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, anti-clockwise 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:
The Ship of Theseus and Eternity
"He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in their hearts..."
Ecclesiastes 3:11
Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@mischievous_penguins
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, anti-clockwise 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:
"He has made everything beautiful in its time.
He has also set eternity in their hearts..."
Ecclesiastes 3:11 (World English Bible)