Cosmic Dust and Tenderness
Galactic Evolution and Sentient Life
We are small but included a much larger galactic process. A process said to be around fourteen billion years old—mysterious, expansive, and intensely beautiful at many levels.
Beauty in this context is not mere appearance, but awe-inspiring creativity: the nuclear fusion in the hearts of stars, the gravitational tides shaping galaxies, the quantum fluctuations in the earliest microseconds of time. This cosmic process is not static—it is dynamic, evolving, and endlessly generative. It gave birth to stars, then to planets, then to life. And now, in us—and perhaps in countless other forms of life—it reflects upon itself.
We humans are newcomers. At least 75 percent of the universe’s history unfolded before life emerged on Earth. Over 99.996 percent came before the first human being opened their eyes to the stars. For eons, the cosmos blossomed without biology, without consciousness, without human reflection. Stars were born and died. Galaxies collided and reformed. Heavier elements—carbon, oxygen, iron—were forged in the fiery hearts of ancient suns and scattered across space, preparing the way for life before life even dreamed itself into being.
To be sure, life may have emerged elsewhere, earlier, and differently—in distant galaxies still beyond our reach. If human life were to perish, the cosmic story would not end. Stars would still be born and die. Galaxies would spiral and scatter. The rhythms of creativity would carry on with or without us. The universe’s early history—and likely much of its future—is a history of becoming: a generative, unfolding dance, long before and long after any human eyes were there to see it.
We naturally ask: Why us?
Why should beings like us emerge—creatures capable of wonder, tenderness, and love, yet also of cruelty, indifference, and destruction? Why should a universe pregnant with galaxies and stars give rise to a species that can gaze back in awe—and also turn that gaze into weapons?
Why a world where compassion and horror grow from the same soil of consciousness?
From a process perspective, the answer is not that human beings were inevitable, nor that we are the center of the cosmic story. Rather, we are part of the ongoing creativity of the universe—a creativity lured by a divine love that invites novelty, richness, and complexity. In this long and winding adventure of becoming, life emerges when and where it can, under the right conditions, with no guarantees and no single blueprint
What is this divine love? And where is it? The answer is everywhere. It is not localized to one region of space but equipresent to all regions, even while transcending them; not acting by force, but working within all events and entities as a persuasive lure toward richer forms of order, complexity, and beauty. Imagine that the universe is unfolding within a cosmic womb, indeed a Life which has a life of its own, and that the universe, with its own creativity, is part of that life. That Life is God.
Is God in control of the process? Much depends on what we mean by "control."
Control as Singlehanded Determination of Outcomes
Thomas Oord defines "control" in a very specific way:
"When I use 'control,' I mean acting as the sufficient cause of some creature, circumstance, or event. To describe such control, I use phrases like 'singlehandedly decide outcomes,' 'unilaterally determine events,' or others that depict God as the sole cause of some result." (Thomas Oord, The Death of Omnipotence and Birth of Amipotence, p. 12)
From a process perspective, no entity—not even God—is the sole sufficient cause of any event. Every actual occasion arises through a complex interweaving of past actualities, divine lures (initial aims), and its own self-creative decisions. Control, in the strong Oordian sense of unilateral causation, is simply not how reality works.
Control as Influence
Yet Oord’s definition is not the only way "control" is understood. In ordinary language, when we say someone "controlled the outcome of the meeting," or "they controlled the spread of the fire," we often mean they strongly influenced or guided events—not that they were the sole cause. Control here means shaping without dictating.
Similarly, a teacher "controls" a classroom not by forcing each student’s thought, but by cultivating an atmosphere that invites attention and learning. A gardener "controls" the growth of a garden not by commanding each root and leaf, but by tending the soil, watering at the right times, and gently guiding growth. A conductor "controls" an orchestra not by forcing the musicians’ hands, but by coordinating, inspiring, and evoking a shared rhythm. In each case, control is real, but it is relational—an exercise of influence through cooperation, timing, and sensitivity to what is possible in the moment.
In this softer, relational sense of the word, we can say that early in the universe’s history, God exercised a kind of "control" over pre-biological entities—over the formation of elements, galaxies, and stars. Not by coercing outcomes, but by offering possibilities some of which were almost automatically realized because these entities lacked the complexity or freedom to resist. And we can imagine that this kind of soft, relational control is still operative today, though in a world now alive with more complex forms of freedom. If we think of control this way - as influence - we can then say that God may have been, and may still be, the most powerful influence in the ongoing history of the universe, and we may well hope or trust that the very nature of God is Love.
God's Relinquishment of Control
God’s influence over the unfolding of the cosmos was different in its earliest periods than it is today, with us sentient beings. In the early universe—during the formation of the first elements, stars, and galaxies—there was far less complexity and freedom in the structures of reality. Particles, atoms, and even stars had minimal capacity for resistance or deviation. Their creativity and divine creativity were coincident. In this sense, we can say that God was, in effect, more "in control" during these early stages—not by coercing outcomes, but because the entities involved lacked the freedom to meaningfully resist the divine lure. The emergence of hydrogen and helium, the forging of carbon, oxygen, and iron in the hearts of stars, the birth of galaxies—these events unfolded through the rhythms of relational creativity where God's persuasive power was deeply effective.
As the universe evolved and complexity increased—eventually giving rise to biological life, consciousness, and highly sentient beings—the capacity for freedom also expanded. Creatures gained the ability to cooperate with or resist the divine lure. And this increase in capacities for cooperation or resistance was itself a partial result of the divine lure. God 'willed' that there be creatures with more freedom than, say, the hydrogen atoms, knowing that such creatures would also affect the very life of God. What had once been near-certain became relational and unpredictable. Thus, process theology portrays a God who is always active—offering fresh possibilities moment by moment—but whose influence is shaped by the evolving nature of the world itself. God's relationship with the universe evolves: from near-complete shaping of early events to a patient, co-creative companionship with an increasingly free, creative, and risk-bearing world. It is not the story of domination, but of love—a love that calls without coercing, and suffers alongside the world's becoming.
Why Did God "Give Up" a Degree of Control?
In the process tradition, the answer is not that God once had absolute control and then voluntarily surrendered it, as if stepping back from a power once possessed. Rather, it is that God's very nature, so open and relational theologians propose, has always been relational—a nature that seeks not domination but co-creation. The emergence of greater freedom in the universe—the ability of creatures to say "yes" or "no" to divine possibilities—was not an accident or a regrettable side effect. It was, and is, the flowering of a deeper divine aim: to bring into being a world capable of authentic novelty, beauty, and love.
Real creativity requires real freedom. Genuine love can only arise among beings who have the power to respond, to choose, to co-create. A universe populated solely by entities that mechanically enacted God's aims would be orderly, but it would lack the richness, diversity, and adventure that true creativity demands. Thus, as complexity evolved, God did not "lose" control, but rather embraced the risk that comes with real relationship. The greater the freedom, the greater the beauty—and the greater the possibility for tragedy as well. In this view, God’s power is not measured by domination, but by fidelity to the bonds of relationship:
If there is any "giving up," it is not an act of weakness, but an act of deep, courageous love: God did not choose an easy world, but a living one. God did not choose a controllable world, but a co-creative one.
Was It Worth the Risk?
From the standpoint of sheer pain and tragedy, it would be easy to say no. The universe has given rise to immense suffering—extinction events, natural disasters, cruelty, injustice, heartbreak. Freedom has led not only to beauty, but to wounds so deep that no easy answer can erase them.
And yet, process theology dares to hope that it was worth the risk—not because suffering is excusable, but because something emerges through freedom that could not have emerged otherwise:
Importantly, process theology adds that God does not simply allow suffering from afar, but shares in it fully. Every joy, every sorrow, every loss is felt within the divine life. God is the companion who never abandons, the fellow sufferer who understands, the lure toward healing even amid brokenness.
And it adds one more note of hope: this journey may not end with death. While the full nature of life beyond death remains a mystery, process thinkers often hold that there is a continuing adventure, a deeper becoming, in which the stories of our lives—our loves, our struggles, our dreams—are gathered into God's own ongoing life. Death is not a severing from meaning but a new chapter in the ever-evolving cosmic story.
Thus, the universe is not a failed experiment, but a bold and costly act of love.
The risk was real. The pain is real.
But so too are the unexpected glories of life, love, tenderness, courage, and hope.
Was it worth it? We cannot know in full. But we can live as if it is, trusting that even our small acts of love, our moments of courage, and our whispers of hope are part of the answer.
* This essay is influenced by open and relational theology in the process tradition and, less directly but just as gratefully, by John Sanders' The God Who Risks: A Theology of Providence (InterVarsity Press, 1998). Although John is not a process theologian, he is a wise and pioneering thinker who recognized early on that a God who beckons the universe into human tenderness is a God who risks.
Beauty in this context is not mere appearance, but awe-inspiring creativity: the nuclear fusion in the hearts of stars, the gravitational tides shaping galaxies, the quantum fluctuations in the earliest microseconds of time. This cosmic process is not static—it is dynamic, evolving, and endlessly generative. It gave birth to stars, then to planets, then to life. And now, in us—and perhaps in countless other forms of life—it reflects upon itself.
We humans are newcomers. At least 75 percent of the universe’s history unfolded before life emerged on Earth. Over 99.996 percent came before the first human being opened their eyes to the stars. For eons, the cosmos blossomed without biology, without consciousness, without human reflection. Stars were born and died. Galaxies collided and reformed. Heavier elements—carbon, oxygen, iron—were forged in the fiery hearts of ancient suns and scattered across space, preparing the way for life before life even dreamed itself into being.
To be sure, life may have emerged elsewhere, earlier, and differently—in distant galaxies still beyond our reach. If human life were to perish, the cosmic story would not end. Stars would still be born and die. Galaxies would spiral and scatter. The rhythms of creativity would carry on with or without us. The universe’s early history—and likely much of its future—is a history of becoming: a generative, unfolding dance, long before and long after any human eyes were there to see it.
We naturally ask: Why us?
Why should beings like us emerge—creatures capable of wonder, tenderness, and love, yet also of cruelty, indifference, and destruction? Why should a universe pregnant with galaxies and stars give rise to a species that can gaze back in awe—and also turn that gaze into weapons?
Why a world where compassion and horror grow from the same soil of consciousness?
From a process perspective, the answer is not that human beings were inevitable, nor that we are the center of the cosmic story. Rather, we are part of the ongoing creativity of the universe—a creativity lured by a divine love that invites novelty, richness, and complexity. In this long and winding adventure of becoming, life emerges when and where it can, under the right conditions, with no guarantees and no single blueprint
What is this divine love? And where is it? The answer is everywhere. It is not localized to one region of space but equipresent to all regions, even while transcending them; not acting by force, but working within all events and entities as a persuasive lure toward richer forms of order, complexity, and beauty. Imagine that the universe is unfolding within a cosmic womb, indeed a Life which has a life of its own, and that the universe, with its own creativity, is part of that life. That Life is God.
Is God in control of the process? Much depends on what we mean by "control."
Control as Singlehanded Determination of Outcomes
Thomas Oord defines "control" in a very specific way:
"When I use 'control,' I mean acting as the sufficient cause of some creature, circumstance, or event. To describe such control, I use phrases like 'singlehandedly decide outcomes,' 'unilaterally determine events,' or others that depict God as the sole cause of some result." (Thomas Oord, The Death of Omnipotence and Birth of Amipotence, p. 12)
From a process perspective, no entity—not even God—is the sole sufficient cause of any event. Every actual occasion arises through a complex interweaving of past actualities, divine lures (initial aims), and its own self-creative decisions. Control, in the strong Oordian sense of unilateral causation, is simply not how reality works.
Control as Influence
Yet Oord’s definition is not the only way "control" is understood. In ordinary language, when we say someone "controlled the outcome of the meeting," or "they controlled the spread of the fire," we often mean they strongly influenced or guided events—not that they were the sole cause. Control here means shaping without dictating.
Similarly, a teacher "controls" a classroom not by forcing each student’s thought, but by cultivating an atmosphere that invites attention and learning. A gardener "controls" the growth of a garden not by commanding each root and leaf, but by tending the soil, watering at the right times, and gently guiding growth. A conductor "controls" an orchestra not by forcing the musicians’ hands, but by coordinating, inspiring, and evoking a shared rhythm. In each case, control is real, but it is relational—an exercise of influence through cooperation, timing, and sensitivity to what is possible in the moment.
In this softer, relational sense of the word, we can say that early in the universe’s history, God exercised a kind of "control" over pre-biological entities—over the formation of elements, galaxies, and stars. Not by coercing outcomes, but by offering possibilities some of which were almost automatically realized because these entities lacked the complexity or freedom to resist. And we can imagine that this kind of soft, relational control is still operative today, though in a world now alive with more complex forms of freedom. If we think of control this way - as influence - we can then say that God may have been, and may still be, the most powerful influence in the ongoing history of the universe, and we may well hope or trust that the very nature of God is Love.
God's Relinquishment of Control
God’s influence over the unfolding of the cosmos was different in its earliest periods than it is today, with us sentient beings. In the early universe—during the formation of the first elements, stars, and galaxies—there was far less complexity and freedom in the structures of reality. Particles, atoms, and even stars had minimal capacity for resistance or deviation. Their creativity and divine creativity were coincident. In this sense, we can say that God was, in effect, more "in control" during these early stages—not by coercing outcomes, but because the entities involved lacked the freedom to meaningfully resist the divine lure. The emergence of hydrogen and helium, the forging of carbon, oxygen, and iron in the hearts of stars, the birth of galaxies—these events unfolded through the rhythms of relational creativity where God's persuasive power was deeply effective.
As the universe evolved and complexity increased—eventually giving rise to biological life, consciousness, and highly sentient beings—the capacity for freedom also expanded. Creatures gained the ability to cooperate with or resist the divine lure. And this increase in capacities for cooperation or resistance was itself a partial result of the divine lure. God 'willed' that there be creatures with more freedom than, say, the hydrogen atoms, knowing that such creatures would also affect the very life of God. What had once been near-certain became relational and unpredictable. Thus, process theology portrays a God who is always active—offering fresh possibilities moment by moment—but whose influence is shaped by the evolving nature of the world itself. God's relationship with the universe evolves: from near-complete shaping of early events to a patient, co-creative companionship with an increasingly free, creative, and risk-bearing world. It is not the story of domination, but of love—a love that calls without coercing, and suffers alongside the world's becoming.
Why Did God "Give Up" a Degree of Control?
In the process tradition, the answer is not that God once had absolute control and then voluntarily surrendered it, as if stepping back from a power once possessed. Rather, it is that God's very nature, so open and relational theologians propose, has always been relational—a nature that seeks not domination but co-creation. The emergence of greater freedom in the universe—the ability of creatures to say "yes" or "no" to divine possibilities—was not an accident or a regrettable side effect. It was, and is, the flowering of a deeper divine aim: to bring into being a world capable of authentic novelty, beauty, and love.
Real creativity requires real freedom. Genuine love can only arise among beings who have the power to respond, to choose, to co-create. A universe populated solely by entities that mechanically enacted God's aims would be orderly, but it would lack the richness, diversity, and adventure that true creativity demands. Thus, as complexity evolved, God did not "lose" control, but rather embraced the risk that comes with real relationship. The greater the freedom, the greater the beauty—and the greater the possibility for tragedy as well. In this view, God’s power is not measured by domination, but by fidelity to the bonds of relationship:
- Faithfulness to offering fresh possibilities, no matter how the world responds.
- Faithfulness to bearing the pain of the world's tragedies without coercing its freedom away.
- Faithfulness to luring the world, again and again, toward richer forms of life, love, and beauty.
If there is any "giving up," it is not an act of weakness, but an act of deep, courageous love: God did not choose an easy world, but a living one. God did not choose a controllable world, but a co-creative one.
Was It Worth the Risk?
From the standpoint of sheer pain and tragedy, it would be easy to say no. The universe has given rise to immense suffering—extinction events, natural disasters, cruelty, injustice, heartbreak. Freedom has led not only to beauty, but to wounds so deep that no easy answer can erase them.
And yet, process theology dares to hope that it was worth the risk—not because suffering is excusable, but because something emerges through freedom that could not have emerged otherwise:
- Love that is real and chosen, not pre-programmed.
- Creativity that is surprising and new, not mechanical.
- Beauty that arises from contrast, resilience, and the interplay of light and shadow.
- Compassion born from shared vulnerability.
- Depths of relationship that could not exist without the possibility of refusal, loss, and change.
Importantly, process theology adds that God does not simply allow suffering from afar, but shares in it fully. Every joy, every sorrow, every loss is felt within the divine life. God is the companion who never abandons, the fellow sufferer who understands, the lure toward healing even amid brokenness.
And it adds one more note of hope: this journey may not end with death. While the full nature of life beyond death remains a mystery, process thinkers often hold that there is a continuing adventure, a deeper becoming, in which the stories of our lives—our loves, our struggles, our dreams—are gathered into God's own ongoing life. Death is not a severing from meaning but a new chapter in the ever-evolving cosmic story.
Thus, the universe is not a failed experiment, but a bold and costly act of love.
The risk was real. The pain is real.
But so too are the unexpected glories of life, love, tenderness, courage, and hope.
Was it worth it? We cannot know in full. But we can live as if it is, trusting that even our small acts of love, our moments of courage, and our whispers of hope are part of the answer.
* This essay is influenced by open and relational theology in the process tradition and, less directly but just as gratefully, by John Sanders' The God Who Risks: A Theology of Providence (InterVarsity Press, 1998). Although John is not a process theologian, he is a wise and pioneering thinker who recognized early on that a God who beckons the universe into human tenderness is a God who risks.