Praying to the Stars
Amipotence and Intercessory Prayer
A friend asks me whether, from an open and relational perspective, it is possible to pray to the universe. She explains that she often sends good energy out to the stars as a way of praying for her daughter, who has a terrible disease. She adds that, when she does this, she senses that the prayer or energy is somehow received. "I pray a lot," she says.
I respond that her practice makes good sense from an open and relational perspective, particularly one influenced by process theology. In process theology God is the living whole of the universe, feeling the feelings of each and all, including her feelings and those of her daughter. When we send good energy to the universe, it is being received by the living whole of the universe, in a loving way.
"But I thought God was above the stars," she says.
"Not exactly," I say. "The stars are inside God, and we are, too—like embryos inside a womb. When we feel small but included in the vast horizons of the heavens, and we communicate with that larger horizon in whatever ways we can, we are reaching out to the heart of the universe. God is the the heart, and the wholeness of the universe: the living whole."
"But I really don't believe in a personal God," she says.
I know what she means. She means that she doesn't believe in a human-like God with a body, located in space. For her, that's what "personal God" means.
"That's OK," I say. "If you believe in the living whole of the universe, and you feel like your prayers are being received by it, that's enough. What matters is the connection you feel, the love you send, and the openness to a nurturant something greater than yourself."
"Does this love answer our prayers?" she asks.
"Yes, always," I say. "But not in a coercive way. It cannot control things like a puppeteer controls puppets. The many things in the universe—the atoms and molecules, the microbes and cells, the plants and animals, the stars and galaxies—they have power, too. God, the living whole, responds not by overriding these powers but by sending love back into the universe, offering possibilities for healing, connection, transformation, and sometimes just for the courage to endure, when things can't be changed.
I add, "You might think of the living whole of the universe as a cosmic recycler of love. Whitehead describes it this way:
'What is done in the world is transformed into a reality in heaven, and the reality in heaven passes back into the world. By reason of this reciprocal relation, the love in the world passes into the love in heaven, and floods back again into the world. In this sense, God is the great companion—the fellow-sufferer who understands.'
In this way, every act of love, every prayer, every moment of care is taken up into the heart of God and returned to the world as a renewed presence of love. God answers by walking with us, sharing in our struggles, and offering gentle, loving possibilities for new beginnings. This walking and sharing and offering is God's unlimited love. It is God's amipotence.
As she asks me these questions, seeking assurance that it's OK to, as she puts it, "pray to the stars," I am a little embarrassed. I'm no expert. I, too, see through a glass darkly. I, too, pray to the stars and sense that something is listening. The heart of her faith, and my own, is a trust in something more than ourselves: a nurturant love, a deep listening, a sky-like mind in which we all unfold. The stars, with lives of their own, and lives beyond our own, are home to this hope.
I respond that her practice makes good sense from an open and relational perspective, particularly one influenced by process theology. In process theology God is the living whole of the universe, feeling the feelings of each and all, including her feelings and those of her daughter. When we send good energy to the universe, it is being received by the living whole of the universe, in a loving way.
"But I thought God was above the stars," she says.
"Not exactly," I say. "The stars are inside God, and we are, too—like embryos inside a womb. When we feel small but included in the vast horizons of the heavens, and we communicate with that larger horizon in whatever ways we can, we are reaching out to the heart of the universe. God is the the heart, and the wholeness of the universe: the living whole."
"But I really don't believe in a personal God," she says.
I know what she means. She means that she doesn't believe in a human-like God with a body, located in space. For her, that's what "personal God" means.
"That's OK," I say. "If you believe in the living whole of the universe, and you feel like your prayers are being received by it, that's enough. What matters is the connection you feel, the love you send, and the openness to a nurturant something greater than yourself."
"Does this love answer our prayers?" she asks.
"Yes, always," I say. "But not in a coercive way. It cannot control things like a puppeteer controls puppets. The many things in the universe—the atoms and molecules, the microbes and cells, the plants and animals, the stars and galaxies—they have power, too. God, the living whole, responds not by overriding these powers but by sending love back into the universe, offering possibilities for healing, connection, transformation, and sometimes just for the courage to endure, when things can't be changed.
I add, "You might think of the living whole of the universe as a cosmic recycler of love. Whitehead describes it this way:
'What is done in the world is transformed into a reality in heaven, and the reality in heaven passes back into the world. By reason of this reciprocal relation, the love in the world passes into the love in heaven, and floods back again into the world. In this sense, God is the great companion—the fellow-sufferer who understands.'
In this way, every act of love, every prayer, every moment of care is taken up into the heart of God and returned to the world as a renewed presence of love. God answers by walking with us, sharing in our struggles, and offering gentle, loving possibilities for new beginnings. This walking and sharing and offering is God's unlimited love. It is God's amipotence.
As she asks me these questions, seeking assurance that it's OK to, as she puts it, "pray to the stars," I am a little embarrassed. I'm no expert. I, too, see through a glass darkly. I, too, pray to the stars and sense that something is listening. The heart of her faith, and my own, is a trust in something more than ourselves: a nurturant love, a deep listening, a sky-like mind in which we all unfold. The stars, with lives of their own, and lives beyond our own, are home to this hope.