I.
From time immemorial humans have
looked into the sky on cloudless nights, and more often than not, felt both awe
at its magnificence and a sense of kinship with it, a sense of being an
integral part of the scene at which they were looking. They were indeed a part
of it, but as it turns out, the stars
had not come into existence for their benefit, nor was “the vault of
heaven”—the belief that the sky was a roof that covered us alone—anything more
than an illusion. The idea that the vast majority of these humans held, or
still hold—that this vault had come into existence through the will of unseen
actors with superhuman powers and knowledge—had insinuated itself into their
brains through their dreams, their visions, their imaginations, and most of all
through the projection of their own natures, hopes, fears, hatreds, and loves
onto the reality they perceived. They had, in a way, taken themselves and
imagined those selves magnified and made immortal. The vast majority of humans
throughout our time on this planet have possessed a sense that they were being
watched and evaluated constantly, either by a being or beings with an
independent, immanent nature or a conscious and aware Universe itself that
somehow “kept track” of their kindnesses and cruelties. They saw themselves, in
short, as the actors in a mysterious and deeply significant cosmic drama, one
being played out on the vast stage of human history, and one which occupied the
time and “attention” of the unseen powers who lurked constantly in the
background of life. It meant that all of their struggles, their sufferings,
their aspirations, their terrors, their joys, and their faith were known. That was the important part, this
belief that the unseen forces knew of
their most intimate experiences and feelings. Whenever a sense of isolation or
loneliness closed in on them, they had this one, final consolation: I am never alone because someone knows about
my life. Is this the real reason for the continued belief in the divine—the
hope that our experiences, and especially our sufferings matter to someone?
The ultimate way in which most of
us hope to matter is through transcending our own physical death and becoming a
part of eternity itself. In particular, the hope of an afterlife is our way of
denying the power of death over us, reducing physical death to the status of a
way station, not the end of the line. The fear that there is no afterlife, as I
pointed out earlier in this work, represents, in one way, the fear that all of
our existence was for nothing. At one time we were not; then we are, vividly, warm-bloodedly,
kaleidoscopically, overwhelmingly; and then, we are not once more, this time
perhaps forever. The simplicity of not being, being, and not being again is
terrible, in one way. It implies that life exists for one reason, and one
reason only: to simply, blindly,
idiotically, perpetuate itself—and nothing more. It is true that most
humans have attempted to transcend this reality. They have created for
themselves, as we have seen, a tremendous variety of Ultimate Goals which they
believe will expunge the absurdity, inherent in biological existence, from our
story. But if there really is nothing beyond death, and if there really is no
one who cares about us even when all humans have turned their backs on us, then
this devastating absurdity will be all that we have left.
Now, take the individual’s desire
to be known and the desire to be a real part of eternity, and apply it to the
whole human species and all that we have done and experienced on this planet.
If the Universe itself is indifferent to us, if there is either no god or a god
who is oblivious to us, then the whole story of us will not have mattered to
anyone or anything in the larger sense at all—and to most of us, this just
cannot be. It violates our deepest sense of a universe that makes sense. For
most of us, the feeling can be summarized in this way: our existence cannot be meaningless.
So we imagine that our actions
have impacts beyond our ludicrously tiny world. In maintaining these illusions,
we magnify and inflate our own significance, making ourselves once again the
center of universal attention, at least in our own minds. We often imbue our
conflicts with a sense of eternal importance, believing that their outcome is
being monitored by the whole of creation. Especially in our religious
conflicts, we humans very often tend to see enormous issues of spiritual
importance involved, ones which gain the attention of “God Himself”, and
presumably cause “God Himself” to hang with rapt attention on the outcome of
the dispute. The history of the struggle between the Anglican and Roman
Catholic Churches in the British Isles is a
perfect example of this particular brand of inflated human self-importance.
Since the 1530s, when the English King Henry VIII split the English Church
away from the Vatican England
The same tiresome dynamic divides
Sunni and Shi’a followers of Islam. Their doctrinal differences, often deeply
connected to political conflict, are such that violent hatred frequently erupts
between members of the opposing branches. People
are actually willing to commit murder and all manner of other crimes because of
a dispute that began more than 1,300 years ago. It is the belief that this
dispute somehow matters to Allah, that its outcome engages his attention, that
has driven the conflict (along with the meaner human tendencies toward
score-settling, revenge, and the acquisition of power). If the damage it inflicts
to human comity wasn’t so tragic, and if it had not left such a long history of
hatreds, this dispute would be almost laughable in its absurdity.
And so it is with all human
religious disputes. Human religious contests are never, of course, entirely about
faith—our motivations are too confused, often too venal, and too mysterious to
ourselves for that to be the case—but they have their roots in the idea that
humans are on intimate terms with the cosmos and its purported Maker. In their
inconceivable sense of self-importance, which they so often mistake for
humility, countless humans have imagined that the essential Being of the
Universe cares—yes, actually cares—about
their words, their gestures, their incense burning, their prayers, their oils,
their sacred waters, their dietary rules, their statues, their icons, their
songs, their kneeling, their headwear, their symbols, and their buildings, and
would be offended (!) if any of these
expressions were not of the right kind. Humans, in my view, need to understand
that all the religious devotions they have ever been involved in, in all
likelihood, have been for the benefit of themselves—not for some
incomprehensibly huge, eternal, inscrutable, all-encompassing intelligence that
supposedly concerns itself with the tiniest details of their lives. Why would a
god-like entity need the praise and attend to the entreaties of ones such as
we? If such a being actually exists and resides in a world beyond time and
space, how could it be impressed or unimpressed by any human expression of
fealty and devotion to it? In a way, when we believe in a God that follows our
disputes carefully and listens to our worship, we are reducing that God down to
human-like dimensions, ones that we can understand. We make our God tiny, just
like ourselves, so we can believe that it notices us.
As we know, mass die-offs have
occurred several times in the Earth’s history. Our intelligence and our
capacity for invention have at least made us aware of the possibility of
extinction, and have equipped us with the means—perhaps—to temporarily or even
permanently forestall such an event. Yet, paradoxically, the two-edged sword of
human intelligence and our limited consciousness, so filled with
incomprehensible aspects and misperceptions and so vulnerable to our many
emotional vagaries, has given us ways to annihilate ourselves that are
unprecedented in the story of the biosphere.
We might believe that the
self-destruction of the human species would be of importance to someone,
somewhere beyond our world. The death of billions of sentient, conscious humans would count for something in the
larger Universe, most of us feel. But
would it? In all probability, no one beyond the Earth would notice. Think of
what the Earth looks like at the edge of
our own solar system, a solar system in which we are the only “intelligent”
life. Would we be any more than a pinprick of light? Even if the whole of the
planet were to mysteriously explode, would such a scene of destruction be
recorded by any alien civilization? Even if there were astronomers living on
some planet orbiting Proxima Centauri, the nearest star after our own Sun, they
would still be almost 25 trillion
miles, or over 40 trillion kilometers
distant, 13,000 times farther from us than we are from the minor planet Pluto.
They would be fortunate to detect us at all. And so far, we have found no
habitable planets around Proxima Centauri, so the odds of our destruction being
noticed grow increasingly poor as we move farther out into the Universe.
(Sirius, another “close” star is 26,000 times more distant from us than is the
orbit of Pluto.) If we destroy the only planet in the known Universe on which
we can live, it will not affect the continuation of physical reality in the
slightest. The Universe would move on as if we had never been here, and judging
by our utter lack of impact on it, we might just as well never have been.
And if we look to some higher
entity to rescue us from our own foolishness and recklessness, we might be
looking in vain. The monotheistic faiths posit an endpoint when God will bring
the world to a close and judge both the dead and the living (or, in a broader
sense, bring ultimate justice to the world). But these conceptions, developed
between the Eighth Century BCE and the Seventh Century CE, rested on
conceptions of a God who was on intimate terms with a world that was the center
of Creation itself, indeed, the whole point
of Creation. Such a conception can no longer stand. The Christian, Muslim, and
Jewish conceptions of God rested on the paternalistic cultural notions of those
in the Middle East who founded the
monotheistic faiths. The eschatologies of these faiths are rooted in the
concept of the all-powerful male ruler, a father figure, bringing order and
justice to a chaotic and sinful world. But what if these conceptions are wrong?
Logically, since they are not identical, at least two of the three must be wrong. (And if we consider the
views of all the world’s religions about the end of the world, all but one must be wrong, and it is possible that all of them are wrong.) It may yet be
that God will manifest Himself/Itself on the physical plane of reality and
bring the human race’s story to an end. It cannot be ruled out. There is
nothing logically impossible in such a notion. But what if it never happens? Because it is also possible, as I
said above, that there is no God, or else there is an indifferent God (or
perhaps a God who is still becoming, or a God who will not choose to personally
bring the world to an end).
II.
Humans often feel a sense of
injustice upon assessing their own lives. This
isn’t (or wasn’t) the way it was supposed to be, they might think. But
there is the distinct possibility that from the Universe’s standpoint life
wasn’t “supposed” to be anything. Maybe anything that was suffered, enjoyed, or
just merely experienced in a neutral way was just how it was, the products of
human volition, human cultural and genetic inheritances, human mistakes,
natural phenomena, and random chance—and
that was all.
The individual human life—and I
include in this assessment my own and those of everybody I love—just isn’t that
significant a thing in the whole scheme of the Universe. The Universe was not
set up for the personal benefit of any sentient being on any world anywhere in
it, nor is the Universe out to “get” anyone. The success or failure of an
individual life is, in all likelihood, a matter of supreme indifference to it.
No one, anywhere, has any right to expect anything of it. No one, anywhere,
needs to give it credit for the individual’s achievements. No one, anywhere,
can blame it for any personal failures.
Humans often say, when confronted
with the grim realities of this planet, “This isn’t the way the world is
supposed to be”, as if the Universe had some pre-ordained plan in mind. And
they sometimes speak about the Universe “being out of balance”, or needing to
be “restored to its rightful state”. Yes, there have been countless tragedies.
Yes, there has been a terrible amount of obscene suffering. Yes, injustice has
been rife. But, as cruel as this will sound, the Universe couldn’t possibly
care less about any of this, nor will it act to rectify any of it. It is
incapable of doing either. Rectifying the evils of the world is solely the job
of the human species. Our success or failure in doing this will not be noted.
In trying to improve this world, we will have to contend with the caprices of
nature, the capriciousness of luck, and our own human shortcomings. To the
extent that we succeed, we will not be congratulated. To the extent that we
fail, we will not be mourned.
III.
There are three major arguments
that can be made for our significance in the vastness of the Universe:
We are the only species anywhere to have evolved consciousness. This
is possible. But even if this were the case, would our tiny little island of
intelligence have any impact whatsoever on an entity as vast as our home
galaxy, let alone the Universe as a whole? We might be only a brief candle, the
flickering out of which, as I have noted above, would be noticed by absolutely
no one.
Naturally, you may tend to reject
this argument out of hand, pointing to the extraordinary nature of the human
brain and the products of the culture its features, and those of the rest of
the human body, made possible. And we are unique, you may argue. We are, in all
likelihood, absolutely unique in form and expression, the only beings of our
kind in all of the Universe, even among the other advanced intelligences which
may have evolved. There is nothing in any evolutionary system anywhere that is
like us, you could contend (ignoring for the moment the multiple worlds
hypothesis). You may indeed be right. In fact, nothing like us probably has
evolved anywhere else. Our cultures are in all probability not like those of
any other intelligent beings which may exist elsewhere. And yet, I would ask,
how likely is it that our uniqueness will ever be known to anyone outside of
our world?
You might also argue that,
discovered or not, known or not, our intelligence is still a wondrous
phenomenon, a beacon however tiny its light might be, a possession both exalted
and exalting. Here again I must object. It seems to me that our intelligence is far more limited
than we believe it to be. It is the product of a body constructed out of the simplest and most convenient materials
available. It has fooled us into
thinking that it is equipped to probe the deepest mysteries of existence, when in fact its principal
reason for being was to facilitate reproductive success—nothing more.
Of course, we might someday reach
out into small parts of the Universe and colonize them. But our “empire” would
be tiny at best. There is also the possibility that humans will someday send
self-replicating devices into space, but the
utility of doing so would be diminished by the fact that such devices would
face the insuperable barrier of distance as they tried to communicate with us.
The Universe is as it is for our benefit. This is the so-called anthropic argument. The
“strong” version of it argues that the Universe was created specifically to
bring about the existence of intelligent life forms—like us—and that such an
evolution was inevitable. Taken to
its logical extent, it means that the physical constants of nature were
“designed” to bring about something like the human species. The absurdity of
this belief echoes the absurdities of an earlier age’s geocentrism. To believe
that a universe, as big in relation to us as the Earth is to a fraction of a single
atom, exists chiefly to facilitate our existence borders on delusion. Would anyone argue that the Earth was created
for the benefit of a single atom within it? Even if we were to apply this
belief to all planets where intelligent life evolved, it would not change the
argument in any material way.
The “weak” version of this
argument claims that the physical principles that govern the Universe exist to
facilitate at least some form of intelligent life somewhere, at some time, a
life form that will come to realize this. But this argument transforms
coincidence and randomness into necessity and design, and it still leaves a
host of issues unaddressed, such as the possibility of multiple or parallel
Universes containing different physical forces and constants. Humans are a
byproduct of fortuitous conditions in an extremely localized environment, and
little else can reasonably be said.
To be perfectly blunt, let us
consider the total mass of the Universe. Now let us consider that part of the
Universe’s mass composed of intelligent life forms. Even assuming that every
star in the Universe has a community of intelligent beings orbiting it—an
assumption that no one makes—the total mass of intelligent life forms would
probably constitute less than one one-millionth of one per cent of the
Universe’s mass. In my view, life is a byproduct
of the Universe, and consciousness is a byproduct of life.
We are the favored offspring of God or a divine intelligence or
universal spirit. You might, ultimately, rest your argument on the poetry
of the Bible or some other revered text—“Not a sparrow falls” without His
knowledge of it. But this seems to me to be a sentiment humans use to comfort
themselves. As I have noted, most of us want to be important in some way in the
scheme of things. But what is comforting and what is real are two different
things. To believe now that a universal God sees us as the pinnacle of its
creation is either an amazingly hopeful view of our place in reality, or an
amazingly hubristic one.
Therefore it is quite reasonable,
I think, to argue that the human
experience means nothing in the context of the Universe—nothing at all. We
thought our earthly drama was of universal significance because we used to
think we were the Universe and
the children of a father-like creator
spirit (in societies that imagined godlike figures to exist) or else imbued
with the spirit of the world itself. I have arrived at the point in my life
where it is impossible for me to believe that if there were indeed a Universal
Intelligence of some sort that existed, that it would even notice our presence.
It would be exactly as if a being the size of the Universe were expected to
notice a group of microbes clinging to a dust speck. The proposition collapses
under the weight of its own absurdity, and can only be defended by postulating
the existence of a being with such utterly amazing capabilities that it would
be capable of attending to everything at all times, forever. There is, of
course, the possibility that a godlike being is evolving, is coming into being
gradually over the course of the Universe’s existence, and will some day
possess the attributes humans have always given to it. But until such a being
manifests itself unmistakably, it must remain only a hypothesis.
Because of our extremely limited
understanding, it seems to me that we cannot lean on belief in this Universal
Intelligence, or God, with true intellectual certainty (however deeply God’s
presence might be felt emotionally). Some might find this conclusion to be
cause for despair. They might say that without the certainty of God, how can life have any meaning? Implicit in such a
question is another: if we cannot rely on God, does this mean that all we
have—and all we are ever likely to have—is each other? Given the history of our
species, many might see such as prospect as yet another cause for despair.
As we have noted elsewhere, the
transition of the Sun into its red giant phase will make the Earth completely
uninhabitable. If intelligent life descended from humans has survived and
continued to evolve in the hundreds of millions of years before that happens,
it will obviously have to emigrate from the Earth to survive. But nothing much
would change if the human race or its successor species were to transport
itself to, let us say, Europa, one of the moons of Jupiter, which would have
habitable temperatures during the Sun’s red giant period. The scene of our
isolation would simply move a mere 400 million miles from its original point.
The same would be true whether our species, or its evolutionary descendants,
occupied a habitable planet orbiting another star. Our descendants could end up
as simply the unknown wanderers, fleeing from world to world in a desperate
attempt to perpetuate themselves for no other real reason than sheer survival.
These wanderers may discover all knowledge and have all imaginable powers, but
their magnificent achievements are unlikely to have any monument after the
Universe begins its descent into total entropy.
Is that all that will stand at
the end of the human experience? The never-to-be-known story of an orphan
species, one that once ridiculously shouted its importance to a stone-deaf
Universe, and never realized that, in all probability, no one was listening?