By Lanny Morgnanesi
You are eating outside at a restaurant in a New Jersey tourist town. The people who walk by are varied, colorful, animated. Each one, everyone, has consciousness. They are creatures of thought and understanding, aware of their surroundings, aware of their fears and limitations, aware of their joys and sorrows. And they walk, and talk, and work, exhibiting complex patterns and wide ranges of motion and activity. Below the surface, within and around them, are intricate, beautiful, biological, chemical mechanisms that create their consciousness, permit their existence, dictate their actions, and allow them life. Some of these mechanisms we understand. Some we do not. Some we think we understand but aren’t sure. The mechanisms in certain individuals make them highly intelligent in mathematics, or music, or art, or philosophy, or war, or in figuring out how to configure the plumbing in a 50-story building. The mechanisms make people weak or strong, sometimes capable of near-superhuman feats. The mechanisms can create anxiety and depression and make people prisoners of their own minds. They create heroes and villains. Mostly, the mechanisms allow our species to conduct themselves normally and efficiently, below greatness and above infamy.
If you could look at the structures of these mechanisms, see into them, observe them on a microscopic or even smaller level, watch them work, watch them create and destroy, the chemicals, the neurons, the proteins, the DNA, the transmitters, the receptors, it would be like observing the face of God.
Now, pull back. Way back. Into the vast heavens of galaxies and the infinite.
You no longer see the creatures in the small tourist town. Although complex, from this perspective they are inconsequential and meaningless, as if they didn’t exist, yet they do, but for what purpose? Let’s forget them for now. So unimportant. Look at the stars. So many stars. Two hundred billion trillion of them in 2 trillion galaxies. If you could see everything up there, you’d see less than 5 percent of our actual universe. The rest is hidden and undetectable. That’s just our universe. Some scientists, obviously the silly ones, believe the universe we know is just one of an infinite number of invisible universes. The scientists say in those infinite universes, everything has happened. You became rich in one. Married a movie star in another. Became a king in a third. Were a pauper, a beggar, a thief, a Mafia don, the first person on the moon. If this were true, the God who created the multiverse could not be comprehended by the shallow, limited human mind. All prophets, all scripture would be meaningless. That God’s purpose and nature would be far removed from the anything taught us by the wise and peaceful Nazarene who lived in a small town, on one planet, in a singular universe.
If we discount the hidden, the pattern of things high in the sky are no less and no greater that the patterns inside our bodies. They are only larger. All of it made from the same building blocks. All of it in compliance with the same governing rules.
Now zoom back in close to the people walking the streets of the tourist town. Look down at the weed growing through a crack in the concrete. Zoom in even closer and see the worlds within the world of the weed. Now closer, and closer, and closer. It will never stop. You can never get close enough. Level after level after level.
Up and down. In the heavens or under foot. Infinite complexities on infinite levels. So which one is the distinguishing level? The rung of importance? The level that matters most? Is it our level? We tend to think so.
Our prejudiced is triggered by our ability to think, to communicate, to build and destroy civilizations, to philosophize, to love and hate – and our inability to properly detect intelligence in other species and organic matter. Ants build civilizations and get work done. They receive little credit for it. We are awed when we see non-primates using tools, then go on our way and forget about it. Germaphobes and others acknowledge the vast preponderance of bacteria in the world but never dream we might exist solely for it. We know – at least some of us do – that plants talk to each other. A tomato plant being eaten by a bug will signal the danger to other tomato plants, who then go into defensive mode. Yet we don’t consider them conscious beings.
Our consciousness, because it is ours, ranks supreme. We know that all life share much, DNA for example. Eternal consciousness? Sorry. That’s our monopoly.
If God has singularly granted homo sapiens heaven-bound consciousness, then God did so as an exception to the rules, laws, forces, element, and constants that every other aspect of the universe must conform to. And God did so to creatures that are a mere speck of almost nothing and hardly any use at all to the universe. Why? I haven’t heard any convincing answers.
Our concept of consciousness is that it is constructed and operated by the organic components of the body, and that when those components decay and die with the body, something remains to reassemble and transport consciousness to a spiritual world, preserving our thoughts, our memories, our relationships, our recognition of friends and relatives. We believe this without identifying the earthly components that perform the reassembling and the transporting. We explain it by saying the components are not earthly.
Nothing like this—spiritual intervention — has ever been found, for sure, in the universe. And for this reason, I cannot believe that the consciousness once existing inside a human is retained somewhere else after death. For me, the state of post-death resembles the state of pre-life, meaning consciousness, as we know it, cannot exist without the body. It dies with the body.
Recently an old friend, my college roommate, succumbed to stage four cancer. The final days were difficult. All he wanted was to pass. When the end was within hours, I asked him to be honest. I ask if he expected to go somewhere. I was thinking that by approaching death he might be closer to truth, and that he would be willing to share that truth with me.
There was nothing surprising about his answer, be it newly revealed truth or just long-held ideas. He said he is a Christian, that he believes in the afterlife, that he expects to go to the place most call heaven. I told him, for his sake and mine, I wished it true. He said, if possible, he’ll get back to me later with confirmation.
Nothing yet.
My friend said he was a Christian, and I guess that’s true. Maybe not entirely true, not exactly true. His Polish-born parents, who came to America during Hitler’s rise, raised the family as Orthodox Catholic. Several years ago, at his father’s funeral, an aunt told him he was Jewish. The Catholicism was a safe cover. I’m not sure why, and I didn’t tell him, but I was hoping he’d convert back. Instead, he continued to attend a place called Son Light Bible Church.
The pastor at Son Light, for certain, would have discouraged a return to Judaism. At the funeral service for my friend, he said the only way to heaven was through Jesus Christ, which Christ himself says in the Bible. Without accepting Christ, the pastor said, not even good works can save you.
But I suspect even if my friend had converted and lost his right to heaven, the pastor would still acknowledge the release and reconfiguration of his consciousness. It just wouldn’t go to the good place.
I wish I could believe in the resilience of consciousness and the eternity of memory. I wish I did not have to sit here in a tourist town in New Jersey, with a view of the sky, a view of the prancing anthropoids, and a view of the lowly weeds, thinking of what might or might not remain of my friend, realizing that everything just seems the same to me. Like one family. Like a complete set of Legos. If one thing goes to heaven, it should all go to heaven. But it all can’t go to heaven.
Can it?
“Would you like a refill on that coffee?” the waiter asked.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, curious if my decision will in any way affect the universe, wondering if anyone’s memory of this day will reach heaven, worried that, all scripture aside, I am doomed to never find out.