The prospect of eternal life doesn’t sound all that appealing to me.
Does it to you?
When I’m dead and gone, I’m pretty sure I will prefer to be gone. I don’t want to spend forever (which is a really long time) figuring out what to do with myself.
I realize that eternal bliss typically goes along with eternal life (unless you’re in Hell, in which case it’s eternal damnation), but even that seems like it would get old. (Admittedly, this is from someone who has found himself—unlike those around him—getting a little bored during the third hour of a Grateful Dead concert, but I don’t think I’m entirely alone here.)
And sure. We’re made of matter and matter cannot be destroyed, so technically (as the Mansplainer always puts it) our atoms last forever, but, for me, it would be a great shame if this particular arrangement of them, that identifies with this particular arrangement of them, continued identifying with this particular arrangement of them after this particular arrangement of them ceases to be.
Even sitting at the right hand of God would get tiresome, wouldn’t it? I’m sure it would be awesome (in the old-fashioned sense of awesome) to see His Mighty Mightiness in action, making Universes or helping the Chicago Cubs to win the World Series or whatever, but at some point, you’ve seen something emerging from nothing or another miraculous game-saving catch once, you’ve seen them all, right?
Life is made meaningful (and sure, also incredibly sad and frustrating) because it’s ephemeral. If Being-ness goes on and on without end, wouldn’t that meaning be lost?
Don’t get me wrong: I would like to live a long—and healthy—life. I’m not in a tearing hurry to arrive at the end of my existence. But I do want to arrive at such an end.
But it’s like this little piece of writing. Maybe nice while it lasts, but better that it stops here.
