Death and Dying || Faith in Flux

I grew up in a world where the afterlife wasn’t just a belief—it was the ultimate destination, the looming endpoint that dictated everything you did. Heaven or hell, black or white. No gray. I was told repeatedly that I was destined for hell—mostly for the heinous crime of being queer. It wasn’t just cruel; it was exhausting. And then, somewhere along the way, I encountered a radical idea that cracked open the foundation of my belief system: what if hell didn’t exist at all?

The idea wasn’t mine originally. It came from a contemporary Christian author whose name escapes me now, but the concept was introduced during a formative time of spiritual questioning. My youth pastor, one of the few people in my church willing to challenge doctrine, didn’t shy away from entertaining the possibility. This alone set him apart from the rest of the congregation, who met the idea with side eyes and scorn. I respected him for his integrity—he even admitted that he refused ordination because he couldn’t answer the “right” way to satisfy the denomination’s rigid beliefs.

That tiny seed of an idea—hell as a myth—planted itself in my mind and began to grow. How could a God of “radical love” create a place of eternal suffering? The math didn’t add up. And as my ideas about hell unraveled, so did the concept of heaven.

Grappling with the Afterlife

Fast-forward to today: I’m no longer the person who prays to a wish-granting genie God, hoping He’ll “fix” me. But even now, the question of the afterlife lingers. What does my current understanding of God—or lack thereof—say about what happens after we die? And how does Judaism fit into this?

I’ll admit, I envy people who find comfort in the idea of being reunited with loved ones in some celestial “world to come.” But for me, the focus on what’s beyond can sometimes feel like a distraction from what’s right in front of us. I struggle with the idea of an afterlife, not because it’s unappealing, but because it often pulls people away from fully living in the present. And Judaism, in many ways, aligns with this perspective.

The Torah speaks sparingly about the afterlife, and when it does, it feels less like a physical location and more like a state of being. Take Sheol, for example. Often misunderstood as the Jewish version of hell, it’s better interpreted as a place of stillness—a resting state. When Jacob fears for Benjamin’s life, he says the grief will send him down to Sheol. To me, this isn’t about torment but about a disruption of peace.

Even concepts like the “world to come” or the resurrection of the dead feel less literal to me. I view them as metaphors—aspirations for a life lived closer to God or ideals to strive for, rather than promises of what’s to come.

So... What Happens When We Die?

To be honest? I think nothing happens. Death, to me, is like the time before we were born: a void of nonexistence. While that might sound bleak, I find it strangely comforting. Life is precious because it’s finite. The absence of an afterlife doesn’t diminish the beauty of our time here; it amplifies it.

Even if I’m wrong—if there is a God and an afterlife—I can’t imagine a God who prioritizes belief over action. The idea of a deity who says, “You lived a life of love and kindness, but you didn’t believe in me the right way, so off to eternal damnation you go,” feels absurd and cruel. If there is accountability in the afterlife, it would have to hinge on morality, not dogma.

Playing with Possibilities

But let’s have some fun with hypotheticals. What if the afterlife isn’t what anyone expects? One of my favorite sci-fi-inspired musings is the idea of reincarnation—not in the sense of a soul hopping from body to body, but as a continuation of energy. The law of thermodynamics teaches us that matter isn’t created or destroyed; it’s recycled. What if our consciousness is part of that cycle? Imagine our essence moving through the soil, into plants, animals, and eventually, back into humans. It’s a poetic interpretation of the interconnectedness of life, and honestly, it feels just as plausible as any other afterlife theory.

Or maybe we’re all just part of a simulation, and our lives are the cosmic equivalent of a video game. Who knows?

Finding Meaning Without Eternity

At the end of the day, I don’t think we need an afterlife to give our lives meaning. In the Disney movie Coco, and in Mexican tradition, there’s a beautiful idea that a person lives on as long as their memory is kept alive. This resonates deeply with me. The legacy we leave behind—the stories, the kindness, the love—becomes our form of eternal life.

Judaism, in its focus on action and memory, aligns with this view. It’s not about what happens after we die; it’s about how we live now. The Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, doesn’t even mention death. Instead, it praises God and celebrates life. To me, that’s the ultimate reminder: our time here is finite, but the impact we leave can be infinite.

Death is final. But the ripples we create—the memories we leave behind—are anything but.