Chapter 12. Examining the Concept of the Soul. Part 1

What, precisely, is the soul within the framework of our modern understanding of personhood? Can it find any legitimate place amidst the physical processes that govern our organism? These questions naturally arise if we accept the conclusions about personality formation laid out in Chapter 6.

From a theistic perspective, the soul is immaterial—an elusive definition that places it beyond both proof and refutation. If it exists outside the material world, it cannot be observed, for only entities bound by materiality can interact and be measured. Thus, even if the soul exists, its influence on matter appears tenuous at best—an ideal candidate for elimination by Occam's razor. After all, the intricate interplay of the neocortex, thalamus, amygdala, hippocampus, cerebellum, brainstem, and midbrain provides a tangible, material explanation for what we so grandly refer to as "the self."

Let us entertain the hypothesis that the soul is some form of subquantum ether capable of influencing more complex structures. Even so, its influence would be so indirect and subtle that it might serve merely as a stabiliser, preventing matter from decay. Such a soul would likely not possess consciousness prior to the brain's formation in the foetus but instead, act as a passive repository of personal information rather than its generator.

There have also been attempts to attribute a material nature to the soul—most famously, the claim that it weighs 3 grams, disappearing from the scales at the moment of death. Yet this so-called "weight of the soul" is far more symbolic than scientific. The slight reduction in body mass observed after death, whether in humans or animals, can be attributed to natural causes: the release of energy reserves during the final throes of life.

Near-death experiences (NDEs) remain far from unambiguous, particularly when viewed subjectively. Collected data indicates that individuals raised in different cultural or religious contexts report a wide variety of NDEs. These variations suggest that such experiences are shaped more by cultural beliefs and personal expectations than by any objective reality.

I can speak to this personally: during a three-day coma, I encountered the familiar trope of a light at the end of a tunnel. As an atheist, I felt comically unqualified for this celestial "portal." Curiously, my tunnel was rotating—a detail that, to my knowledge, had not been previously mentioned by others. Whether this was caused by lingering light sensitivity or a neural "firework display," I cannot say. Alongside this curious vision, I glimpsed hazy fragments of faces—primarily living relatives—along with fleeting impressions of objects and melodies. If I were to describe the experience, it would resemble a scrapbook of 'meaningful recollections,' an oddly curated collection of familiar stimuli.

It is likely that religious individuals perceive conceptions of paradise, God, or angelic figures during NDEs, while those from different worldviews experience corresponding deities or symbols of personal significance. All these phenomena can plausibly be explained as the brain's valiant, last-ditch effort to soothe consciousness through stress-reducing mechanisms, sorting through personal values.

Scientific studies provide intriguing evidence to support this hypothesis. Researchers at Michigan State University conducted an intriguing experiment involving asphyxiation in nine rats. Within the first 30 seconds following cardiac arrest, the rats exhibited a remarkable surge of synchronised brain activity—transient but widespread, with characteristics typically associated with a highly aroused brain. This heightened neural activity offers a plausible explanation for the vivid hallucinations often described by individuals who have experienced clinical death.

In a 2015 study published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, researchers observed that the brain becomes significantly more active in the pre-death state. For example, dopamine release surged more than twelvefold in the initial moments of asphyxiation. This neurotransmitter plays a critical role in arousal, attention, and emotional cognition, which likely contributes to the vivid sensory and emotional experiences reported near death. Even more strikingly, serotonin release in the occipital cortex increased by over twentyfold in the first two minutes—an astonishing spike. Serotonin's role in activating receptors linked to visual hallucinations and mystical sensations in humans could explain the "otherworldly" experiences so often recounted. Noradrenaline levels also skyrocketed, reaching intensities undetectable in a living rat. Together, these chemical cascades offer a compelling neurochemical basis for the extraordinary experiences associated with clinical death.

Other experiments have sought to probe such phenomena further—such as placing symbols or inscriptions visible only from above—but their results have been frustratingly inconclusive, as each team of researchers produced results tainted by ideological biases. Theists and atheists alike, it seems, are not immune to seeing what they wish to see. The former often embellish their accounts, weaving their experiences into neatly sequenced narratives that align with religious dogma. The latter, with a scepticism verging on stoicism, frequently avoid discussing or acknowledging their experiences at all—perhaps wary of stoking public hysteria before they can provide a rational explanation.

The result? Data that serve neither camp. Instead, these studies highlight a curious truth: in the delicate space between life and death, our perceptions are shaped as much by our cultural lenses as by the biological fireworks within our brains.

Even if we accept the concept of the soul within our theoretical framework, significant gaps remain in the logical chain that would make it necessary. Anything that is not God—anything finite—must, to exist, be distinguished within infinity and enclosed within a "shell" to acquire its unique essence. This premise is plausible enough. However, from this point forward, the logic falters. An omnipotent God could theoretically use an entire spectrum of hypothetical material structures: unknown physiological patterns, familiar matter partitioned by parallel realities, or indeed anything imaginable. For a being with infinite capabilities, such flexibility is logical. And yet, creating a duplicate "shell" for one entity seems an act of divine redundancy. What conceivable justification could there be for such inefficiency?

Consider the supposed purpose of this duplication: to imperceptibly transport the 'personal information' to paradise after death. An omnipotent God, surely, could achieve this with far less fuss. Why not simply will the individual into eternity, fully formed in a new body? Even I, constrained by mortal limitations, could suggest a handful of more efficient designs for the task.

A similar critique applies to the idea of implanting a soul into a foetus. Why construct a "factory" of blank slates—devoid of information and useful only for animating new entities—when a simple divine gesture would suffice? God could snap omnipotent fingers, utter a single word, or even design a mechanism that imbues new life with consciousness drawn from His omnipresent life-giving energy. Proposing pre-existing souls or, worse still, pre-eternal entities transported into earthly conditions only adds layers of unnecessary complexity to what could otherwise be elegantly simple.

If this duplication is intended as an allegory, it fails to fulfil its pedagogical purpose. A sound human mind, operating exclusively within the bounds of logic, cannot extract any coherent meaning from it. An allegory that confounds rather than clarifies does not teach; it frustrates.

One might venture into the idea that this "duplicate shell" serves as a metaphysical spacesuit, enabling the soul to function in parallel realities while remaining active here on Earth. But even this idea collapses under its own redundancy. An omnipotent God could simply transform an entity into one form of matter and then into another, as needed, bypassing the need for dual structures entirely.

With such a hypothesis, redundancy remains stubbornly entrenched. Ultimately, proponents of this concept are left retreating to the familiar refrain: "God knows best; He is under no obligation to adhere to logic or meaning—at least, not the logic He gifted us."

But if God is rational and self-sufficient, then His acts of creation are not for His benefit but to share goodness with those capable of experiencing and understanding it. Thus, all creation is designed to convey goodness to personalities through material images—embodied information about God, Life, or Love. For this purpose, these personalities must be equipped to perceive, analyse, and process such information. Everything God does, then, must align with human perception, whether for practical or pedagogical ends.

The incomprehensibility of God, as often cited, need not suggest an utter inability to perceive Him but rather the infinite depth of information about Him—an inexhaustible well that can never be fully comprehended but is always accessible. Were the information in God truly incomprehensible, the interaction between Him and His creation would be impossible, thereby rendering the act of creation itself meaningless.

Unfortunately, this elegant doctrine stumbles, contradicting both physical reality and ontological logic. It also introduces peculiar textual anomalies in the Bible, which we have taken as our prototype for a rational religion.

Consider, for example, the widespread Christian belief in a universal resurrection—if not of all humanity, then at least of the righteous dead—who will rise in transformed or new bodies. As Paul writes: "In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed." (1 Corinthians 15:52.).

At the same time, many believe that souls depart to either heaven or hell after death, with some variation in interpretations regarding the levels of these realms. This introduces yet another formalism, one that seems strange for a logical God. On the one hand, prematurely assigning everyone to their destinations according to their merits implies that a clear understanding of who deserves what already exists—otherwise, it would be unjust to punish someone without explaining why. On the other hand, returning everyone to their graves, enveloping them underground in a new layer of physicality for a renewed life in new conditions, only to summon them to the surface at the sound of a trumpet, seems equally perplexing.

I understand that Christians are accustomed to symbolic ceremonies, but where is the practicality, pedagogy, or even illustrative value in this process?

Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of this doctrine is that sinners, it seems, will also be granted a brief reprieve from their torments to participate in the grand ceremony of universal condemnation. After all, the Bible declares, "Every eye will see Him, even they who pierced Him." (Rev. 1:7 ). It could be understood symbolically—referring to those who crucified Him through their sins—or perhaps quite literally, involving a few Roman legionaries, Pontius Pilate, and a handful of Jewish priests. Meanwhile, those already in hell, having undergone their interrogation and sentencing immediately after death, might feel a profound sense of injustice. After all, why should only the most infamous offenders be granted a brief reprieve for this grand event while they, equal participants in wickedness, remain consigned to their torment without even a moment's rest?

However why is any of this necessary for the righteous? They are presumably already basking in bliss, having settled into their heavenly routines, only to be sent back underground, reclothed in new flesh, and, as the Bible states, made to rejoice and exult with amazement—as if they had been awaiting this event as a release from some unbearable burden.

This convoluted process also does not align with the assertion that Christ "showed the way" for the righteous to God, demonstrating the journey from birth to grave—"the beginning and the end"—culminating in resurrection. According to the Gospels, Christ rose in a physical body, even going so far as to eat food in the presence of His apostles as proof of His corporeal existence (Luke 24:42.). And yet, the disciples repeatedly failed to recognise Him, suggesting His body had undergone the promised transformation for all humanity.

Christ's resurrected body is also described as having an unusual property: the ability to pass through physical barriers. For instance, He appeared to His disciples in a locked room (John 20:26.). This suggests a renewed physical form, though intentionally, the wounds of the crucifixion remained intact. According to Christian interpretations of the prophets Habakkuk and Zechariah, these scars serve as an eternal reminder of the price of sin.

It is worth noting that many experts question whether the Jews of the period when the Tanakh was written believed in the soul as a distinct, immaterial substance. Instead, they seemed to believe in ghosts, understood as either demons masquerading in human form or entities with control over the elements. The later Jewish concept of the soul was likely influenced by Greek culture, particularly Plato's philosophy, which framed the soul as an immaterial aspect of consciousness.

Nevertheless, the interpretations of Philo of Alexandria (c. 25 BC – 50 AD, whose teachings, according to his own words, were rejected by the Jews of his time) and the Talmud, compiled by rabbis between the 2nd century AD and the Middle Ages, regard the idea of the absence of a soul separate from the body as heretical within Judaism. Scholars infer the transformation of this teaching primarily from the presence of criticism against such views, its parallels with Platonic ideas, and the absence of unequivocal references to the existence of a soul independent from the body in the Tanakh.

The Hebrew Bible employs numerous metaphors for death, yet these consistently convey an expectation of resurrection rather than the independent existence of an immaterial soul. Consider the following passages:

•       "And many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt." (Daniel 12:2.)

•       "Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead." (Isaiah 26:19.)

•       "For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God." (Job 19:25-26.)

•       "So David slept with his fathers, and was buried in the city of David." (1 Kings 2:10.)

Similar metaphors recur throughout the Tanakh in multiple verses.

The New Testament continues this metaphorical tradition, frequently likening death to sleep. For example:

•       "...Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may awake him out of sleep." (John 11:11.)

Scripture, of course, acknowledges that the Jews held a variety of beliefs and practices that strayed from divine prescriptions—including the summoning of the dead. Yet if such practices were condemned by God, they were clearly not part of His intended order.

If God did not want souls to depart from their assigned post-mortem destinations at the whim of charlatans seeking to consult the living, one might expect Him to prevent it. After all, according to religious doctrine, everything that happens after death falls under His jurisdiction.

The alternative leads to absurd scenarios: imagine hereditary necromancers arranging daily visits from Hell, granting their clients a refreshing respite from the eternal flames and thereby sowing chaos in Hell's management. Even the righteous could find themselves cursed to be summoned to Earth every hour, having once been prepaid to a family of necromancers by an ill-wisher—or a well-intentioned but misguided benefactor who miscalculated their posthumous fate. A global bureaucratic loophole in the afterlife system.

The only way to salvage God's rationality and omnipotence amidst this apparent chaos is to assume that He deliberately permits these practices. But if that's the case, why formally prohibit them? A rational God would condemn such practices only if they were harmful or if the "spirits" summoned were mere impostors—entities masquerading as souls under His jurisdiction. (This issue has already been addressed in Chapter 3.)

There is some hope for reconciling this concept with Scripture in the account of Elijah and Moses appearing to Christ on Mount Tabor (Matt. 17:1-3). Their appearance was clearly by divine will, but the text does not specify whether they appeared as spirits. Context provides some clarity: Elijah, as we know, did not experience death and was taken directly to heaven, as was Enoch (Heb. 11:5; 2 Kings 2:11). Moses, however, is explicitly stated to have died and been buried, with the location of his grave remaining unknown (Deut. 34:6). Adding to the intrigue, Jude 1:9 mentions the Archangel Michael disputing over Moses' body—a puzzling detail that has led to various interpretations.

The most popular scenario suggests that Moses was resurrected to represent his dispensational period among the 24 elders—figures who serve a judicial role as jurors, ensuring that human opinion is accounted for in God's governance. (While this legal formality may hardly soften accusations of God being a tyrannical autocrat in the eyes of an atheist, it does at least present a more democratic version of divine authority—even if its sole purpose was merely to create that impression).

While we may lack factual evidence for the soul's existence and face a host of textual inconsistencies, this does not categorically mean the soul does not exist. However, if our aim is to maximise the logical coherence of the theistic concept, then a version of reality where the soul is not a separate substance appears far more rational. By dispensing with the need to prove its existence, this approach sidesteps significant challenges and does little, if anything, to undermine belief in God. On the contrary, it streamlines the relationship between factual data, logic, and biblical texts, reducing the tension between them.

However, this raises a critical question: what happens to personality after death?

If we conceptualise God as infinite, personal, but immaterial information—where human consciousness, formed by matter, serves as a faint reflection of God's incomprehensible consciousness—then the solution becomes elegant. For an omnipotent God, preserving a person's individuality is no more challenging than storing and transferring data. The entirety of our consciousness—our thoughts, emotions, and experiences—can be seen as a flow of information within the Creator's grand formula. In this model, God could seamlessly retain a person's "personal information" and transfer it into a new "shell" without the need for an independent soul.

This model aligns intriguingly with recent research by Jimo Borjigin, a professor at the University of Michigan and head of a laboratory studying brain activity before death. In 2023, Borjigin and her colleagues published a study detailing cases of four patients in comas, kept on life support, with electrodes attached for electroencephalography.

"All four were dying from different diseases," Borjigin explains. Once doctors and relatives concluded that "the patients did not respond to any medical procedures that could help them, it was decided to let them go." With the families' permission, life support was withdrawn. Remarkably, in two of these patients, researchers observed a sudden spike in brain activity associated with cognitive functions. Specifically, they detected gamma waves—the brain's fastest waves, crucial for complex information processing and memory formation.

Interestingly, while previous animal studies recorded widespread brain activation in dying rats, the human data revealed a more selective response. In humans, only specific areas of the brain were activated—those linked to cognitive functions, memory, and empathy. Borjigin highlights the key regions: the posterior brain, the so-called Wernicke's area (associated with language comprehension), and, most notably, the temporal lobes on both sides. These temporal regions, she notes, are vital not only for memory storage but also for other higher cognitive functions.

Even more fascinating is the activation of the right temporoparietal junction (TPJ), a region Borjigin connects to the development of empathy. This implies that, even in its final moments, the brain appears to prioritise profound human experiences—memory, understanding, and empathy.

Borjigin offers a striking analogy: a flat EEG does not necessarily signify immediate brain death but may instead reflect a resource-saving state, akin to a family cutting unnecessary expenses after losing income. The brain, she suggests, retains control over basic bodily functions while conserving resources for other activities. However, when the brain enters a state of generalised hypoxia (a critical lack of oxygen in the blood), there is a sudden surge of neural activity. "The question is," Borjigin asks, "why and for what purpose does the dying brain suddenly require such an intensive load?"

Allow me to add my personal experience to this discussion. I distinctly recall the difference in brain activity during two incidents in my life. The first occurred when my lungs filled with water, leading to loss of consciousness. According to those who rescued me, I likely spent several minutes underwater. My only memories from that event are of sheer panic, accompanied by a massive adrenaline surge, followed by about 30 seconds of an intense burning sensation in my chest as my lungs filled with water. That pain gradually dulled as I lost consciousness.

In this case, the brain did not have the opportunity to generate the kind of activity I experienced five years earlier, during a three-day coma following a fall at the age of 14. On that occasion, I fell headfirst from a second-floor balcony, sustaining an open skull fracture. There was no time for panic—just a fleeting moment of fright—before I lost consciousness. However, during the coma, I experienced everything one might expect from a brain activating its memory, empathy, and light-sensitivity regions.

Curiously, I have a vivid memory of being loaded into the ambulance. Though unconscious, it seems my eye opened briefly, allowing me to glimpse the ambulance's interior and the doctor swaying with the vehicle's motion. This memory, preserved by my brain, was later expanded into a more panoramic image. In this enhanced recollection, I see myself lying under a white sheet, my head turned to the side—but without facial details, as I rarely looked in the mirror at that age.

The activation of brain regions associated with values, memory, and empathy could fit seamlessly into the concept of a dying consciousness, compiling data for a larger "script." What you hold valuable, after all, ultimately determines your response when confronted with the foundational patterns of Life. This could dictate whether you find happiness in such an encounter—or whether, for your own sake, it would be more humane to reduce you to non-existence to prevent profound mental suffering.

In this scenario, secondary formalities—such as your precise understanding of the soul—likely hold little relevance in determining your ultimate fate. Yet there remains a risk that inconsistencies between your expectations of what is right, reasonable, and good and the reality you face may disorient you. For instance, the existence of a soul separate from the body would raise questions for me about the coherence of such a God. Even if, upon crossing into eternity, I were assured there was no satisfactory explanation for this peculiarity, I doubt I would feel entirely at ease. Such an apparently "minor absurdity" would nonetheless unsettle me, undermining the supposed harmony of the experience.

The brain's activity before death could leave a "wave trace" in the universe, much like the digital footprints modern humans leave behind after their passing in the form of electronic information. Today, people extend their presence through pre-recorded video messages for loved ones—a poignant reminder that even after physical death, traces of their thoughts and feelings endure.

Perhaps God also records this information—or, more accurately, everything already occurs within Him and is inherently preserved. The Bible, written for an ancient audience, may have described this idea poetically as "life departing to God" or "records in heavenly books." For angels—beings who chose alignment with God over alternative realities—this could represent a literal, manual process, serving as a divine illustration. Ultimately, everything God does can be understood as the communication of information to the self-aware beings He created.

This concept of an "information script" intriguingly aligns with modern theories of information and consciousness, albeit on a metaphysical scale. For instance, Giulio Tononi's Integrated Information Theory posits that consciousness arises from the integration of information in complex systems. While IIT is rooted in physical substrates, the "information pattern" of the soul could metaphorically be viewed as a highly integrated structure that retains its coherence even without a physical medium.

Does it make sense for God to create separate "temporary bodies" after death to house sensory and personal information—or to maintain a distinct, self-aware shell capable of transitioning between forms? Wouldn't it be far simpler to wait until the end of earthly existence and resurrect everyone simultaneously for judgment and the final millennial stage before eternity?

If your sensory body has ceased functioning, time becomes irrelevant to you. You close your eyes after five minutes of agony and open them to find yourself on the earth's surface once again—"in the twinkling of an eye." One moment, you are holding your spouse's hand, enduring the final pangs of death, and the next, they are beside you, now fresh and vigorous. Standing nearby are your adult children, and, as you're informed, the crowd on the right includes grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Only this minor detail might leave you with a faint sense that you've missed something in the interim second.

Apparently, God—by definition, existing outside of time—does not miss anyone. This concept aligns well with the biblical statement: "But, beloved, do not forget this one thing, that with the Lord one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day." (2 Peter 3:8.).

The only ones who might struggle are those who realise their deceased loved ones are not watching over them, wringing their spectral hands in despair at every thoughtless action. Those who struggle remain stuck in a segment of the past, frozen until they reach their own moment of death and awaken in a new reality. Admittedly, it is hard to comprehend why anyone perceives the well-being of those who have passed in their future "now" as fundamentally different from their own "now," given the subjective and fluid nature of time. After all, if their reality is immediate and timeless, then any distinction between their "now" and yours exists only in the confines of your mind.

Moreover, this understanding never diminishes the comforting sense that someone close to you is still present in your life. They persist in your memory, etched into the neurons of your brain, evoking emotions, thoughts, and feelings. You can mentally reproduce their conversations, habits, and the essence of their character, effectively communicating with the information trace they left behind in your mind. While their physical presence may be gone, their personality remains vividly alive in your subjective reality. After all, much of what we perceive as another's "personality" is, in fact, an image constructed by our own minds.

In a way, this mirrors how God retains and preserves the essence of a person. For both you and God, the personality of your loved one remains alive, held intact—unless, of course, you allow it to fade into oblivion. (Incidentally, this very thought is what I intend to include in my will for my wife.)

However, such a concept of the soul, according to traditional interpretations, encounters notable discrepancies when challenged by biblical texts. For instance, the Bible systematically refers to three components of human essence: "And the very God of peace sanctify you wholly; and I pray God your whole spirit and soul and body be preserved blameless unto the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ." (1 Thessalonians 5:23.).

But could these three components simply represent different properties of a single system? Let us examine them:

1.     Body (σῶμα, soma in Greek)

The body refers to biological functionality, the tangible aspect of our being. The Bible underscores that the flesh is part of nature that will appear before God and exhorts believers to keep it blameless until the day of Christ's return. Far from being dismissed as secondary, the body is integral to the human system, and neglecting it is condemned outright. Scripture frequently highlights the interaction between body and soul (Corinthians 6:19-20, Romans 12:1, 1 Corinthians 3:16-17, Philippians 1:20)

2.     Spirit (πνεῦμα, pneuma in Greek; רוּחַ, ruach in ancient Hebrew)

The spirit represents consciousness and abstract thinking—the unique mental capabilities that set humans apart from the rest of creation. In the Bible, the term "spirit" is used in 90% of cases to describe mental activity, morality, and decision-making. Notably, the word "Spirit" is also exclusively applied to God as an allegory for thought unbound by physical limitations. In both Greek and ancient Aramaic, spirit literally means "air" or "wind," evoking something untethered, mobile, and capable of abstraction. This aligns perfectly with the human capacity to mentally transcend "here and now," conjuring new realities through imagination.

The Bible explicitly distinguishes spirit and soul in the creation narrative. While man receives spirit—consciousness—through the symbolic act of divine breathing ("God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life" Gen. 2:7.), animals are brought into being through God's spoken word alone ("Let the waters bring forth living creatures" Gen. 1:20.). The spirit, then, is a uniquely human attribute.

Consider these verses:

•       "In whose hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath (spirit) of all mankind." (Job 12:10.).

•       "Therefore I will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul." (Job 7:11.).

•       "The spirit of a man is the lamp of the Lord, searching all the inner depths of his heart." (Proverbs 20:27.).

The concept of the "heart" or "inner part," in this context regarded as the centre of emotions or life.

"But there is a spirit in man: and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understanding." (Job 32:8.).

When God withdrew the spirit, as in the case of Nebuchadnezzar, man was reduced to a state akin to that of an animal. When He withdrew the soul, man crumbled to dust. This duality—spirit as rationality, soul as vitality or emotion—emerges repeatedly throughout Scripture. These examples consistently associate the spirit with the rational properties of the brain and the soul with emotions or life itself.

The concept of "spirit" also frequently signifies the guidance of the Holy Spirit, influencing human thought and action. For example:

•       "But the hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth: for the Father seeketh such to worship him. God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth." (John 4:23-24.).

By contrast, Scripture uses "soulish" or "carnal" to describe individuals governed by instincts, lusts, or passions, as opposed to those guided by the mind of Christ and an understanding of God. Such individuals are urged to set their "affection on things above."

•       "But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned... For ye are yet carnal: for whereas there is among you envying, and strife, and divisions, are ye not carnal, and walk as men?" (1 Cor. 2:14 – 3:3.).

Even within the gifts of the Holy Spirit, Paul highlights this tension. He remarks on the gift of speaking in tongues:

•       "For if I pray in an unknown tongue, my spirit prayeth, but my understanding is unfruitful." (1 Cor. 14:14.).

Here, Paul explains that when a person receives the gift of speaking in an unknown tongue—used by God for a specific purpose—but begins to use it irrationally, such as demonstrating their abilities in church, it becomes counterproductive. Although the individual may feel personally edified by the awareness of having received a special gift from the Holy Spirit, it does not make the most meaningful contribution to his intellect or to the benefit of the congregation.

3.     Soul (ψυχή, psyche in Greek; נֶפֶשׁ, nephesh in ancient Hebrew)

The soul is best understood as the psycho-emotional complex—the nervous system's capacity to respond to stimuli and exhibit activity. Broadly speaking, it is a manifestation of life itself. In the Bible, the word soul is often paired with "living," forming a unified concept. In some cases, the terms are even used interchangeably, highlighting their synonymous relationship in biblical thought.

However, the Bible does more than divide creation into organic and inorganic, or animals and plants. It grades life by the complexity of its systems. For instance, it asserts that "the soul is in the blood," linking the presence of a circulatory system to a higher level of complexity in the nervous system—and, consequently, to a heightened capacity for pain. If God is against suffering and pain, it logically follows that bloodshed would be prohibited. This prohibition evolved into a ban on consuming blood, a symbolic reminder that the act of killing is not something God approves of but rather tolerates as a concession—perhaps to minimise suffering on a global scale of pain perception.

The Bible also states that all creation, not just humanity, "groans and labours together" in anticipation of salvation. The word "creature," derived from "creation," is consistently applied to animals and fish. Plants, by contrast, are referred to as "earth's vegetation." Insects, however, occupy a "grey area" when it comes to defining the soul or psyche.

While insects possess rudimentary circulatory systems and, naturally, nervous systems, the complexity of these systems—and thus their capacity for pain perception—appears limited. This may explain why the Bible never describes insects as bearers of a soul. Similarly, microorganisms, whether independent or part of a more complex organism, are not considered to possess a soul. They may exhibit reactions to stimuli, much like plants, which lack a nervous system but visibly respond to damage (wilting, secretion of sap, etc.). These responses, however, do not constitute pain or an experience of pain.

Insects present a more intricate case. Their reflexes, such as avoiding sources of irritation, demonstrate a more advanced response to stimuli than plants. Yet their overall behaviour suggests a markedly lower sensitivity. For example, insects often continue eating or mating immediately after losing a limb, indicating that their survival programming prioritises primary needs over injury. This suggests that their perception of pain if it exists at all, is far less significant than that of creatures with more complex nervous systems.

Humans are generally less disturbed by the convulsions of a fly than by the suffering of more complex organisms, largely due to the presence of mirror neurons in our brains. These neurons enable us to empathise, and the more signs an animal exhibits that evoke a sense of shared identity, the stronger our emotional response to its pain. For instance, photographs of animals with visible tears in their eyes elicit far greater empathy than similar images without such markers.

In theory, such factors must also be considered by God when calibrating the "unified background of pain perception." If the eradication of animal death, for example, would lead to the extinction of more complex beings (such as humans with developed personalities) or an increase in their suffering, then the overall scale of pain would rise higher than in our current reality. (The principle of pain will be explored in greater detail in the chapter on veganism.)

Interestingly, the Bible envisions an eternity where plants will no longer wither, but this seems unrelated to pain, as it also describes animals grazing on grass. The absence of wilting, therefore, appears to be a purely aesthetic feature. The same logic applies to microorganisms, whose "deaths" are inconsequential in the grander moral framework. Insects, however, present a more ambiguous case. While it is harder to imagine their deaths continuing as normative in eternity, one could surmise that any complex system with nervous structures capable of perceiving pain should ultimately be freed from it.

In the context of our current reality—dominated by the arbitrary will of individuals—God appears to choose the lesser of two evils, directing the "trolley" of moral dilemmas toward the path where the overall scale of suffering is lower. This principle of minimising suffering should likewise guide human decision-making, prioritising actions that reduce pain wherever possible. For instance, killing a mosquito to prevent disease, discomfort, or greater harm aligns with this approach, as it maintains the global background level of suffering at a lower mark.

From this perspective, the soul might best be understood as a descriptive term for biological life characterised by the presence of a nervous system and some form of circulatory system—even diffusion.

The Concept of the Soul in the New Testament Era

The ancient Greek term psyche (ψυχή), originally introduced to describe the life principle, underwent significant reinterpretation by the time of the New Testament, influenced profoundly by Aristotle and Plato. Although these philosophical titans differed in their views on the soul—particularly regarding its immortality and its relationship to the body—their ideas left an enduring mark on how the term was understood in antiquity.

Aristotle conceived of the soul (psyche) as the form of the living body, an essence that animates the body but cannot exist independently of it. For Aristotle, the soul was inseparable from the body, defined by its functions: movement and sensation. In his treatise 'On the Soul', he identifies these as the hallmarks of beings endowed with a soul. Consciousness, which he regarded as a distinct property of the soul, remains ambiguously defined in his works—although it is clear he did not attribute to it eternal existence. Aristotle's perspective firmly ties the soul to the material world, rejecting any notion of its independent immortality.

Plato, by contrast, viewed the soul as a separate, immortal entity. In his dialogue Phaedo, he describes the soul as existing before the body, enduring beyond physical death, and undergoing cycles of reincarnation. For Plato, the body was little more than a prison that constrained the soul's true, eternal nature—a rather poetic view, albeit one that paints the material world in a dim light.

Aristotle further graded the soul into three categories based on its properties:

1.     Vegetative: Found in plants, responsible for nutrition and reproduction.

2.     Sensitive: Present in animals, governing perception, movement, and emotions.

1.     Rational (or Intellectual): Unique to humans, enabling thought and understanding.

Each higher category incorporates the capacities of the lower, culminating in humans as the sole possessors of all three.

Plato, on the other hand, also divided the soul into three parts, but his division was less hierarchical and more fragmented. For him, the soul was a collection of independent elements, each representing distinct aspects of human nature: the rational, the spirited, and the appetitive.

The differing views on the soul articulated by Aristotle and Plato left a profound legacy, shaping subsequent philosophy and theology, including the ideas circulating during the composition of the New Testament.

From approximately 300 BC to 100 AD, Aristotle’s conception of the soul as inseparable from the body dominated intellectual thought, prevailing in debates between the two schools. This is evidenced not only in philosophical works of the time but also in cultural artefacts, such as Roman tombstones, which often emphasised the unity of body and soul. However, as Gnostic teachings gained prominence, Plato’s definition of the soul—a separate, eternal, and pre-existing entity—began to take hold. This perspective became increasingly influential, prevailing from around 200 AD through the Renaissance. During the Renaissance, Aristotle’s concept of the psyche experienced a resurgence. Yet, it was transformed into a modern understanding, merginginstinctive reflexes and abstract reasoning into a unified concept of human psychology.

It is reasonable to assume that the authors of the New Testament were acutely aware of how their audience, steeped in Greek philosophy, might interpret the term psyche/psychos as they used it to describe the soul.

In biblical texts, the heart often serves as a metaphor for the soul, particularly in its psycho-emotional dimensions. This association likely stems from the observed physiological changes in heart rate during intense emotional states. Let us examine a few examples:

1.     "A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance: but by sorrow of the heart the spirit is broken." (Proverbs 15:13.)

Here, the "heart" reflects the emotional state of the soul, while the "spirit" signifies the inner consciousness that reacts to or mirrors that state.

2.     "Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me." (Psalm 51:10.)

In this verse, the "heart" represents emotional purity and freedom from destructive inclinations, whereas "spirit" refers to inner moral strength or consciousness.

3.     "And I will give them one heart, and a new spirit will I put within them..." (Ezekiel 11:19.)

This promise can be interpreted as fostering a collective unity of purpose or attachment alongside a renewal of individual consciousness.

4.     "That they might set their hope in God, and not forget the works of God, but keep his commandments: And might not be as their fathers, a stubborn and rebellious generation; a generation that set not their heart aright, and whose spirit was not steadfast with God." (Psalm 78:7-8.)

This verse juxtaposes the "heart," representing emotional alignment with divine will, with the "spirit," indicative of steadfastness and conviction.

5.     "Cast away from you all your transgressions, whereby ye have transgressed; and make you a new heart and a new spirit: for why will ye die, O house of Israel?" (Ezekiel 18:31.)

The "new heart" suggests emotional transformation, while the "new spirit" implies a rejuvenation of consciousness and moral resolve.

The Bible occasionally uses "spirit" and "soul" interchangeably, though typically as broad references to a person's essence. However, these usages often carry symbolic or metaphorical undertones, revealing deeper theological meaning.

For instance, John's vision of the righteous before the throne in eternity (Revelation 6:9) can be interpreted as a timeless panorama, much like the prophetic visions shown to Daniel. Alternatively, it might symbolise the ultimate justice that every individual instinctively longs for.

Similarly, Genesis 35:18 describes Rachel's death with the phrase: "And it came to pass, as her soul was in departing, (for she died) that she called his name Benoni." Here, the "departure" of the soul is simply a poetic way of describing the cessation of life and breath. One might even draw an analogy between this departure and a transition into a timeless future, where, for the living, death becomes an instantaneous passage.

In the account of Jesus on the cross, He assures the thief: "Verily I say unto thee, Today shalt thou be with me in paradise" (Luke 23:43.). From the thief's perspective, this promise makes perfect sense: in the grave, there is no perception of time. For him, the moment of death and his awakening in eternity would indeed be "today." Yet this interpretation creates a theological dilemma, as most denominations teach that Christ Himself was not with the Father until His resurrection on the third day.

This apparent contradiction is often resolved by Christ's own words: "He that hath seen me hath seen the Father" and "I and my Father are one." If seeing Christ equates to seeing the Father, the thief's presence in paradise "with Christ" can still hold. If such a non-literal interpretation is valid in the first case, then the idea that for the deceased, the transition to paradise feels instantaneous is no less justified.

Another example is Stephen's dying words: "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit" (Acts 7:59.). For ancient audiences, this was a simpler way of expressing the more complex idea of consciousness being collected and preserved by God. The broader biblical context suggests that people sought to be "written in the book of life"—to be acknowledged by God as willing participants in His laws of life and happiness.

The following verses can also be considered in this context:

"We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord." (2 Corinthians 5:8.),

The passage in 2 Corinthians 5, when read in its full context (verses 1–10), highlights the promise of God providing new, glorified bodies after death—an existence far superior to the current one. However, it also emphasises that the true essence of a person is not found in the physical body but in the "consciousness script"—the collection of desires, preferences, values, and moral principles. These elements ultimately determine whether a person can harmonise with the patterns of Life or find such an existence intolerable, with eternal non-existence being the merciful alternative.

In other words, Paul is effectively saying: We are not concerned with what happens to our body—whether it is tortured or killed. What matters to us is being with the Lord.

Jesus also addresses the resurrection in Matthew 22:31-32: "But concerning the resurrection of the dead, have you not read what was spoken to you by God, 'I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob'? God is not the God of the dead, but of the living." Here, Jesus affirms that the dead will live again, not that they are currently alive. His statement directly counters the Sadducees' attempt to disprove the resurrection, highlighting the future reality of life after death rather than an immediate continuation.

In Matthew 10:28, Jesus warns: "Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell." This passage positions the body as a temporary shell housing the emotional and rational components of consciousness (attachments and understanding). The Bible often uses generalising terms like "spirit" or "soul" to represent these properties collectively. While the body may perish, the soul and spirit—encoded as scripts—are preserved by God. However, a sense of attachment to distortion or a distorted perception of good renders a person unable to harmonise with Life's foundational patterns, ultimately leading to their rejection of existence.

"By faith Abel offered unto God a more excellent sacrifice than Cain, by which he obtained witness that he was righteous… and by it he being dead yet speaketh." (Hebrews 11:4.).

The heroes of faith in Hebrews 11 "speak" through their examples, actions, and enduring legacies, many of which include deaths suffered for their righteousness at the hands of persecutors. To encourage persecuted Christians, Paul invokes the imagery of speaking blood—blood as a witness—referencing Genesis, where God points Cain to the blood on the ground as 'speaking' evidence of his guilt. This rebuke is delivered in terms that invite Cain to reflect and take accountability. Paul then extends the imagery of 'speaking blood' to the testimony of those who willingly faced death for their faith in the arena.

Finally, we come to perhaps the most glaring inconsistency with the concept of soul immortality as an independent, self-existent component: the Bible explicitly attributes immortality solely to God. Passages such as 1 Timothy 6:15-16, Psalm 36:9, Colossians 1:15–17, and Hebrews 1:2 affirm that only the Divine possesses inherent immortality.

Key Reflections on the Nature of the Soul and Life

1.     The Soul as a Three-Part Symbiosis

The soul can be understood as a generalised concept describing a three-part symbiosis:

•       Body: The foundation of physical existence and primary biological functions.

•       Soul: The psycho-emotional complex, encompassing instincts and emotional responses, rooted in the nervous system.

•       Spirit: The capacity for abstract thought, reasoning, and analytical reflection.

This term can also denote the affirmation of life, but specifically life that is distinguished from mere organic existence by the presence of a nervous system. As a result, the term “soul” is employed in contrast to “life,” which is typically used to describe organisms lacking a developed nervous system.

2.     The Conditional Immortality of the Soul

The soul's immortality is not inherent but depends entirely on the "Source of all life". Through His will, the "information script" of personality, containing desires, values, and understanding, is preserved as potential life. This script remains dormant until activated in the most rational sequence: "at the moment of universal resurrection".

The idea that God would maintain a soul in a state of eternal torment contradicts the concept of a benevolent deity.

3.     The Timeless Perception of Death and Resurrection

From the perspective of the deceased, the passage of time ceases at the moment of death. The individual's experience transitions instantly to the future moment of universal resurrection (the collective revival of all at the end of earthly history).

This aligns with the concept of God preserving the "information script of personality" in a suspended state until the appropriate moment. For the individual, this passage feels instantaneous, demonstrating the seamless continuity of existence.

4.     Animal Souls as Programmed Scripts

Animal souls differ fundamentally from human ones. They are program scripts devoid of personal information, designed with autopilot mechanisms to resist death and maintain survival instincts. These scripts account for system failures introduced by the disruption of the original patterns of life.

When these patterns are restored, the correction of animal scripts will occur automatically. Unlike humans, whose individuality is preserved, there is no necessity to recreate specific animal species or populations, as well as plants or insects. However, specific animals that formed strong bonds with humans may be an exception, as they were endowed with a part of personal information by their human companions. The shared memories and connections between such animals and their human companions may be preserved as part of the adaptation process, offering continuity and emotional stability in the renewed conditions of existence.