each moment of them.

One of the first and greatest concerns of the Greek philosophers, as humankind got round to thinking about these things was expressed in the understanding: “You can’t step into the same river twice”. This is because the river is constantly changing and, indeed, the person is also changing.

It’s possible that there is simply no answer to this problem, but the most enduring of the possible answers is Plato’s theory of the Forms. This, basically, argues that things are what they are because they partake in the essence of what they are. Although everything is always changing, you are what you are because you always contain the essence of what you are. This essence – eg humanity – can be expressed in an infinite variety, but everyone who has the essence of being human is human. And, to take it further, even though we are continually changing in the exact particulars of how we are being ourselves, we remain the same person because each of us retains the essence of being me. This theory of the Forms has directed humanity into the belief that there are essences. And, of course, if you have discovered the essence of something, then you “hold it in your hand” and it is yours. The changing nature of life does not mean that you are losing anything precious, because you have “captured” the essence of the thing. Yes, you are constantly changing, but, don’t worry, you always possess the essence of who you are. The river has surged on, but you keep hold of the essence.  

Passing the time

Part 5: Summing up with God

We seem to have two strands of thought running in parallel. On the one hand, it is true that – although we are rarely conscious of the passing of our lives – our lives gain importance from being limited in time. It is because we don’t have time to make infinite choices that the choices we do make become so significant. That wonderful experience of fullness and completeness that I experienced on a family celebration is important because it was a special moment: specially blessed by being overflowing with goodness, and blessed because it a rare moment of wholeness, rather than just one more in an endless series of great parties. On the other hand, our experience of the moment is not impeded or interrupted or spoilt by the sense of, “Oh, but this is passing away”. Our good experiences exist in an experience of timeless bliss. (We must consider what this means for our experiences of suffering).

Let’s finish for now with God. If God is a reality – and I very much hope he is, then he is an eternal being. In the world of philosophers, this raises enormous problems. Aquinas may have got the best idea with his concept that – even better than an eternal God – God is timeless. Sceptics who raise genuine difficulties about how a being such as God could possibly exist may be having difficulties because they do not appreciate just how awesomely wonderful God is. So, even though our “normal” understanding of God is ineffably wonderful, the problems raised may be removed if we enhance our concept of God even further. So, a timeless God is experiencing everything that has ever happened, everything that is happening, and everything that is going to happen, everywhere in the universe, and he is experiencing all this simultaneously in a timeless present. It might be helpful to envisage this for us beings that do live in time as though God was experiencing everything I’ve just said, simultaneously, in each moment of time, over and over again, second by second. For us, as time ticks by, we experience one moment – and then the next. But for God, he experiences everything, every second, forever. Now, I think this is a more mind-blowing stupendously awesome God than even the God that we usually think of.

And, it might be, that such a God is an impossibility. But if God is possible, then I think this is what he must be doing/be like. And, interestingly, this takes me back to sitting by the window, basking in the sunlight this morning. My experience of the moment was of a timeless, eternally present bliss. Rather like God’s experience you might say. Of course, I am only capable of being aware of a very limited range of things at once, while God is capable of being aware of everything at once. But this is not impossible to conceive of: God simply has a greater awareness than we do – no surprise there. And as we consider it, we realise that he must have infinite awareness, and so is capable of experiencing everything at once. Now, if we, in our best moments, are capable of experiencing events as timeless, complete, whole, full (whether they be of bliss or suffering, in fact) then are we not already sharing in the experience of God? And if there is some way of translating our ability to experience from a physical body to a metaphysical reality, then will we not be experiencing an ongoing timeless bliss forever, in the life of heaven, in union with God?

Passing the time

Part 4: Back to consider again if it really would be a bad thing if life went on forever.

Let’s return to the idea of our physical lives needing to be limited by death to give them meaning, for I am not sure that this is true. Certainly, linked to my experience by the sunny window this morning, I seem to be claiming that the experience of the moment is a timeless one, and so, perhaps, it would be possible to live forever without succumbing to terminal boredom.

Here I am, exulting in the morning sunshine of a Spring day, rejoicing in both the experience and my understanding of the experience as signifying the return of Spring and the journey to the longest day. I am 63 years old, and, God willing, I have another 20 or more Springs still to see. Although the world will turn back again to head into darkness, a new Spring will arrive next year, and I hope to be there to see it. However, when I greeted the Spring when I was 21 years old, I had an additional 42 Springs to enjoy than I do now. However, my experience of the Spring when I was 21 was not affected by my sense of, “Wow, this is Spring, and I have another 42 of them to come, and then who knows how many after that”. Instead, my experience of the joy of the Spring was of a moment of timeless bliss, exactly as it was for me this morning. My experience is not, in fact, determined by the sense of a storyline that gets its meaning from ending in the finality of death; it gets its meaning from the fullness of the moment. The idea in Derren Brown’s book is that, if we knew deep down that our life is going to go on forever then our faculties for revelling in beauty, joy and goodness would decay into dust and this morning I would have said, “Pah, not another Spring; how boring”.

There are important questions to consider. Having reached the age of 62, I felt it was OK for me to retire and devote myself to existential experiences such as listening to the birdsong, looking at clouds, being a friend. I don’t feel I need to “do” anything in the life of the world such as find a partner, have achievements at work, make my mark on the world – because I feel I’ve done that and am pleased with what I’ve done. So, I am now free to revel in the sun coming up on a Spring morning. But suppose, human beings typically lived to 120 years and retired at 90. Presumably I would think – and if I did not then others might suggest it to me: “It’s a bit odd isn’t it – retiring at 62; don’t you want to do something with your life before you put your feet up?” I reckon I would agree with this and consider, “OK, I think I’d like a new career, I’ll have a go at doing something different for 20 or 30 years”. Then I suppose at the age of 90 I would retire and listen to the birdsong.

But what if we lived till we were 220 years, or 1000 years? Would we really be able to maintain our interest in what we’re doing, and our passion for life? And if we could not do this for 1000 years, how will we do it for all eternity in heaven? So, there is still much to consider.

Passing the time

Part 3: Eternal life in heaven

Let’s consider now the idea of eternal life in heaven. It is extremely difficult to imagine what this could actually be like if it exists as a literal reality. I have, however, spent nearly all my life as a firm believer in the life of heaven and I certainly don’t want to give up the idea. I have no problem in conceiving it as a wonderful reality – the concept is clear and readily understood in principle, though there are difficulties when we try to consider what it would actually be like to be there.

One of my images of our entry to heaven is of our life like a film in a cinema: as the film ends, illustrating the end of our lives, with all the emotion of the story of the film climaxing in its final moments, as, perhaps, the hero and heroine embrace, their trials behind them, ready to “live happily ever after”, at that moment the film freezes. The whole film has been movement, portraying the story of the characters, but now, as it ends, we go to freeze frame. In the background, the music is still swelling to express the fullness of the emotion, but we can go no further. In our minds, we understand that the story goes on, and is good, but we can go no further as participants or companions of the story.

This illustration is fair, in that it expresses some key beliefs about the reality and goodness of life in heaven, but accepts that we just cannot penetrate any further in this life to conceive what it might be like.

An alternative illustration is taken from the Narnia books. When the characters get to heaven it is visualised as a physical paradise, say as walking in the breath-taking beauty of mountain scenery, but the concept is: “Onwards and upwards”. The idea is that, as you race through wildflower meadows like children released into a holiday idyll, surrounded by utterly stunning snow-capped mountains, you are astounded by the views opening up to you, but as you rise to the crest of the next hill, you see that the next view is just as, or even more, breath-taking. And the key concept of heaven here is that you can go “onwards and upwards” forever; you will never reach the highest crest and come to the end of the unfolding of thrilling experiences. But this does not imply that you have not arrived; that you have not yet experienced all the fullness that it is possible to experience. For each vista is utterly fulfilling, and the next one just as much so.

In our physical existence now, we can become jaded. Even the most magical experiences cannot hold our attention for long. Even if we are not interrupted by someone, we get cold, or tired, or hungry, or need to go to the loo, or we just can’t take in and go on experiencing this degree of beauty and joy anymore. But if it really was possible to keep going “onwards and upwards” forever, and if we were freed from the limitations of a physical body, or if our faculties were more finely and robustly tuned, why should we not retain the experience of complete fullness that never ends?

Passing the time

Part 2: Experience is timeless – but some say it is death that makes life meaningful

The first thing that strikes me, as I consider it, is that the experience of the present moment is, in fact, timeless. Although we understand that each passing moment is just that: passing away to be succeeded by the next, our experience of the present moment is as though it exists in a timeless eternity. So, as I sat in the sun this morning, although I am able to analyse that this present moment exists for a fraction of a second – and then it is gone – to be replaced by the next fragment of a second, and although I understand that this is a continuous process so that the experience of the present moment is almost illusory, and certainly elusive, for the moment the present moment exists it is already on the point of passing away, nevertheless, my experience of the present moment is of timeless bliss. As I accept the reality of the passing of time, but do not allow the focus of my attention to rest on the passing away nature of time, but, instead, focus my attention on my experience, then, in practice, my experience is not of passing away, but of a vibrant, radiant present. In practice, because although everything is always changing it does not change so quickly as to snatch away the present moment (as though, for example, you catch a glimpse of a beautiful lake through a gap in trees as you speed along in a car, such that the moment you realise there is a beautiful sight available it is taken from you) we experience the present moment as present to us with a tangible fullness of substance. We enter into the experience of the moment and are held in it, or we experience it in a fully committed relationship whereby the experience is complete. There is, in fact, no sense of it passing away; it is fully present to us, and – most significantly I think – it has a timeless quality to it. We know full well that the flux of time is ongoing, but in particular moments of awareness, this is not what we experience, but instead it is as though existence itself is present to us. Albeit this is communicated to us through some particular experience: the sun rising in the sky, the stillness of the garden, the beauty of flowers in bloom, our experience is not of the particular, but of wholeness and completeness. In our experience, time is not, in fact, passing away but fully present to us as though there is no time, and it is always ours.

I feel sure that I am describing a true experience of the present moment, but now I’d like to explore further by bringing in two important ideas: the limitation of our time through the human lifespan and the concept of eternal bliss in heaven.

Through Derren Brown’s book, “Happy” I have picked up the important idea that it is essential for our lives to be limited by death in order to give them meaning. He posits the idea that, if we lived forever, rather than being delighted by the prospect of endless opportunities to experience the wonders of life, we would find that all our experiences become hollowed out of significance because nothing is that important if we literally have eternity to try out all experiences over and over again, such that, sooner rather than later, we simply become bored with everything we do. It is the trajectory of our lives – with its ending in death – that provides both the zest of life and the meaningful storyline to our lives. A circle without a circumference is not a circle and life without the limitation of death is not a life worth living.

This makes good sense and I would like to explore it further.

Passing the time

(A philosophical reflection on what the passing of time means. In 5 parts)

Part 1: Sitting in my sunny window this morning

I want to consider what the passing of time means.

This morning, I sat by the window at the back of my house as the glorious morning sun poured in. It is late April and I am in awe at how the rising sun has moved so far over to the east from where it was in December. I have not even had breakfast yet and it is already so high in the sky. This is the time of year I love the most – the Springtime, and, in particular as the days lengthen out to that longest day. I can imagine the great weight of the sphere of the earth spinning through space, reaching out further and further on its ability to tilt towards the sun, till it reaches the outer limit of what it can do. And then I am sad and deflated that the light starts to withdraw. The earth can reach no further and we must head back into the dark and winter’s cold.

I must not overdo the sadness. The days after the solstice are very nearly as long as the longest day, and the warmth of summer is still to come. And in my life in human society, there is the wonderful long summer holiday to look forward to. I am also fully accepting of the way things are. If I have rejoiced in the lengthening days and marvelled at the laws of the universe that make this possible, then I must accept that the cycle turns. And it will renew itself again next year. And a key saying of mine is, “The dark is not dark to the Lord” so I have no fear of the dark. And if I can no longer revel in the experience that each day is a bit longer than the last then I can find many other things to rejoice in. But I am just saying that I adore that sense of heading towards the longest day and the movement of the sun in the sky.

As I sat this morning, basking in the warmth of the sun I interrupted myself by intruding the horrid thought, “Yes, the days are getting longer, but that will go into reverse”. That, of course, spoils the experience. It was not a “natural” thought, in that, it was not part of the experience of the moment, and that moment is held in the understanding that I’ve expressed above that, of course I know that the pendulum will swing back towards the darkness. I sort of forced myself to confront the fact that the beauty of this moment is transitory. So, let’s consider the passing of time to see what we can learn, and to reassure ourselves that it is fine to enjoy the wonder of each moment without spoiling it by adding in the fear that it is all transitory.