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Can Man Become Godlike?

This meditation was inspired by the following passage from the Gospel of John:

Then the people again picked up stones to throw at him. Jesus said to them, “I have done many good deeds in your presence which the Father gave me to do; for which of these do you want to stone me?” They answered, “We do not want to stone you because of any good deeds, but because of your blasphemy! You are only a man, but you are trying to make yourself God!” Jesus answered, “It is written in your own Law that God said, ‘You are gods.’ We know that what the scripture says is true forever; and God called those people gods, the people to whom his message was given.”

Of all the religions and philosophies that the human race has ever invented or been able to conceive, only one promises something that seems too good to be true (except that maybe it is true), something that human beings never stop yearning for and fantasizing about from one century and one civilization to the next: To become like a god. Practically speaking, it means the possession of godlike attributes. And not primarily immunity from old age and death—of what use to us is mere immortality—but rather a superhuman capacity for enjoyment, certainly for the familiar (though heightened) pleasures of the senses but especially for the pleasures of knowing and loving. Compared with that, youth and health, beauty brains and talent are chicken feed, even though billionaires would part with their entire fortunes for some of the items on that list.

The makers of Greek and Roman mythology said that the gods lived on Mount Olympus, the highest mountain in Greece. But that was probably just a way of indicating that the gods weren’t loners but liked to socialize with one another. Gods don’t live on mountains anymore than they live in houses. In that way they’re very different from us, who probably spend 80 percent of our lives in enclosed spaces called rooms. Even when the rooms are large and well furnished, we still often feel confined and restless. We want to escape into the great world outside where, we feel, real life is to be found. But, not being godlike, we need an enclosed space to protect us from the elements and to provide creature comforts like artificial warmth, artificial light, furniture to prop us up and an even surface to walk on. We even wrap ourselves in a physically and psychologically protective layer called clothes. Compared with animals we’re pretty feeble creatures. To be godlike, on the other hand, is to be free of all these tiresome limitations. One doesn’t imagine a god dressing and undressing, doing the laundry, taking out the garbage, getting stuck in traffic, or stocking up on toilet paper.

According to the myth-makers, the gods are jealous and often quarrel with one another. Sometimes, for good or ill, they interfere in human lives. In general, however, they go about their business without running into any of the familiar obstacles that constantly frustrate mere mortals. Space and to some extent time aren’t a problem for them. We, on the other hand, can only be in one place at a time. This means that we possess our being successively, moment by moment. You might say that we’re never all there—and that places enormous limitations on what it is to live. No wonder it’s only now and then that we feel really alive. Not so with the gods. To be free of a palace, like a king, means that you can go anywhere you want in the palace. To be free of space and time, like a god, means you’re not stuck in one particular place at one particular time. This godlike freedom is the essential condition for experiencing a rush of life.

So, why has the only system of thought and behaviour which promises a godlike status aroused such fierce opposition—alternating with studied indifference—from the moment it first appeared? It’s obviously not a matter of credibility, since it has won the belief and commitment of a sizable part of the human race for centuries right up until the present day, including many of its greatest poets, artists, philosophers and men of science. Perhaps the reason is subconscious, in which case the answer may simply be peace of mind. For if one were to admit there was even a small possibility of so great a good being humanly attainable, then one might feel constrained to examine the evidence for this possibility more carefully than the irreligious side of human nature is generally inclined to do. And, oddly enough, this holds true almost as much for run-of-the-mill believers as for devout sceptics. Unlike material facts, spiritual facts (if they exist) are hidden from the senses. So, unless you’re a mystic or believe you’ve been granted a religious experience, it’s hard to behave as if you take religion quite seriously, even when you honestly believe in it.

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