A pungent mix of disinfectant and despair filled the sterile air of the military hospital room. Seven years old, wracked by relentless nausea, I lay adrift in a sea of loneliness, staring up at the chipped paint on the ceiling. Death whispered close, a cold hand on my brow. The priest’s droning pronouncements of last rites sat heavy on my already burdened heart. Surely, this wasn’t it. Heaven and hell seemed hollow promises next to the raw dread gripping me.
Then, the world dissolved.
I found myself adrift in a void, not black but shimmering with a thousand shades of twilight. It wasn’t chilling, nor lonely, but a quiet expanse of nothingness, humming with the pulse of the universe. My consciousness, unmoored from my ailing body, floated, pondered, yearned to understand. This wasn’t oblivion, not like they promised.
And then, with a twist of will, I turned. Reality shimmered, rippled, and I was back. Back in the hospital bed, alive, yet undeniably different. This world felt muted, colors dulled, sounds muffled. Yet, I breathed. I lived. And a spark of rebellion ignited within me.
The weeks that followed were a haze of recuperation. My body, once fragile, slowly regained its strength. But the illness had changed me. My dreams, once vibrant landscapes of terror, became portals to understanding. I learned to navigate these inner realms, to shield myself from the unseen entities that haunted them. Meditation became my sanctuary, a fortress against the cacophony of the physical world.
My gift, a double curse, was both blessing and burden. I saw glimpses of futures, heard the whispers of minds around me. The clamor of thoughts in crowded spaces was overwhelming, driving me to the quiet solace of a few trusted friends. My parents, devout Catholics, dismissed my experiences as childish fantasies. The church offered only condemnation, their tales of demons and hellfire stoking the flames of my fear.
Fueled by a hunger for answers, I devoured books. Science fiction, fantasy, the forbidden whispers of the occult – each page another key unlocking the hidden doors of my mind. Legends of my great-great aunt, the ostracized “witch,” fueled a secret hope. Perhaps, there was more to this world than the suffocating dogma of my elders.
So, I rebelled. In a childish defiance, I sought my own answers. The Eucharist, a symbol of faith, became my test. Could these stories of demons be true? The sun dipped below the horizon as I buried the stolen wafer, my heart thundering in my chest. A desperate plea formed on my lips – not for judgment, but for understanding.
But silence answered. No fiery inferno, no legions of demons. Only the whispers of the wind through the leaves.
Years passed, a blur of martial arts practice, relentless reading, and a silent struggle against the tide of my abilities. I learned to focus outward, honing my body, channeling my thoughts. The dreams still came, echoes of lives ending, farewells whispered before time. My grandmother, my classmate, each departure a bittersweet symphony played on the strings of fate.
Yet, my parents remained oblivious. My fear, my struggle, seemed invisible to their eyes, shrouded in their unwavering faith. A gnawing resentment took root, a rebellion not against God, but against the ignorance that veiled their eyes.
Somewhere, beneath the polished veneer of religion and societal norms, I knew the truth pulsed, hidden but waiting to be discovered. And I, the boy who had touched death and returned, was determined to find it.
Proper Function and Beyond
The story was written to throw the reader into a heady exploration of existence, with a child’s near-death experience serving as a springboard for a lifelong grapple with the nature of reality and personal identity. This journey resonates powerfully with the philosophical framework of Alvin Plantinga and his concept of “proper function.” Let’s delve into how the story weaves elements of Plantinga’s theory into its narrative tapestry.
In Plantinga’s view, for a belief to be warranted, it must arise from cognitive faculties functioning properly. This “proper function” isn’t a static state, but an optimal mode of operation tailored to a specific environment. Imagine a watch; its proper function is to tell time accurately, and this depends on its mechanisms working as designed in the context of our physical world.
The narrator’s brush with death disrupts their “normal” cognitive apparatus. They experience a different dimension, their consciousness unmoored from its physical constraints. This encounter can be interpreted as a glimpse into a potentially malfunctioning state, where perception deviates from the typical human mode of experiencing reality. Yet, upon returning, the narrator undergoes a metamorphosis – their senses dulled, but their inner world ablaze with visions and intuitions. This altered state could be seen as a new “proper function,” one adapted to their expanded awareness.
The tension between this new consciousness and societal norms mirrors Plantinga’s concept of “defeaters” – factors that undermine the warrant of a belief. The church’s dogma and parents’ dismissal clash with the narrator’s lived experience, casting doubt on their traditional ways of knowing. Yet, the narrator doesn’t simply abandon faith; they seek answers through alternative avenues, from science fiction to the occult. This pursuit highlights Plantinga’s emphasis on “basic beliefs,” the fundamental assumptions that guide our reasoning. The narrator questions their existing framework, searching for new “basic beliefs” that can accommodate their expanded awareness.
The central conflict boils down to the question of whose cognitive apparatus is functioning properly. While the story avoids assigning definitive answers, it invites us to consider the subjective nature of “proper function.” Is it dictated by societal norms, religious doctrines, or individual experience? The story suggests that a nuanced approach is necessary, acknowledging the validity of each perspective while recognizing the potential for conflicting claims on “proper function.”
Furthermore, the narrative transcends Plantinga’s framework by suggesting a deeper level of human existence beyond cognitive function. The dreams of farewells and premonitions hint at a web of interconnectedness, a non-local understanding of time and mortality. This resonates with alternative philosophical currents that explore dimensions of consciousness beyond the purely rational.
Ultimately, the story doesn’t offer definitive answers, but rather throws open the doors to an exploration of consciousness, faith, and reality. It challenges us to confront the limitations of our current understanding and embrace the possibility of diverse modes of “proper function” for navigating the mysteries of existence. While Plantinga’s framework provides a valuable lens for examining the narrator’s journey, the story ultimately pushes us beyond the boundaries of his theory, urging us to embrace the full spectrum of human experience in our quest for meaning and understanding.
Through the portrayal of a child’s existential odyssey, provides a fertile ground for examining Plantinga’s concept of proper function. It demonstrates the limitations of rigid, singular definitions and invites us to appreciate the dynamism and complexity of human consciousness. By embracing the ambiguities and tensions within the narrative, we embark on a philosophical journey not confined to Plantinga’s framework, but one that expands our own understanding of the multifaceted nature of reality and the human experience within it.
Does God Exist? 