Longevity of the Spirit World

There's one thing that puzzles me, declares Roger, newly-arrived spirit —

Only one thing? I queried. The lad is so good-natured that he never minds our mild bantering.

We had returned to our house after our visit to the ‘church’ and Ruth’s brief organ recital, and were sitting comfortably in the downstairs room where Roger caught his first glimpse of the spirit world.

What is it that puzzles you, my dear fellow? State your case, as the lawyers say, and perhaps Ruth or I can throw some light on the matter.

It’s this: how is it that everybody looks so young? I’ve not seen any old people anywhere.

Oh, yes, you have, Roger; but not in the way you mean, of course.

If I’m being too personal, Monsignor, tell me to mind my own business, but what would your age be?

You need have no fear about being too personal, my dear boy, in this matter of ages. We’re not the least touchy over here. Even Ruth won’t mind your asking such a question, and as you may know, the women folk on earth are sometimes a little sensitive on the subject! But here, no one cares, because one ceases to give the thing much thought. Still, it has its interesting side, especially to people like you and me, Roger— and Ruth, too—who like to “look into things” a bit.

Well, now, as to my age. When I came over here I was forty-three, and I’ve been here for thirty-seven years—I know that because I have active interests in the old earth, and so have kept track of the passage of time. So, then, a simple sum, and you have the answer.

Good gracious, the boy exclaimed. Then you are eighty!

Just so—a young man of eighty!

But you don’t look anywhere near it.

I hope not. As a matter of fact, I scarcely look any different from what I appeared to be when I arrived here. A few alterations for the better, perhaps, but otherwise, no change.

And how old would you say I am, Roger? asked Ruth.

Careful, Roger, I interposed, but he would not venture a guess.

If you had said a hundred it wouldn’t have upset me in the least. But I’m not that yet. Put it at about sixty-two, and you’ll be right.

You don’t look a minute older than about twenty-five, returned Roger.

Which was just my age when I came here.

Then what on earth age must I look?

Hardly beyond an infant in arms, laughed Ruth. No, Roger, you look the same as you looked on earth, as far as age goes. In health, of course, vastly different, at any rate from those last few days. Poor dear, you were a very ill Roger then, but there’s no comparison now. Your mother would see in you now the lad she used to know.

You see how it is’ I said. In the spirit world age in years doesn’t count. What happens is that the period known as the prime of life is the normal and permanent age. If one arrives here before that time, as you did and as many other do, even tiny infants, then you proceed gradually towards that prime of life, and there you remain. If you should come here after you’ve reached it—one may have gone far past it into the eighties and higher—then you revert, you return to the prime of life. In other words, you become younger.

That seems a sound idea.

It is a sound idea, but then all the ideas here are sound. We joined in laughter at our own condescending approval of the spirit world.

Still, Roger, I continued, for all our fun, the law that brings it about is a just one, and that’s what you really meant. It’s just in every way: for those who have passed the prescribed span on earth and for those who left it in early or very early infancy, or when they were your age, or Ruth’s—and if it comes to that, mine as well almost.

But I’ll tell you one thing: you’ll find it extremely difficult to guess a person’s right age, which is to say, how long they have been in the spirit world, with the addition of the few years lived on earth.

The longer you’ve lived in these lands, the shorter does the earthly period seem to become by comparison. Take Radiant Wing, for example. You couldn’t possibly guess how long he has been here. If you had a little more knowledge—which of course, will come to you as you go along—there would be certain indications that would help you in your guess.

No, I couldn’t fathom how long he’s been here. He looks in his prime—a young man. Yet when he speaks, and when you look at him closely, you can see that, without appearing old or elderly in any way, there is something that suggests weight of knowledge, or something like that.

Difficult to define, Roger, very. There’s many an occasion, on seeing someone here, that you might say to yourself—if you should ever be so disrespectful—“he’s no chicken.” But there would be nothing to indicate positive agedness in such outward signs as wrinkles and lines, and all the other familiar landmarks of passing, or passed, years. How old would you say Radiant Wing is?

I can’t hope to guess.

He’s turned six hundred.

It's amazing, isn’t it?

Not really. You remember Omar is two thousand if he’s a day. His Egyptian aide is even older—in the region of five thousand years. What is it the psalmist says? Longitudine dierum replebo eum: I will fill him with length of days.

This is an ageless world, Roger, and some of us, at any rate, would appear to be the same. No lined faces, no white or graying hair, no suggestions of that additional weight with which on earth we manage to burden ourselves, or on the other hand, no indications of shrivelling up and wasting away; no slowing down of our movements, or alterations in the pitch of our voices; no loss of mental vigour. No second childhood. Eliminate this melancholy catalogue, and you have us as we are, restored to a second prime, those of us that need it, instead of advancing into a second childhood.

How old would you say the spirit world is, Monsignor?

My dear fellow, that is a question! You know what is said: eternity can have no beginning. And eternity, as with immortality, is something that cannot be proved. The only thing you can do in this particular instance, is to try to find out what is the consensus of opinion on the matter, and there you will find that we are all of one mind, and that is that this world and ourselves with it, are eternal. We have the feeling of absolute permanence. If it were not permanent, then what is the use of all this? What is the use of continuing at all?

No, my boy, everything here in these lands cries out against there being an end to this glorious life, and the still better life that lies in front of everyone of us. And we, in these realms, have the assurance—did we need it—of those stupendous souls in the very highest realms. If they are not telling us the truth, which is an infamous and preposterous supposition, then there is no truth.

But we have our own powers, Roger. There’s that to be considered. We can ourselves create. You’ve not seen us really on the job, yet, doing that. Wait till you see one of the experts running up a house for someone to live in, and as with a house, so with a palace or anything still larger. We make all this for ourselves with that power that comes from the great Source. Doubtless, you might argue, suppose the great Source cut off the power, withheld it, what then? That idea is equally preposterous. The power has been sent down ever since the spirit world existed. And that brings us back where we started! 

There does come a time when figures cease to have much significance for the ordinary person. When you contemplate the astronomical proportions into which the nations’ finances have developed, when money is reckoned in thousands of millions, these figures can convey nothing whatever to the average mind. It’s doubtful if they convey much to the people who are responsible for them. At any rate, the earth folk are now accustomed to such rows of almost unending digits, that when universal ages are brought in, they should cause no surprise.

The most one could say, Roger, in answer to your question as to the age of the spirit world, is that it existed before the earth world. That we know from high sources. Well, then, if the earth first came into being between three thousand and five thousand million years ago, as it has been computed, then that figure may convey something to your mind. I’m rather afraid it won’t. It doesn’t to me.

Nor to me, said Ruth.

Just so. All it can do is to suggest a gargantuan number of years. If the spirit world were in existence so long ago as that—and we have every assurance that it was—then there are existing people in these lands, somewhere, who can claim at least that gigantic number of years as their age. And that makes the rest of us seem like—what? A grain of sand in a whole vast desert of comparative spiritual stature.

This is staggering, Monsignor.

Yes, Roger, if you allow it to be, but the truth of the matter is, in practice, we don’t. It’s breath-taking when regarded in a row of figures, in thousands of millions, but what seems to me the most shattering and crushing of all, is the knowledge, upon universal proportions, of those personages I spoke about. You’ve not met or spoken with one yet, Roger. Ruth and I have, in common and in company with many others in these lands. We have even visited the high abode of the greatest of them all. The time will certainly come when you will have that privilege, too, Roger, here in these very realms, even in this very house. Omar is himself in personal attendance upon him; is, in fact, his right hand.

You see what you’ve brought on your young head by asking a simple question!

I realise now it was a foolish thing to ask.

Oh, no, my dear fellow; by no means. The difficulty is to find an answer, and it’s right you should satisfy your mind, as far as possible, upon things as they occur to you.

There is, as you will guess, an enormous amount of things that are not told us not because they are deep secrets, but because we have much to learn first. The fact is, that with our necessarily limited knowledge and powers of comprehension, we should fail to understand them in our present state of advancement.

It is like your school books, Roger. You were obliged to start at the beginning. A peep at the end of them would reveal things far beyond your then capabilities, and so would convey no meaning whatever. We are in no different case here as regards innumerable problems or questions. So we jog along, and find we’re none the worse off for not knowing the answers. Everything fits into its proper place in these lands, and none of us would be handicapped in our progression by lack of knowledge. The knowledge will be there at the right moment. In the meantime, there’s no harm in our having as many discussions as we like among ourselves—as we’re doing at this minute. If it’s possible for us to have light thrown upon them— subject to the limitations I have mentioned—then the light will come, you can be sure of that.

This is a sensible world, Roger, as you will have gathered; though if some earth folk were to be relied upon, or believed, in their wild fantastic notions, this would be one of the silliest places in the universe. How would you like to exchange this life for one that has all the appearances of a long continual Sunday?

I should hate it.

So would we all. But there are people on earth who regard that mode of existence as being the very height of spiritual felicity; Paradise, in fact.

There is another point about this longevity of the spirit world and the prime of life. And that is, some of us would tend to change rather in outward appearance if by chance we should be old or elderly when we came to the spirit world. On the other hand, there has been very little change in both Ruth and me, on account of our respective ages at transition. You, Roger, will naturally move onwards towards the prime of life period, and some change will no doubt take place. Not much, but some.

The prevailing earthly fashions or modes would have some little effect, at any rate in men, for there have been times on earth when bearded gentry were the rule. Now you may have noticed we don’t indulge in such facial adornments here, though if you wished to grow a patriarchal beard down to your waist, or any other kind, there is nothing whatever to prevent you. There’s no law “agin it.” It might require some considerable courage. Certain of our friends might make very pointed remarks if I were to cultivate any facial decorations.

I should, for one, said Ruth.

Which I should at once ascribe to pure envy! You can see, Roger, how it is. Identity isn’t lost, but it certainly can become obscured, as you might say. The man—or woman—when he is old looks very different from when he was young, and the man with a beard looks vastly changed without it. And those changes are not long in taking place. One soon shakes off the physical characteristics that belong to the earthly side of life, and puts on the spirit world personality. Thereafter, longevity makes no difference.

Take the comparative ages of Omar and his aide: there’s a difference between them that can be reckoned as three thousand years of earthly time. Could you honestly say which of the two is the elder?

No, Monsignor; impossible.

It is the same with millions more of us.

What would happen in the case of people whose features are very well known on earth?

Do you mean historical figures or contemporary?

I was thinking of both.

In the case of historical people, there are all sorts of factors. One is that there may happen to be no accurate picture of them on earth to which reference can be made. Artists have tried at different times, and built up some semblance from records containing a description of the particular person. Most of them are inaccurate—the pictures, I mean.

So that you might find yourself talking to people here, and be totally unaware of the fact that on earth they were once very famous people. Their identity has, in such cases, become completely submerged, as far as externals go. Of course, the person himself is still that person, although greatly improved, as we all hope to be! The old painters did their best, and turned out faces that were at least human—which is more than can be said of so many of the present earthly painters! But the originals have changed beyond all recognition.

What, after all, is earthly fame, of one sort and another? It depends upon what the fame rests. It is possible to see on the earth at present many whose fame rests upon a reputation of utter fatuity. That’s not so much their fault as that of the empty-headed people who give them such generous support.

There are people, too, whose earthly reputation and fame were of a very unsavoury kind, but who have since risen to the realms of light, and are profoundly glad that their portraits on earth are inaccurate delineations. Recognition, therefore, fails in these lands.