Existing Without Time

It is a curious thing, is it not, how readily we parcel out our existence into the neat little boxes of ‘past,’ ‘present,’ and ‘future’? We live, it seems, strung along a thin thread of moments, one following the other in an orderly, if sometimes bewildering, procession. Yet, within the very heart of Christian theology, indeed, within the very nature of God Himself, lies the profound and often perplexing concept of Timelessness.

We speak of God as existing outside of Time, of His seeing all things at once – the Fall of Man and the Final Consummation, the whisper of a prayer and the crash of a supernova – in one eternal Now. And if, as we believe, we are made in His image, and if our spirits, when shed of this mortal coil, are destined for some closer participation in His reality, then ought we not to ponder the implications for our own being?

Consider, if you will, the common speculation regarding the state of the departed soul. It is often mused that in Heaven, or perhaps in that immediate moment beyond the veil, the past and future become strangely accessible. That one might, as it were, perceive the entirety of one's earthly life—every joy, every sorrow, every choice made—not as a sequence of fading memories, but as a vivid, simultaneous landscape. And not merely one's own life, perhaps, but the grand tapestry of human history, indeed, of creation itself.

Now, if this be true, if such a timeless perception awaits us, then here is where my mind, ever prone to a good ramble, begins to toy with a most intriguing notion. If, when we die, we can see ourselves in the past, present, and future, does it not stand to reason that, in some profound sense, we are already there? That our true, eternal selves, unburdened by the linear strictures of this earthly existence, already inhabit that boundless Now?

Imagine a vast, sprawling book, its pages representing every moment of your life, from the cradle to the grave. We, in our temporal lives, are like a finger tracing one word at a time, oblivious to the grand narrative that stretches before and behind. But the author, or perhaps a reader who has finished the book, perceives it all at once – the beginning, the middle, and the end – simultaneously present. Could it be that our eternal selves are, in fact, that omniscient reader of our own tale?

If this is so, then what are those flashes of insight, those sudden convictions, those inexplicable warnings that seem to well up from within us, guiding us, protecting us, or urging us toward a particular path? We call it intuition, or conscience, or a ‘gut feeling.’ But what if it is something more? What if, in those moments, it is our own eternal self – that part of us already dwelling in the timeless Now, already privy to the full sweep of our earthly journey – whispering across the temporal divide?

Could our truest self, that self which will ultimately greet us on the far side of the grave, be in a very real sense our own ‘guardian angel’? Not an external entity so much as our own completed being, shedding fragments of its wisdom and foresight back into the linear stream of our present moment? It is a delightful thought, is it not, to imagine that the very best part of us, the part that has already seen the whole play, is subtly guiding the actor on the stage.

This would lend a new, profound significance to those moments of deep spiritual peace, those inexplicable promptings toward kindness or courage, those sudden, clear visions of what is right and true. They would be echoes from our own perfected selves, invitations to align our temporal journey with the eternal reality that already encompasses us.

It is, of course, a speculation, a mere parlor game for the mind, and one must be careful not to confuse such theorizing with established doctrine. Yet, it offers a comforting thought: that even now, entangled in the often-confusing threads of daily life, there is a part of us that already knows the ending, that already stands in the light of the Eternal Day, and that perhaps, in ways we can only dimly perceive, is ever whispering words of hope and guidance back to the struggling, temporal self.

Perhaps, then, we are more profoundly present in the Timeless than we often imagine, and the veil between our temporal struggles and our eternal triumph is thinner than we dare to dream.