Assessing the current situation of the religion–science dialogue, it seems that a consensus of nonconsensus has been achieved. This point has been acknowledged recently by Philip Clayton, who suggests that in the cross‐fertilizing dialogue between religion and science an impasse has been reached (, 433). Rather than a sense of resignation, we get from Clayton's reflections a sense of opportunity. He rightly notes that the vastness of these two great spheres of human civilization and their fundamental differences make settledness, not to mention consensus, impossible (2014, 440). This nonconsensus, he suggests, provides a pluralistic context for the future of the religion and science dialogue, and one area where this plurality is clear is the discourse on relational models of God and creation. Although a plurality of approaches have been presented with regard to understanding the God–world relationship, there is one common theme which might be seen as the common denominator: a pressure to reconcile God's involvement in the world with the chain of causality presented by the natural sciences. Thomas Tracy has noted this tension; he explains that “the affirmation that God acts purposefully in creating, sustaining, and governing the world is deeply embedded in the monotheistic traditions” (Tracy , 55). Similar expressions are found in Robert John Russell's work with particular reference to the Judeo‐Christian tradition: “The notion of God's acting in the world is central to the biblical witness” (Russell 2000, 3).

Thinkers such as Robert John Russell (2013, 177), Thomas Tracy (), and Denis Edwards (, 60–61) have argued that the most appropriate way to envisage God's involvement with the world in the context of our scientific understandings is to adopt some form of noninterventionist divine action. This allows one to consider how God is involved in the world, yet at the same time accept the laws of physics as understood through the natural sciences. Yet even if that is taken as some form of consensus, there is great plurality regarding how God is understood to be related to or involved in the world in a noninterventionist manner. This is evident in the not mutually exclusive discourses on various models of panentheism (cf. Clayton and Peacock ), kenosis (cf. Polkinghorne ), process theology (e.g., Haught , 81), neo‐Thomism (Edwards ; Tracy ), and other approaches. The common theme throughout these discourses, despite their great variety, is an emphasis on how God is involved with the world.

Although this theme is prevalent, it is not beyond questioning. For example, in her Gifford Lectures of 2012, Sarah Coakley makes the interesting point that since the advent of science, which she identifies with Francis Bacon in the sixteenth/seventeenth century, there has been a shift in theological understandings of God which, in line with science, seek God in the natural world. She argues that those such as William Paley and modern intelligent design proponents are attempting to rationalize an extrinsic divine designer “who implicitly inhabits the same time and space spectrum as the creation itself, and thus competes for space within it” (Coakley , 7). These understandings of God, she feels, have shrunk to mechanistic accounts of efficient causation; they are nothing like “the earlier, scholastic, divine Being as found in Thomas Aquinas’ theology: atemporal, possessed of all omni‐perfections to an eminent degree, the necessary sustainer of all that is, and utterly ontologically distinctive qua creator ‘out of nothing’” (Coakley , 7). This is not necessarily to say that envisioning models of God which seek God's involvement in the world are incorrect, but it might be said there has been an imbalance giving this theme extra importance, particularly in the religion–science dialogue. Could it be suggested that the kind of post‐Paleyian theology which has emerged might be premised on the wrong question and was reactionary against the encroaching explanatory prowess of science? Paley was concerned about “how” the complexities of a watch could appear without a designer, but perhaps he should have also asked why the rock or heath were there in the first place. In a sense, the post‐Paleyian paradigm might be too preoccupied with seeking God's involvement in the world to appreciate other aspects of the God–world relationship which might be fruitful in dialogue with science.

In this article, I hope to present an argument for considering what might be understood as an alternative to an emphasis on God's involvement with the world. I will argue that, theologically, a strong argument can be made for the importance of freedom in nature, ultimately arguing that acts or events are significant mostly because they are not predetermined or inevitable: they are evitable. This is not to suggest that the evitability of acts and events is the only source of significance, but rather that evitability is an essential criterion for significance. In doing so, I will not necessarily present a particular relational model of God which stands in opposition to others, as the pluralistic context of relational model discourse must be appreciated. In any case, there has been some acknowledgement of the importance of the freedom of nature in certain relational models (e.g., Moltmann ; Haught , 94). The intention here is to demonstrate the importance of the theme of evitability and stress the notion of freedom—something which, while not absent from the literature, is often underrepresented in favor of considering God's involvement. Therefore, there will be provided some considerations for the various relational models to take note of and (hopefully) become more refined. My argument will first be outlined, and then I will consider three significant objections, all of which I consider to be surmountable.

Significance and Subjectivity

The term “significance” might be troubling, and thus requires at least a functional definition. The term “significance” is understood in this article as having the quality of meaning or importance, placing it in opposition to arbitrariness. In a cosmological/theological context, significance could be used to describe events such as the evolution of humanity, consciousness, or indeed the existence of the universe itself. However, with regard to the significance of the evolution of humanity, or consciousness, or the existence of the universe itself, the question could be posed, “significant for whom?” While such significance would not be as local as significant events in say, an individual's life, it could still (arguably) be quite local in terms of its anthropocentrism, and thus quite subjective. The evolution of human consciousness, or the existence of the universe itself, might only be significant for humans. Yet, anthropocentric subjectivity might be the closest we can get to an objectivity, as we have no conceivable frame of reference beyond our own perspective. If a genuine objectivity was possible, it would require a God's‐eye perspective. We would move then into considering the theological question of whether or not, and how, the existence of the universe, or the existence of humanity, is significant for God. Consequently, there are genuine difficulties in attempting a discussion of significance, but not so much that they cannot be avoided.

Although significance may have a necessarily subjective character, this does not preclude discussion on the topic. Philosophers such as Ernan McMullin and Alasdair MacIntyre, for example, have discussed how value can be attributed to seemingly valueless entities (in this discussion, e.g., the scientific depiction of the universe) if such entities are attributed a characteristic value (McMullin [1982] , 689) or a functional concept (MacIntyre , 57). If a characteristic value or functional concept is given to the universe, namely that it is desirable that the universe supports self‐reflective, moral life, then this universe could be judged as significant/valuable on that basis. Whether or not that characteristic value or functional concept has any basis in a metaphysical or theological reality is unclear to us at this point, though many theologians would likely assume it to be the case that the universe and our existence are significant to God. Thus, one cannot be certain that significance has an objective quality, but it certainly has a subjective one. For the sake of argument, significance is understood here to dialectically maintain a subjective and an objective character—we are quite aware of the subjective, and the objective is posited for the sake of argument, though we may be wrong about that side of the discussion. In any case, anthropocentric subjectivity might be enough.

The Significance of Acts

Above, it was stated that acts or events gain their significance mostly from the context of the possibilities of alternatives and that the eventual act or event was not inevitable (that things could have been otherwise). There are of course distinctions to be made between acts and events. For example, in discussing acts, the concept of significance can be intertwined with a more normative understanding of value; we make moral judgments on acts in a different way than we do for events. Events might still be considered significant in a positive or negative sense, and thus be the subject of value discussion—for example, an earthquake was a significant event in a negative sense as it resulted in pain, suffering, and so on. I will elaborate on this distinction below, but first, in order to illustrate how events might be deemed significant or not, I will consider acts, and then discuss the themes which correspond when the discussion moves to events.

When we make moral judgments, that is, value judgments, on particular acts, it is necessary that such acts had a degree of freedom. The concept of freedom adds a further complexity to this discussion, as the theme can be understood in various ways, for example, an ontological freedom (as in dualism), or a compatibilist understanding of freedom which seeks to reconcile determinism and the notion of freedom (to be discussed later). At this point, it could be stated, admittedly rather simplistically, that freedom (in some form) is a necessary prerequisite for value judgments to be made on actions. For example, we might classify a murder as a wrong act. Yet, in order for such a judgment to be made and upheld, it must be considered whether the alleged murderer could have done otherwise, namely, not murder. Among other considerations, one might take into account (the motives, mental capacities of the murderer, and other circumstances all of which make moral discourse complex) the act of murder itself must be placed in the context of the available alternative acts. If it was inevitable to murder, or impossible to avoid murdering, then the murderer is not necessarily responsible for his/her actions, as his/her conscious freedom (however that is understood) had no bearing on the process.

Freedom is acknowledged, then, as essential for value to be attributed to acts either in a positive or negative sense. Philosopher William Mann notes a similar theme in Augustine's thought: “without having freedom of choice, with its built‐in liability, humans would lack the capacity to choose to live rightly” (Mann , 47). In other words, choice (slightly different from free will) is necessary to do good or to do evil. It enables humanity to make right or wrong choices; indeed, it allows for the very notions of right and wrong to be applicable to human acts. Without choice, acts of good and bad would be meaningless—they would just be. MacIntyre also provides a discussion on a similar premise in Aristotelian ethics. MacIntyre notes the Aristotelian premise that actions can be assessed in light of what would have been done by an agent who had in fact deliberated before they acted (MacIntyre [1967] , 71). In this sense, the concept of freedom is more implicit than in Mann's depiction of Augustine's thought, but what is common and necessary in both views is the availability of alternative options. In MacIntyre's depiction of Aristotelianism, acts are assessed against what a prudent agent would have done, implying the possibility of alternative actions. Were no such alternative actions available, then it must be concluded that the original act and the prudently deliberated‐upon act would be the same, and thus there would be no basis for valuing the action one way or another.

Consequently, it can be considered that acts are not attributed a kind of intrinsic value, but can only be attributed value in the context of alternatives. In concrete terms, if a murderer had no available alternative choices other than to murder, can the murder still be considered wrong? Most likely not. It is thus not the actuality of an act that has a value or significance, but only the actuality in the context of possibilities.

To further illustrate this premise, acts can be contrasted with natural events (to an extent). The action of an agent can, as discussed above, be subject to moral judgment once it is considered that the agent had alternative options. In this sense, our actions differ from an event such as rainfall. Rainfall in its excessive form may cause flooding and thus, death, destruction, and suffering. However, despite the consequences, we would not attribute a value to rainfall, as it is a natural event. Rain did not choose one option among other possibilities, and thus cannot be subject to moral judgment in the same way that certain actions can. Rainfall cannot make a decision to do otherwise. Put in terms more closely aligned to the argument being presented, if events are predetermined then such events cannot be considered right or wrong. Events in nature simply are.

Returning to acts then, the same premise could be applied. If acts are predetermined by laws of physics, or by a divine plan, can they be considered subject to moral judgment? Taking the Genesis narrative to illustrate, one could ask if Adam was inevitably going to sin, that is, he had no choice to do otherwise given that his actions were foregone conclusions as a part of a predetermined plan. How then can he be held responsible for his actions? If God had planned for Adam to sin, then why punish so harshly? This is expressed in the seventeenth century Unitarian objection to predestination. The Racovian Catechism, for example, makes an objection to predestination in terms of God's punishment: “And when God punishes the wicked, and those who disobey him, what does he but punish those who do not that which they have not ability to execute” (Rees [1605] , 333). The narrative of the Fall‐as‐punishment presupposes Adam's guilt, and guilt can only be attributed when it is considered that Adam could have not sinned. Otherwise, the Fall was inevitable and God was always going to punish.

In the view discussed here, that Adam could only have been justifiably punished if he had the potential to not sin, it follows logically that good actions cannot be considered good, if potential alternative actions are not possible, namely, the potential to do bad. To return again to the rainfall analogy, if an appropriate amount of rain falls, allowing people to farm their land and feed their cattle and family, then we see positive consequences. Yet, a moral value is not being attributed to the appropriate amount of rainfall, as it could not have chosen to do otherwise. In the case of a morally good act, for example saving someone from drowning, the act can only be considered morally good if the option was available to not save the person's life. To use another example from the biblical narrative, if we imagine the crucifixion as an inevitable event, then does it lose its goodness? On the perspective being offered here, the value (or at least, a proportion of the value) attributed to the crucifixion stems from the fact that things could have been otherwise. Doubt, angst, and uncertainty are introduced to the narrative in the temptations of Christ and the feeling of abandonment on the cross. Ultimately, such tensions are resolved and the narrative ends on a positive note with the resurrection. Yet, it is the resurrection in the context of the potential succumbing to temptation, and the potential forsakenness that give the good resolution a positive value. Indeed all of the actions of Christ and of the characters in the parables are considered good in the context of their noninevitability. The Samaritan did not have to aid the Jew, and so forth. In order for actions to be considered good, then, the option must be available to do otherwise. It is the evitability of the act, the unforeseen nature, which gives acts their significance, or their value.

The Significance of Events

Extending this notion beyond actions then, and applying it more broadly to nature or the universe, a similar premise can be articulated: events gain their significance mostly from the fact that things could have been otherwise. For example, events which we consider significant—for example, the evolution of humanity, consciousness, or the existence of the universe itself—are considered significant in the context of the potential nonoccurrence of these events. It must be pointed out at this point that of course there are differences between acts and events. Although it is argued here that both are similar in the sense that significance is attributed to both based on the potential for things to be different, acts have an almost added sense of value, a normative moral value, which events do not. As mentioned in the above discussion of rainfall, the event might be either positively or negatively significant (in that rainfall can result in either the flourishing or destruction of life) but it is not subject to moral judgment in the same way as the acts of murder or saving someone's life. This difficulty stems from the discussion on whether it is even possible to discuss significance objectively, and whether attributing significance to events such as the evolution of consciousness is a projection of anthropocentric values onto a value‐neutral nature. In any case, as suggested above, a somewhat subjective perspective may be the best available.

So while there are differences between acts and events, there is a similar theme in that their significance lies mostly in their evitability. This dialectical approach (noting the differences and similarities between acts and events) most likely lies in the fact that the human–nature relationship is quite complex indeed. In some senses, acts could be attributed a kind of de facto naturalness based on our scientific appreciation of life‐as‐chemicals and our evolutionary lineage. In some senses, human acts, for example the building of a skyscraper, are as “natural” as the building of a bees’ nest. Indeed, medicine, physics, and even genetic manipulation could be considered natural; these acts are the result of natural events vis‐a‐vis us. Philosophizing about nature too, is in some senses nature thinking about itself.

In a recent discussion on morality and evil, Joshua M. Moritz offers a view which is relevant to the point being made here. Moritz suggests that there is no clear line of demarcation between moral and natural evil: “… the capacity for evil, like the capacity for morality, lies on a continuum that has mysterious beginnings in the emotional brain…and reaches its apex in the cognitive and moral sophistication of fully cognitively enculturated human beings” (, 369). Moritz thus suggests that, quoting Darwin, morality differs in degree, not in kind, when we compare human morality with animal morality. Moritz is particularly concerned with animal suffering, but the premise could be expanded upon to move morality, suffering, and so on not just out of the realm of anthropocentrism but perhaps out of the realm of biocentrism. Therefore, we can move from considering the value (or significance) of acts to considering the significance of events. One should be cautious of course, as Moritz is, in acknowledging that there are differences between human morality and nonhuman morality. So too, there is a difference between morality, or value in acts, and significance, when we come to speak of events. The point being made here, however, is that there is little ontological difference when we consider the universe as comprised of matter, forming life, and hence humanity, and so forth. Nature is not easily divisible into matter, life, consciousness, and so on. Therefore, while considering that acts and events are notably different, they are not so far removed from each other that comparisons cannot be made, and statements about one cannot lead to statements about the other.

Of course, in other senses it could be said that humanity has broken free of nature through self‐reflection. We have reached a certain point which sets us apart from the rest of the universe (save to the extent of potential self‐reflective extraterrestrial life). This is a strong theme in the theology of Teilhard de Chardin, as he discusses humanity perforating a critical barrier separating the unreflective from the reflective (Teilhard de Chardin [1947] 1969, 222). As such, this is somewhat of a gray area. Acts could be considered to have a de facto “event‐ness,” yet at the same time, acts can be judged in a different way to events.

Persisting with the point of similarity between acts and events, which both gain their significance mostly from the availability of alternatives, it is the fact that events such as the evolution of humanity might not have occurred which make our existence significant. From our perspective, it is something of an against‐the‐odds triumph. This assertion can be made by acknowledging the “chance and necessity” perspective of evolution, particularly as articulated by Stephen Jay Gould. Gould expresses the evitability of the evolution of humanity by analogically describing evolution as a tape that if rewound and let play again; it is most likely, in this case, that humanity or anything resembling humanity would not appear (Gould , 51). If Gould's position is accepted, and it seems to be the prevailing understanding of evolutionary theory, then perhaps this is where the evolution of humanity gets its significance: from the fact that it might very well have been otherwise. Of course, there are other features of humanity to which we attribute our significance: our capacity for intelligent thought, love, and various other characteristics. Yet I still argue that humanity would be a deal less significant if we had been planned from the outset.

Possibilities and Actualities

One discussion from a theological standpoint on this matter has been presented by Ruth Page in her 1996 work, God and the Web of Creation. Page frames her discussion in terms of an actuality–possibility opposition. She argues that, within theology, the importance of the possible has been mistakenly overlooked (, xvii). It is not difficult to appreciate why this has been the case. The world of the actual is the world we experience, and thus the only world we know. We have no frame of reference for counterfactual worlds; they exist only in thought experiments. Yet within the world we do experience we can still acknowledge possibilities: the murderer has the ability to not murder, and so forth. However, Page feels that the possibilities, the events that might have occurred but did not, have been undervalued, “We have concentrated on the res gestae, the things done, or written, or thought, without dwelling on the rand of possibilities out of which these res came” (1996, xvii). She hopes to shift the perspective and ask the question of what meaning such actualities have in relation to possibility (1996, xvii).

Page acknowledges that valuing actualities is almost intuitive and thus, it is easy to see why the actual has been given primacy as regards value. We have a clear relationship with the actual. It is tangible. Possibilities, however, are abstract and conceptual:

An implication of human ease with actualities is that they are regarded as “real,” while only the possibilities most foreseeable as future is given that accolade (“a real possibility”)… Thus, what exists, what is done, what is actually said, has value, but what is possible has no value unless it can be seen to be about to impact the real. (1996, 2)

While Page acknowledges that this is understandable, she feels that a constant valuing of the actual over the possible is limiting and bound to disappointment. Consequently, she seeks to revise this common approach, and argue that it is in fact possibility which is “the most valuable thing in the world” (, 2). She rightly notes that “the condition of possibility is logically and ontologically prior to actuality and has an irrefragable claim to be included in a sense of the real. Actualities only exist because they were, and continue to be, possible” (, 3).

The argument which I have articulated above thus agrees with the thrust of Page's turn to the valuing of possibilities. There is one subtle distinction, however: in my own position, it is not necessarily the possibilities or potentialities that I attribute value to, but rather, the actualities (acts or events) in the context of possibilities. In some senses, it could be said then that in the view I propose neither actualities nor possibilities have a value themselves, but that value or significance can only be attributed when both actualities and possibilities are considered. Possibilities alone cannot have value; the potential act of kindness or evil does not have value, as the act has not occurred. The possibility of the event of human existence or human extinction does not have significance, if neither occurs. Similarly, an act of kindness or evil in actuality does not have value unless the possibility existed to do otherwise, and the event of human existence or human extinction would not have significance were it not possible for these events not to occur. Evitability, again, is the thing which brings value and significance, the evitability of the actual emerging out of the context of the possible.

Theology and the Freedom of Creation

Page's particular emphasis on the value of possibilities (as slightly different from my own, which values actualities in the context of possibilities) has important implications for how she envisages theological concepts of creation; or perhaps her view on creation led her to the valuing of possibilities. Either way, Page notes that throughout Christian theological history, and indeed in particular in the dialogue between theology and science on the question of origins, what tends to be emphasized is God's causal involvement in creation. From the Aristotelian influence on Aquinas, to Newton, and Paley's masterful designer, there has been an emphasis on God‐as‐cause. Page, however, argues something different. She locates God as the creator of the possibility of creation, rather than the creator of creation itself. This is a subtle theological point, but one which has profound theological implications. Of particular interest is how she envisages creation as free (1996, 20).

As an alternative to viewing God's relationship to creation as causal in terms of actualities, Page argues for a conception of God as the creator of possibility (1996, xviii). A prevalent question which often logically leads to the very idea of God is the question of why there is something rather than nothing—the first cause argument. Page, however, suggests that this question ought to be reframed to ask “why is anything at all possible?” (, 5). With this shift in perspective, an aspect of God's relationship to creation emerges, one that stresses the freedom of creation to explore its own possibilities. Thus, God is seen as less coercive. God is not a causal force, but a granter of potential:

[I]n this case, possibility is the indispensable prelude to the relationship between God and the web of creation which grew from freedom. The relationships are not those between maker and made, like the carver with a statue or a composer with symphony. Rather, this is a relationship based on freedom between God and a, so to speak, free‐standing creation, responsible for what it is by its use of possibility, while these possibilities always include openness to the effective presence of God. (1996, 5)

While I am not certain that a complete move from a causal representation of God is necessary for Page to progress with this view (depending on whether or not one envisages the creation of said possibilities a causal act, and how one interprets that discussion) there are clear merits to such a view, if one is persuaded by the idea that events gain significance based on their noninevitability. If creation is understood as free or noninevitable as in Page's view, then events can be deemed more significant than had they been planned or “controlled” by divine causality. More recently, theologians such as John Haught have acknowledged the worth of such views, signaling the importance of freedom in creation by stating “an openness to accidents seems essential for creation's autonomy and eventual aliveness” (Haught , 94). In order for creation to have “aliveness”—which I consider closely comparable in this case to significance—it must be able to explore possibilities; indeed, only in the context of such possibilities do events gain significance. The significance emerges from evitability, the unforeseen transition from a variety of possibilities to one actuality. The actual gains significance in light of being in the context of the possible, and the noninevitability of which possibility will become an actuality.

Three Objections

Conclusion

This article has set forth an argument for evitability, a valuing of the actual only in the context of available alternative possibilities. In drawing from a parallel and related premise in moral discourse, it suggests that events such as the evolution of humanity are attributed significance only when it is possible that such events might not have occurred. It is from this perspective that we can marvel at the wonders creation did bring forth, because quite possibly they might not have been, and indeed the universe might not have existed. It is in a similar manner that we can rejoice at good actions and repudiate bad actions, as options to do bad and good exist and are necessary for moral judgment. It was also pointed out that while these discussions (value of acts, significance of events) may be presented as in parallel, the complexities of our relationship with nature blur these lines somewhat, and thus acts may be considered in some senses to be events, though this is not to understate the difference between nature and self‐conscious beings either. In the context of theological dialogue with the natural sciences, such a valuing of evitability has strong theological implications or, as I argue, merits. If evitability is given the significance I attribute it, then this has profound implications for theologies of relational models of God and creation that contextualize this article. Although it is acknowledged that there is much plurality in conceptions of God's relationship to nature (panentheism, kenosis, neo‐Thomism, and so on), an emphasis on evitability can provide fruitful considerations for how theology considers God in the context of the “chance and necessity” aspects of science.

In parallel to the discussion on relational models of God and creation, there is voluminous literature on theodicy in the context of theological dialogue with the sciences. An acknowledgement of the importance of evitability may also contribute to discourse in this area. Page considers how a valuing of freedom in creation bears implications for the problem of evil. In Page's view on the freedom of nature, God has less “control” in the world, as God does not act, valuing instead freedom over interaction. Consequently, irrespective of God's wishes, the negative or evil possibilities will be explored (1996, 101). Furthermore, envisioning a free and evitable creation may contribute to discussions on the responsibility of humanity in creation, which might be particularly timely in the context of climate change. Theologians such as Drees have pointed out that, for example, theological models which are strongly eschatological may remove or undervalue humanity's responsibilities in the present (Drees , 205). The same could be said for models which allow for a strict predetermined plan, as the role of humanity could be diminished. Considering a free creation, as in the acknowledgement of evitability, may force us to reconsider the role of humanity in creation, our relationship to nature, and our responsibilities. In this sense, because nothing is inevitable and nothing is predetermined, it is up to us to save ourselves.

Consequently, I conclude this article by reasserting the central premise: evitability in the physical processes of the universe, as in the moral actions of human beings, allows for actions or events to be more meaningful. This is of course based on the premise that unforeseen or unknown events are more significant than inevitable events. As such, searching for or postulating plans or purposes in nature may actually be diminishing the significance of our existence; would it not be more special, more awe‐inspiring to think that, against the immense statistical improbability of humans coming into existence (as in Gould's winding tape analogy), conscious beings did emerge? If conscious beings were inevitable, then why would we take any more significance from that fact than we would from another inevitable event? It would just be the way things are. If we view the universe as a dynamic and open‐ended process of chance and necessity, then events like the existence of conscious beings can truly be considered remarkable.