The radiant energy emanating from our life-giving sun, nourishes not only the physical tapestry of our world but, as I submit to you, it reaches beyond the realm of the tangible. It caresses the very essence of our existence.
We are well aware of the sun’s profound influence on life on Earth—a fact rooted deeply in our collective understanding. Yet, it warrants a reminder that the quantity of energy a planet receives, as our geological annals attest, and the ability of our oceans and atmosphere to store this life-sustaining energy, stand as critical determinants in the flourishing of life in our planet.
As many of you are aware, and as some question—albeit often driven by political motives rather than scientific inquiry—the mounting levels of CO2 in our atmosphere amplify the heat-retention capacity of our environment. In turn, this process elevates temperatures within our biosphere and imparts a corrosive acidity to our seas and oceans. However, let me make it clear that this blog isn’t a platform for the discussion of humanity’s future. (Please note, I didn’t say ‘our planet’s future,’ for should we bring calamity upon ourselves, nature will persist in our absence) The text of these lines orbits around the enigma of energy within the cycle of life and its relevance to the spiritual realm that awaits us once our terrestrial journey concludes.
It is, at this juncture, essential to contemplate the very essence of energy—a concept, surprisingly, lacking a precise definition for much of human history. It might astonish you, but before the 19th century, the term ‘energy’ was virtually unfamiliar. If one were to stroll through the bustling streets of 18th-century London and inquire whether they have much energy when they wake up in the morning, confusion would likely ensue.
The concept of energy, as an engineering construct, became well known during the Industrial Revolution and is frequently coupled with descriptors such as ‘kinetic’ in kinetic energy (denoting energy acquired through velocity) or ‘potential’ in potential energy (for example, if you lift an object it will tend to fall harder the higher you lift it). Think, for a moment, of the wind’s kinetic energy harnessed by a windmill or the potential energy residing in a raised hammer poised to secure a nail into a wooden plank. Energy, as defined, demands a substantial outlay of effort for acquisition and, when transferred, manifests as work of the same or varied nature.
So, to put it simply, plants do some work to harness the sun’s energy, and animals put in a whole lot more effort in gathering edible parts of plants or tracking down other creatures. In doing so, they absorb the sun’s energy, which initially allowed the plants to flourish. Now, when it comes to consciousness, it’s a bit of a different story. You see, a portion, or maybe a big chunk, of that captured energy gets used up in forming memories and constructing various thought structures. These mental frameworks range from basic emotions to mind-boggling abstractions, like our concepts of good and evil, simulations of what might happen in the future, and our understanding of complex fields like economics and physics. And that’s the secret of how our intellectual growth taps into the sun’s boundless energy.
Whenever we dive into introspection, grapple with our feelings, indulge in dreams, or reminisce about our past, we’re essentially building mental structures that become an integral part of who we are. It’s like our souls are expanding, but here’s the catch—it comes at a cost. We need sustenance, calories to burn, financial resources to maintain our way of life, and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. All of these endeavors are powered, one way or another, by the sun’s energy, which in turn drives our spiritual development.
Now, you might wonder how these considerations pertain to the subject of life after death. Well, here’s where the tapestry weaves together. A plane of existence constructed from pure information, or any alternative that exists beyond the material realm (if my theory finds no resonance), absent the radiance of stars, the warmth of fire, the chill of frost—lacking, in essence, an energy source—should, logically, exhibit significantly less activity than what the narratives of NDE survivors seem to convey.
If we accept the premise that all phenomena deemed ‘supernatural’ are merely aspects of existence we’ve yet to grasp, destined to be rendered ‘natural’ as our comprehension deepens, then the spiritual realm, whatever its nature may be, must fundamentally be ‘natural,’ albeit a facet of nature eluding our current understanding.
In our world, the processes of thought and reflection naturally hinge on the sustenance of our brains through chemical energy. In the absence of an energy source, the spiritual world might become a realm where all activity instantaneously stagnates upon arrival. A place where, at most, sentient beings deposit their consciousness, and nothing transpires thereafter—an existence contrary to the afterlife expounded in the accounts of NDEs.
Now, let us broach the question: From whence does energy in the spiritual realm arise?
The accounts of those who’ve had near-death experiences often describe encounters with a radiant being, a light so intense that they can’t understand at first why it doesn’t harm their vision. Some realize that in this realm, they lack physical eyes or any physical form whatsoever and so there is nothing to be hurt. This luminous presence has the power to cleanse them of earthly worries and emotional pain. While some describe this being as “God” due to the limitations of human language, it’s clear that this description falls short. God, as conveyed by this entity, is the entire universe, and we, in our essence, are a part of his or her vast existence. This being, as containing all the energy of all the stars, black holes, white dwarfs, planets, etc. is the cosmic powerhouse that provides of energy the spiritual realm.
Now, why do we need to incorporate the energy of the sun into our consciousness? Here’s the hypothesis I propose: as we grow spiritually, the amount of solar energy integrated into the spiritual realm during our transition expands proportionally.
I hold the belief that this is what God or the Universe desires from us. Our existence in this world is a journey toward becoming beings of light, where we tap into the energy gifted to us by God or the Universe and endeavor to evolve into entities as pure and radiant as this divine presence. We were once a part of God, separated from the whole to enhance ourselves, to become a fragment worthy of reuniting with the entirety. It’s a voyage that extends far beyond a single lifetime, possibly stretching into the boundless reaches of eternity.
Consider this: if your life revolves around accumulating material possessions, such as a grander home, finer clothes, and more wealth, then it’s these material possessions that will hold the majority of the energy you’ve worked so hard to amass. Meanwhile, your own soul will possess very little of this energy. You’ll leave behind a wealth of material possessions but arrive in the spiritual realm spiritually impoverished. On the other hand, if your focus is on nurturing intellectual enlightenment, dedicating your energy to acquiring wisdom beyond the pages of books, and building meaningful connections, then your legacy will reside in the minds and hearts of others. Your education and the wisdom you’ve gained through interactions with fellow souls will become an integral part of your spirit. With so many energy taken within your soul, you will be litteraly bathed in an abundance of light when you reach the spirit realm.
Now, purely from an energetic perspective, one might infer that the spiritual realm would welcome all souls, as each, by life’s end, whether through a life richly or modestly lived, has transmuted solar energy into varying degrees of spiritual growth.
But here’s the intriguing aspect: As shared by NDE survivors, within this realm, separation between souls is nonexistent. Emotions and thoughts course instantaneously from one entity to another, sans barriers. This implies that if a malevolent, self-serving soul were to arrive, it could instantaneously contaminate other souls, inundating them with its malice, hatred, disdain, or the seeds of malevolence.
As reported in numerous NDEs, there exists an intermediate sphere within the spiritual realm—a crossing point, beyond which no soul returns unless summoned to guide a familiar spirit. This intermediate realm isn’t the soul’s final abode; it might be linked to the imperative of averting the spread of contamination from those who arrive with malevolence. Thus, a buffer zone exists, where souls undergo purification—a process I envision as cleansing their essence of incompatibilities with the communion of souls revealed in NDEs.
But consider this: What if a soul, upon death, is so deeply corrupted, so resistant to aligning with the purity of that realm, that no amount of cleansing or healing suffices to harmonize it with pure or purified souls? In such a scenario, this soul might be denied entry. And where, you might wonder, would such a soul find itself? I am, of course, referring to what we term ‘hell.’
Now, you might pose a profound question: Could God/the Universe, infused with love for all its creation, could they have conceived a realm of punishment and torment? Perhaps, it didn’t conceive such a realm at all.
As a few individuals who have undergone harrowing Near-Death Experiences (NDEs) recount, and as Plato elucidated in the Myth of Er, alongside passages in the Epistles to the Thessalonians within the Bible, the concept of hell emerges as a realm where the divine light of God fails to penetrate. Consequently, in the afterlife, one faces the prospect of either transcending to the spiritual realm or languishing in a space where, if energy exists at all, it emanates from those souls characterized by exceedingly low levels of spiritual growth. Within this realm, these souls wander, perhaps forming rudimentary societies, but certainly, they yearn desperately to harness the energy that can only be carried by those recently departed from the mortal coil
I once came across a documentary, a grim glimpse into a Colombian prison. In this unsettling portrayal, corruption and the inertia of the authorities had conspired to deliver governance of the facility into the hands of inmates with the lengthiest sentences. These individuals, over time, had amassed resources and forged a criminal syndicate within the prison’s walls.
For a newcomer thrust into this nightmarish world, their initial moments within the prison yielded a stark realization. While they might be assigned a cell and a bed, the privilege of resting in that bed was a commodity one had to purchase. Those without the means to do so faced a dire choice: peddle drugs, offer their physical selves, or engage in tasks such as carpentry, cooking, or handyman work, the fruits of their labor serving not as a salary but as a means to stave off the grim prospect of being sacrificed to free space for another who could pay. It was a realm steeped in abject violence, a breeding ground for profound despair—an earthly incarnation of hell.
Yet, disturbing as this reality may be, it pales in comparison to the ordeals described by some who have experienced the worst kind of Near-Death Experiences (NDEs). In these accounts, they recount encounters with a hellish dimension, one that defies earthly horrors.
To grasp this, consider the premise that the soul carries with it energy into the spiritual realm. Upon death, a rejected soul, defenseless and oblivious to its newfound predicament, might be perceived as a source of spiritual energy—a meager reservoir, yet a fresh font that can be harvested to sustain an active existence. Such a place becomes a crucible of torment and futility, where the absence of boundaries and the unbroken psychological continuity of souls expose them to the darkest recesses of thought and emotion, emanating from the most abhorrent minds to have ever existed. Death offers no respite, no escape from this torment.
However, if we entertain the notion that the energy we accumulate and transmute into spiritual growth bears profound significance, as I contend it does, then the objective in this realm is not merely to usher the purest souls into the spiritual domain. Rather, it strives to embrace as many of us as possible. For some, this may necessitate a process of healing, while others may embark on a cycle of reincarnation, endeavoring to surpass their previous iterations. Even for those rejected souls, should they glean a valuable lesson from their sojourn in hell—an insight that allows them to appreciate what remained unlearned in prior lives—then, as conveyed in Plato’s myth of Er, another opportunity might yet await them.
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