Electrons, neutrons, protons, a nucleus, and everything else I have forgotten since school.
That is where my mind wandered this morning.
Back to the transporter.
You step onto the platform and the machine breaks you apart down to the smallest imaginable level, maps everything, turns you into information, and sends that information somewhere else.
Wonderful.
Except I have questions.
A lot of questions.
Suppose the information arrives on another planet and begins gathering raw material from the surroundings. Atoms that were forged in stars. Matter that became part of that planet through gravity, gases, pressure, heat, cold, and an unimaginable amount of time.
Time seems to matter in nearly everything.
That is probably why Jell-O does not come already formed when you pour it out of the box.
It needs heat.
Then cold.
Then time.
Apparently even dessert understands physics better than I do.
Anyway, back to the transporter.
The information arrives and begins assembling a human being.
Imagine having the instructions for an enormous puzzle and then being handed a box full of gray pieces. Every piece is cut differently. Some probably look like they could fit in several places. Somehow, after enough sorting, checking, adjusting, and assembling, the puzzle becomes a person.
There he stands.
He looks exactly like the fellow who left the starship.
He remembers stepping onto the transporter.
He remembers his childhood.
He remembers his family.
He remembers everything.
But is he the same man?
I say no.
The fellow on the ship was torn apart.
His usefulness to the transporter is finished. Whatever remained of him is now simply matter. Perhaps those pieces get recycled. Perhaps they are disposed of. Perhaps somebody sweeps them into a container labeled:
USED HUMAN. DO NOT SHAKE.
The new fellow on the planet may contain the exact same information, but he was assembled from different material.
That sounds less like transportation and more like copying.
Then we send him back.
Wonderful.
Now the fellow on the planet gets torn apart, and another version is assembled aboard the ship.
So far, the body count is two.
And everyone is congratulating the transporter operator because the passenger returned safely.
No, he did not.
Somebody returned.
Even if the transporter somehow used the original matter, are those exact molecules and atoms being returned to exactly the same places?
Probably not.
They are being recycled into another arrangement.
Another copy.
So when someone says,
“Transporter room is ready.”
I have reconsidered.
I will take the shuttle.
It may be slower, but I have become rather attached to remaining continuously assembled.
That led me somewhere else.
Before the before, the known universe was void.
Or so we think.
We were not there yet.
When we speak of God creating the universe, or perhaps a multiverse, we are talking about power on a scale my mind cannot comprehend.
Matter had to exist.
Atoms had to form.
Gravity had to work.
Stars had to ignite.
Time had to happen.
Although that creates another problem.
Which came first?
Time?
Gravity?
Matter?
I shrug.
I am not a rocket scientist.
Could everything have happened without a Creator?
Could there simply have been a Big Bang and then, given enough time, gravity, pressure, heat, chemistry, and chance, everything unfolded?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
The scale alone overwhelms me.
Think about the journey taken by the raw materials that eventually became you.
Stars formed.
Stars burned.
Stars died.
Matter scattered.
Planets formed.
Molecules assembled.
Cells appeared.
Cells divided.
Cells died and were replaced by other cells with that wonderful new-cell smell.
And eventually all that matter became aware of itself.
Somewhere along the journey, atoms began asking questions.
That alone is astonishing.
E = mc².
Or 2 + 2.
At this hour of the morning, either one seems sufficiently impressive.
But then another thought arrived.
A much less comfortable one.
I am spending a great deal of time thinking about gravity, time, atoms, consciousness, transporters, creation, and the beginning of everything.
It is fascinating.
But what purpose is it serving?
Is this helping another human being?
Or is some corner of my psyche sitting there admiring itself?
“Look at us.”
“See how smart we are.”
That one stings.
No.
Stings is too gentle.
That one brought a bat.
Because suddenly the entire question changed.
What does it matter whether I understand the origin of the universe if I do nothing worthwhile with the tiny amount of it that has become me?
I am here.
I am thinking.
I am moving.
So what am I going to do while I am here?
All those atoms.
All those molecules.
All those cells.
All that time.
And now:
Here.
Now.
This moment.
What will I do with it?
I have a choice.
And good grief, do human beings love that word.
Choice.
My choice.
Your choice.
My rights.
Your rights.
My beliefs.
Your beliefs.
Then almost immediately we begin arguing that my choice is better than yours and, therefore, you must choose the way I choose.
We are noisy little insects riding a rock through time and space, fighting over whose corner of the rock is correct.
Sometimes somebody turns on the light.
And we scatter.
Light has a bad habit of revealing things.
Pride.
Fear.
Selfishness.
Cruelty.
The things hiding underneath the rock.
Then we complain,
“That is not fair. You are pointing out something ugly inside me.”
Maybe.
Or maybe somebody simply turned on the light.
But light does not only reveal ugly things.
Sometimes it reveals something else.
Love.
There is that word again.
Love.
We use it so easily that sometimes it becomes nearly meaningless.
Love of family.
Love of food.
Love of music.
Love of country.
Love of God.
But what is love?
I keep coming back to the same answer.
God.
Not love as decoration.
Not love written in fancy script underneath a sunset.
Not love as a slogan.
God is love.
And if that is true, then love is not merely something we feel.
It is something we choose to do.
I can choose compassion.
I can choose kindness.
I can choose to stop long enough to see the person standing beside me.
I can ask,
“What do you need?”
And mean it.
Maybe I cannot solve the universe.
Maybe I will never understand what came before the before.
Maybe I will never know whether consciousness could survive a transporter.
Maybe physicists will continue talking about things that make my head hurt while I quietly make Jell-O and pretend I understand thermodynamics.
But I do understand this:
I am here.
For however long I am here, I have this moment.
And I have a choice about what I do with it.
Maybe that is enough.
Maybe purpose does not require understanding every star.
Maybe purpose is noticing the person standing beneath them.
Maybe all the atoms, molecules, gravity, heat, cold, pressure, time, and impossible distance eventually brought us to one remarkably simple question:
What will I do while I am here?
My answer?
I choose to care.
I choose compassion.
I choose love.
Because when the light finally comes on and everything underneath the rocks is revealed, I hope that somewhere among all the noise, fear, pride, and confusion, there is something else waiting there.
Love.
And what is love?
God.