“In the Secular Age, there is no God; try and save yourself through love.”

I've been thinking about this quote recently. Actually, I've been thinking about a lot of things recently; it's been a whirlwind month for my mind. And I suppose over the course of the month my mind has organized my various preoccupied thoughts into two intertwining themes: Death and Love.

In the last several months three people I have known have passed away. They weren't people to whom I was particularly close, but at least two of them were people who took a little of the color of the world with the as they left.

Death, for us, normally, is something we really don't have to deal with. It is something ever-present, but not something that really affects us directly. Aside from the occasional pestering bugs we kill without a second thought, death is quite far removed from our minds; and when it isn't far from our minds, it has a tendency to be overpowering. I think we, as humans in the modern age, have become insulated from the constancy, the naturalness, of death.

In earlier times, death, especially for humans, was more prevalent. People died, often. There was no expectation of a long and happy life (at least not with the near guarantee we expect today), there was life while it lasted. The sheer consistency of death had to have assured a more tempered view of survival. In previous ages in Europe it was considered bad luck to name a child before it reached the age of two, because the chances of the child surviving so long were not that great. In fact, that is part of why it is so hard to pinpoint when certain famous people in these ages were born, and the word "circa" is used for births whereas more finite dates of death are given; if your first child, named Christopher/Christine died between the ages of two and about 8, then you, as the parents, simply named your next child Christopher/Christine. This actually makes perfect sense, since at the time, children didn't enjoy the status they have in today's world of pure beings, better than the failings learned and programmed into adults. Children, then, were considered less than human, stunted and unable to reason effectively as adults (read 'humans') did. This is much the same way we consider larvae in cocoons related to, but not, butterflies. This is actually an effective way to insulate oneself from the loss of a child, regardless of how much one may actually care for the child. In criminal psychology, this is called objectification; it occurs when a person ceases to be a person, and instead becomes an object. This, however, is only in reference to child mortality. Adult mortality was more prevalent as well, though perhaps at a lower rate than child mortality. Average life expectancies are a very concise way to look at adult mortality though. Point being, death was not a remote concept, it was a constant with which must needs be dealt.

My initial reaction to dealing with death (from the three recent deaths, and thinking about dealing with the prevalence of death in earlier times), was one of horror. I was aghast at how much death must have surrounded people on a regular basis. Even without the higher death rate of humans, people tended, much more so than today, to butcher their own animals. Nowadays we buy meat chilled and plastic wrapped; the acquisition of meat is completely divorced from the animal from which it comes. In earlier times the acquisition of meat was more visceral and real. However, I soon realized that I could not remain horrified forever, nor could the people who had lived through earlier times. I think the prevalence of death then must have created a more solemn approach to dying and loss; less horror, more determination. Also, surrounded by so much more death, my original thought was that death must become much more trivial, or at least the feelings one human had for another were more trivial. But the conviction of this answer didn't last for more than a few heartbeats. Reading past accounts, it's apparent people still loved and cared as we do, though perhaps they were more practiced at letting go. Despite this, I doubt it ever really became any easier. My final conclusion is that life, when more fragile, becomes more precious rather than more trivial. To "have not" makes one more appreciative of the things one does "have;" health, life, etc.

This is where the theme of love enters. With the fragility of life, so much more susceptible to death, because things like germs, nutrition, health, weather, and so on, were less understood, the preciousness of life must have been given more weight than we currently attribute it. I suspect I'm romanticizing the concept a bit, but imagine dealing daily with the uncertainty of tomorrow, or of next week, without our modern contrivances. Naturally I don't assume humans of earlier times thought about their demise constantly, but the appreciation for life must have been something that carried over into daily routine. I'm reminded hunter/gatherers, like the American Indian, thanking their prey for the prey's sacrifice of their life for the hunter. When was the last time you thanked the cow or the chicken for giving its life to further your own?

Relationships must have been more precious as well. even things such as arranged marriages most have possessed more connection than they currently do. With fewer choices in life, especially less social mobility (the ability to better yourself from the lot of your parents) life must have had a higher ratio of "make it work" to "what I want." The modern world is programmed with the idea of "bigger, better, faster" and this mode of thinking permeates our lives. It leaches into our relationships with others, our approach to love. In a world of programmed obsolescence; our interaction with acquaintances, friends, and lovers must absorb some portion of this mindset. How much effort do you put into maintaining old friendships that aren't convenient? How many lovers have you actually had? What kinds of judgments have you made about any and all of them? How many times have you told yourself, or had someone else tell you, that you would move on to better things? Really? Have you? Who is your "one that got away?" What is the thing you fear you will never get back? (I'm a supporter of progress, but I don't support the disposable lifestyles we've come to live. It's hard to be appreciative when you're looking for the next, better, thing. Furthermore, how can a person be happy when constantly focusing on the new thing they don't [yet] have?).

The title quote fits here. "In the Secular Age, there is no God; try and save yourself through love." In former times, religion and faith were more prevalent. Fact. With the uncertainty of everything surrounding someone, a person's faith was in God, purpose, destiny; instead of laws of thermodynamics, gravity, and the like. There was no concept of germs, bacteria, or viruses. (Although there were theories of humors and bile) Point being, religion was less iffy and more concrete, necessary, because there was so much uncertainty in other aspects of life. In general, a person believed; they didn't wonder if. There was no secularism, a world independent of a deity, with which to compete, with which to try to fit and merge into a religious view of the world. Even during the Enlightenment, the era that birthed our great ideas of science and reason, the idea of a Clockwork Universe (Simply, God created the universe so masterfully, that it could operate on it's own without his constant interference to hold it together; like a clock or watch telling time once it's wound) was prevalent. There was less wonder "is there a God" than wonder "why wasn't my prayer/offering answered?" The world was a religious one, regardless.

Existentialism, in quick terms, is the belief that the responsibility of living life is our own, beholden to no one else. We decide what in life is worth living for. This doesn't rule out God (especially since in Christianity a person, through their own choices, compiles their own burden of sin), but it doesn't provide for his existence either. God may be there, or he may not be, but the task of living your life is up to you yourself. (The early existentialists were all religious men) If you choose to live your life according to what you believe to be God's plan, you must first determine for yourself that there is a God, and then determine how to live your life in accordance; the burden of sin, misdeeds, and righteousness is yours to determine, again, in accordance with what you believe God desires of you... at least until Judgment Day, when you find out how close to right you were. And, if God is not there, then the responsibility of living your life is still entirely up to you.

I wonder if, on my deathbed as I am lying and waiting to die, I will be reconciled with the life I lived. If I die tomorrow, I will certainly die full of regrets. If two months from now, how many of those regrets will remain? Will I be living a fuller life by then, and thus be more ready to pass through death's veil into the unknown? (I know the religious faithful may take issue with this, the claiming to "know" what is beyond bodily death is actually impossible. You don't "know," can't "know," in the empirical sense of the word [that is, with evidence]. You have your strong conviction, your faith, that you know what will happen, just as I have my faith the sun will rise tomorrow. I believe it so strongly that it might as well be true, but I cannot show you proof of why it will rise tomorrow, only tell you the probability based on precedence.) And if I die 60 years from now, how many of those regrets of a life not well-lived will I have crossed off the list?

I've been thinking of what things would assuage my guilt, my fear, of dying unfulfilled, what things will console me as I fade away. Success in my endeavors and goals? A good job, money? No, they aren't so terribly important; they are things I amass and must leave behind. Fame or fortune? No. Perhaps a life lived in God's service, as many believe? Perhaps. But what constitutes such a life? Freedom from sin? Relative freedom of purposeful misdeeds? Being kind and helpful in life to others? Well, that seems like something in which a person could take some pride. Not because of the notion that good deeds buy you an entrance into Heaven, but because given the simple choice between a benevolent decision and a malicious one, who could take solace in having chosen maliciousness? I can imagine reflecting on the times I "did the right thing" and it seems to me they would have a balmy effect on a scarred soul/conscience. (And it still somehow seems ridiculous that at the end of life the kindness we've shown others should be so high amongst our concerns. Yet, it seems to be for everyone.) Admittedly, "doing the right thing" is not dependant on being a religious person (It's a very real comfort, living by your ethical code, regardless of religion or lack thereof. Integrity is universally admired.), though isn't it strange how it's an unstated assumption? (Ask for help, for real help, from a person on the street, and you assume you will be turned down... but what is your assumption when asking a church organization of strangers? Or even the same person from the street, in a church?) So it falls that living a good life, one that has helped others rather than only receive help from others, is a worthy goal. And one not necessarily tied to religion in any way. (In fact, I take solace in doing the right thing simply because it is the right thing to do. I used to think it would help me get to heaven and avoid hell... but in reality that's a terrible reason to do anything. Why should you expect rewards for doing the right thing? It smacks of bribery.)

Still, dying with only the few (or perhaps many) memories of doing right by others seems a shallow tally of the worthiness of a life lived. What of all the things I've thought of in the course of my existence? What of the things I've learned? What of the experiences I've had? All of these things a trapped within me, doomed to fade the moment I do. It occurred to me I could try writing the worthy things down, leave them in a book or two, or five, or however many. That way, at least, something could survive and contribute to world the day after I am gone. Then again, who would read it? Who would possibly be interested in the mindless drivel I deem important? Of books already written, precious few are classics, read and learned from, remembered by people... and mine would only join those ranks if I wrote a great work of fiction. What about memoirs? Who would read the memoirs of a normal guy from the Midwest? Nobody, at least, nobody who didn't know me. A thought then recurred to me, a memory I had of blowing on dandelions as a child. I asked my grandmother what purpose a dandelion had. In my child's mind I assumed everything had a purpose. Flowers existed to smell good, look pretty, and feed the insects. Insects existed to maintain the small things in the world, like pollination and making the soothing cicada buzz that lulled me to sleep at night, while humans saw to the larger things the insects and plants couldn't manage. I knew dandelions only as the feathered seeds; I didn't realize the golden flower and the ball of seeds were the same plant. Grandmother told me they existed to make seeds. I asked then what the seeds were for. To make dandelions, she told me. I was horrified and distraught to think of such an empty existence. To only grow from seed to make more seeds, the sole purpose of a life, even plant life, to merely survive and self-perpetuate? It bothered me for a long time, years in fact. To survive only long enough to pass on to another generation seemed a shallow and unworthy existence to me. It seems I can pass on to coming generations in two ways; through genetics or ideas. Passing on my genes? How would that help soothe my passing from this world? Passing on my ideas... that is something I could be proud of. But what ideas and to whom? As a person is dying and preparing to pass from this world, a person wants to believe that they are more than the gap left in a pail of water after the hand is withdrawn. I think this is why so many old men are concerned with their legacy. This legacy always seems to include children, not just in the genetic sense, but in having had an active hand in raising the progeny. Why would that be important? Well, to impart what you know of the world to them, to have raised them in your image, an image, hopefully, worthy of being passed on. People always say they wish to die surrounded by loved ones.

This is the thought that then struck me, the one that finally seemed to deliver the solace I would desire if I were soon leaving this world; family. Not the family you grew up in, but the one you create, the one in which to have the years not only to pass on worthy things from your life, but to share that life as well. And even if without children, to have at least one loved one with which to share a life, not only the life after the meeting, but the life that lead up to that meeting, must be an existence worth trying. After all, who we are is necessarily a compendium of all we have been in the past, and the experiences, the learning, we have acquired up to the present time.

So this is how my mind tied it all together, Death and Love. In a modern, existential, life, life itself is secular. As Americans, a predominantly Christian nation, we believe in the separation of church and state. In Turkey, a nation in which most of the population follows Islam, the government is secular and separate from the church. Secularism is the lowest commonality we all can agree on (almost universally the world over), what whichever religion we choose to practice, or not practice, is safe within our personal lives. So once again, "In the Secular Age, there is no God; try to save yourself through love." This suddenly makes sense to me. The modern world is a secular one. This idea of love isn't a way to replace God, it's a way to live in a secular world, the world we live in daily without religious interpretation, where the grass is green from sufficient water, nitrogen, and nutrients instead of the whim of "God's will." My end answer? Live a life worth living, and hope for the best. If he exists, you've done the right things for the right reasons, not only a chance to go to a better place than hell. And if he doesn't exist, you can at least die with the solace that your life was worth living, even if you will soon cease to exist at all.