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Jim McCrory

Some Thoughts on Eternity

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 25 Dec 2024, 11:40



"He has made everything beautiful in its time. 

He has also set eternity in the hearts of men, 

yet they cannot fathom the work that God has done from beginning to end."

 — Ecclesiastes 3:11


Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot


I was born and raised in the maritime city of Glasgow. Inevitably, it looks outward. And yet, where we travel shapes who we are inwardly. Now, I am crossing over to the Island of Bute on the MV Bute, reading about the fascinating philosophical thought experiment known as the Ship of Theseus, first proposed by Plutarch.

Theseus, the mythological hero, sailed from Greece to slay the Minotaur. After completing his task, he returned to Athens and left his ship to decay. Over time, carpenters gradually replaced each plank of the ship. This raises a question: which ship is the Ship of Theseus—the newly restored one or the old parts rotting on the beach?

Our bodies are not unlike that paradox. Red blood cells form, embark on an arduous journey through the grand rapids of our arteries, veins, and capillaries—facing proportionally life-threatening obstacles—only to sail into oblivion after their two-month voyage. Skin cells decay, leading to weakening avalanches and shifting continental plates. They fall from their plateaus, aided by cascading water, gravitating toward terminal, anticlockwise whirlpools before their second day ends. Estimates vary, but the body replaces itself every seven to ten years. Like Plutarch’s thought experiment, this raises questions of identity and thoughts of eternity as I ponder the body’s self-renewal mechanism.

But here lies the paradox: neurons, those cells that drive the brain, remain with us, in some cases, for life. Though I am advancing in years, there’s still a young man living inside me. I can call him up at any time to visit the places he once visited, meet the people he met, and relive the joys he experienced. This convinces me of an action God took before I was born: setting eternity in my heart.

There is something profoundly beautiful in understanding that while our physical form undergoes continuous change, the essence of who we are remains anchored in something eternal. As I stand on the deck of the MV Bute, the wind tousling my hair and the vast expanse of the sea stretching out before me, I am reminded of the eternal nature that God has set within us. The same sense of eternity that inspired the ancient philosophers to ponder the Ship of Theseus and the same eternal truth that we find in the Scriptures.

In this ever-changing world, the constancy of God’s creation and His eternal purpose for our lives offer a reassuring anchor. Our journeys, much like those of Theseus and his ship, involve renewal and transformation. Yet, in each phase, there is a beauty that God has ordained, a purpose that transcends time.

Reflecting on these thoughts, I find peace in the knowledge that while the external may change, the core of our being is eternally held by God. This realization brings a profound sense of wonder and gratitude for the life I have been given, and for the eternal journey that lies ahead.


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Jim McCrory

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 29 Sept 2024, 08:30


“If a man dies, shall he live again? 


(The prophet Job)

Job14:14 (KJV).



Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@arnosenoner



A friend of mine, who worked with a charity supporting refugees, once had a Chinese man visit his office. The man didn’t speak English, but with the help of a translator over video, they were able to understand his question. He asked, “Can you tell me what happens when we die?”

This question is not unique to him. It’s one we all ask at some point, and as we age, the question often surfaces more frequently. Why is there something rather than nothing? Why do we, with our brains—mere matter and electrical impulses—have the capacity to be aware of ourselves? What makes us so uniquely positioned to explore these mysteries?

Science, for all its remarkable advancements, doesn’t provide the answers to these ultimate questions. Despite the grand ambitions of certain theories, these are the boundaries science cannot cross. 

Some might say, “There can’t be a God—there’s too much evil in the world.” But doesn’t the very recognition of evil prompt another question: why is there so much good? And where does this deep sense of morality, of right and wrong, come from? If we are just the product of blind chance, why do we seek justice? In a purely indifferent universe, justice shouldn’t matter. And yet, we feel it deeply. There’s a reason we strive for it.

Several years ago, I was visiting Krakow, Poland. One evening, I wandered through the old town and found myself near the old Jewish cemetery. I like visiting graveyards—they remind me of life’s fragility and the importance of how we live. 

Standing outside the synagogue near the graveyard, I met a rabbi. “The cemetery is closed,” he told me, “but soon, they’ll be coming out.” His words caught my attention. I knew what he meant.

    I replied,  “Yes, Ecclesiastes 9:5, ‘For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing.’”

The dead are dead according to the Hebrew scripture. There’s no hellfire or heavenly calling for them, only silence. This might sound unsettling, but it’s not the end of the story.

There was no resurrection until Jesus came and offered himself as the bearer of humanity’s sins. His death opened the way for life beyond the grave. As the Gospel of John tells us, “Do not be amazed at this, for the hour is coming when all who are in their graves will hear His voice and come out—those who have done good to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil to the resurrection of judgment” (John 5:28-29).

Isn’t that an incredible thought? Doesn’t it resonate with the depth of who we are? We aren’t merely physical beings bound to 70 or 80 years. We have the capacity for love, selflessness, and thoughts that stretch toward eternity. Life, as we know it, is only part of a much larger plan—a plan that makes sense of both the goodness we experience and the justice we seek.

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