Is the Universe God’s Body? Why the Eastern Church Fathers Were Not Panentheists
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Is the world God’s body? Those who answer in the affirmative are called pantheists. The term derives from two Greek words, pan and theos, meaning “all is God”. In this view, the world, universe, or cosmos is a giant divine organism, and human beings are essentially cells within God’s body. A closely related position, panentheism, posits that all is in God. This view shares a certain resonance with pantheism. The panentheist argues that some part of the world is divine—usually the soul—while maintaining that the world is also more than that; there is a component of the world that is not God, just as God is more than merely the world.
The present inquiry concerns whether the Eastern Church fathers are, in fact, either pantheists or panentheists. This question arises because several contemporary thinkers have argued that the Eastern fathers are panentheists. Such a characterization is ultimately incorrect. While it is understandable why one might draw this conclusion, it remains misleading.
Before examining the reasons for this, it is necessary to establish the standard taxonomy in the philosophy of religion regarding God-and-world relations. Traditionally, there are three options. The first is theism, wherein God and the world are two completely different substances. The world is not God, and God is not the world. The second option is pantheism, which collapses God and the world into one and the same thing. The third is panentheism, which posits that some part of the world is God, but not all of the world is God, and God is more than just the world. These three models present a complete distinction, a complete collapse, and a middle way that suggests a certain amount of overlap without a complete division or collapse.
Why, then, might one suggest that the Eastern fathers are panentheists? The rationale becomes apparent in Kallistos Ware’s contribution to Philip Clayton’s book on the topic.1 Clayton, a philosopher of religion, is a prominent advocate of panentheism. His iteration of the doctrine is born largely out of his anthropology of emergentism—the idea that the soul emerges out of the body. He seeks to apply an analogous framework to God-world relations. This project aims to reconcile science and religion, constructing a theology more sympathetic to scientific impulses. In an edited volume gathering advocates of panentheism, one of the contributors was Kallistos Ware. Ware, a metropolitan within the Eastern Christian Church, is a scholar who is generally excellent regarding historical theology and church history. However, when traversing the waters of philosophy, his conclusions become less reliable. The present topic serves as one such example.
The Essence-Energies Distinction
Ware defends his position by appealing to a pervasive distinction in the Eastern Church fathers between God’s essence and God’s energies. This distinction traces its origins to Aristotle (384–322 BC). Aristotle coined the term energeia, the closest equivalent to “energies,” to describe God’s perfect type of activity, distinguishing it from God’s essence.2 In the context of his unmoved mover—the one who does not change but causes all change in the world—Aristotle drew a distinction between energeia (energy) and kinesis (motion). Motion represents imperfect activity, which is incomplete and can be abandoned. For example, the act of building a house can be abandoned at any point, rendering it an incomplete activity. This contrasts with the act of seeing, which is instantaneous and complete. Aristotle separated these two types of activity to insist that God operates in a perfect, complete manner. The main trait of his unmoved mover is immunity to the progress, change, or development that creatures undergo.
A being of this nature must act perfectly and completely at any given moment. Aristotle’s term energeiadifferentiates this perfect activity from incomplete or imperfect activity. This terminology was adopted in Alexandrian Judaism because it accurately identified God’s perfect manner of acting. However, Alexandrian Jewish thinkers—specifically Philo of Alexandria (c. 20 BC – c. 50 AD)—drew a distinction absent in Aristotle. Philo distinguished between the essence of a thing (what it is) and the operative powers or energies that exude from that essence.3 While Aristotle recognized this distinction in creatures, he did not apply it to God. In fact, he explicitly stated that God’s essence is energeia.4 Philo, conversely, insisted that this distinction must be maintained within the divine nature.
Philo derived this from the narrative of Moses, wherein Moses asks God to “show me your glory”. God responds peculiarly: “You cannot see my face, for no man can see me and live, but I will show you my back” (Exod 33:18-23). He places Moses in the cleft of the rock, covers him, and says, “I will take away my hand, and you shall see my back when I pass by.” This narrative presents a difficulty if one maintains that God is incorporeal, as Philo does. He takes the traditional view that God is an omnipresent spirit. The theological question, then, is what is meant by the face versus the back. Philo suggests the “face” refers to the essence of God—what God is in and of himself—which is transcendent and inaccessible directly.5 To look upon it would bring death. Yet, Philo acknowledges that God speaks to prophets, that there are theophanies, that the divine glory manifests, and that God offers miracles and revelation. The question remains as to what precisely comes down to humanity—which is in some ways God, yet leaves God’s face beyond our grasp. This is where Philo draws the distinction between the nature or essence of God and the operative powers or energies that exude from God to interact with creation.6
A helpful analogy is that of a creative genius, such as the musicality of Johann Sebastian Bach. If one were told of Bach’s musical genius without having heard his compositions, the claim remains abstract. One cannot physically observe his musicality; it is an intangible quality cultivated within his being. To understand this genius, one must hear him compose or play. Where that musical genius is articulated outwardly, we begin to grasp what resides within him. The essence-energies distinction operates similarly. What God is in and of himself cannot be peered at directly. Yet who and what God is becomes clear as he operates toward the world, revealing his creativity, providence, goodness, and justice. These operations communicate truths about the divine nature.
An additional feature of this distinction critical to the present conversation is the idea that, in some cases, these energies are communicable to something else. A favored analogy in ancient writers, specifically the Eastern Church fathers, is that of iron and fire. When iron is placed into a blazing inferno, it eventually begins to glow and burn. Upon removal, it remains glowing red and is capable of burning other objects. This illustrates that the operative powers of fire—heating and lighting—have been transferred to the iron. While the iron remains iron, it possesses something of the nature of fire within it, namely, its energies or operative powers.7 They have been communicated to it.
These are the two critical distinctions Alexandrian Jews added to the discussion. First, God consists of both essence and energies; though his essence is unapproachable, he is known through the energies that descend to creation. Second, energies are communicable from one substance to another, much like the energies of fire transferring to iron. In a spiritual context, this explains the ancient understanding of demoniacs—individuals who communed with demons and were consequently energized by them. They obtained hidden knowledge, possessed superhuman strength, or exhibited phenomena like levitation. Rather than viewing this mechanically—where a demon merely whispers in an ear or physically lifts a person—they viewed it energetically, akin to fire taking up residence within iron. The energies or operative powers of the demon energize the individual through their participation in the demonic nature.
This paradigm also applies to participation in things holy. When discussing holy individuals or angels, their miraculous power—which is inherently good—results from communing with God. The good angels are energized by God and can, in turn, energize other things. The prophet is not merely hearing a divine whisper but is actively energized by God, serving as a conduit. Returning to the iron metaphor, if the iron is shaped into a branding iron, heated, and applied to a cow, the cow is burned by the fire via the iron. The branding iron acts as a conduit carrying the fire to the subject. Similarly, holy angels and prophets carry the operative powers of God within them to minister to people. They act as conduits for the divine energies.
This concept is pervasive within the New Testament. St. Paul frequently employs this distinction. In translation, Paul’s use of energeia is often obscured, yet he uses it extensively. Many terms translated as “work” (ergon) in Pauline epistles are, in fact, derivatives of energeia. When Paul states, “It is not I who work, but God who works in me,” he is declaring that it is God who energizes him.
In other words, he is describing something synergistic. Paul does not claim God is performing the work in his absence; rather, the miraculous deeds he accomplishes are the result of him being energized by God. He applies this to others as well. Regarding Peter, he notes that the same God who energizes him for ministry to the Gentiles energizes Peter for ministry to the Jews (Gal 2:8). He tells the Thessalonians they are co-workers with God (synergos): their energy and God’s energy uniting in a single act, analogous to the branding iron (1 Thess 3:2). He also references this in a darker context, stating that the children of wrath are energized by the devil (Eph 2:1-3).
The Greek Church fathers, for whom the Greek language was native and who were well-versed in Alexandrian and Aristotelian thought, readily recognized this framework. When they read the theology of the apostles, the essence-energies distinction in writers like Paul was abundantly clear. Consequently, the essence-energies distinction is crucial for understanding Eastern patristic thought.
The Gospel of Healing and the Divine Energies
While this distinction permeates Eastern Christian thinking in numerous ways, it is most central to their understanding of the Christian gospel. They viewed humanity as a broken, sick, and dying species resulting from the sins of Adam and Eve. The Christian gospel is fundamentally therapeutic, aimed at providing health, wholeness, and restoration to a sick and dying species.
According to the Eastern fathers, this healing is accomplished through the incarnation. The fall broke the bridge between humanity and the immortal life of God—the immortal life here being the divine energies. Throughout the Gospels, Christ offers eternal life. Yet St. Paul states that God alone is immortal (1 Tim 6:16). This presents an apparent paradox if Christ offers the gift of immortality, especially when Paul also claims that in the resurrection from the dead, we put off death for immortality (1 Cor 15:53-54).
These seemingly contradictory claims are reconciled by St. Peter, who writes that we escape the corruption in the world by partaking of the divine nature (2 Pet 1:4). The Eastern fathers understand the immortality, incorruption, and eternal life offered by Christ not merely as an extension of biological longevity. Instead, what is offered in the gospel is the very life of God. God possesses a quality of life native only to himself. He desires creatures to commune with and participate in that life. This only occurs by union with him, as this life is not native to any creature. This is why Christ states in the Gospel of John, “The Father has life in himself, and he has granted the Son also to have life in himself, yet you refuse to come to me that you may have life” (John 5:26). The life offered is the very life of God. The only way to escape corruption and death is to commune with the only incorruptible, immortal nature, which is God’s own.
This communion occurs through the divine energies. In the Eastern patristic understanding of the gospel, the fall crippled humanity’s ability to commune with God. We are a dying species aware we are made for more, yet incapable of bridging the gap. The healing occurs as the Son of God, who possesses the immortal life of God within himself, becomes human. He enters the cancerous organ of the cosmos—humanity—and in doing so, drives away its corruption and death. Just as Christ reaches out his immaculate hand to cleanse a leper in the Gospels, driving away the disease, the incarnation does the same for the human species. The immortal and incorrupt Son of God enters our dying species, driving away corruption and restoring us.
This is necessary because, as Gregory of Nazianzus notes, that which is not assumed is not healed.8 Christ must take on the entirety of human nature—body and soul—in order to heal it. Through the incarnation and the restoration of human nature, the bridge between God and man is rebuilt, allowing us to enter into communion with God, partake of the divine nature, and begin the process of healing. This therapeutic process spans a believer’s life and culminates in the resurrection of the dead.
The Eastern fathers genuinely believe humanity can commune with God. Just as iron communes with fire and takes on its operative powers, humans can commune with God such that the divine energies take up residence within them. This communion is the very purpose for which humanity was originally created. The fall broke this communion, and the incarnation serves to restore it, enabling humanity to partake of the divine nature as originally intended.
Panentheism vs. Participation
Why detail this process of communion? Because that type of participation is the sort of thing Kallistos Ware rightly recognizes as present within the Eastern fathers, leading him to claim they must be panentheists. Noting the intersection and overlap between God and creatures, wherein the porous creature is susceptible to communion with the divine energies, he categorizes this as panentheism. While this sentiment highlights an important point, it remains misleading.
Labeling the Eastern fathers as theists risks implying a strict dichotomy between God and the world, suggesting they exist on completely separate planes. It is accurate that the Eastern fathers reject such a rigid separation; they view the cosmos and its creatures as porous. This undergirds their theology of relics and holy places—the belief that creatures are indeed porous and made to commune with God.
The defining question of panentheism, however, is not whether the creature is porous and can participate in God. The distinction between theism, pantheism, and panentheism centers on whether some part of creation is God. On this point, the Eastern fathers are absolutely clear. The clearest illustration of this is the Arian dispute. Arianism, an early Christian heresy that occasioned the Council of Nicaea and prompted the first draft of the Nicene Creed, argued that the Son of God—Jesus Christ—is a creature. According to Arius, God the Father is the true God, and he created the Son as a godlike creature. Thus, the hallmark of Arianism was the phrase “there was when he was not,” asserting a time before the Son’s creation.9
Within this dispute, the dividing line between God and creatures is unmistakable. Pro-Nicene figures like Athanasius of Alexandria and Alexander of Alexandria argued that if the Son is a creature, he must bear all the traits of creatures: coming into being, mutability, and corruptibility.10 They posited a strict dichotomy: creatures are inherently developmental entities subject to metaphysical necessities, while God is none of those things. When Arius attempted to qualify his position by suggesting God created the Son as an immutable creature, the Eastern fathers dismissed it as nonsense.11 A creature cannot be immutable; God cannot create a second God.
This strict dichotomy asserts an absolute distinction in substance. God is one way, and creatures are another. These two substances do not overlap. Therefore, the Eastern fathers are unequivocally theists regarding whether any part of the world is part of God. The answer is no. Creatures are of a completely different kind than God.
Ware correctly notes that creatures are porous, making them susceptible to God’s energies—not to his essence, which would make creatures members of the Holy Trinity—but to God’s energies, which come down to us and pervade us. This interpenetration allows for participation in the divine. While Ware is right to emphasize this participation, it is not panentheism.
Ultimately, a new term is likely required. If the aim is to describe a theology that holds to strict substantial theism while affirming that porous creatures can commune with, participate in, and be transformed by partaking of the divine nature, this represents a fourth category distinct from theism, pantheism, and panentheism. While the exact terminology remains elusive—perhaps “pan-energism”—it is clear that a fourth category is necessary. Identifying this dynamic as panentheism is inaccurate. Whatever term best describes this reality, it is certainly not panentheism.
Kallistos Ware, “God Immanent yet Transcendent: The Divine Energies according to Saint Gregory Palamas,” in In Whom We Live and Move and Have Our Being: Panentheistic Reflections on God’s Presence in a Scientific World, eds. Philip Clayton and Arthur Peacocke (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2004), 157-68.
Aristotle, Metaphysica, 1050a30-b1.
Philo of Alexandria, De posteritate Caini, 168-69.
Aristotle, Metaphysica, 1071b20.
Philo of Alexandria, De posteritate Caini, 168-69.
Philo of Alexandria, De posteritate Caini, 168-69.
Basil of Caesarea, De Spiritu Sancto, 16.38; John of Damascus, De imaginibus oratio, 3.33.
Gregory of Nazianzus, Epistolae, 101.
Socrates Scholasticus, Historia ecclesiastica, 1.5.
Athanasius of Alexandria, Orationes tres adversus Arianos, 1.18; Alexander of Alexandria, Epistula ad Alexandrum Constantinopolitanum, 11-13.
Athanasius of Alexandria, Epistula ad Afros episcopos, 7; Arius, Epistola ad Alexandrum papam.