Process Theology and Lifelong Learning
“Curiosity is a form of compassion.
It is how the mind reaches out in love.”
1. Process theology affirms learning as participation in divine life.
Inspired by Alfred North Whitehead, process theology understands God as intimately involved in the world—not as a distant authority, but as a divine presence luring each moment toward richness, beauty, and meaning. Learning, then, becomes a way of responding to that lure—an act of love and co-creation.
2. Intellectual eros is a way of living in the divine Eros.
Our desire to understand—to seek out patterns, connections, and truths—is a reflection of the divine Eros that moves through the universe. This intellectual eros is not about mastering knowledge or proving expertise. It is a reverent, open-hearted curiosity that deepens our relationship with the world and with God.
3. The desire to understand mirrors the consequent nature of God.
In process theology, God remembers everything and holds it together in a tapestry of meaning. When we seek to understand how things “hang together,” we are echoing this divine act of connection. Learning becomes a spiritual longing for coherence, relationship, and depth.
4. Questions and doubts are part of the path.
Lifelong learning is not about certainty. It involves wrestling, wondering, and staying open. In process theology, God is not afraid of our questions. Instead, God may be present in them—gently luring us toward greater wisdom. To question is to keep listening. To doubt is to stay in relationship with the unknown.
5. What’s to learn? Nearly everything.
Learning is not limited to what we study in school. It happens in gardens and kitchens, in conversations and silences, in books and bird songs, in heartbreak and healing. Intellectual eros can take us into history, science, literature, art, philosophy, psychology, and religion—but it also draws us into the wisdom of ordinary life. In each case, learning is a way of entering into relationship with the world’s beauty and complexity—and of adding our attention to the divine memory in which all things are held.
6. Learning never ends.
In a process-relational universe, there is no final arrival point. We are always in the process of becoming, always invited to grow. To be a lifelong learner is to say yes to the unfolding of life itself—to receive each moment as a new opportunity to awaken, connect, and create.
7. Learning deepens humility.
It reminds us that reality exceeds our grasp, that truth is layered, and that wonder grows alongside wisdom. In process theology, this is not a failure—it is a sign that we are still becoming, still awake, still listening.
8. Learning is an act of love.
To learn is to pay attention. To study the world with care, to listen with openness, and to seek understanding is a form of compassion. In process theology, this is part of how the divine Eros moves through us—loving the world into greater connection and beauty.
Inspired by Alfred North Whitehead, process theology understands God as intimately involved in the world—not as a distant authority, but as a divine presence luring each moment toward richness, beauty, and meaning. Learning, then, becomes a way of responding to that lure—an act of love and co-creation.
2. Intellectual eros is a way of living in the divine Eros.
Our desire to understand—to seek out patterns, connections, and truths—is a reflection of the divine Eros that moves through the universe. This intellectual eros is not about mastering knowledge or proving expertise. It is a reverent, open-hearted curiosity that deepens our relationship with the world and with God.
3. The desire to understand mirrors the consequent nature of God.
In process theology, God remembers everything and holds it together in a tapestry of meaning. When we seek to understand how things “hang together,” we are echoing this divine act of connection. Learning becomes a spiritual longing for coherence, relationship, and depth.
4. Questions and doubts are part of the path.
Lifelong learning is not about certainty. It involves wrestling, wondering, and staying open. In process theology, God is not afraid of our questions. Instead, God may be present in them—gently luring us toward greater wisdom. To question is to keep listening. To doubt is to stay in relationship with the unknown.
5. What’s to learn? Nearly everything.
Learning is not limited to what we study in school. It happens in gardens and kitchens, in conversations and silences, in books and bird songs, in heartbreak and healing. Intellectual eros can take us into history, science, literature, art, philosophy, psychology, and religion—but it also draws us into the wisdom of ordinary life. In each case, learning is a way of entering into relationship with the world’s beauty and complexity—and of adding our attention to the divine memory in which all things are held.
6. Learning never ends.
In a process-relational universe, there is no final arrival point. We are always in the process of becoming, always invited to grow. To be a lifelong learner is to say yes to the unfolding of life itself—to receive each moment as a new opportunity to awaken, connect, and create.
7. Learning deepens humility.
It reminds us that reality exceeds our grasp, that truth is layered, and that wonder grows alongside wisdom. In process theology, this is not a failure—it is a sign that we are still becoming, still awake, still listening.
8. Learning is an act of love.
To learn is to pay attention. To study the world with care, to listen with openness, and to seek understanding is a form of compassion. In process theology, this is part of how the divine Eros moves through us—loving the world into greater connection and beauty.
Confessions of a Lifelong Learner
After I retired from teaching Religious Studies at a liberal arts college, I found myself returning to something I had always cherished—but in a new and more spacious way: the love of learning for its own sake.
Over the years, I had taught many courses in the world’s religions and had the joy of co-teaching interdisciplinary classes—Religion and Science, Religion and Art, Religion and Psychology, Religion and Anthropology—alongside colleagues I admired. I learned so much in those collaborations. But most of my study, necessarily, was in preparation for the classroom: reading with the next lecture or discussion in mind, with grading and schedules always in the background.
What I didn’t always have was the time or mental space to widen out—to explore history, literature, science, philosophy, and art in a more open-ended, unhurried way. Retirement gave me that opportunity.
I “went back to college,” in a sense—but this time, the campus was the quiet of early morning, and my teachers came through a pair of earbuds. I began listening to hundreds of episodes of the BBC’s In Our Time, along with podcasts on Shakespeare, classical literature, and other subjects I had once glimpsed but never fully entered. Most mornings, around 4:30 or 5:00 am, I’d set out for a walk—two hours of movement, listening, and contemplation. And over time, I’ve come to realize: it’s more than a habit.
It’s become a sacred adventure in learning—and, for me, a spiritual respite from the turbulence of contemporary life.
Not that I ignore the pain of the world: the political strife, the cultural divides, the wars and atrocities. But those morning hours remind me that the world is also filled with beauty, complexity, history, thought, and meaning. They remind me that there is more—much more—to life than what occupies the headlines.
One of my greatest companions on this journey has been the BBC podcast In Our Time, hosted by Melvyn Bragg. Each week, Bragg brings together scholars—often from Oxford and Cambridge—to explore a topic, sometimes scientific, sometimes historical, sometimes literary or philosophical. The conversations are rich in substance, but Bragg always makes sure his guests speak in ways that can be understood by a wide audience. There’s no rush, no oversimplification. Just thoughtful dialogue, generously offered. And at the end of each episode, he provides a reading list, to which I sometimes turn to complement the discussion.
Because I already knew a good bit about religion and philosophy, and because I had majored in English literature in college, I’ve found—and still find—the discussions on history and science especially engaging. They open new windows for me, sparking a sense of wonder and discovery that feels both fresh and grounding. I remember being captivated by the episode on superconductors—how something so abstract could become suddenly vivid and alive. And the one on the French Revolution, which helped me better understand not just the history but the psychology and energy of revolutionary change.
Listening to these episodes has felt like being invited into a salon of learning, where every subject—no matter how ancient or abstract—shimmers with relevance and possibility.
Over the years, I had taught many courses in the world’s religions and had the joy of co-teaching interdisciplinary classes—Religion and Science, Religion and Art, Religion and Psychology, Religion and Anthropology—alongside colleagues I admired. I learned so much in those collaborations. But most of my study, necessarily, was in preparation for the classroom: reading with the next lecture or discussion in mind, with grading and schedules always in the background.
What I didn’t always have was the time or mental space to widen out—to explore history, literature, science, philosophy, and art in a more open-ended, unhurried way. Retirement gave me that opportunity.
I “went back to college,” in a sense—but this time, the campus was the quiet of early morning, and my teachers came through a pair of earbuds. I began listening to hundreds of episodes of the BBC’s In Our Time, along with podcasts on Shakespeare, classical literature, and other subjects I had once glimpsed but never fully entered. Most mornings, around 4:30 or 5:00 am, I’d set out for a walk—two hours of movement, listening, and contemplation. And over time, I’ve come to realize: it’s more than a habit.
It’s become a sacred adventure in learning—and, for me, a spiritual respite from the turbulence of contemporary life.
Not that I ignore the pain of the world: the political strife, the cultural divides, the wars and atrocities. But those morning hours remind me that the world is also filled with beauty, complexity, history, thought, and meaning. They remind me that there is more—much more—to life than what occupies the headlines.
One of my greatest companions on this journey has been the BBC podcast In Our Time, hosted by Melvyn Bragg. Each week, Bragg brings together scholars—often from Oxford and Cambridge—to explore a topic, sometimes scientific, sometimes historical, sometimes literary or philosophical. The conversations are rich in substance, but Bragg always makes sure his guests speak in ways that can be understood by a wide audience. There’s no rush, no oversimplification. Just thoughtful dialogue, generously offered. And at the end of each episode, he provides a reading list, to which I sometimes turn to complement the discussion.
Because I already knew a good bit about religion and philosophy, and because I had majored in English literature in college, I’ve found—and still find—the discussions on history and science especially engaging. They open new windows for me, sparking a sense of wonder and discovery that feels both fresh and grounding. I remember being captivated by the episode on superconductors—how something so abstract could become suddenly vivid and alive. And the one on the French Revolution, which helped me better understand not just the history but the psychology and energy of revolutionary change.
Listening to these episodes has felt like being invited into a salon of learning, where every subject—no matter how ancient or abstract—shimmers with relevance and possibility.
Curiosity and Intellectual Eros
How then is this related to process theology?
For one thing, it follows the spirit of Alfred North Whitehead, the philosopher whose ideas gave rise to process thought. Whitehead’s life and work were shaped by a deep and expansive curiosity. He began as a mathematician and physicist, co-authoring Principia Mathematica with Bertrand Russell, and gradually expanded his vision to include philosophy, religion, art, and the meaning of existence itself. He saw learning—not just scientific or religious learning, but all inquiry—as a sacred participation in the unfolding complexity of life.
In Whitehead’s understanding of God, two themes stand out as especially important for intellectually curious people.
The first is the idea that God is the Eros of the universe. For Whitehead, Eros refers to the divine energy of longing—God’s desire that the world realize its potential for richness, beauty, and harmony. This divine Eros is not coercive but invitational: it does not control but gently lures. And one of the ways we experience this divine lure is through intellectual eros—a yearning to understand, to make sense, to seek out meaning.
To be intellectually curious, then, is not merely a personal trait or academic pursuit. It is a response to the divine. When we study history, ponder the structure of a symphony, explore how gravity works, or wrestle with a line of poetry, we are—knowingly or not—responding to the Eros that moves through the universe. We are living into God's desire that the world be not only experienced, but also understood and appreciated.
This intellectual eros is not about collecting facts or seeking mastery. It is not driven by vanity or utility. It is a desire to know the world more deeply and reverently, and to be reshaped by that knowing. It is a yearning to see and feel how the many facets of existence—ideas, stories, forms, discoveries—hang together in meaningful and beautiful ways.
Intellectual eros includes:
- Curiosity about what has been—a longing to understand the past, not to control it, but to honor it, learn from it, and let it speak.
- Curiosity about how things work—the processes, laws, and patterns explored in science, revealing the elegant architecture of becoming.
- Curiosity about what has been imagined—through the arts, poetry, music, and story, which offer not just escape, but expansion.
- Curiosity about how people think—through philosophy and psychology, which deepen our capacity to reflect and relate.
- Curiosity about what people believe and how they seek meaning—through religious traditions, mystical insights, and spiritual practices.
All of these are expressions of the same longing: to enter into relationship with a world that is rich, multi-layered, and alive.
The second theme is Whitehead’s vision of the consequent nature of God. In process theology, this is the aspect of God that receives and remembers all that happens. God is not only the lure toward what might be; God is also the home for what has been. And more than that: in this divine remembering, Whitehead suggests, the facts of the world “hang together”—not as random fragments, but as elements in a larger, relational tapestry.
In our own small way, intellectual eros mirrors this divine pattern. The desire to understand is a desire to connect: to see how things relate, how they cohere, how insight in one field might illuminate another. Whether through theology or astronomy, literature or law, we are seeking, however partially, the deeper interrelatedness of things.
This is not about solving the universe like a puzzle. It is about participating in the ongoing weaving of meaning. Intellectual eros is not content with isolation; it hungers for wholeness. It wants to see how the parts relate to the whole—and how that whole is more than the sum of its parts.
So when we ask questions, follow footnotes, or feel the joy of “Aha!”—we are not stepping away from God. We are drawing near.
We are participating in both the Eros that lures and the divine Memory that gathers.
We are seeking, however imperfectly, to know the world as God knows it: not exhaustively, but lovingly—through connection, attention, and care.
On Questioning and Doubting
Lifelong learning is not a straight line from ignorance to certainty. It is a winding, wondering path marked by curiosity, confusion, insight, and often, unresolved questions. And in process theology, that’s not only acceptable—it’s sacred.
Whitehead himself once wrote, “The art of progress is to preserve order amid change and to preserve change amid order.” Doubt, in this sense, is part of the art of progress. It is not the enemy of faith or understanding. It is a sign that we are still alive to the mystery, still reaching, still responsive to the world as it unfolds.
In a culture that often prizes quick answers and unwavering opinions, questioning is a quiet act of courage. It is a way of saying:
“I am still listening. I am still learning. I am not done becoming.”
Process theology tells us that God is not threatened by our questions, nor diminished by our doubts. In fact, it may be that God lives within them—as the lure that invites us not to cling to rigid certainty, but to dwell in the holy space between what is known and what is still unfolding.
So when we doubt, when we wrestle, when we wonder—this, too, is part of intellectual eros. It is part of what it means to be human.
It is how the mind stretches, how the soul breathes, and how the divine continues to meet us—not only in answers, but in the questions themselves.
Whitehead himself once wrote, “The art of progress is to preserve order amid change and to preserve change amid order.” Doubt, in this sense, is part of the art of progress. It is not the enemy of faith or understanding. It is a sign that we are still alive to the mystery, still reaching, still responsive to the world as it unfolds.
In a culture that often prizes quick answers and unwavering opinions, questioning is a quiet act of courage. It is a way of saying:
“I am still listening. I am still learning. I am not done becoming.”
Process theology tells us that God is not threatened by our questions, nor diminished by our doubts. In fact, it may be that God lives within them—as the lure that invites us not to cling to rigid certainty, but to dwell in the holy space between what is known and what is still unfolding.
So when we doubt, when we wrestle, when we wonder—this, too, is part of intellectual eros. It is part of what it means to be human.
It is how the mind stretches, how the soul breathes, and how the divine continues to meet us—not only in answers, but in the questions themselves.
Where to Begin?
You don’t need to retire, walk for two hours every morning, or study philosophy to begin living into intellectual eros. You simply need to follow the quiet pull of curiosity—wherever it appears.
Here are a few gentle places to begin:
Here are a few gentle places to begin:
- Start with what delights you.
If you love nature, read about trees. If you’ve always been fascinated by space, listen to a podcast on the cosmos. If a line of poetry or a piece of music haunts you, follow it. Learning becomes sacred when it is rooted in affection. - Don’t worry about being systematic.
Curiosity is often more like a trail of breadcrumbs than a straight path. Let yourself move intuitively. From a historical figure to a scientific principle. From a painting to a theological question. Follow the shimmer. - Keep company with good teachers.
Seek out thinkers who are passionate and generous, whether in books, podcasts, lectures, or conversation. Melvyn Bragg’s In Our Time is one example. But many others await—thoughtful writers, reflective scholars, storytellers with open minds. - Make time for reflection.
Pause. Walk. Journal. Talk to a friend. Let what you’re learning sink in—not just as information, but as nourishment. Ask yourself not only “What did I learn?” but also, “How did this change the way I see or feel or hope?” - Honor what you don’t know.
In process theology, openness is not a sign of indecision—it’s a form of grace. You don’t have to know everything. You’re not supposed to. You are participating in a sacred process of becoming. That is enough. - Trust that the desire to learn is itself holy.
When you feel the pull toward insight—when you find yourself drawn to a new idea, a forgotten story, a fresh perspective—you are not alone. The lure of God may be in that very desire. Let it lead you.