​Peace be with You


​A Whiteheadian Appreciation
of Pope Leo's First Words as Pope
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Pope Leo's first words as he stood on the balcony on May 8, 2025, were:

“Peace be with you all.

Dearest brothers and sisters, this is the first greeting of the Risen Christ, the Good Shepherd who gave His life for the flock of God. I too would like this greeting of peace to enter our hearts, to reach your families: to all people wherever they may be, to all nations, to the whole earth: peace be with you.

This is the peace of the Risen Christ: a disarmed peace, a disarming peace, humble and persevering. It comes from God—God who loves us all unconditionally.”

“Peace be with you” is more than a formula of greeting. It is an expression of love—a desire for the well-being of another, even in the face of difference, division, or disagreement. To wish peace upon someone is to say: I want the best for you. Not just safety or calm, but deep, enduring wholeness. It is to extend goodwill, not only to friends or allies, but to all: strangers, critics, enemies, the whole fragile world.
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I doubt that Pope Leo would describe himself as a process theologian. Nor need he do so. There are so many rich traditions from which he can draw.  Yet it seems to me that he shares with process thinkers a profound conviction: that at the very heart of the universe, there is a spirit of unconditional love—a love that is non-dominating, yet quietly powerful; a love that offers not control but a humble, disarming peace to each of us and to the world.

This is no small claim. It is, in fact, a radical one. For it can just as easily be argued that there is no such love at the heart of things—that the universe is driven by conflict and restless striving, by a will to power and nothing more, indifferent to moral concerns or tender hopes. This was Nietzsche’s vision. He, like Whitehead, was in many ways a philosopher of process—but the tone and substance of their visions differ profoundly.

Nietzsche is tragic, vitalistic, and defiant—a philosopher of fire, thunder, and dance. He calls us to live courageously in a godless cosmos, forging meaning in the face of chaos and affirming life without illusions. Whitehead, by contrast, is cosmic, hopeful, and constructive—a philosopher of process and peace. He envisions a universe lured toward beauty by a divine presence who is gentle but insistent, whose power lies not in coercion but in invitation—a presence who offers possibilities moment by moment, and whose deepest desire is that the world flourish in richness of experience.

Yes, in Whitehead’s philosophy we can dance—but we dance not alone, and not in self-assertion. We dance with one another, to be sure, and also with the whole of creation, as Pope Leo’s predecessor, Pope Francis, made clear in Laudato Si’. We dance not in a will to power, but in a will to love—creative, responsive, and humble.

Our aim in this dancing is not to lord ourselves over others, but to help create communities of compassion, justice, and—dare I say—diversity, equity, and inclusion. These are not signs of weakness. They are signs of a different kind of strength, grounded in a vision of the universe where peace is more than the absence of violence; it is the presence of love.

Nietzsche would see this kind of dancing as weak—born of resentment that we lack the power to dominate. But Whitehead would see it as a different kind of power altogether: the power revealed in the healing, loving ministry of Jesus—a power that does not crush but calls, that does not shout but sings.

Peace be with you. What perfect words to inaugurate a papacy.

God bless you, Pope Leo. We are with you.

Nietzsche, Whitehead, and
​the Shape of the Universe

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Imagine that the universe is not a fixed arrangement of things but a living, surging process—an unfolding drama of conflict, transformation, and becoming. At the heart of this process lies a fundamental ontological force: the will to power. This is a primal energy within all beings—a pre-rational, pre-conscious striving to assert, grow, expand, overcome resistance, and create. It animates stars and animals, empires and artists. It is the pulse of life, indifferent to moral judgment.

Now imagine that some people embrace this will to power. They do not seek to tame it or hide from it. Instead, they live by it, thrive in conflict, and see struggle as the crucible of greatness. For them, life is about rising above others, breaking molds, and imposing form on chaos. They are conquerors.

Others, however, reject this vision. They speak of compassion, humility, forgiveness, and solidarity. They call for justice, for care of the weak, for systems built not on conquest but on love. They reject domination in favor of healing, and call it not weakness but grace. 

In Nietzsche’s view, this latter group has its roots in Christianity—a religion he saw as a moral revolution led by the downtrodden, preaching meekness and mercy as virtues. For Nietzsche, Christianity is a metaphysical rebellion against life as it truly is: fierce, dynamic, unjust. It replaces strength with sympathy, and power with pity. And while institutional Christianity has taken many forms—some imperial, some radical—at its ethical heart lies a preference for the last over the first, the servant over the master, the lamb over the lion.

In today’s world, this Christian moral vision often takes the shape of what is called “wokeness”—an alertness to suffering, injustice, and systemic harm. It carries forward the Christian emphasis on the dignity of the marginalized, the centrality of love, and the call to repair what is broken. And just as Nietzsche critiqued Christianity as the morality of the weak, many critics today see wokeness as an overly sensitive, guilt-ridden ethic that avoids the hard realities of power. In this reading, both Christianity and wokeness are ways of restraining the will to power—because their adherents fear it, or cannot wield it.
By contrast, those who celebrate conflict, dominance, and unrepentant assertion—those who cast themselves as warriors rather than healers—may be called Nietzscheans. In today’s landscape, they often align with movements like Trumpism: bold, unapologetic, combative, scorning the language of fragility. They view empathy as a trap, confession as weakness, and moral concern as camouflage for cowardice.

And so the conflict continues—not just between political ideologies or historical traditions, but between two metaphysical visions: one that glorifies strength and struggle, and another that sanctifies care and community. Nietzsche demands that we ask: is the latter simply the last revenge of the weak—or the beginning of a deeper, more redemptive power?

But what if the Christian moral vision—centered on love, compassion, and care for the vulnerable—is not simply a metaphysical rebellion against life, as Nietzsche thought, but instead an expression of a deeper cosmic truth? What if, beneath the noise of conflict and assertion, there is a quieter power at work—gentle but persistent, not dominating but inviting, not coercive but creative? This is precisely the vision offered by the philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead. And this is why, in his book Adventures of Ideas, he took Peace, understood as the absence of conflict, as the consummation of life's journey.

Whitehead’s metaphysics affirms that the universe is indeed a process—an unfolding reality made not of substances but of events, of actual occasions that emerge moment by moment in response to their surroundings. Each event is a becoming, shaped by what has come before and influenced by what is possible. At the heart of this process lies not a will to power, but a deeper principle: Creativity. And guiding this creativity is a divine presence—God—not as an omnipotent ruler, but as a gentle spirit who lures each occasion toward beauty, intensity, and harmony.

Whitehead’s God does not impose but offers. God is the source of fresh possibilities, drawing each entity toward its fullest potential through the creation of contrasts—what Whitehead calls complementarity. These contrasts are not battles for supremacy but opportunities for enrichment. In this view, life is not a war of all against all, but a dance of mutual becoming. Conflict exists, yes, but it is not the highest truth; it is part of a larger pattern in which diversity becomes depth and difference gives rise to beauty.

This metaphysical vision aligns closely with the Christian moral ideal. The God of process philosophy is intimately present in all things, sharing in their suffering and rejoicing in their joys. Divine power is not domination, but persuasion—a persistent invitation to love, to community, to peace. The Christian emphasis on compassion, humility, and service is not a suppression of reality but a participation in its truest nature. In Whitehead’s cosmos, every act of mercy is an echo of the divine lure.

Moreover, Whitehead’s metaphysics grounds this vision not just in human experience, but in the very structure of the universe. From the cooperative bonding of atoms in molecules, to the symbiotic relationships in biology, to the gravitational interdependence of galaxies, the world evolves through networks of relationship and mutual influence. Even at the molecular and galactic level, societies form—not through violence alone, but through integration, rhythm, and shared pattern. Creativity is born through contrast, yes, but also through cooperation.
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In this light, the Christian moral vision—often dismissed by Nietzsche as a product of weakness—can be seen instead as a courageous alignment with the deep structure of reality. It is not a denial of life’s energy, but a channeling of it toward richer and more relational forms. Where Nietzsche sees weakness, Whitehead sees strength—not the strength of conquest, but the strength of communion. And in that strength, the Christian vision finds not only its moral center but its metaphysical home.