Many religions have a view of the “end times”—what happens after death, and, in some traditions, how history itself will end. This is called eschatology. In some communities there is an almost excited anticipation of the world’s ending, paired with the idea of a glorious ascent of the worthy up to heaven (there’s that spatial metaphor again, taken quite literally by many, as though heaven must be “upwards”). Of course, those with this view usually assume they will be among the worthy. In turn, some people cultivate a kind of passive resignation about trying to improve the world’s problems: they say these are the “end times,” so why bother. And to some degree this kind of thinking can shape how people relate to society and politics—sometimes pulling them away from the work of changing the world.
I realize, of course, that eschatology doesn’t always produce passivity; in some forms it can motivate people toward reform or activism. But when apocalyptic belief becomes an excuse for disengagement—or an indulgence in catastrophe—it becomes a bleak and cynical example of what happens when dogma is taken literally. At its darkest, it can spill into extreme behavior, such as the Heaven’s Gate mass suicide in 1997. Even if the world were ending, it seems profoundly dishonourable to adopt passive resignation—let alone a smile of anticipation—about helpful action. It would be like watching a burning building with no attempt to help the people trapped inside, quietly nodding to yourself that heaven is getting closer.
I think most of us would agree that the most noble and beautiful actions humans are capable of are helpful and altruistic: working to improve a situation even when it is bleak or seemingly hopeless. A truly noble person would not be motivated by thoughts of a glorious heavenly reward upon death; they would be motivated to do good because of the intrinsic goodness of the action itself.
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