Human beings spend centuries debating the afterlife, but we almost never ask the more important question: What does believing in an afterlife do to the way we treat each other in this one?
Entire cultures, political systems, and conflicts have been shaped by competing visions of what comes next. But in all this noise, we often miss the simplest truth: death is not the enemy of meaning, it is the source of it.
If life were infinite, if paradise awaited us with endless rewards, then this world would be little more than a waiting room. The logic is unavoidable. If I'm guaranteed a new car next week, why would I care about the one I'm driving today? And if I believe I'll live forever in a perfect realm, why would I treat this life — and the lives of others — as precious?
When we recognize that we are temporary beings sharing a temporary world, the divisions we cling to — race, culture, ideology, religion — begin to lose their power. We see each other not as categories, but as fellow travelers passing through the same brief window of existence. Mortality has a way of leveling us. It reminds us that every person we meet is living a life as fragile and finite as our own.
This is not an argument against religion. Many people draw comfort, community, and moral guidance from their faith. But it is an argument against the idea that meaning must come from somewhere else — from a promised eternity, from a cosmic reward, from a life beyond this one. When the focus shifts to the next world, the stakes of this world diminish. The present becomes negotiable. The suffering of others becomes easier to rationalize.
You don't need to believe in heaven to treat people with dignity. You only need to understand that every life, including your own, is finite. That recognition alone can inspire a deeper sense of empathy than any doctrine. When you know that someone's time is limited, you are less inclined to harm them and more inclined to understand them.
Other species don't wrestle with these questions. They live according to their biological needs, no more and no less. Humans, with our oversized imaginations and fear of the unknown, often detach from reality in search of stories that soften the truth of our mortality. But the truth doesn't need softening. It needs embracing.
Because once we accept that our lives are finite, something remarkable happens:
We start living them.
We become more present.
More compassionate.
More aware of the value of each moment.
More connected to the people around us.
Death is not the opposite of life. It is the boundary that gives life shape. Without it, our days would blur into an endless horizon. With it, every day becomes a gift.
We don't need to fear death to live well.
We need to understand it.
And in that understanding, we may finally learn how to treat each other and ourselves with the care that a finite life deserves.
Thank you for allowing me to share my thoughts and feelings.Bruce Lowe is a homeowner advocate and community leader in Lubbock, Texas. He writes about civic integrity, public health, and principled reform. His book, "Honesty and Integrity: The Pillars of a Meaningful Life", explores how ethical leadership can strengthen families, uplift communities, and create a better life for all.
Demonstrators rally outside the U.S. Supreme Court as justices hear oral arguments on whether President Donald Trump can deny citizenship to children born to parents who are in the United States illegally or temporarily, on Capitol Hill, in Washington, Wednesday, April 1, 2026. (AP Photo/Mariam Zuhaib)
Luz Angela Nuñez with her daughter Aisha Quershi Nuñez at their home in College Point, Queens. Photo: Mia Anzalone for Documented.
Kimberly Alvarez, 25, with her daughter Evangeline and her husband John Alvarez in Medellin, Colombia. Photo courtesy of Kimberly Alvarez.Alvarez arrived in New York City in February 2024 with her husband John Alvarez as asylum seekers from Venezuela. In April 2025, Alvarez found out she was pregnant with her first child, a baby girl. Her first reaction, she said, was fear.“How am I going to keep her alive?” she said. “That’s what I was thinking. ‘How am I going to be able to take care of her?’”At the beginning of Alvarez’s pregnancy, she said she was aware of the immigration enforcement occurring around the country, but vowed not to let it deter her from showing up to her doctor’s appointments.“When you went out, you were always on alert because you didn’t know if [ICE] might be around. I never saw anything suspicious,” Alvarez said. “But of course, you feel scared.”In October, when Alvarez was six months pregnant, her husband was detained by ICE agents at 26 Federal Plaza. When the immediate shock wore off, she obsessively checked the Online Detainee Locator System to find out where her husband went. A day later, she discovered that he was being kept at Delaney Hall detention center in New Jersey. Alvarez quickly set up an account to pay for phone calls, and every two days, she would pay about $10 for a one-hour call, updating her husband about the baby, her appointments and how she was doing.“Crying was the only way for me to release the tension,” said Alvarez, who worried that her lack of sleep and bad diet were impacting her baby. “Crying was the only way for me to release the tension.”—Kimberly AlvarezThat tension built up day by day, week by week following her husband’s arrest. Alvarez had stopped her work as a cleaner in the neighborhood’s synagogues two weeks before her husband’s detention because of her pregnancy. The plan, she said, was to rely solely on his income as a maintenance worker for “the food, the rent, everything.” Left with few choices, Kimberley had to rely on her mother’s income as a cleaner. The older woman had moved to New York from North Carolina to assist with Alvarez’s pregnancy. “I feel like I’m supposed to help my mom, not the other way around,” Alvarez said. “I felt powerless because I couldn’t do anything.”On Dec. 9, Alvarez gave birth to a daughter, Evangeline. While her baby was healthy, Alvarez’s anxieties did not go away. While she returned to cleaning synagogues a few months after Evangeline’s birth to help make ends meet, Alvarez and her daughter rarely left home. Alvarez said she felt paralyzed, getting frequent alerts from a neighborhood WhatsApp group when ICE was spotted nearby. One day, she said, ICE arrested her friend’s husband in Sunset Park, in an area where she would sometimes take Evangeline for walks.“I’m so afraid that I’ll go out and run into one of them and that they’ll take her away from me,” Alvarez said. “That’s my biggest fear, that someone will take her away from me and I won’t know where my daughter is.”In March, her husband decided to voluntarily remove himself from the United States and move back to Colombia, where he is originally from. It was a family decision, but it was not a happy one — hiring immigration lawyers was too expensive, Alvarez said, adding that staying in the U.S. felt too uncertain. 