What Happens When You Die?

“Death is very likely the single best invention of life.” — Steve Jobs

What happens when you die?

It’s one of the only questions that every human must face. Rich or poor, young or old, religious or sceptical: death knocks eventually. It’s the ultimate leveller. And while our culture is often happy to distract, delay, or deflect the conversation, the question keeps haunting the margins. It whispers at the funeral. It surfaces at the hospital bedside. It stirs late at night when the world goes quiet.

So we’re going to talk about it.

Do you float up to heaven? Get reincarnated? Cease to exist? Stand before a judge? Merge with the universe? Come back as someone else? Or is it all just... lights out?

Across history, people have given wildly different answers.

Plato believed that the soul is immortal, forever imprisoned in the body until released to return to the realm of pure forms. In Hinduism, the atman (self) undergoes cycles of birth and rebirth (samsara) until it is liberated into moksha, the union with the divine. In Buddhism, the self is more illusion than substance, and the goal is release from suffering into nirvana. Meanwhile, the modern secular imagination often assumes some version of oblivion: a return to the cosmic silence.

Ernest Becker

Cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker once wrote, “The idea of death, the fear of it, haunts the human animal like nothing else.” Yet in the modern West, we’ve perfected the art of not thinking about it. We tuck it away in sterile hospital rooms and funeral parlours. We glamorise youth, sanitise cemeteries, and numb ourselves with entertainment. But the question won’t go away.

"To die will be an awfully big adventure." Peter Pan’s boyish bravado in J.M. Barrie’s classic tale touches a nerve, doesn’t it? It’s a sentiment that’s both whimsical and profoundly serious. Because, let’s be honest, the question of what happens when our hearts take their final beat is perhaps the most universal, most pondered, and, for many, most daunting question of human existence. It’s the ultimate cliffhanger, the one mystery we all eventually star in.

Cultures across millennia have woven intricate tapestries of belief around death. The ancient Egyptians built monumental pyramids, elaborate homes for the afterlife, filled with treasures and even preserved loved ones, all in preparation for a journey beyond this life. In his famous work Phaedo, the Greek philosopher Plato argued for the immortality of the soul, suggesting that death is merely the soul’s liberation from its bodily prison. He asked, “Do we believe that there is such a thing as death? And is this anything but the separation of soul and body? And is death to be regarded as the arrival of the soul at her separate state?”

Freddie Mercury

Even in our modern, often secularised world, the question is ever-present. We hear it in the lyrics of popular songs. Queen’s Freddie Mercury famously asked, “Who wants to live forever?” Dylan knocked on heaven’s door, and The Who hoped they’d die before they got old. What happens when we die is a question that echoes the deeper yearning: if not forever here, then what? Is there something more? 

It’s a question that has fueled countless debates, inspired epic poems, and been the silent, thumping heartbeat beneath many a sleepless night. Woody Allen, with his anxiety-ridden humour said, 

Woody Allen

"I don't want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve it through not dying. I don't want to live on in the hearts of my countrymen; I want to live on in my apartment." 

It’s funny, but it also lays bare that primal fear, that desire for continuation.

As some materialists suggest, is it possible that this life is all there is? That consciousness is simply a byproduct of complex brain chemistry, and when the brain ceases to function, the lights just… go out? The end? It’s a stark thought that can feel liberating to some and terrifying to others. The Roman poet Lucretius, for example, argued that we shouldn’t fear death if, like before we were born, we will simply cease to exist and thus cease to feel or experience anything, including fear itself.

But then, what about those near-death experiences people report? The tunnels of light, the encounters with deceased loved ones, the profound sense of peace? Are these mere neurological flickers of a dying brain? Or are they glimpses through a crack in the veil, hints of something beyond our current comprehension?

In one of my favourite books, Nothing to Be Frightened Of, English writer Julian Barnes offers a deeply personal and unflinchingly honest meditation on death, a subject he openly admits to fearing with a profound and persistent dread. The book’s title itself is steeped in a stark irony; Barnes posits that the "nothing," the complete and utter oblivion, the final erasure of consciousness that death represents, is precisely the source of his terror, rather than a comfort. He compellingly quotes the French writer Jules Renard: "The word that is most true, most exact, most filled with meaning, is the word ‘nothing’," underscoring the chilling finality he confronts.

As a self-proclaimed agnostic, he avoids easy consolations or sentimental platitudes often offered in the face of mortality. He finds no solace in traditional religious narratives of an afterlife, nor does he seek to dilute the harsh reality of extinction. Instead, he explores the pervasive fear of death not as a morbid preoccupation, but as an essential, almost defining, aspect of life itself. He argues with conviction that "unless you are constantly aware of it, you cannot begin to understand what life is about." This awareness, however unsettling, is presented as a prerequisite for a deeper appreciation of existence.

Barnes grapples with the fading influence of religious frameworks in a secular age, poignantly noting, "I don’t believe in God, but I miss Him." This sentiment refers not to a longing for faith itself, but for the grand cultural, artistic, and communal comforts that belief systems once provided society in the face of the unknown. Ultimately, for Barnes, memory becomes inextricably linked to identity and a fragile form of continuance. To be forgotten, or to lose one's memories through dementia or decay, is portrayed as a kind of living death, a preliminary erasure even before the physical end. He wants to candidly and intelligently confront our shared human fate: the inevitable journey into that "nothing."

So what about death and the Christian faith? The Bible itself offers a rich, complex, and developing picture. The Old Testament often speaks of Sheol, a shadowy realm of the dead, a place of quiet and forgetfulness. Yet, even there, glimmers of hope for something more appear, particularly in the later prophets and wisdom literature, with emerging ideas of resurrection and a final vindication for the righteous. 

When we arrive at the New Testament, we see Jesus weeping at the grave of his friend Lazarus, even though he knew he was about to raise him. Death grieved him. But then he proclaimed: “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die” (John 11:25). He spoke of "many rooms" in His Father's house (John 14:2). He promised the thief on the cross, "Today you will be with me in paradise" (Luke 23:43). His own resurrection is presented by the apostles not just as a unique event, but as the "first fruits" (1 Corinthians 15:20) of a new creation, a promise that death does not have the final word. The apostle Paul, in particular, paints a vibrant picture of a future resurrection, a transformed existence where "death is swallowed up in victory" (1 Corinthians 15:54). He said that if Jesus wasn’t raised from the dead, then Christian faith is “in vain.” Christianity stakes everything on this claim: that Jesus physically died, physically rose, and that his resurrection is the “firstfruits” — a down payment — of what will happen to all who trust in him. His life, death, and resurrection blew the doors off previous conceptions.

The early Church Fathers, those foundational thinkers of Christian theology, wrestled with these questions, drawing from scripture, reason, and the lived experience of their faith. Origen of Alexandria, a brilliant and sometimes controversial theologian of the third century, pondered the nature of the resurrected body and the ultimate restoration of all things. Similarly, Augustine of Hippo, wrote extensively on heaven, hell, and the state of the soul after death in his monumental work, City of God (another one of my favourite books). He grappled with concepts of judgment and eternal destiny, shaping Christian thought for centuries. Augustine famously said, "You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they find rest in you" Does this restlessness find its ultimate peace only beyond the grave? And what does that peace, or its alternative, truly look like? Tertullian, another key early Christian writer, was particularly focused on the resurrection of the flesh, a cornerstone of Christian hope. Against Gnostic ideas that denigrated the physical body, he championed the belief that our bodies, in some transformed way, would share in the life to come. He posed the question: if God could create us from nothing, why could He not recreate us from death?

These aren’t just ancient musings. They touch on our deepest hopes and fears. If there is an afterlife, what is its nature? Is it a place of pearly gates and angelic choirs, as popular imagination often paints heaven? Or is it something far beyond our current capacity to imagine? And what of hell? Is it a literal place of fire and brimstone, or a state of eternal separation from goodness, light, and love? Provocatively, C.S. Lewis, in The Great Divorce, portrayed hell not so much as a place God sends people, but a state people choose, a tiny, grey town from which souls can actually take a bus trip to the outskirts of heaven, but many choose to return, unable to bear the overwhelming reality of joy and truth.

These are not just theological puzzles; they shape how we live now. If this life is all there is, does that make it more precious or ultimately meaningless? If there is an afterlife, how does that belief impact our choices, values, and relationships today? Does it offer comfort in grief? Does it inspire us to live with greater purpose and accountability?

We invite you to join us as we embark on this exploration of the afterlife. Our upcoming sermon series will delve into the scriptures, engage with Christian tradition, and prayerfully seek to understand the hope within us. We won’t shy away from the tough questions or the uncomfortable uncertainties. Instead, we’ll face them together, seeking light, comfort, and a deeper understanding of the life, death, and promised resurrection that stands at the heart of our faith.

Don’t miss it. It’s a conversation that matters – perhaps more than any other. As Maximus famously said in Gladiator, "What we do in life echoes in eternity." Let’s explore what that echo might mean, together.