Pancakes and Process Theology
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Have you ever had to wake somebody up in the morning?
There are lots of ways to do it. In our house, where simply saying “Time to get up!” is never enough, we’ve developed…alternative strategies. My favorite is singing camp songs: “Rise and shine and give God your glory, glory!”
However, my humanist roots sometimes kick in unexpectedly, and theological discussions with one’s internal voices are inadvisable before coffee, even for ministers. So I’ve also used, “Good morning to you! Good morning to you! You look rather drowsy. In fact you look lousy. Is this any way to start a new day?” Post-coffee, I’ve even been known to launch into songs from musicals, like “Good Morning!” or “O, What a Beautiful Morning.” Sometimes I even play reveille.
If singing doesn’t work, it’s time for Plan B, which involves stealing the covers off the bed. Even though this usually results in the famous hiding-under-the-pillow counter-strategy, pillows also can be snatched, leaving the sleeper exposed to the light and cold of day.
If that doesn’t work, I usually resort to physically removing the sleeping person from the bed. Small people you can lift up and place on their feet. Larger ones, well, the only option is to drag. I’ve learned that it’s better to drag on the top part because if you grab hold of the feet, not only are they stinky, but sometimes the head winds up bouncing on the floor.
All of this is great fun. But it’s not the BEST way to wake people up. If you really want somebody to get up and get moving, you know what you should do?
Go downstairs and make pancakes.
As the scent of breakfast wafts into the bedroom, noses start to twitch and eyes open of their own accord. People not only make their way out of bed happily, but if you establish rules like “No breakfast until you’re dressed, including shoes and socks,” the whole morning routine unfolds effortlessly and culminates in shiny, happy faces willing to set the table and put out the syrup.
In process theology, God—or the spirit of life, or the creative spirit, or goodness, or love—insert whatever word works for you—God works like the scent of pancakes in the morning, to awaken longings deep in the heart, luring not just people but all of creation forward in a continually unfolding process of growing and becoming.
The father of process theology is Alfred North Whitehead (1861–1947). Trained in mathematics and science, he had a spiritual bent, as well as interests in educational philosophy and epistemology (the philosophy of knowledge and belief).
In the early 20th century, Whitehead watched the laws of Newtonian physics become insufficient for understanding the universe. New scientific knowledge and advanced paths of inquiry revealed complexity and contradictions. As quantum mechanics emerged, the image of God as divine watchmaker, who set the world in motion and then let it do its thing, no longer worked.
First of all, in observing experiments it became clear that things on the smallest level were not as predictable as they should be. On a molecular, atomic, and subatomic level, it seemed almost as if these particles were choosing whether to follow the rules or not. It also became clear that the act of observing had an effect, changing the results of any experiment.
Coming at things from an epistemological standpoint, Whitehead especially struggled with the implication that reality is subjective. Descartes’s declaration “I think, therefore I am” expresses doubt about the existence of an objective reality outside of our perception. (As the joke goes, at a cocktail party someone offers Descartes a drink, he answers, “I think not”—and disappears.) Taking in all of this and quite a lot more, Whitehead formulated a metaphysic that more accurately reflected what he saw in the natural world, as well as what he understood about human nature and the creative spirit.
Process theology begins with the assertion that the world exists. The universe really is the universe. There’s no possibility that it’s all some elaborate delusion. Then ask yourself, what is the universe made of? Whitehead proposes a universe made up of something called “actual entities.” We know that organisms and matter are made up of molecules, and molecules are made up of atoms, and atoms are made up of protons, neutrons, and electrons, as well as whatever holds them together. Protons and neutrons are made up of quarks plus something that holds them together. We have no way of knowing what quarks are made up of…yet. So to define actual entities, first you have to break matter up into the smallest possible particle. We don’t know yet where, or even if, there is an end—a fundamental building block which isn’t made up of smaller somethings—but we don’t really need to. Just imagine the smallest particles there are.
Now, these theoretical tiny somethings exist in space, but they also exist in time. They are fundamentally temporal somethings. And just as matter can be broken down into infinitely small pieces, so can time.
Take an infinitely small particle in an infinitely brief moment of time, and you have an actual entity. Everything that exists is made up of these actual entities, which organize themselves into quarks, atoms, molecules, cells, plants, animals, on up to larger, similarly temporal bodies that Whitehead names systems or organisms or societies. The actual entities that make up the systems or societies or organisms choose to work together in a specific way, and in this choosing, they create the universe as it is.All of the actual entities and systems are in relationship. Everything has an effect on everything else. That effect might be negligible, or it might be profound. But we are all connected, and so we respect the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.
Perhaps the simplest way to access process theology is to embrace the notion that we are part of a universe of free choosers, a universe that is in the process of becoming what the participants in the universe are choosing to become. In a very fundamental way, we are our choices. Our choices define us, and they also define and determine what the universe becomes. We are co-creators of the universe.
So where does God fit in?
To Whitehead, God is a word for the actual entity—in relationship with all other actual entities—that is supreme in seeing and comprehending the complexity of all that is, and supreme in imagining outcomes. God, then, is what keeps pulling the universe forward, pulling it toward life and love and peace and connection, keeping it from descending into entropy, stagnation, and collapse.
God is like the smell of pancakes, luring you downstairs to where you’ll be nourished.
The God of process theology isn’t in charge. In a universe of free choosers, God can’t make anyone or anything do anything, but God pulls on the heartstrings, and activates deeper, life-giving and love-filled longings. The God of process theology doesn’t make rules. Morally, God is ambiguous.
As for the end of the process, God doesn’t know how it’s all going to turn out. God is not all-knowing. God hopes and lures and loves, but God is in the thick of it, just like the rest of us. God is powerful and essential to the continuance of life, and God is helpless to actually concretely do much of anything beyond luring the universe toward wholeness, toward ultimate goodness, toward unconditional love.
So if God is an actual entity, what are human beings?
Our bodies are made up of societies of actual entities, organized into a society we call the individual self. Individuals are then organized into societies of people, which are integrated into the society of the biosphere, which is integrated into the society of the universe—you get the idea. Everything is connected all the way down to the infinitely small and all the way up to the infinitely large.
Matter is not eternal, just the choices. The choices we make, the understanding we glean, the experiences and the narrative that we claim as our own—they define the individual.
And what are the implications that grow out of understanding the universe this way?
Because our choices are so important, process theology calls us to be very careful in making them. In making choices, we are aware that our actions have an impact on the world around us. We know this is true because the world has an impact on us. How much of an impact depends on two variables: proximity and intensity. If we imagine an event which takes place very far away, but that is extremely intense—say, the tsunami of 2004—we are affected to approximately the same degree as we are by something which is less intense—say, changing jobs. In the first case, proximity is low, but intensity is higher. In the second, we have close proximity, but the intensity of the experience is lower. Of course, events which are both proximal and intense, such as losing a loved one, have the largest impact.
Similarly, our choices have the most impact on people who are closest to us, but the impact ripples out, and the strength of the ripples depends on the intensity of the original experience. In this way, if I tell you about a friend who has been diagnosed with cancer, you feel the impact even though you have never met the person personally. The consequences of our choices ripple out in all directions, as do the consequences of the choices everyone and everything else makes. Amid the interdependent web, touch one part and the whole web shimmers.
Understanding, in your bones, that everything you do affects everything else can be almost paralyzing. The limitations of reason become pronounced. After all, no one can possibly understand fully all of the ramifications of our actions, of our choices. At some point, you have to trust your heart.
If you believe that God is active in the universe, working like the smell of pancakes to instill longings in our hearts that lure us to the places we need to go, it becomes a little easier. All you have to do is lean into the longing. You listen to your heart for the direction life is luring you, for the choices you can make that help in the creation of a world that is more just, more beautiful, and more loving. And then you follow.
Elizabeth graduated from Yale University in 1992, with a BA in History (focus on Soviet and East European studies).She received her M. Div. from Starr King School for the Ministry in 1999 (her older son, Sam, was born just before she finished her course work).In May of 2019, she received a Doctor in Divinity through a joint program between Seattle University and San Francisco Theological Seminary.Her dissertation focused on managing media-induced secondary trauma in congregations.
In her spare time, Elizabeth loves to hike, ski, knit and write poetry.She swims with a Masters team three mornings a week and is a voracious reader.Her musical tastes run to close harmonies and bluegrass, and one of her favorite ways to spend an evening is to jam with friends.
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