As We, in Turn, Become the Limits of Humanity
Lincoln Cannon is an American philosopher and technologist who co-founded the Mormon Transhumanist Association in 2006, serving as its president from 2006 to 2016. He is a leading advocate of technological evolution and postsecular religion, combining software engineering expertise with degrees in philosophy and business. ¶ Cannon is also a founder and board member of the Christian Transhumanist Association. He formulated the New God Argument, a logical argument for faith in God that has become popular among religious transhumanists. His academic work includes “Mormonism Mandates Transhumanism” published in Religion and Human Enhancement: Death, Values, and Morality (Palgrave Macmillan, 2017) and “Transfigurism: A Future of Religion as Exemplified by Religious Transhumanists” published in The Transhumanism Handbook (Springer Verlag, 2019). ¶ Mormon transhumanism, as articulated by Cannon, holds that humanity should learn how to be compassionate creators. This idea is central to the Mormon theological tradition, which provides a religious framework consistent with naturalism and supportive of human transformation. Cannon’s work bridges religious faith with scientific advancement, advocating for the ethical use of technology to extend human abilities in ways consistent with a religious worldview.
Our living ancestors are shelter from the limits of humanity. Within their walls, much is well lit. Much is visible. Much is familiar.
But there’s an outside. Beyond their lives, none of us has yet ventured. But we know it’s there, if “there” is the right word to describe it. It’s at least “there” relative to us.
We tell each other stories about light and darkness beyond. Some of us know, justifiably or not, rightly or wrongly, that some of our stories are true. Some of us hope so. Some of us fear so.
Eventually, we each become part of the shelter. Our grandparents long departed, our parents reach their limits. And we take their place.
This is just how it works. It doesn’t require any compassion or courage. It just happens. We become the shelter at the limits of humanity.
And we can no longer look to those who are living beyond us. At most, we can look to others who are living or have lived to those limits with us. At most, we can look to stories about what has or will become of such as ourselves.
And when that happens, we know how it feels to be the shelter of humanity. We know how it feels on the edge of whatever light and darkness may be beyond. At least we know something of how it feels. The shelter extends far beyond any one of us.
But, still, although we’re not alone, and although we have our stories, we become the shelter. We become the limit. We become the border between the familiar and the unfamiliar.
And I think we should recognize in this a duty. Maybe it’s too hard. And maybe we will too often fail of necessity, succumbing to powers greater than ourselves. But duty doesn’t depend on ease or likelihood or even reasonable possibility.
It’s even hard to articulate exactly what the duty is. But it’s a relational one. It’s a sober one. But it’s probably not the kind of sobriety that would exclude full-souled laughter.
Maybe it’s enough to say that the duty is to respect what we’ve become in relation. Surely that’s true of all of us, young and old, first and last. But the young and the first cannot know it. Neither can all of the old and the last.
But some of us can. And that’s where, perhaps, the duty is most clear. When we’re there, and we know it, then we have the duty to respect what we’ve become in relation. When we know that we’ve become part of the shelter from human limits, we have the duty of representing it—of being it—with intention.
Stand while you can. Love what you shelter. Look far out there. Carefully and courageously, truthfully and hopefully, cultivate the best stories.
Syndicated from Lincoln Cannon.