I Saw the End. It Was the Beginning.

Ever wonder if the afterlife isn’t what we think it is at all? What if, instead of ascending up to heaven or fading into nothingness, we’re caught in an eternal cycle of our own lives—growing wiser with each repetition?

That’s exactly what was revealed to me during a moment of silent worship. And it’s completely transformed how I view existence.

I can’t believe I am telling you this

I am telling you this at the risk of being ridiculed, but I feel compelled because it won’t leave me alone. And you know it must be strange even to me if I fear ridicule—given that most of my writing here challenges narratives and questions presuppositions. Which, let’s be honest, tends to offend a lot of folks. Folks who have strength in numbers and plenty of scripts to come after me with. I’ve been called delusional, drunk, or dimwitted more times than I can count. And I’m okay with that. I understand where it’s coming from—I shake foundations, and people defend what they stand on. Still, calling names is a lazy strategy, and it tells me more about their mission than mine. I place a high value on intentionality and results—not ego gratification. But, I digress.

In fact, if I’m honest, the ridicule I fear most isn’t external. It’s internal. I’m not even sure if I trust what I saw, but I am talking about it in case you have had a similar experience and maybe this will encourage you to share yours as well.

Actually, “saw” isn’t even quite right. It wasn’t a vision, not in the cinematic sense. It felt more like a wisdom upload. A sudden knowing, a memory. Like a blueprint unfurled behind my eyelids—clear, whole, and instant.

And unlike most of my mental wanderings (which feel like a constant TED Talk where every presenter takes the stage at once and very few “talks” are actually remembered), this one stuck. It had a different weight. I haven’t forgotten it since.

It was about the afterlife—or maybe more accurately, the nature of time, self, and existence. Not something I usually ponder out loud. I’ve always thought of death as a book closing. The end of a protagonist’s arc. Whether the soul goes on or not doesn’t matter much—I figured, by that point, I wouldn’t care anymore. I assumed my personal consciousness would dissolve. That I’d no longer crave, hope, or experience fear.

But the knowledge that came to me that day suggested something radically different.

Let me set the scene. I was at my Quaker meeting—semi-programmed, which means part pastored but mostly silent. We sit together and listen for the inward light. If we feel moved by the Spirit, we rise and speak. That day, I was delivering the message—on radical empathy, turning the other cheek. Themes you’ve seen here before. I tell you this to assure you that I was not influenced by the sermon that day, it was my own, and not on even topical to my “vision”.

After I spoke, I returned to the front pew for open worship. Usually, I’m too adrenaline-buzzed from giving the message to settle right away, but this time, I centered quickly. And then, it came.

There was that golden shimmering light I associate with the presence of the Holy Spirit—like a reverse vignette around my mind’s eye. And suddenly, I knew something.

There is no “afterlife,” not in the linear sense. There is no time, except as a construct that gives us free will. When we die, we go back to the beginning of our own lives—same body, nearly the same starting point, same story. But with one key difference: we carry wisdom. Not memory, but essence. The distilled learning of every previous cycle.

And while we’re doing this, the entire universe—God herself—is doing it too.

The story of our lives doesn’t die. It evolves. Each round, informed by the lessons we’ve gathered throughout all our lives. Free will remains intact—that’s the point. It’s the tool by which we transcend ourselves. We don’t always get it “right,” either. Sometimes we make worse decisions than we did last time. But those failures contain the very material of our salvation, our collective salvation.

Even the most broken, villainous versions of us do not stain the next cycle. Death cleans the slate. There is no hell. Only contrast. And contrast is what helps us recognize what is love, and what is not.

Jesus on the cross symbolizes this very redemption. We do not carry our sins, because we do not carry memory. But wisdom? That finds its way through. Perhaps even in the form of motor memory or emotional instinct — our bodies remember what we’ve practiced.

When I told my sister, she called it Karma. But I don’t think so. This isn’t reincarnation across multiple lives. It’s reincarnation of the same life—again and again. A spiral, not a line, returning to same point over and over again, only slightly skewed. A deepening, not a dispersal. Bad behavior doesn’t summon cosmic punishment—it simply gives us more to work with. And always, God is growing with us. Learning through us. Becoming whole. Someday the villains of our God’s body will be saints. I love this whole concept because it gives us a purpose without the need for shame or fear; in the larger picture we simply cannot fail, but we will succeed, we have something to aim for, and it’s in our nature.

That’s why I’m sharing this now, even if it isn’t the usual kind of vocal ministry I hear at meeting—or read in Quaker books. It felt metaphysical. A bit woo. But still holy. And maybe, just maybe, there are others out there who’ve experienced something like it. If that’s you, I’d love to hear about it. Gosh, I need to hear about it.

So, what’s my takeaway?

It gives me hope. And joy. To think we’re all on the same timeless school bus, headed to camp heaven on earth. Loud, messy, misbehaving—jealous, judgmental, and proud. Breaking hearts. Wrecking plans, and experimenting.

But also: loving, helping, healing. Falling in grace. Being stewards of this wild world.

It gives me comfort to believe I’ll get to do this again with the people I love—including my pets. I’m making a note to my next-cycle self: choose the path that brings them to me again. Oh lord, please, please.

Because heaven isn’t later. It’s always becoming. And we’re all on our way together.