What happens when we die?

Yesterday I was editing my latest book. It’s an introduction to philosophy organized around twenty-five questions. I had reached Question 23: What happens when we die? It’s one of those questions philosophers have been asking for a very long time. Religious traditions have been asking it even longer. I had spent several pages considering some of the answers: Epicurus and Epictetus, Christianity and Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism, Daoism, philosophical naturalism, existentialism, contemporary neuroscience, and my own Christian naturalistic panentheism.

Reading through the chapter again, something struck me. For all their enormous differences, most of these traditions seem to arrive at roughly the same practical conclusion. What happens when we die? Nothing bad, so don’t worry about it.

That is putting it rather crudely. Epicurus would not have quite put it that way. Neither would the Buddha, Paul Tillich, or Zhuangzi. Yet there is a curious convergence. Epicurus argued that death is nothing to us. While I am alive, death is not present. When death is present, I am no longer there to experience it. Why spend the life I have worrying about a state I shall never experience? Epictetus approached the matter differently. Death is part of the natural order. I cannot ultimately prevent it. What is within my power is how I respond to the knowledge that I shall die. For the Stoics, learning how to live includes learning how to die. Religious traditions offer different kinds of hope. Resurrection. Rebirth. Union with the divine. Liberation. Return. Continuing relationship with the ancestors. The stories are different, sometimes radically so, but death is rarely presented as something that renders this life meaningless.

Even a thoroughly naturalistic view need not be gloomy. If consciousness ends when the brain ceases to function, there is still no state of being dead that I shall experience, which sounds like Epicurus again. Meanwhile, the finitude of life may make this particular life more precious.

There is something rather reassuring about all this. But, of course, nobody knows. I have my own beliefs about death, and have a measure of hope. My own tradition has spoken about death for two thousand years and assures me that, in some way, life continues. I have philosophical arguments that I find more persuasive than others. Yet I cannot tell you what happens when we die as though I had gone ahead, looked around, and returned with a report. And neither can anyone else. Philosophy teaches a little humility here. There are things I know, things I believe, and things I hope. It is useful not to confuse them.

Which brings me back from what happens when we die to what happens before it. Just last week, a friend recently introduced me to a Willie Nelson’s tune with the words “Live every day like it was your last one, and one day your gonna be right.” It’s a cute little song, if grammatically poor; the sort that gets into your head and stays there. It has a great hook. But taken literally, that line sounds exhausting. If I knew that I were going to die tonight, presumably there would be things I would want to do. People I would want to telephone. Things I would want to say. Affairs I would want to put in order. Then I look around the house. Should I tidy everything? What about the garage? The workshop? The sock drawer? I can imagine spending my final hours rushing around trying to leave everything in perfect order. I can also imagine reaching the end and thinking that this had been a rather silly way to spend my last day.

Perhaps that is not what living each day as if it were the last means. The ancient practice of memento mori, remembering that I shall die, was not primarily an invitation to morbidity. Nor was it an instruction to cram as much excitement as possible into every twenty-four hours. It was a practice of perspective: Remember that your time is finite.

Perhaps it means keeping short accounts. There is an old Christian admonition attributed to St. Paul: do not let the sun go down on your wrath. That’s easier said than done. But it makes sense. If a relationship can be repaired, perhaps repair it. If something needs to be said, perhaps say it. If forgiveness is possible, do not postpone it indefinitely. Memento mori can also turn my attention toward very ordinary things. The person sitting across the table from me. The work in front of me. A cup of tea. (I paused writing this blog to put the kettle on.) The dogs wanting attention. A walk outside. The changing seasons. A conversation that I might otherwise hurry through because there is something supposedly more important waiting for me.

Living as though today were my last need not mean pretending that tomorrow does not exist. I still need to make appointments, pay bills, prepare classes, make plans, and put the recycling out. I expect tomorrow to arrive, and most of the time it does. The point is simpler: just live today. Perhaps that is why reflection on death appears in so many philosophical and religious traditions. Death turns us back toward life.

Epicurus tells me not to fear what I shall never experience. Epictetus reminds me not to rage against what belongs to nature. Religious traditions offer hope that death is not the final word. Naturalism reminds me that a finite life can still be a good life. Memento mori whispers to me, perhaps in the voice of Iris Murdoch: Pay attention.

Perhaps I simply need to remember that my days are finite. Attend to the people I love. Do the work that is mine to do. Notice what is lovely, decent, true, and beautiful. Oh, and perhaps tidy that sock drawer!

+Ab. Andy