I, Too, am a Wanderer
A Process Theology of Asteroids
Asteroids have been relegated to the margins of thought—dismissed as secondary, insignificant, or merely utilitarian. We typically view them as cosmic debris, planetary leftovers, objects to be feared (if they’re on a collision course) or exploited (if they contain valuable minerals).
But what happens when we shift our perception? What if we refuse to see them as mere fragments and instead recognize them as sites of possibility, mystery, and relational becoming? Why not see asteroids as holy icons, revealing something of divine light in their very opaqueness and insignificance?
Asteroids disrupt stagnant, planet-centric thinking. They resist classification—neither planets nor moons, neither wholly still nor truly erratic, neither lifeless nor necessarily devoid of meaning. They are wanderers, and in their wandering, they embody a kind of cosmic freedom. They defy rigid orbits, challenge our assumptions about celestial order, and remind us that not all existence is tied to permanence or planetary stability.
What if the sacred is not just in grand, celestial bodies but in the forgotten, the drifting, the overlooked? What if asteroids, in their opacity and seeming insignificance, hold divine presence? This inversion of value aligns with many spiritual traditions that find the holy not in the expected places of power, but in the unexpected—the poor, the outcast, the wanderer. Process thought expands this view beyond the human, seeing the sacred in all relational processes, even among celestial debris.
Asteroids are often dismissed as cosmic debris, just as certain communities and individuals are marginalized in our societies. By reclaiming the wanderer as a symbol of possibility rather than insignificance, we challenge dominant narratives that privilege stability, rootedness, and centrality. This resonates with process theology’s embrace of the periphery, recognizing that the most dynamic, transformative energies often arise from the margins.
Asteroids are not just things but processes; they are what Whitehead calls "societies of actual occasions" persisting through time, continuously shaped by their encounters with other celestial bodies. They may or may not have feelings of their own, but the moments of experience composing them do indeed have feelings. The actual occasions within them prehend gravitational fields, absorb cosmic radiation, and carry the imprints of past collisions—all of which influence their becoming. In this sense, asteroids, or the actual occasions composing them, have memories.
It is also possible—I emphasize possible—that they have universes inside them, of an order different from what we know. In Greg Bear’s Eon (1985), an asteroid known as The Stone appears in Earth's orbit, revealing itself to be more than just a lifeless rock—it is a vast, hollow, and ancient structure containing entire abandoned cities, libraries of knowledge, and an infinite tunnel known as The Way that leads to alternate dimensions and timelines. Scientists and astronauts exploring The Stone begin to realize that it is not merely an inert object but a participant in a grand cosmic process, holding the memories of past civilizations and offering humanity glimpses into multiple possible futures. As they study its structure, they notice peculiar shifts in its movement, subtle adjustments that suggest a kind of awareness—not intelligence in a human sense, but a deep gravitational memory, a responsiveness to observation.
The novel presents The Stone as an entity that defies conventional notions of space and time, much like Whitehead’s concept of a society of actual entities—a nexus of sentient events that prehend the past, contribute to the present, and influence the creative advance of the universe. A fellow pilgrim.
As I write this, I have friends who are very interested in the possibility that there are non-human forms of intelligence and feeling that visit the Earth from time to time, evidence for which are UAPs (unidentified anomalous phenomena). There are numerous speculations on where they come from: other dimensions, distant planets and stars, or even areas beneath the ocean. Process theology is open to these possibilities.
Are asteroids part of God? Yes, of course they are. From a process perspective, God is not separate from the universe but includes it—its vast multiplicity, its unfolding creativity, its tragedies and triumphs alike. God is the manyness of the universe as gathered into a unifying Consciousness, a living, ongoing subjectivity that feels the becoming of all things.
In process thought, this divine Consciousness is not a distant observer but an intimately engaged presence, a reality whose very nature is love and empathy. Every asteroid, every star, every moment of cosmic evolution is not merely known by God but felt by God. The universe does not unfold apart from God; rather, its becoming is woven into the divine life. What happens in the universe happens also in God.
In this way, the universe is not merely a creation of God—it is God's unfolding biography. Each asteroid, drifting silently through space, is a chapter in the cosmic story, a note in the symphony of existence, resonating within the heart of the divine.
And so it is with each moment, each atom, each flicker of consciousness. Every quark’s vibration, every wave upon the ocean, every breath of a living being—all are part of the divine story. The universe is not external to God but exists within the divine life, woven into the fabric of an infinite, evolving Consciousness that feels with, responds to, and embraces all things - each act of love, each moment of suffering, each whisper of possibility. Nothing is lost, nothing is forgotten. The universe, in all its wildness and wonder, its beauty and its brokenness, is held in the tender embrace of divine empathy.
And so it is with each of us. Don't we, too, wander in our own ways. Don't we all have our asteroid selves? Why not claim it? Why not claim our inner asteroid?
- Jay McDaniel
But what happens when we shift our perception? What if we refuse to see them as mere fragments and instead recognize them as sites of possibility, mystery, and relational becoming? Why not see asteroids as holy icons, revealing something of divine light in their very opaqueness and insignificance?
Asteroids disrupt stagnant, planet-centric thinking. They resist classification—neither planets nor moons, neither wholly still nor truly erratic, neither lifeless nor necessarily devoid of meaning. They are wanderers, and in their wandering, they embody a kind of cosmic freedom. They defy rigid orbits, challenge our assumptions about celestial order, and remind us that not all existence is tied to permanence or planetary stability.
What if the sacred is not just in grand, celestial bodies but in the forgotten, the drifting, the overlooked? What if asteroids, in their opacity and seeming insignificance, hold divine presence? This inversion of value aligns with many spiritual traditions that find the holy not in the expected places of power, but in the unexpected—the poor, the outcast, the wanderer. Process thought expands this view beyond the human, seeing the sacred in all relational processes, even among celestial debris.
Asteroids are often dismissed as cosmic debris, just as certain communities and individuals are marginalized in our societies. By reclaiming the wanderer as a symbol of possibility rather than insignificance, we challenge dominant narratives that privilege stability, rootedness, and centrality. This resonates with process theology’s embrace of the periphery, recognizing that the most dynamic, transformative energies often arise from the margins.
Asteroids are not just things but processes; they are what Whitehead calls "societies of actual occasions" persisting through time, continuously shaped by their encounters with other celestial bodies. They may or may not have feelings of their own, but the moments of experience composing them do indeed have feelings. The actual occasions within them prehend gravitational fields, absorb cosmic radiation, and carry the imprints of past collisions—all of which influence their becoming. In this sense, asteroids, or the actual occasions composing them, have memories.
It is also possible—I emphasize possible—that they have universes inside them, of an order different from what we know. In Greg Bear’s Eon (1985), an asteroid known as The Stone appears in Earth's orbit, revealing itself to be more than just a lifeless rock—it is a vast, hollow, and ancient structure containing entire abandoned cities, libraries of knowledge, and an infinite tunnel known as The Way that leads to alternate dimensions and timelines. Scientists and astronauts exploring The Stone begin to realize that it is not merely an inert object but a participant in a grand cosmic process, holding the memories of past civilizations and offering humanity glimpses into multiple possible futures. As they study its structure, they notice peculiar shifts in its movement, subtle adjustments that suggest a kind of awareness—not intelligence in a human sense, but a deep gravitational memory, a responsiveness to observation.
The novel presents The Stone as an entity that defies conventional notions of space and time, much like Whitehead’s concept of a society of actual entities—a nexus of sentient events that prehend the past, contribute to the present, and influence the creative advance of the universe. A fellow pilgrim.
As I write this, I have friends who are very interested in the possibility that there are non-human forms of intelligence and feeling that visit the Earth from time to time, evidence for which are UAPs (unidentified anomalous phenomena). There are numerous speculations on where they come from: other dimensions, distant planets and stars, or even areas beneath the ocean. Process theology is open to these possibilities.
Are asteroids part of God? Yes, of course they are. From a process perspective, God is not separate from the universe but includes it—its vast multiplicity, its unfolding creativity, its tragedies and triumphs alike. God is the manyness of the universe as gathered into a unifying Consciousness, a living, ongoing subjectivity that feels the becoming of all things.
In process thought, this divine Consciousness is not a distant observer but an intimately engaged presence, a reality whose very nature is love and empathy. Every asteroid, every star, every moment of cosmic evolution is not merely known by God but felt by God. The universe does not unfold apart from God; rather, its becoming is woven into the divine life. What happens in the universe happens also in God.
In this way, the universe is not merely a creation of God—it is God's unfolding biography. Each asteroid, drifting silently through space, is a chapter in the cosmic story, a note in the symphony of existence, resonating within the heart of the divine.
And so it is with each moment, each atom, each flicker of consciousness. Every quark’s vibration, every wave upon the ocean, every breath of a living being—all are part of the divine story. The universe is not external to God but exists within the divine life, woven into the fabric of an infinite, evolving Consciousness that feels with, responds to, and embraces all things - each act of love, each moment of suffering, each whisper of possibility. Nothing is lost, nothing is forgotten. The universe, in all its wildness and wonder, its beauty and its brokenness, is held in the tender embrace of divine empathy.
And so it is with each of us. Don't we, too, wander in our own ways. Don't we all have our asteroid selves? Why not claim it? Why not claim our inner asteroid?
- Jay McDaniel
