Thoughts on the Afterlife

Addiction, Santa Claus, and Birdwatching

Photo by Jie Wang on Unsplash

The day after I found out my brother was dead, a bald eagle landed in the tall tree across the alley from my house. I was on the phone with my remaining brother, making increasingly dark jokes, so I said something to the effect of Oh it’s an eagle, that must be Karl’s spirit. Karl is it you? As if hearing me, the bird turned and stared its imperious eagle stare. Then I wanted out of the joke. I wanted to tell the eagle, too soon.

It’s not unheard of for bald eagles to appear in the tiny band of woods behind my urban housing complex. A few miles away in Seward Park, there’s a mated pair. Sometimes one will venture westward until the local gang of crows harasses them into leaving. But this eagle, an adult male (I’m guessing based on size and plumage) has seemed to take up residence since Karl’s death. It watches my son and me climb onto our cargo bike in the alley or wait for the school bus in the morning. It’s a little eerie.

Growing up in Evangelicalism, the afterlife was certain and critical. Life was pass/fail: the only thing that truly mattered was becoming “born again” (whatever the fuck that means.) Even Hitler could be in heaven, I heard more than once, proving that Martin Luther’s sola fide had truly jumped the shark.

Hell was one of the first beliefs to go once I started examining my faith. As I began to dig, I discovered that the western concept of Hell comes more from Dante’s Inferno than the Bible. More than that, the whole idea just doesn’t make sense. If God is the great father, the ultimate source of love, wouldn’t his love be infinitely merciful, infinitely understanding? While at my pettier, most vengeful moments, I have wished for Hell to exist and, more specifically, for certain people to go there, but I know this is an immature line of thinking. In my better moments, I identify more with Pentecostal Bishop Carlton Pearson, who, while watching news coverage of the Rwandan genocide experienced the voice of God telling him, “Can’t you see, [these people] are already in Hell?”

Pearson came to understand that Hell is something human-made, not a grim afterlife for those failing to say the magic words. His burgeoning belief in universal salvation had historical and theological precedent, but it still got him excommunicated, costing him his job and his community.

I’ve struggled with the pointlessness of my brother’s death. I want to find meaning in it, though another part of me recognizes there can’t be meaning, or at least not a single meaning, in such an event. To die so young, with so much unfulfilled promise, and to die by addiction, a type of slow suicide…What is there to say about it other than to name its horror?

Having a drink might be fun, but addiction is boring. It’s the lizard brain gone haywire, the drug of choice seeming more vital than oxygen. I watched my brother’s considerable intellect boil down to the sole task of procuring alcohol via various deceptions and schemes. If you think the addict is lying, you are right; there are no surprises. Addiction is its own Hell.

Maybe that’s why this bald eagle has become so meaningful to me—what greater freedom could there be than those broad wings stretching against the bright sky? It reminds me that, for my brother, Hell is over. He is free now.

Do I literally believe the spirit of my dead brother is now possessing a local bald eagle? Probably not? Or maybe I believe in it the same way I believe in Santa Claus—I know who puts the presents under the tree, but I also believe in the power of the story: that a society as contentious as ours could conspire to weave magic from our collective generosity for the benefit of children. There are things that are literally true and there are things that are True in a greater sense. This is the magic of stories; they teach us to see with new eyes.

The eagle alighted on a high voltage line above me as I was running this morning. I’ve been feeling pretty down since Sunday, and the sight of it filled me with relief. I pointed it out to a young boy walking to school. We watched it eat a rat. When the boy left, a hurried commuter walked by. He barely glanced up when I gestured to the eagle. There’s something to be said for getting to work on time (who knows, maybe his job depended on it) but the contrast between their reactions brought home the need for magic and myth—to widen our narrow adult focus; to see the world as it really is.

my brother, the eagle. Image by Katharine Strange.

None of us can know what happens after death. Even C.S. Lewis admitted that. In the face of that uncertainty, we must each decide what to believe. May we believe, and may we share, stories that increase our love and wonder.

What is your most irrational belief? What do you get out of it? Do any birds in particular mean anything to you? Share your theories, half-baked ideas, or outright skepticism in the comments.

BONUS MATERIALS:

• “Important to remember is that myth is not something false, rather a myth is something with so much truth that it needs a fantastical container.” —Pádraig Ó Tuama

• speaking of Pádraig Ó Tuama, here’s him on Hell

• Kasey Musgraves’ new song “Cardinal” is pretty on-theme