You're an alien at my funeral. Luckily, you sit beside the one person who I could actually be myself around. During an especially wizened, tedious eulogy you whisper; "he really didn't get the meaning of life. I mean, what a weirdude right? His career has "eclectic" written all over it. Why didn't he just become an accountant and have a nice family? I'm pretty sure that he had issues, or at least ADHD."
My friend hands you this book. Suddenly they jump up and give an eloquent 3-point sermon. The arched oak ceilings echo her powerful voice while theologians and professors begin to squirm.
"1. Talking about God is almost pointless, because humans invented language and they didn't invent the cause behind the universe. Religion is a bit like learning about love from a dictionary.... BUT the cause (or whatever force you worship) did invent humans so talking with "God" and trying to be more like "God" is everything.
2. Life is a network of chemical processes. Chemical reaction A, feeding chemical reaction B, which feeds chemical reaction A. Sure some forms of life are more complex, but all organisms operate in network of mutual benefit. When their processes stop helping each other, the organism dies. So if you want to find the meaning of life, build more networks of trust and mutual support. It's almost like creating an organism, and mimics "God" pretty darn well.
3. The most interesting problem worth solving is how to "raise a village." Genius Africans were the first to figure out that "it takes a village to raise a child." There is no more computationally complex problem than figuring out how to raise creative, compassionate and courageous humans. Parents do something harder than creating artificial intelligence, but on minimum wage."
After the funeral, my friend offers you a spliff. The wind whirls up a dust devil as you stand awkwardly outside the cathedral, while my 69 surviving relatives shuffle awkwardly past. The tall grey buildings around you funnel the storm, sucking any remaining life out of the atmosphere.
The bacteria inside the dust cloud might be the only organisms left alive in 500 years. At least they will have my funeral brochure to feed upon, because life eats waste for breakfast. The brochure slips out of your hands, it smears across the dirt, picks itself up, and without a care in the world; dances across the street. And so, despite whatever mistaken ideas I grew up with, despite whatever foolish beliefs I hold now; so will I. Light as a feather; my soul dances away with the wind.
