There is No God and Your Life is Meaningless — Now Let’s All Eat Ice Cream!
by mr dan
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Tell me if this has ever happened to you. You’re talking with a friend, or a family member, or maybe even a stranger, and you tell them you’re an atheist. They are completely blown away, as if you’ve just shown them a double rainbow or something, and they go through a round of predictable questions about how can this possibly be.
And then they get to the most puzzling statement of all. “I wouldn’t want to live in a world without God. If I thought there was no God, why, I’d just kill myself right now!”
I’d say this happens to me about 10% of the time. And I really just can’t understand it.
Their flawed little minds are correctly reasoning that if there is no God then we have no purpose in life, that our destinies are not predetermined. Furthermore, it means that our lives are not eternal — they expire when we do. And if life ends, then nothing you ever did will matter to you once you’re gone, and nothing the human race ever accomplished will have any significance once we’ve finally been extinguished.
It’s true that without divine direction your life has no cosmic meaning. The universe does not care if you are happy or sad, if you live or you die. Ultimately the cosmos will swallow us all and it will not matter that we ever existed at all.
To that I say: so what?
What does it matter that it won’t matter?
There’s so much good stuff in the world. There is love and beauty and humor and sex and ice cream. There’s science and history, and art and literature and music and more ice cream. Sweet, delicious, fattening ice cream. I’m not saying we should live only for simple pleasures. There is also the joy of caring for other people, of trying to make the world a better place by ending suffering or ensuring freedom or teaching or entertaining. On top of all that, there’s still more ice cream.
But no, all these people want to do is live forever on a fluffy cloud somewhere, surrounded by angels playing harps or a half a gross of virgins. I don’t know anyone who actually likes harp music now, and when can you ever remember meeting a virgin whose company you enjoyed? But no matter — it’s what they want and they are too set on it to consider any other possibility. It’s eternal life for me, they say, or I might as well just cash it all in right now.
It’s bizarre to me to suggest that if something has an end, it must be worthless.
This ice cream isn’t bottomless! Throw it away! You mean my paycheck is not infinite? I’d better rip that up right now. What, this cell phone plan doesn’t have unlimited minutes? Where’s my hammer?
Every thing you do matters. Somehow, in some small way, each thing you do sets off a chain reaction. It is a staple of science-fiction lore that if you were to travel back in time and trample a flower or kill a bug, the results could alter the present and future in ways you could not possibly anticipate. Doesn’t it logically follow that the same applies even without time travel? Our smallest actions shape the world around us in ways sometimes subtle, and sometimes obvious. Without boring you with all the details, I can assure you that my life would be unrecognizably different had it not rained one afternoon in September of 2002. I don’t know where I’d be or what I’d be doing now, but I doubt I’d be sitting here, making this video, eating this ice cream, trying to convince you that your life is meaningful for as long as it lasts.
The human race has done a lot of extraordinary things. Many have been good and many have been terrible, but all have their meaning. We invented the wheel, flying machines, sophisticated timekeeping devices, aerosol cheese, telescopes that can see the furthest reaches of space, a big thing that smashes little things together really quickly. We built pyramids and killed 11 million people in a holocaust. We walked on the moon and killed 58,000 more people in a war in Southeast Asia. We kept slaves, freed them, built walls and tore them down and built more. We killed another thousand people in the Inquisition, three thousand more on 9/11, and four hundred thousand more in Darfur. And we developed modern medicine, invented the iPhone, and figured out how lower primates evolved into human beings.
How anyone can say that none of that matters is beyond me. Judging an occurrence solely by its cosmic significance, which, I agree, is nil, is the most futile and meaningless act of all. Because what you’re really admitting when you say that is that you lead the life you lead solely to impress the cosmic scorekeeper, and if no one’s keeping score, it doesn’t matter. Whatever happened to “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose, it’s how you play the game”? Like actors rehearsing for a play, you wander through life anticipating raucous applause on opening night with no regard for the beauty of the dialogue or the unique and unpredictably meandering plot. Take a moment to just enjoy the play.
What really gets me about all this is that there’s an old allegory perfectly illustrating my point, which, ironically, is frequently retold in poor grammar on Christian websites and by motivational speakers with clear spiritual biases. After a storm, or sometimes during low tide, thousands of starfish wash up on a beach. A boy frantically tosses them back into the sea, saving their lives one at a time. An old man asks him, “Why do you bother? There are too many to save them all, so what does it matter?” The boy throws back another starfish and says, “It matters to that one.” Even if in the long run the majority of the starfish die, saving one is a worthwhile endeavor because its life, simple and meaningless as it is, has worth. How sad that these same people often fail to recognize that the meaning of our own lives is not what you get out of them when it ends but what we put into them while we’re here.
So whether the Earth is vaporized by an expanding sun 5 billion years from now, or we’re all killed by global climate change or famine or polluted oceans or some unknown pandemic, or we annihilate ourselves with weapons of mass destruction or we all just kill ourselves to see what comes next — sooner or later it won’t matter that we were ever here at all. And I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me whether we’ve got 5 billion years or five. It’ll never be enough, and the only thing to do is live them as well as we can.
Life is short. Life is meaningless. Life is delicious.
Grab a spoon.
mr dan is vice president of CVA. The views expressed in this post are his own and do not necessarily reflect those of Connecticut Valley Atheists or its individual members.
