One of the brilliant slime molds
Photo By Simia Attentive (Shutterstock.com)
Divine Cytoplasm
A Fluid, Omnipresent Presence
Facilitating Communication
Between Localized cells
"Cytoplasm is the gelatinous liquid that fills the inside of a cell. It is composed of water, salts, and various organic molecules. Some intracellular organelles, such the nucleus and mitochondria, are enclosed by membranes that separate them from the cytoplasm." (National Human Genome Project, US Govt.)
In slime molds, the cytoplasm plays a crucial role in movement, allowing the organism to flow and change shape by constantly streaming throughout its body, enabling it to reach food sources and navigate its environment, essentially acting as the "engine" that drives its behavior without a nervous system; this movement is often referred to as "cytoplasmic streaming."
In slime molds, the cytoplasm plays a crucial role in movement, allowing the organism to flow and change shape by constantly streaming throughout its body, enabling it to reach food sources and navigate its environment, essentially acting as the "engine" that drives its behavior without a nervous system; this movement is often referred to as "cytoplasmic streaming."
When it comes to God, we need the images we can get. Energy - Feeling - Ruler - Love - King - Peace - Lord - Mother - Lover - Fire - Abba - Mystery. To these I add Cytoplasm - understood as something that is fluid, omnipresent, and facilitates communication between cells. More specifically (see below) I have in mind the cytoplasm of slime moulds, because in this instance the cytoplasm does not have distinct cell wall but rather connects things with cell walls. By cells I have in mind all our relatives: other people but also plants and animals, hills and rivers, trees and stars. We can imagine God as a cosmic, universal Cytoplasm that streams through the universe. A decentralized yet and fluid gel that helps creatures make contact, get along, and help each other, to the extent that they - we - cooperate. The value of imagining God this way is that it cuts off any tendency to turn God in to a focal object of the imagination. God is not "here" or "there" like the subject of a sentence. God is everywhere and decentralized, like cytoplasm, and that's what makes God so beautiful.
*
Throughout history, human thought has often depicted intelligence as hierarchical, centralized, and singular—whether in the form of an all-knowing divine mind or the human brain as the pinnacle of cognition. We have traditionally conceived of intelligence as a predicate attached to a subject, a quality possessed by a distinct entity with a defined center of control.
However, the study of decentralized intelligence—exemplified by organisms like slime moulds—challenges this paradigm. Despite lacking a brain or nervous system, slime moulds exhibit remarkable intelligence through emergent, self-organizing processes at local levels. They coordinate and communicate through their cytoplasm, demonstrating a form of cognition that is distributed rather than centralized. Their intelligence arises not from a single command center but through dynamic interactions among their parts, responding adaptively to environmental stimuli.
For theologians, the idea that intelligence can exist without a centralized brain is not new. In open and relational (process) theology, for example, God is seen as a brain-independent coordinating center for the universe—feeling the feelings of each and all—yet lacking, and not needing, a physical brain. God is not "brainless" in the sense of being thoughtless; rather, God is brain-independent, an intelligence without a brain.
Yet open and relational theologians envision God as a coordinating center—not spatially located, but an omnipresent, non-embodied force that lures creation toward possibilities for beauty, intensity, and harmony. This coordinating center is a subjective presence that receives all that happens in the universe empathetically, weaving each moment into an ongoing, unified experience. In this way, God’s intelligence manifests in three primary forms: Guidance, Empathy, and Imagination.
Many open and relational theologians add further dimensions to this intelligence—knowing the possible futures, remembering the past even when forgotten by the world, and perceiving the intricate webs of connection possible in any given universe. These forms of intelligence are typically understood as properties of a coordinating center.
Here is where slime moulds present an intriguing challenge—or at least raise an important question. Not because we would imagine slime moulds embodying these divine forms of intelligence, but because they challenge the assumption that intelligence of any kind requires a single coordinating center at all. Slime moulds are intelligent, yet their intelligence is brain-independent and non-centralized. It emerges through relationships and interactions rather than being imposed by a singular guiding force.
Slime moulds solve complex problems, navigate mazes, and optimize networks by relying on decentralized communication and adaptive behavior. Each part of the organism responds to environmental stimuli, and through chemical signaling and oscillatory rhythms, a collective intelligence emerges—without any single entity directing the whole. Their ability to process information, remember past experiences, and efficiently allocate resources shows that intelligence can arise as an emergent property of interconnected components rather than from a central command.
So what might this mean for our understanding of God?
What if God is not best understood as a coordinating center—a concept that still assumes a kind of hierarchical intelligence—but rather as something more fluid, dynamic, and relational? What if, instead of imagining God as above creation, gently guiding its movements, we imagine God within creation—more like the cytoplasm in a slime mould?
Just as cytoplasm serves as the medium through which the slime mould’s decentralized intelligence and coordinated movement emerge, God could be seen as the underlying relational presence that enables the universe to organize, adapt, and evolve.
The cytoplasm does not control the organism in a top-down manner; rather, it facilitates interactions, helping the organism function as an integrated whole. Likewise, God, rather than being a singular directing force, could be the fluid, omnipresent presence that makes relational complexity possible, allowing intelligence, harmony, and novelty to arise.
But would such a God still be conscious? Still personal?
After all, we do not typically think of cytoplasm as having its own consciousness or, for that matter, intelligence. Yet if intelligence can emerge through relational networks rather than centralized control, could something similar be true of divine consciousness? Instead of being a singular, overseeing mind, could God’s consciousness itself be emergent—arising not from a separate, distinct center, but through the unfolding relationships of the cosmos?
This shift in perspective does not diminish God’s presence but reframes it—not as an external force orchestrating creation from above, but as an intrinsic, relational depth within all things, luring them toward greater connection, creativity, and flourishing.
Perhaps intelligence—whether divine or biological—is not best understood as a property of individual subjects but as something that emerges between them, in the spaces where life, movement, and meaning unfold.
*
Throughout history, human thought has often depicted intelligence as hierarchical, centralized, and singular—whether in the form of an all-knowing divine mind or the human brain as the pinnacle of cognition. We have traditionally conceived of intelligence as a predicate attached to a subject, a quality possessed by a distinct entity with a defined center of control.
However, the study of decentralized intelligence—exemplified by organisms like slime moulds—challenges this paradigm. Despite lacking a brain or nervous system, slime moulds exhibit remarkable intelligence through emergent, self-organizing processes at local levels. They coordinate and communicate through their cytoplasm, demonstrating a form of cognition that is distributed rather than centralized. Their intelligence arises not from a single command center but through dynamic interactions among their parts, responding adaptively to environmental stimuli.
For theologians, the idea that intelligence can exist without a centralized brain is not new. In open and relational (process) theology, for example, God is seen as a brain-independent coordinating center for the universe—feeling the feelings of each and all—yet lacking, and not needing, a physical brain. God is not "brainless" in the sense of being thoughtless; rather, God is brain-independent, an intelligence without a brain.
Yet open and relational theologians envision God as a coordinating center—not spatially located, but an omnipresent, non-embodied force that lures creation toward possibilities for beauty, intensity, and harmony. This coordinating center is a subjective presence that receives all that happens in the universe empathetically, weaving each moment into an ongoing, unified experience. In this way, God’s intelligence manifests in three primary forms: Guidance, Empathy, and Imagination.
Many open and relational theologians add further dimensions to this intelligence—knowing the possible futures, remembering the past even when forgotten by the world, and perceiving the intricate webs of connection possible in any given universe. These forms of intelligence are typically understood as properties of a coordinating center.
Here is where slime moulds present an intriguing challenge—or at least raise an important question. Not because we would imagine slime moulds embodying these divine forms of intelligence, but because they challenge the assumption that intelligence of any kind requires a single coordinating center at all. Slime moulds are intelligent, yet their intelligence is brain-independent and non-centralized. It emerges through relationships and interactions rather than being imposed by a singular guiding force.
Slime moulds solve complex problems, navigate mazes, and optimize networks by relying on decentralized communication and adaptive behavior. Each part of the organism responds to environmental stimuli, and through chemical signaling and oscillatory rhythms, a collective intelligence emerges—without any single entity directing the whole. Their ability to process information, remember past experiences, and efficiently allocate resources shows that intelligence can arise as an emergent property of interconnected components rather than from a central command.
So what might this mean for our understanding of God?
What if God is not best understood as a coordinating center—a concept that still assumes a kind of hierarchical intelligence—but rather as something more fluid, dynamic, and relational? What if, instead of imagining God as above creation, gently guiding its movements, we imagine God within creation—more like the cytoplasm in a slime mould?
Just as cytoplasm serves as the medium through which the slime mould’s decentralized intelligence and coordinated movement emerge, God could be seen as the underlying relational presence that enables the universe to organize, adapt, and evolve.
The cytoplasm does not control the organism in a top-down manner; rather, it facilitates interactions, helping the organism function as an integrated whole. Likewise, God, rather than being a singular directing force, could be the fluid, omnipresent presence that makes relational complexity possible, allowing intelligence, harmony, and novelty to arise.
But would such a God still be conscious? Still personal?
After all, we do not typically think of cytoplasm as having its own consciousness or, for that matter, intelligence. Yet if intelligence can emerge through relational networks rather than centralized control, could something similar be true of divine consciousness? Instead of being a singular, overseeing mind, could God’s consciousness itself be emergent—arising not from a separate, distinct center, but through the unfolding relationships of the cosmos?
This shift in perspective does not diminish God’s presence but reframes it—not as an external force orchestrating creation from above, but as an intrinsic, relational depth within all things, luring them toward greater connection, creativity, and flourishing.
Perhaps intelligence—whether divine or biological—is not best understood as a property of individual subjects but as something that emerges between them, in the spaces where life, movement, and meaning unfold.
Slime Moulds
In Our Time
Melvyn Bragg and guests discuss slime mould, a basic organism that grows on logs, cowpats and compost heaps. Scientists have found difficult to categorise slime mould: in 1868, the biologist Thomas Huxley asked: ‘Is this a plant, or is it an animal? Is it both or is it neither?’ and there is a great deal scientists still don’t know about it.
But despite not having a brain, slime mould can solve complex problems: it can find the most efficient way round a maze and has been used to map Tokyo’s rail network. Researchers are using it to help find treatments for cancer, Parkinson's and Alzheimer's disease, and computer scientists have designed an algorithm based on slime mould behaviour to learn about dark matter. It’s even been sent to the international space station to help study the effects of weightlessness.
With
Jonathan Chubb
Professor of Quantitative Cell Biology at University College, London
Elinor Thompson
Reader in microbiology and plant science at the University of Greenwich
And
Merlin Sheldrake
Biologist and writer
Producer: Eliane Glaser
In Our Time is a BBC Studios Audio production