From Symbols of Nature to the Trinity : The Objection of Teleostability

Baroque painting of the Holy Trinity with a dove, Christ, God the Father, DNA helix, saint, lion, and deer.

“Life is not an accident of matter, but the echo of eternal relation.”

Nota Bene : The passages attributed to Saint Bonaventure in this article are, unless otherwise indicated, faithful reformulations of his Itinerarium mentis ad Deum (1259) and other spiritual writings, intended to convey their meaning in a fluid and accessible style. For exact quotations, readers may consult the critical Latin editions and published English/French translations.

Introduction

I do not seek to convince. I seek that fragile, stubborn point of support where order refuses to yield to noise. The question here is not “how did life appear,” but: why does it persist ? In a universe surrendered to entropy, why are there structures that not only arise, but keep themselves, repair themselves, transmit themselves ? We call this the objection of teleostability (from the Greek telos, finality, and the Latin stabilitas, stability): the enigma of an order that endures, when nothing, in strict materialism, obliges it to endure.

Science describes local mechanisms; it does not exhaust the question of the foundation: why there is something rather than nothing, stable laws rather than a cacophony of fluctuations, a cumulative direction rather than an eternal recommencement. With Bonaventure, we shall read the vestigia Dei—those traces of intelligibility inscribed in creation. With Palamas, we shall say that creation participates without confusion in a gift that sustains it. And we shall look at DNA as a living script: stable enough to transmit, free enough to engender the new—a vestige of the Word: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. (…) In him was life, and the life was the light of men.” (Jn 1:1,4) Pauline compass: “He has made us competent to be ministers of a new covenant, not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.” (2 Cor 3:6)

Even evolution can be read as a wounded icon of Eden and of the Fall: “Adam and Eve born into death,” whereas Christ, he “dies within his life.” And the horizon is not closed: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” (Mt 5:8) — “We know that when he appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.” (1 Jn 3:2) Here below, participation; at the end, vision. Between the two: that shiver of an order that persists.

And yet, there is a more personal dimension to what I propose here. The intuition of teleostability did not come to me in the silence of a laboratory or the solitude of a library. It came, paradoxically, through an encounter that seemed at first dismissive, even cynical. Someone once told me, with a sharp laugh, that one had to be completely absurd to believe in God. This was not a reasoned argument, not an academic dispute, but a throwaway line, meant to dismiss faith as childish folly. And yet, in that very instant, I found myself laughing too—not in mockery, not in anger, but in surprise.

Because the Gospel had already said it: “Unless you turn and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Mt 18:3) Children marvel, they are surprised, they do not hide behind cynicism. They see the world with a freshness that adults, burdened by calculation and suspicion, often lose. And in that laughter, I realized that perhaps the absurdity lay not in faith, but in its refusal. The absurdity was to expect order without a ground, beauty without a source, stability without a reason.

Teleostability, in that moment, was not born as a counter-argument but as a child’s discovery: a sudden intuition that the world persists because it is held, because it is loved.

It was grace, not logic, that broke in. The Word is our life, and the life is the light of men, the true light. What reason traces with difficulty, the heart glimpses in a flash: that beneath the fragile flow of time, the grains of the hourglass are illumined. That behind the opacity of matter, there is still transparency waiting to be restored. That even cynicism, meant to wound, can become the crack where light enters.

Thus teleostability is not merely an intellectual construct, though it demands the rigor of reason. It is also the fruit of wonder, of rediscovering what the child already knows: that order is not obvious, but gift. That the persistence of being is not necessity, but miracle. That to laugh at the idea of God is already to acknowledge, if only by inversion, the scandalous coherence of believing in Him

In that sense, teleostability is born from the very attitude Christ calls us to: a childlike openness, a readiness to be surprised, a refusal to harden into cynicism. It is not the proof of God, but the trace of His smile within creation — a reminder that reason, when stripped of arrogance, can still hear the laughter of grace.

Preliminary Definition of Teleostability

Etymology: From the Greek telos (end, purpose, fulfillment) and the Latin stabilitas (firmness, constancy, endurance).

Definition: Teleostability designates the principle according to which the universe does not persist by mere inertia, but through an inner orientation toward coherence and the persistence of order. It expresses the observation that the structures of reality — physical laws, cosmic balance, biological evolution, rational intelligibility — are not brute facts, but the manifestation of a founding Act, at once immutable and relational, that sustains their permanence.

From the Christian perspective, this ultimate stability is neither the product of chance nor of an autonomous mechanism, but finds its foundation in the Trinitarian hypostasis: Actus–Ordo–Attraho (AOA). God, as Pure Act, Orderer, and Attraction, is simultaneously the source, the structure, and the finality that make possible the existence of an intelligible and enduring cosmos.

Note on origin and status : Teleostability is a newly coined concept, developed as a philosophical-theological framework to articulate the rational necessity of enduring order. It has no direct precedent in the Christian Magisterium and should not be confused with defined doctrine. Rather, it seeks to provide a conceptual bridge between metaphysics, theology, and the natural sciences, illuminating why stability, intelligibility, and coherence appear as constants in reality.

Teleostability is therefore not an ad hoc hypothesis but the rational articulation of a universal experience: what exists persists, what changes remains intelligible, what evolves retains coherence. It gives philosophical and theological expression to the very fact of the real.

I. Context and Authority of Bonaventure

Thirteenth century. Paris burns with intelligence: Franciscans, Dominicans, the rumor of Aristotle whispered under cloaks. At the center: Bonaventure (1217–1274), Minister General of the Franciscans, lucid mystic, architect of a thought that refuses to separate contemplation from rigor.

Dry, useful landmarks:

– 1259 : composition of the Itinerarium mentis ad Deum on Mount La Verna — seven stages, like a ladder carved into the rock, to guide the mind from visible creation to union.– 1482: canonization (Sixtus IV).– 1588: proclaimed Doctor of the Church (Sixtus V). Title: Doctor Seraphicus.– Continuous reception: from the Franciscan school to the present; modern magisterial readings (Benedict XVI’s catecheses); presence in curricula of spiritual theology.

Why him, here? Because Bonaventure offers a framework: creation is not mute. It speaks through vestiges (vestigia Dei), signs of an order that sustains and orients. Exactly our nerve: teleostability. For him, creation is not a backdrop: it is a mirror reflecting its source; a stability that is never mere inertia, but a gift received and kept.

What we draw for what follows:

– a method of ascent (from the sensible to the spiritual, from the sign to the source);

– a grammar: order → meaning → participation;

– an assumed point of arrival: union — which, for Catholic faith, culminates in vision (to which we shall return), without confusion, without reduction.

II. The Structure of the Itinerarium

Bonaventure’s little book is a map: a journey traced in seven steps. Not a speculative system, but a path to be walked — vision, contemplation, transformation.

– Step 1–2: from the footprints (vestigia) of God in the world to the traces within the soul itself. Creation outside, creation inside: both speak.

– Step 3–4 : ascent by way of image. The soul, made in the likeness of God, becomes a mirror in which divine intelligibility shines.

– Step 5–6: surpassing the created, entering into the mystery of the Trinity through illumination and grace.

– Step 7: union beyond concepts — the “ecstasy” where intellect is silent and love alone remains.

The Itinerarium thus follows a rhythm: exterior → interior → above. From visible creation, through the inner faculties, to God himself.

Why is this structure important for us ? Because it provides the scaffolding for reading teleostability as more than a scientific puzzle. Stability of the created is not a frozen fact but a ladder : every level of order sustained and oriented toward the One who is its source.

III. The vestigia Dei : Order and Stability in Creation

For Bonaventure, the created world is not a neutral stage set. It bears the footprints of God — vestigia Dei. These are not proofs in the modern sense, but signs, resonances, imprints of intelligibility.

Look at the cosmos: the order of the heavens, the harmony of proportions, the recurrence of rhythms. Look at the body: the balance of organs, the architecture of the senses. Look at history ; the persistence of peoples, the resilience of memory. Everywhere the same paradox : things hold together.

This stability is not mere inertia. Stones endure, but so do melodies, friendships, languages. There is a persistence of form, a durability of meaning, an insistence of order against the erosion of chaos.

Bonaventure reads this as a trace of the divine: what holds is not self-sufficient, but held.

Here is the link with teleostability. Creation exhibits an order that resists entropy, a coherence that does not collapse into noise. For Bonaventure, this is not an accident but a vestige: the stability of the created is a mirror that points back to the stability of the Creator.

IV. The Ascent of the Soul: Spiritual Teleostability

The journey does not stop at the observation of order outside us. For Bonaventure, the footprints of God in creation are invitations to enter the same dynamic within the soul. The ascent is not merely intellectual; it is existential.

The soul itself bears structure, balance, memory. It is not a formless flux, but a dwelling that holds — a teleostability of the spirit. Our faculties, when rightly ordered, resist dispersion: the intellect seeks truth, the will desires the good, the memory anchors identity. Even wounded by sin, the soul shows an astonishing resilience, a capacity to hold together rather than dissolve into chaos.

This, too, is a sign. Just as biological life maintains order against entropy, so the spiritual life, when it opens to grace, maintains coherence against interior disintegration. Prayer, contemplation, virtue — these are not escapes but exercises of stability, ways of resisting the entropy of despair and scattering.

Bonaventure reads this persistence of the soul’s order as a ladder: each rung is a stability that calls to a higher one. Teleostability becomes not only a law of nature but a pedagogy of the spirit — a training in fidelity that prepares for union.

V. Mystical Union: Absolute Stability in God

At the summit of the Itinerarium comes what Bonaventure calls excessus mentis — the “going beyond of the mind.” Here, every ladder, every concept, every image falls silent. What remains is not knowledge in the ordinary sense, but union.

This union is not absorption. It is not the soul dissolving like a drop in the ocean. Bonaventure insists: there is distinction without confusion, intimacy without collapse. The creature remains creature, but held, embraced, stabilized forever in the Creator.

Here teleostability reaches its purest form. No longer the fragile resistance of life against entropy, no longer the precarious coherence of the soul against dispersion, but the absolute stability of being rooted in God. What holds here does not hold “for a while,” but “for eternity.”

As Bonaventure writes, “If you wish to know how these things come about, ask grace, not learning; desire, not intellect; the groaning of prayer, not the study of the letter; the Bridegroom, not the teacher; God, not man; darkness, not clarity; not light, but the fire that inflames entirely and transports into God” (Itinerarium, VII,6).

This is the horizon of teleostability: not simply survival, not even the persistence of form, but the eternal keeping of the soul in God, where stability is no longer a struggle but a gift fully received.

VI. Teleostability as Relational and Trinitarian Stability

For Bonaventure, stability is never static. It is relational, like the very life of God. The Trinity is not a frozen perfection, but eternal movement of love — Father giving himself to the Son, Son receiving and returning, Spirit proceeding as bond of unity.

Creation bears the trace of this rhythm. Its persistence is not mere conservation, but participation in a relational order. Things hold together because they are held within a greater communion. What endures is not locked in itself; it is bound into relationship.

This means that teleostability, properly understood, is not the triumph of isolated order over chaos, but the reflection of Trinitarian communion in the fabric of the world. Stones endure, but so do covenants, friendships, and words — forms of stability that are relational rather than inert.

Bonaventure sees in this the grammar of creation: order is always ordered-to, stability is always openness, persistence is always participation. Teleostability thus finds its ultimate root not in mechanism but in relation, not in closed systems but in the eternal dynamism of Father, Son, and Spirit.

VI bis. Gregory Palamas: Essence, Energies, and “Participated” Stability

While Bonaventure speaks from the Franciscan West, Gregory Palamas (1296–1359), hesychast theologian of the Christian East, offers a complementary key. His great insight: God is utterly transcendent in his essence (ousia), yet truly communicable in his energies (energeiai).

The creature does not dissolve into God’s essence — that remains inaccessible. But it truly participates in the divine life through the energies, those rays of uncreated light that sustain, illumine, and deify.

Applied to our theme, this means: creation is not self-sustaining. Its stability is not a closed loop but a participation. Teleostability is not autonomous but “participated stability”: the world holds together because it is continuously upheld by the divine energies.

This is why Palamas speaks of the uncreated light experienced by the saints — a stability that is not physical endurance but ontological communion. What the West calls grace, the East calls energies: in both, the same conviction, that persistence is not self-explained but gift.

For Catholic theology, the eschatological horizon will be the beatific vision — seeing God “face to face” (1 Cor 13:12). For Palamas the vision is of the energies rather than the essence. But the common ground is clear: the stability of creation is not its own, but God’s shared. Teleostability, in its deepest sense, is nothing other than participation in the divine constancy.

VII. DNA as Vestige of the Word

There is a contemporary icon that makes tangible what we call teleostability: DNA.

1. From the Inanimate to the Living

It begins in the incandescent chaos of the primordial plasma. Particles collide, separate, recombine. Then come the first nuclei, the atoms, the minerals. Already, a first stabilization: matter holds, crystallizes, endures.From these inert bases, through a long road of complexifications, arise organic molecules, then nucleic acids, until the double helix of DNA — fragile yet persistent, improbable yet universal. Here chaos becomes memory.

2. A Paradoxical Balance

DNA manifests a singular tension: – Stable enough to replicate faithfully, conserve identity, transmit memory. – Flexible enough to allow novelty, through mutations, recombinations, variations. It is exactly the logic of teleostability: order not as rigidity, but as persistence that includes the possibility of innovation.

3. A Living Script

DNA is an alphabet: four letters, arranged in billions of combinations. A script inscribed in the flesh of the world, not a dead letter but a living letter. Saint Paul said: “The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life” (2 Cor 3:6). DNA is a parable of this: not a closed text, but a script continually re-actualized, animated by a dynamic of life.

4. Vestige of the Word

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. (…) In him was life, and the life was the light of men” (Jn 1:1,4). DNA, material memory, is like a vestige of this creative Word. It conserves, transmits, innovates: in biology what the Logos is to creation as a whole.Of course, it is not the Word itself; but it is a sign of it, a natural icon. Just as the old Law found its meaning only when fulfilled in Christ, DNA finds its meaning only when embodied in living organisms. In both cases, writing finds its fullness in life.

VII.Bis : DNA, Cancer, and the Body of Glory

DNA, the living script inscribed at the heart of our cells, bears a double face: memory of life and sign of fragility. It does not replicate indefinitely: with each cell division, the ends of DNA — the telomeres — erode. Gradually the cell ages, losing its capacity to renew. This law is written in our flesh: human biological life carries from the start the mark of death.

There do exist species whose DNA replicates without apparent erosion — certain jellyfish, hydras of freshwater. They seem to defy aging.

Yet even these “immortal” creatures remain vulnerable: they can die through accident, predation, environmental change. Their stability is only a vestige, a fragile trace of an order that never reaches fullness.

When DNA malfunctions, when it miscopies itself or multiplies without restraint, cancer appears. The cell forgets its vocation of service to the whole and folds back upon itself, seeking to grow without limit.

This is a biological icon of original sin. As Adam and Eve desired to “be like gods” (Gen 3:5), the cell seeks boundless growth that, paradoxically, brings death. Saint Augustine described sin as amor sui usque ad contemptum Dei — “the love of self carried to the contempt of God” (City of God, XIV,28). Cancer is its carnal image: an organ loving its own growth to the point of destroying the body.

Christian faith does not promise a return to Adam’s body, innocent yet not yet transfigured. It promises something more: a body of glory, incorruptible and beatified, where life is no longer bounded by DNA’s degradation, nor by entropy, nor by death. “What is sown perishable is raised imperishable; what is sown in weakness is raised in power” (1 Cor 15:42–43).

Here teleostability is no longer provisional but absolute: not the fragile persistence of biology, but the eternal stability of being transfigured in God.

IX. Bis : Evolution as Icon of Eden and the Fall

1. Evolution read through Genesis

Biological evolution tells of a gradual ascent: from the simple to the complex, from primitive life to man conscious of himself. Yet this ascent is not smooth. It is scarred by catastrophes, extinctions, struggles, deaths.

And here appears a profound correspondence with the story of Eden.Genesis is not a child’s tale, but a narrative of metaphysical fracture: the entry of man into death, into time, into entropy.

2. Adam and Eve: humanity at the threshold

The text declares: “On the day you eat of it you shall surely die” (Gen 2:17). Eden, far from being a place of idyllic permanence, is already the fragile threshold where everything can tip. By eating of the fruit, man enters a regime of time marked by wear, by scattering, by finitude. It is the fracture between a stability received and a condition now subject to the law of entropy. In other words, man does not simply learn of death; he enters into death as into a constitutive state.

3. Evolution as parable of this fracture

Science shows us that life, from its very origin, is marked by mortality. Each biological innovation brings with it a new fragility: more complexity, but also more vulnerability. Mass extinctions, cosmic catastrophes, fatal mutations — all signs that life advances in a world stamped by the Fall.Thus the evolution of species becomes a parable of Eden: an ascent toward consciousness, but an ascent accomplished in the shadow of death.

4. Christ: Life that assumes death

Where Adam and Eve are “born into death,” Christ is the one who “dies within his Life.” By voluntarily entering the mortal condition, he reverses the logic of the Fall. He makes of death a passage, and of time a womb of eternity. In him is revealed another teleostability : not fragile, but indestructible, for it is rooted in the very being of God.

5. Gregory of Nyssa, the Unity of Humanity and the “Added Garment” of the Carnal Condition

Gregory of Nyssa distinguishes between two orders: the ideal humanity, existing eternally in God, unified and spiritual; and concrete humanity, unfolding in time under the condition of becoming, division, and mortality.

Carnal humanity, marked by sexuality and the succession of generations, does not belong to the divine essence of man. It is an accident, an “added garment” (tunicae pelliceae), the anticipated consequence of sin. God, in His foreknowledge, permitted this condition to preserve the existence of humanity despite its fall. Sex and the passions (τά πάθη) are therefore not natural in themselves, but integrated into a providential pedagogy : they preserve life while at the same time revealing our need for transformation.

Thus Gregory speaks of man having become ζῷον (“animal”) because of his bad choice. This term highlights that man, created for divine likeness, slipped into a lower condition marked by flesh and instincts. Instead of being immediately configured to God as a free spirit, man was clothed with a corporeality subject to the passions. These passions, Gregory explains, are not intrinsically evil, but they belong to the level of the irrational. When the human intellect enslaves itself to them, it produces an imbalance that distances man from his true vocation.

Yet this descent does not abolish the divine image. Every human being still bears the full image of God, even within this animal and passionate condition. The image (εἰκών) remains intact, though obscured by the “garments of skin.” The animal man (ζῷον) is therefore not the end: he is a transitory stage, a pedagogical detour preparing the ultimate transformation.

In Christ, this accidental condition is assumed and overcome. As Gregory reminds us, in the humanity brought to its fullness “there is no longer male and female”: division and sexuality disappear, absorbed into spiritual unity. Humanity then recovers its true state, no longer subject to passions but transfigured in divine light.

Thus, for Gregory, even what appears to mark a downfall—the man become animal, passionate, and sexed—is integrated into a providential economy that leads toward likeness. Teleostability helps to make sense of this logic: behind the accidents and corruption of time, there remains the deeper stability of the image, guaranteed by the divine plan.

6. Thomas Aquinas: Matter as a Good Finality

For Thomas, matter is not an imperfection in itself nor a fall: it is intrinsically good, because it is willed by God and ordered toward a finality. It is the substratum of forms, and in this sense, it participates in the perfection of the universe. In the Summa Theologica (I, q. 5, a. 3), Thomas affirms that “everything that exists, insofar as it exists, is good.” Matter is therefore not a negative principle or an obstacle: it is included in the economy of the good, since it tends to receive form and to fulfill a function within the order willed by God.

Thus, matter is teleologically ordered; it does not exist in vain. It is like an opening to the unfolding of the Good in the diversity of creatures. The sensible cosmos is not a degradation but a positive stage within the order of creation. Even after the fall, matter retains its ontological goodness, even if man’s use of it may be disordered.

Gregory of Nyssa: Matter as a Sign of Division

In Gregory, by contrast, matter carries a certain ambivalence. It is not evil in itself, but it is associated with division, with the animal and sexual condition of humanity after sin. As he says, sex and passions are “additions” (προσθήκαι) to original humanity, a kind of garment of skin that manifests the consequence of sin. Matter thus becomes the locus where human fragility is expressed—its instability, its subjection to death.

Nevertheless, Gregory insists on the indestructibility of the image of God in man: even covered with “scoria” or “rust” (σκωρία), the soul retains the possibility of being reoriented toward its perfection. Matter is therefore not evil, but it is perceived as the sign of our distance from the Good.

Teleostability: A Mediation Between Thomas and Gregory

Teleostability makes it possible to reinterpret these two perspectives as complementary:

• With Thomas, it affirms that matter is intrinsically good, because it is integrated into the stable and final order of creation. Nothing that exists is useless or absurd: everything is oriented toward an end within the divine economy.
  

• With Gregory, it acknowledges that matter also manifests man’s fragility, his exposure to division and death. Teleostability does not deny this tragic dimension: it assumes it as part of the path through which human freedom is called to turn toward God.
  

• By unifying them, teleostability shows that matter is neither simple “fall” nor simple “perfection,” but the place of a stable drama: it is good by nature (Thomas), but it becomes the theater of spiritual struggle (Gregory). It is precisely because it is oriented toward a divine finality that it can be transfigured.

  
  

In other words, teleostability allows us to integrate the Thomistic confidence in the fundamental goodness of matter with Gregory’s lucidity about its historical ambivalence. Matter is good because it participates in divine order, but it also reveals the urgency of freedom, which can transform it either into a path of sanctity or into a place of perdition.

X. Fulfillment in Christ: the Divine DNA of the Incarnation

1. The Word made flesh

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (Jn 1:14). Here the eternal Logos no longer merely inscribes a biological alphabet into creation — he takes on flesh, he assumes a genome, human DNA. The invisible God enters the very logic of biological transmission. He takes upon himself the law of mortality, not to suffer it as blind necessity, but to transfigure it from within.

2. DNA assumed, sanctified

The Incarnation means that Christ shared the genetic code of Mary. He did not appear as a pure spirit, but as a man whose body bore the same biological logic as ours: DNA inscribed in time, subject to the laws of matter. Yet this DNA became the meeting place of God and man, a sign that the teleostability of life finds its fullness in union with the Word.

3. Death conquered by Life

In Christ, mortal DNA is traversed by a Life not of this world. On the cross, he dies in his flesh; in the resurrection, this flesh is raised and transfigured. It is the fulfillment of Eden reversed: Adam and Eve were born into death, but Christ, in dying, reveals eternal Life. Where the Fall opened man to entropy, Christ opens man to an indestructible teleostability, rooted in divine eternity.

4. The horizon of the Incarnation

Thus DNA, biological and fragile memory, becomes in Christ a sanctified memory. The order of life, marked by death, is assumed and saved. The Incarnation shows that true stability lies not in genes, nor in natural laws, but in the union of all creation with the Logos. He, and he alone, makes possible an absolute stability — beyond entropy, beyond time.

5 . Opaque Matter and the Lost Transparency

For Gregory of Nyssa, matter was never intended to be a prison. In its origin, it carried within itself a spiritual vocation: it was meant to be transparent to God, like crystal traversed by light. The body was to be sacramental, not opaque; the world, luminous, not resistant. But human experience after the Fall tells another story.

“Matter, as we presently experience it, is not in its normal state. Sin has hardened it and stripped it of its transparency.” (In Cantica Canticorum)

Here lies the paradox. Matter is not evil in itself. It has not become the principle of corruption. Rather, it is wounded, veiled, opaque. The mirror created to reflect divine radiance has become tarnished; the flame of the Logos still shines, but it no longer passes through without distortion.

And yet, the very structure of matter seems to retain a memory of its lost vocation. This is where teleostability becomes decisive. Creation is not abandoned to chaos, nor reduced to blind determinism. Even hardened by sin, matter remains inscribed in the divine order — Actus, Ordo, Attraho — a cosmos stabilized, oriented, and drawn toward its fulfillment. The opacity is therefore not final, but pedagogical: it reveals our estrangement, while at the same time calling us back to purification, to openness, to translucence.

Modern physics, in its own way, bears echoes of this mystery. In quantum entanglement, particles remain bound across vast distances, as though separation were never absolute. Superposition shows matter as potential, awaiting an act to manifest its form. Non-locality hints at relation deeper than location. These are not theological proofs, but they are signs — faint rumors of Eden, where creation was once wholly transparent to glory.

The hourglass deepens the image. In its upright form, sand flows grain by grain: the fugacity of human time, fractured and fleeting. In its horizontal form, all grains coexist: an icon of eternity, God’s nunc stans, the eternal Today. But in both, what is essential is the flame that lights it — the candle of the Word. Without light, the grains are invisible; time is meaningless. With light, even the fleeting present is illumined, and the opacity of matter becomes the very site of revelation.

Thus, opacity is not only a consequence of sin; it is also a place of encounter. The body resists, but in its resistance it becomes the field of grace. Suffering, entropy, mortality — these are not denials of the divine order, but the weight through which our freedom is tested, purified, and ultimately made capable of glory. As Augustine wrote, the present moment “has no extension, and yet it is the only thing that truly is.” The eternal flame illuminates even this fragile threshold, making it sacrament of an eternity that calls.

In Christ, this process is revealed. His glorified body is not less material but more — no longer resisting light, but transmitting it fully. He is the true hourglass, where time and eternity meet; the true mirror, where the Father’s glory shines without obstruction; the true transparency, restoring matter to its vocation.

Thus the cosmos itself is not finished. It groans, Paul says, “as in childbirth” (Rom 8:22) — groans not for dissolution but for transfiguration. Even now, within its opaque density, creation trembles with entanglement, resonance, and memory. The light still seeks to pass through. And teleostability assures us: it will.

XI. Eschatological Dimension: Teleostability Fulfilled and the Beatific Vision

1. Teleostability brought to completion

Throughout history, life has resisted, faltered, persisted. But always in fragility: death lurks, entropy gnaws, order remains provisional. Christian eschatology announces the surpassing of this condition: a teleostability no longer relative, but absolute. Saint Paul declares: “For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality” (1 Cor 15:53). The fragile stability of DNA finds its consummation in the incorruptibility of the resurrected body.

2. Creation transfigured

The Apocalypse describes a new creation: “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore” (Rev 21:4). Here, the time of entropy is closed. Death, consequence of the Fall, is absorbed into eternal Life. Teleostability becomes fullness: no longer resistance to chaos, but perfect communion in God’s own being.

3. Beatific vision and ultimate stability

Catholic tradition teaches that man’s ultimate fulfillment is the beatific vision: seeing God “face to face” (1 Cor 13:12). Unlike Palamas, who distinguishes between essence and energies, Catholic theology affirms that in beatitude man truly participates in the direct vision of the divine essence — not by possession, but by grace’s elevation. This is absolute stability: not biological, not cosmic, but ontological, rooted in eternal communion with God.

4. From DNA to glory

DNA inscribes the memory of life, fragile and fallible. Eschatological glory inscribes man into another memory: that of God himself. DNA is corrected, surpassed, transfigured. As Saint John writes: “We shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is” (1 Jn 3:2). Teleostability here finds its end: no longer a precarious holding, but the fullness of being, a light that never fades.

5. The Hourglass and the Candle – Time and the Light of the Word

Let us imagine an hourglass. Upright, it lets the grains of sand fall one by one: each fallen grain becomes the past, each grain still suspended is the future, and the narrow neck represents the present moment. Yet this present is tiny, elusive: no sooner does a grain cross the threshold than it is already gone. This is the human condition, marked by transience.

Saint Augustine, in his Confessions (XI), meditates on this mystery: the past is no more, the future is not yet, and yet we measure time. It is in the soul that this paradox unfolds: memory retains the past, attention gathers the present, expectation reaches toward the future. Thus man lives in a tension that reveals his fragility, but also his openness to eternity.

If one were to lay the hourglass on its side, the flow would cease. The grains would no longer fall; they would coexist in simultaneity. The narrow neck is no longer a rupture but an axis of unity. This image then becomes an allegory of God’s time: not succession, but eternal present. What we call “past” and “future” are in Him simultaneously held in one single act.

Teleostability illuminates this vision: the world is not abandoned to chaos but sustained by the divine Act (Actus), ordered (Ordo), and drawn (Attraho) toward its end.

But an hourglass in shadow reveals nothing of its beauty. Place a candle beside it. Its flame lights the glass, shines through the sand, and illuminates the neck where time flows. This light is the Word, “the true Light who enlightens everyone” (Jn 1:9). It reveals that time is not merely a mechanism, but a pedagogy. For if we see the grains fall, it is because the light makes them visible. Without it, we could not distinguish past from future, nor even perceive the present moment.

This flame reminds us that time is oriented: it does not dissolve into night, but shines with promise. Each grain of sand is fragile, yet none is lost: all are seen in the clarity of the Word. It is He who gives meaning to transience, He who assures that the flow is not in vain.

Gregory of Nyssa deepens this mystery. For him, man is created in the image of God, but this image is in becoming. To be in the image is not to possess resemblance perfectly from the start, but to be entrusted to the hands of one’s own freedom, like a mirror that can either reflect the light or turn it away. This freedom is constitutive: without it, there is neither responsibility nor love. The flame of the candle shines upon the mirror, but the mirror can choose to welcome or reject this light.

Gregory even distinguishes two creations. The first is eternal, indivisible: humanity in its entirety is conceived by God in a single glance, beyond time, in its fullness. The second is historical: we appear little by little, generation after generation, marked by instability. What God beholds as fullness, we experience as process. In the upright hourglass, the grains fall; in the hourglass laid on its side, they are already gathered; and the candle reveals that this double condition is not contradiction, but divine pedagogy.

Thus, even united to Christ, we remain deficient, still on the way. But this journey is illumined: “Be transformed from glory to glory,” says the Bride of the Song. Each response to the light makes us cross a new threshold, as though the flame grew brighter the closer we draw to it.

The metaphor of the hourglass and the candle therefore reveals a threefold truth. First, human time is fleeting: each grain vanishes, and we live within the risk of freedom. Second, God’s time is fullness: the hourglass on its side manifests eternity, where all is simultaneously present and preserved. Third, the Light of the Word illumines this passage: it shows that succession is not absurdity but pedagogy, and that the end is not darkness but radiance.

In this sense, we understand that time is both fracture and promise: fracture, because each instant dies as soon as it is born; promise, because the light that illumines it guarantees that no instant is lost, and that all are taken up into God’s eternity. The hourglass is man’s time, the candle is Christ, and their meeting reveals that time is not a curse but a path toward likeness.

6. Christ, the Open One Beyond Sexual Division

In His earthly flesh, Christ came as a man, biologically marked by XY chromosomes, inscribed within history and the condition of sexuality. Yet this datum does not exhaust His ultimate identity. For in Him, as Saint Paul affirms and Gregory of Nyssa echoes, “in humanity there is neither male nor female” (In Canticum Canticorum, homily VII, PG 44, 916b). This is not a denial of corporeality, but a radical openness: by assuming masculinity, Christ embraced all humanity within Himself, beyond the limits of sexual division.

Modern biology sheds light on the secondary character of sexual differentiation. Until the sixth week, the human embryo is bipotential: it possesses a common program, an “open horizon” that can develop as male or female. The X chromosome is the universal base, present in everyone. The Y chromosome, through its SRY gene, acts later as a trigger, orienting the embryo toward male development. Without this activator, the default trajectory remains female.

In other words, humanity is first and foremost X: the common chromosome, the shared foundation of all. The Y is not a self-sufficient principle of life, but an orienting factor. Symbolically, this means that humanity carries within itself a fundamental unity before sexual division. This shared base becomes a sign of the “single image” of which Gregory speaks: each human being bears the image of God in its fullness — not a fragment, but the whole, identical in each.

For Gregory sex and the passions are “additions” (προσθήκαι), a tunic of skin given to humanity after the Fall, in order to preserve its survival through generation. To become ζῷον (“animal”), marked by flesh and instinct, was not the original project: it is a transitory condition, permitted by God, destined to be surpassed. This vision finds a resonance in biology: sexuality is not the root of humanity, but a superadded modality, linked to temporality and mortality.

In Christ, however, this condition is assumed but transfigured. Though He was XY according to the flesh, He is X according to the Spirit: not limited to a sexual identity, but bearer of the whole of humanity in its original transparency. In Him, the X becomes the symbol of universal openness: the image of God fully revealed, where the division of the sexes disappears.

Teleostability helps us understand this paradox. Sexual differentiation, with its fragility and its passions, testifies to the division of living beings. Yet it is inscribed within a finality that does not collapse. Even what is accidental becomes pedagogical: a school of freedom and transformation. Christ, passing through this condition without sin, bore it all the way to His Resurrection, where it is dissolved into unity.

Thus Gregory of Nyssa can affirm with Paul: in transfigured humanity, there will be “neither male nor female.” Not because corporeality will be abolished, but because the light of the Word will once more render it transparent, making visible the single, indivisible image dwelling in each. The crucified and risen Christ is this total humanity, the “Open X,” in which all division is both assumed and surpassed.

XII. Actualization and Dialogue with Science

1. Science: fragmentary yet fertile

Modern sciences — physics, biology, cosmology — describe with admirable precision the mechanisms of the real. They show how galaxies form, how cells divide, how DNA replicates. Yet their strength is also their limit: they compartmentalize. Each discipline illuminates a segment of reality without being able to account for the whole. As Aristotle already wrote: “The science of parts is not the science of the whole.”

2. Silence on the foundations

We do not say that the sciences fail to explain particular mechanisms: they describe, model, and predict them with remarkable efficiency. But they do not explain the whole. Why is there something rather than nothing? Why are physical laws stable? Why does the universe, instead of collapsing into random noise, manifest a cumulative direction, capable of producing persistent order, complexity, and self-maintenance?Faced with these questions, strict materialism often replies: “That’s just how it is,” or “If it weren’t so, we wouldn’t be here to ask.” But such answers are petitio principii: they presuppose precisely what they ought to explain.

3. Teleostability as a rational question

Teleostability shows that the issue is not adding a mythological story to science, but posing a rational question about what science itself presupposes: the stability of laws, the coherence of reality, the intelligibility of life.Without such stability, no scientific method would be possible. If constants fluctuated randomly, no calculation would hold, no prediction would be reliable. Science therefore rests upon an order it cannot justify by itself.

4. Invitation, not refusal

The point is not to oppose faith and science, but to invite a deeper dialogue. Faith does not fill a provisional gap — which would be a “God of the gaps” — but gives meaning to the overall framework in which science can unfold its power. Faith illuminates the “why,” where science describes the “how.”In this sense, the hypothesis of a transcendent first cause is not an unnecessary addition, but the recognition of what human reason demands when it interrogates reality as a whole.

XIII. AOA: Actus / Ordo / Attraho

AOA — Actus, Ordo, Attraho : what exists is given (Actus), what endures is ordered (Ordo), and what is ordered is drawn to its fullness (Attraho). Teleostability is neither inertia nor lucky chance: Actus sustains, Ordo stabilizes, Attraho orients — here below in real participation, and at the end in the beatific vision of the divine Essence.

(Teleostability and a way beyond the “essence/energies” pair)

1) The three terms

• Actus (actus essendi) — ongoing gift of being. Nothing endures by itself; everything is sustained at every instant.

• Ordo (forms, laws, intelligibility) — the fabric of stability. Constants, symmetries, codes (up to DNA).

• Attraho (finality, teleonomy, Spirit) — orientation. The tendency toward maintenance, fulfillment, communion.

2) Trinitarian anchoring (at a glance)

• Father = Actus (gift of being)

• Son/Logos = Ordo (“In him all things hold together,” Col 1:17)

• Spirit = Attraho (the Love that draws and gives life)

  
  

Stability is not mechanical but relational: gift, structure, attraction.

3) AOA as a Reversible Formula

Formula : Actus ⇄ Ordo ⇄ Attraho

Read it both ways: from the Act that gives being, to the Order that stabilizes, to the Attraction that fulfills — and from the Attraction (the end) that already informs the Order and references the Act as source. This is not a flourish.

Why reversibility matters : An analogical echo from quantum theory

Reading AOA in both directions means finality (Attraho) is not only at the finish line; it works from the start. The telos acts like an attractor: it shapes Ordo (what holds) and sends us back to Actus (what gives being). Conversely, what is given (Actus) unfolds into order (Ordo) and opens toward fullness (Attraho). In short: reality is not linear. It breathes.

Without turning physics into proof, there is an analogy worth noting. In quantum mechanics, many structures are time-reversal invariant, and non-local correlations (entanglement) disrupt our one-way causal intuitions. Not everything is a simple “arrow of time”; global constraints can inform local states. This gestures toward Attraho: the end as attractor that shapes order now — a vestige of a regime where time is not sovereign.

Trinity: perichoresis rather than a straight line

Theologically, this reversibility is the shadow of the Trinity. The divine Persons are not strung along a timeline; they co-exist eternally in perichoresis (mutual indwelling). The Father is Father through the Son; the Son is Son from the Father; their shared Love is the Spirit — not “before/after,” but reciprocal gift. AOA is the creaturely grammar of that mystery: Actus (gift), Ordo (form that holds), Attraho (love that draws).

Eden and the body of glory: a non-linear horizon

If Eden figures a world not yet surrendered to entropy, and the glorified body the fulfillment where created time is gathered into eternity, then reading AOA reversibly is a sign: already the end (Attraho) modulates the order (Ordo) and points back to the source (Actus). This tremor of eternity within time — teleostability — is an index that the real is borne and oriented, not merely pushed from behind.

Note on the Processions (without smuggling “time” into God)

The reversibility Actus ⇄ Ordo ⇄ Attraho does not cancel the divine processions; it clarifies them. The processions are eternal: the Father is not “before” the Son, nor the Spirit “after” them. The Father begets the Son ab aeterno, and the Spirit proceeds ab aeterno from the Father and the Son (Filioque) — without succession, without an “earlier/later.” The reversible reading prevents us from importing time into God : it analogically expresses the co-eternity of the relations (perichoresis) without projecting our temporal sequences into the divine life. Thus Actus (source), Ordo (Logos), and Attraho (Love who proceeds) are co-present formal notes, not stages in a process.

4) In dialogue with Palamas & Thomas — with the Catholic endpoint made explicit

• Palamas : the essence remains inaccessible; the uncreated energies are God truly communicated without division. In AOA terms, those energies map to Ordo + Attraho (intelligibility given and deifying dynamism shared) here below.

  
  

• Thomas (Catholic position): along the way (in via), we truly participate (grace elevates: Actus sustains, Ordo informs, Attraho draws). At the end (in patria) the blessed see the divine Essence itself—by the lumen gloriae—without exhausting it.

  
  

• AOA as bridge : Actus names the one Source; Ordo and Attraho name how that Source is communicated here below; and Attraho explicitly includes the eschatological draw toward the beatific vision of the Essence (a point the Catholic tradition holds non-negotiably).

Catholic clarification: AOA does not stop at participation in “energies”; it culminates in the vision of the divine Essence (Mt 5:8; 1 Jn 3:2), granted by God, beyond all created mediation.

5) Exemple of applications

• Cosmos:

  
  

  • Actus: being persists;

  • Ordo: fine-tuned constants, symmetries, conservation principles;

  • Attraho: order-attractors, habitability windows, rise of information (beyond mere noise).

    
    

• Biology (DNA):

  
  

  • Actus: life received and upheld;

  • Ordo: double helix, replication fidelity, repair systems;

  • Attraho: reproduction, adaptation, plasticity — the living letter.

6 ) How AOA clarifies beyond “essence/energies”

• Ontological clarity: Actus (ground), Ordo (stability), Attraho (orientation) — readable in philosophy and science–faith dialogue.

• Fidelity with precision: keeps Palamas’ insight of real participation here below, while making explicit the Catholic consummation: beatific vision of the Essence by lumen gloriae.

• Relevance: explains why enduring order exists and toward what it tends — not merely “how” it functions locally.

5) AOA and Teleostability: The Divine Essence and Its Hypostases

Teleostability and the AOA framework (Actus – Ordo – Attraho) find their deepest coherence in Trinitarian theology. One of the risks of certain scholastic approaches was to conceive of God as an “object,” an abstract essence to which “attributes” were added. But the Catholic faith, since Nicaea and Constantinople, has affirmed something quite different: the divine essence does not exist apart from the Persons.

To say that “the essence has as its hypostases the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit” means that the one divine nature wholly subsists in each of the three Persons. And vice versa: each hypostasis is nothing other than the one divine essence. This is not a game of mirrors, but the central truth of the faith: the divine essence does not exist as a floating concept but as Trinitarian subsistence. Conversely, the Persons are not “parts” of God, but each fully God, possessing the whole of what God is.

The Council of Florence expressed this with precision: “Each Person is that reality, that is, the substance, the essence, or the divine nature.” This means there is not an impersonal essence beside the Persons, but one reality, lived and given in Trinitarian communion.

Thus teleostability is not grounded in a God conceived as an “abstract cause,” but in the living, relational God whose essence is inseparable from His hypostases. It is because God is Trinity that the order of the world is stable without being static, oriented without being coerced, and open to communion without dissolving.

Nota Bene : Why This Is Not a Tautology but a Paradox to Embrace

To say that “the divine essence has the Trinity as its hypostases, and that the hypostases are the divine essence” might appear, at first glance, to be nothing more than a logical circle. But it is not.

In Trinitarian theology, essence refers to the divine nature, one, simple, indivisible. It never exists as an abstract entity “floating above” reality: it always and only subsists. This is why one says that it subsists in the hypostases (the divine Persons).

Conversely, the hypostases are not parts of the essence, nor three fractions of a whole. Each one is fully God, not by addition or division, but because each is the one essence in a relational mode: the Father as principle without principle, the Son as begotten, the Spirit as the procession of love.

Thus the statement is not a vacuous circle but an assertion of non-separability :

• there is no essence apart from the Persons,

• there are no Persons who are not the one essence.
  

This language aims to exclude two opposite errors :

1. imagining an abstract essence “above” the Persons (a frozen essentialism),

2. imagining three gods (tritheism).

   
   

We are therefore faced with a paradox — not a logical contradiction, but a mystery that exceeds our categories. Reason can show that it is not tautological, but it must also acknowledge that the depth of divine reality transcends conceptual reduction.

Teleostability helps to illuminate this paradox: stability of being is not that of a static block, but of an eternal relational Act. The Trinitarian paradox, far from being nonsense, thus becomes the very key to the intelligibility of the world’s order.

XVI. Bereshit, en archè, and the True Light

“Bereshit bara Elohim…” — “In the beginning, God created…” (Gen 1:1). The sages of Israel long pondered: why does light appear already on the first day, while the sun, moon, and stars are not created until the fourth? This first light, therefore, is not that of the heavenly bodies. The Midrash teaches that it is the or ganouz, the hidden light, withdrawn and reserved for the righteous at the end of days. Invisible in its fullness, it remains perceptible through the scattered glimmers of the created world.

The biblical text itself bears this mystery: it does not say “the light is,” but “the light was” (vayehi or). Light appeared as a gift, a sudden emergence, an irruption of divine Order inaugurating reality, but without being identical to the physical light of photons. That sensible light is only a vestige, a dispersed icon of the primordial light.

The Gospel of John explicitly takes up this thread, but unfolds it on a metaphysical plane: “En archè èn ho Logos” — “In the beginning was the Word” (Jn 1:1). Archè means both beginning and principle. John does not refer to a chronological instant but to an eternal foundation. What Genesis expresses in the language of beginning, John reveals as principle: the Logos, living Wisdom, the ground of all intelligibility. In Him “was life, and the life was the light of men” (Jn 1:4).

Thus, what the Midrash names or ganouz — hidden light — John identifies with Christ, the eternal Logos, “the true Light which enlightens everyone coming into the world” (Jn 1:9). This is not merely a physical energy but the manifestation of the divine Word that sustains and renders the world intelligible.

Here the true meaning of Bereshit is unveiled: not only a chronological beginning, but a relational principle. From the very first word of Scripture, it is about an order, a Word that structures and sustains. The Fathers of the Church emphasized this point: Augustine distinguished the principium as the eternal reality of the Logos, Origen underlined that this light is spiritual before being physical, and Basil saw in it the seal of divine Wisdom imprinted upon the world.

Within the dynamic of AOA, this link becomes explicit:

– Actus: “Let there be light” expresses the emergence of an act, not of an object. – Ordo: this light, even before the stars, manifests the intelligible order of the Logos. – Attraho: it draws, illumines, and announces from the very beginning the ultimate orientation: Christ, the true Light.

Thus, the physical light we measure in photons and wavelengths is only a secondary sign. The “beginning” is not a cosmological date, but the revelation of an eternal, relational, and ordering principle. What Jewish tradition calls or ganouz and John proclaims as the Logos, Christian faith contemplates as Christ: the true Light, which does not fade, which is never exhausted, and which remains both the memory of the beginning and the promise of the fulfillment.

From Quantum Vacuum to Tohu-Bohu: A False Creation Ex Nihilo and the Coherence of AOA

One of the most common confusions in certain contemporary materialist narratives is the claim that particles appear from nothing, as if modern physics confirmed a self-creation of reality without cause. This assertion—often derived from a popularized misreading of quantum mechanics—does not stand up to scientific scrutiny, nor to a theological reading of reality.

In quantum physics, it is inaccurate to say that particles “emerge from nothing.” They arise within the quantum vacuum, which is not “nothing” in any ordinary sense: it contains background energy, permanent fields, and dynamic fluctuations. What are called “vacuum fluctuations” correspond to temporary transitions of energy between quantum states, in accordance with the laws of conservation. In other words, these phenomena do not result from an absence of cause, but from the inherent causal structure of the quantum field itself, governed by stable and universal laws.

Likewise, the quantum vacuum is not timeless. We must distinguish two regimes: – Massive particles, linked to the Higgs field, possess a proper time, inscribed in their interaction with the structure of space-time. – Massless particles, such as photons, have no proper time: from their point of view, no duration passes. This shows that a phenomenon can have measurable reality for an observer without implying that time itself is universal.

Thus before the “condensation” of the Higgs field—just after the Big Bang—the universe was not nothing, but an atemporal energetic state: a real tension, undifferentiated, where events existed but could not be distinguished from one another because no internal temporality yet existed. Modern physics calls this a pre-matter universe, in which space and time, as we know them, did not yet exist but emerged gradually with the symmetry-breaking that gave rise to mass and stability in matter.

This scientific description resonates profoundly with the biblical image of tohu-bohu (Genesis 1:2) — that “formless and void” state which is not non-being, but an undetermined primordial matrix, a potential for creation already sustained by the Spirit of God hovering over the waters. It is not the absence of being, but rather the indistinction of being, a condition awaiting form.

Teleostability illuminates this mystery: even within such primordial indistinction, reality is not abandoned to chance. It is sustained by Actus (the creative act), structured by Ordo (the intelligible order), and drawn by Attraho (the attraction toward fullness). The tohu-bohu is therefore not absolute chaos but an unfinished creation, already contained within the dynamic logic of AOA.

From this perspective, the primordial quantum field might be understood as the physical imprint of the “rest in motion” described by Saint Gregory of Nyssa—that tension between stability and alteration, fixity and flux, through which God unites opposites to bring forth the beauty of the world. The breaking of symmetry that structures matter corresponds symbolically to the moment when the Divine Act (Fiat lux) gives direction and measure to chaos.

Far from contradicting faith, the physics of the vacuum reveals a dependent creation—not ex nihilo in the sense of self-generation, but ex nihilo secundum quid: from a relative nothingness already open to the creative Word.

Where materialism perceives randomness, teleostability discerns a hidden finality, an architecture of gift :

• Actus — the donation of being, even within indistinction.

• Ordo — the progressive structuring of laws, symmetries, and constants.

• Attraho — the inner call toward form, light, and stability.

  
  

What science calls “vacuum fluctuations” is, in theological language, nothing less than a tohu-bohu under grace—the first motion of a universe still voiceless, already murmured by the Word.

The Leviathaness and Antimatter : A Cosmic Icon of Primordial Dissymmetry

The Midrash recounts that at the moment of Creation, God formed two Leviathans — one male and one female. But, says the text (Bereshit Rabbah 7:4), He slew the female and kept the male “so that the world would not be destroyed by their offspring.” This disappearance of the Leviathaness, often understood as a myth of cosmic balance, can be reread — in the light of modern physics and the theology of teleostability — as the icon of a foundational asymmetry: the very tension that allowed the universe to survive its own chaos.

1. A Physical and Metaphysical Dissymmetry

According to modern cosmology, the universe should have annihilated itself at birth. For every particle of matter, an equivalent antiparticle of energy should have appeared, and their meeting would have led to mutual destruction — leaving nothing. Yet, mysteriously — or rather, teleologically — an infinitesimal dissymmetry allowed matter to prevail over antimatter.

Everything we see, every stable structure of reality, rests on this microscopic imbalance: roughly one atom in a billion survived. That tiny excess of matter was enough to save the universe from oblivion.

This foundational imbalance echoes the Midrashic myth. God’s slaying of the Leviathaness, far from being an arbitrary act of violence, symbolizes the reduction of total chaos. God does not abolish duality; He channels it.

Dissymmetry becomes the condition of existence. The Leviathaness — the mythological antimatter — is like that half of reality which, had it persisted in perfect equality, would have erased all form.

2. Theological Reading : God Orders, He Does Not Erase

The creative act is not the suppression of disorder but the ordering of potency. The Leviathaness is not “killed” in a moral sense but contained, confined within the depths of the tehom. She remains the trace of a possibility — that of perpetual dissolution. The world stands only through this divine restraint, this tzimtzum — the self-limitation by which God withholds His own power so that creation may exist.

Likewise antimatter has not vanished : it persists, rare and hidden, at the fringes of the cosmos. Its relative absence is what allows the universe to cohere. It is, one could say, the cosmic Leviathaness — the dark half of reality that God has held back so that light might endure.

Teleostability reads in this asymmetry a Trinitarian signature:

• Actus — God acts; He separates opposites. The world arises not from perfect symmetry but from differentiating act.

• Ordo — He establishes hierarchy and relation between the poles of creation.

• Attraho — He orients this tension toward higher unity, not by suppression but by integration.

  
  

3. Dissymmetry as the Condition of Glory

Without this initial dissymmetry, there would be no structure, no time, no history. The death of the Leviathaness, like the disappearance of antimatter, is the cosmic kenosis that makes form possible. The universe was not born from perfect balance but from a wounded beginning, a fracture inscribed in the heart of being. This fracture allows music, relation, and motion — and thus, living stability.

In the teleostatic perspective, this dissymmetry is not a random quantum fluke but a divine intention: the trace of an order that chooses relation over neutrality, life over cancellation. The Leviathaness, symbol of absolute potentiality, becomes the image of primordial chaos accepted and ordered; the Leviathan, her stabilized counterpart, represents structure sustained by Act.

Thus the entire universe can be understood as the fruit of an oriented imbalance — a silent victory of matter over antimatter, of the Word over the void.

4. The Leviathaness as Parable of the Saved Cosmos

The death of the Leviathaness is not an end but a beginning. It marks the moment when God inscribed into reality the very possibility of endurance. The universe, born of tension, still bears this memory: antimatter as the nostalgia of chaos, the Leviathan as the memory of order, and their gap as the rhythm of creation.

In the light of teleostability, this cosmic dissymmetry is not imperfection but a sign of finality. The world advances toward its fullness precisely because it is not complete — because it is wounded by a lack that draws it toward Glory.

The Leviathaness, like antimatter, is the necessary shadow of light — that which God restrains so that the world may sing. The order of the cosmos was born from a sacrifice — the containment of infinite chaos — and within that contained tension resounds the promise of Christ: “Behold, I make all things new” (Rev 21:5).

The Leviathan, the Tohu-Bohu, and Teleostability : From Cosmic Chaos to Inner Chaos

The Leviathan, in the Bible, Jewish tradition, and Christian theology, is not merely a mythological creature; it stands as one of the most profound symbols of primordial chaos — that dark substratum upon which God brings forth light. Yet this chaos is not only cosmic: it also passes through the human soul. As Gregory of Nyssa said, “the inner world is a second cosmos.” Humanity carries within itself the waters of the tehom and the beast that dwells within them. Thus, God’s victory over the Leviathan is not simply a mythic episode but a figure of the spiritual and psychological drama of converting inner chaos into living order, shadow into light — according to the dynamic of AOA: Actus, Ordo, Attraho.

1. The External Leviathan: Chaos Mastered and Order Stabilized

In Scripture and the Midrashim, the Leviathan embodies the raw power of the tohu-bohu — the formless, threatening sea before the Word traced the boundaries of order. Only God can confront it. The angels fail to overcome it; even Gabriel retreats before its might. In the Talmud (Bava Batra 74a), God slays the female Leviathan to contain the devouring force of chaos. In the Midrash, the monster’s flesh becomes food for the righteous at the end of time, while its skin, stretched as a veil, will illuminate the world — a striking image of disorder transfigured into light.

Kabbalah sees in the Leviathan more than a monster: a symbol of unity. Coiled upon itself, “tail in mouth,” it becomes a cosmic circle, a sign of hidden balance and order. Chaos, confined within its own limits, becomes the principle of cohesion. The universe is stable not because it denies chaos, but because it contains it.

This insight connects directly to teleostability: the world remains stable not through inertia, but because it is held together. What threatens to dissolve finds coherence in a higher Ordo, structured by the divine Actus and oriented (Attraho) toward Glory. Chaos is therefore not annihilated but assumed, integrated, and made fruitful by divine ordering.

2. The Inner Leviathan: The Abyss of the Subconscious and the Promethean Ego

But the Leviathan does not dwell only in primordial waters; it sleeps in the depths of the human soul. Mystical traditions and modern psychology converge here: the sea monster becomes a metaphor for the subconscious, that hidden realm where instincts, fears, and unspoken desires lie — the “inner chaos” that consciousness struggles to govern.

This inner Leviathan is double: both vital force and threat of engulfment. Freud would call it the archaic drives; Jung, the archetype of the Shadow. In Genesis, it appears as the Serpent of the garden — the Promethean desire “to be like God” (Gen 3:5). In modern humanity, it becomes the mark of the Beast — not an external sign, but the imprint of a hypertrophied ego, turned inward upon itself, seeking to impose its own law upon creation.

Thus the psychological Leviathan is man abandoned to himself, without transcendence. His intelligence becomes domination, his freedom pride, his imagination a closed loop. This self-referential logic — the self that contemplates and suffices for itself — is the very caricature of stability.

Where Christ humbles Himself and gives, the Leviathan swells and withdraws. Where the divine Actus bestows being, the ego hoards; where Attraho draws toward light, it draws toward itself.

This structural opposition between the kenosis of Christ and the pride of the Leviathan reveals the heart of spiritual struggle: true stability arises not from self-enclosure, but from openness to the Other. The unconverted inner Leviathan remains a fixedness without purpose, an energy without direction — the psychic tohu-bohu that corrupts the order of the soul.

3. From Psyche to Cosmos: Teleostability as a Therapy of Being

God’s battle with the Leviathan, on the inner plane, becomes the struggle of grace against the heart’s closure. Each time humanity refuses dependence, chaos returns. Each time it consents to be ordered toward something greater, order is restored.

Teleostability thus applies not only to the cosmos but to spiritual life itself :

• Actus — the first grace, the gift of being and consciousness, the breath that prevents the soul from falling back into nothingness.

• Ordo — the interior structuring, the harmonization of desires, the pacification of instincts. This is ascetic work, psychology reconciled with theology.

• Attraho — the pull toward light, the contemplative ascent, participation in Glory.

• 
  

The struggle against the Leviathan is therefore not a war against part of oneself, but a reorientation of power. For once tamed, the monster becomes light: “You crushed the heads of Leviathan; you gave him as food to the people of the wilderness” (Ps 74:14). Chaotic energy becomes life-force; the instinct for survival becomes the instinct for adoration.

4. Christ and the Restoration of Order

In the Christian tradition, Christ descends into the depths of collective psyche, where the Leviathans of human history hide — fear, death, rebellion. He does not banish chaos by denial; He enters it, assumes it, and transfigures it. Through His descent into hell, He accomplishes what the angels of the Midrash could not: He faces the monster not with force, but with light.

The Christian Fathers immediately recognized in the Leviathan a prefiguration of Christ’s combat against evil. Isaiah 27:1 proclaims: “On that day the Lord will punish Leviathan, the fleeing serpent, and He will slay the dragon that is in the sea.” For the Fathers, this prophecy points to the Passion: Christ, the new Adam, faces the ancient dragon — Satan — and defeats him not by force but by kenosis.

Saint Augustine saw in the Leviathan the figure of the devil, “king over all the children of pride” (Job 41:34), the one who sought to rise against God.

Saint Cyril of Jerusalem, in his Catechetical Lectures, warned the catechumens: “It is the dragon of the sea who sets this snare for you” — the Leviathan opposing baptism, symbol of the waters ordered by God. By descending into the waters of death, Christ sanctifies them and transforms chaos into the source of life.

Saint Gregory of Nyssa gives this victory a metaphysical depth. In his Great Catechesis (§37), he rereads God’s question to Job — “Can you draw out Leviathan with a hook?” — as an allegory of salvation. Christ, he says, laid a divine trap for the devil: His humanity as bait, His divinity as the hook. The demon, believing he devoured a man, swallowed God — and the hook of divinity tore open his jaws. Death itself was conquered from within. This “mystical fishing” is among the most powerful images of patristic soteriology: the Leviathan, symbol of death and chaos, is captured by the cunning of divine love.

Thus the Leviathan becomes the name of metaphysical disorder — the refusal to participate in God. And Christ, by plunging into the dark waters of sin and death, does not destroy them but converts them. He makes the place of chaos the place of grace, the tohu-bohu the cradle of new order. This passage from disorder to order through love is precisely what Teleostability calls oriented stability: creation is stable not because it is static, but because it is drawn (Attraho) toward its fullness.

On the Cross, He is swallowed, like Jonah in the belly of the great fish. But where Jonah pleads, the Son surrenders. And in that total act of self-giving, the divine hook pierces the Leviathan’s jaw: death is vanquished from within, and the psyche of the world is healed.

This is the deep meaning of teleostability : the cosmos — like the soul — remains stable only insofar as it participates in an order of love. Chaos is not suppressed but assumed and transfigured. The Leviathan, raw power, becomes matter of glory; the Promethean ego, mirror of the Word.

5. Toward an Integral Reading of the Myth

The Leviathan is at once myth, metaphor, and mirror. In the heavens, it represents the tohu-bohu forces contained by God. In humanity, it symbolizes the unconscious seeking integration. In theology, it becomes the image of Evil conquered by the kenosis of Christ.

Read through teleostability, it embodies the truth of reality:

• Chaos is not annihilated; it is oriented.

• Matter is not cursed; it is transfigured.

• Shadow is not rejected; it becomes a passage into light.

  
  

The cosmic and the inner Leviathan are two faces of the same drama: that of the world and the soul learning to exist toward God. This passage from disorder to stability, from pride to transparency, lies at the heart of teleostability — the movement whereby being discovers itself sustained, ordered, and drawn.

Thus at the end of the struggle, God does not destroy the Leviathan — He converts it. The monster becomes a sign of glory; chaos becomes order; and humanity, freed from its inner abyss, becomes in turn a guardian of light — one who, having crossed the sea of the tohu-bohu, becomes an instrument of divine peace, a reflection of the God who, from the beginning, “played with the Leviathan in the waters” (Ps 104:26).

XV. The Emergence of Life and Teleostability

Current research in origin-of-life biology shows that abiogenesis is not a simple “accident”: it requires extraordinarily precise conditions in which prebiotic chemistry transitions into self-organization. Several scientific pathways are actively studied:

– Ribozymes : RNA molecules that can both store information and catalyze reactions, suggesting a primitive “RNA world.” Laboratory studies have shown ribozymes capable of partial self-replication, though not yet full fidelity.

– Hydrothermal vents : deep-sea hot springs where chemical and energy gradients create micro-environments. Experiments indicate that proton gradients across mineral membranes could drive primitive metabolism (Martin & Russell, Philos. Trans. R. Soc. B 2019).

– Autocatalytic networks : reaction sets where products catalyze further reactions, leading to cumulative growth. Kauffman’s models show that with a sufficiently large chemical repertoire, self-sustaining networks are statistically inevitable.

– Lipid compartments : protocells formed from fatty acids that spontaneously assemble into vesicles. Szostak’s group (Harvard) has demonstrated that these vesicles can grow, divide, and encapsulate RNA strands.

These models converge on one point: life is not mere chemistry, but chemistry that achieves stable and reproducible order beyond randomness.

The Teleostability Key

Teleostability provides a lens for interpreting the passage from the inanimate to the living:

1. Mere regularity is not enough: chemistry alone produces reactions, but not continuity. Life begins when information can be copied with fidelity. The probability of a random 100-base RNA strand forming by chance is astronomically low (≈10⁻⁶⁰). Yet experiments show that natural processes, like wet-dry cycles on volcanic rock, can greatly enrich nucleotide chains, making functional ribozymes statistically reachable.
   

2. Self-organization points to orientation: laboratory protocells can spontaneously form, concentrate molecules, and even support primitive metabolism. But this always presupposes a framework of stable constants (electromagnetic forces, atomic structures) without which no cumulative persistence would occur.
   

3. Life is the strongest manifestation of teleostability: unlike inert matter, which dissipates into entropy, life actively resists entropy by maintaining structure, repairing itself, and reproducing. Schrödinger already noted in What Is Life? (1944) that organisms survive by “feeding on negative entropy.”

   
   

Theological Reading

From this perspective, the emergence of life is not a violation of natural laws but their fulfillment. Stability is not accidental: it manifests the imprint of an Act that sustains and orients.

– Actus: being arises, matter is given.

– Ordo: chemical laws provide constancy, enabling replicative structures.

– Attraho: an orientation emerges toward complexity and persistence, as though matter itself were drawn toward life.

Abiogenesis, viewed through teleostability, is not a closed enigma but a metaphysical window: the universe carries within itself a tendency to persistence and fruitfulness. Life is not a freak accident, but an expression of the deeper stability inscribed in reality.

The Astonishing Possibility

What is truly astonishing is not that scientists can model possible pathways for abiogenesis, but that such a possibility exists at all. From a purely materialist standpoint, there is nothing “logical” about inanimate matter organizing itself into self-sustaining, self-replicating life. Chemistry alone tends toward entropy, not toward persistence.

The very fact that life could emerge — that order could deepen rather than collapse — is itself the extraordinary datum. And this makes sense only if teleostability exists: a principle of stability that sustains and directs the cosmos. Teleostability, in its deepest hypostasis, is none other than the relational God of love — the Trinity — in whom Actus, Ordo, and Attraho are eternally one.

Gregory of Nyssa, Evolution, and the Emergence of the Human Soul

For Gregory of Nyssa, the evolution of the world is not understood as a blind sequence, but as an ascending and ordered movement (taxis, akolouthia), in which each stage prepares the next. Nature progresses “by successive steps” (kata bathmous), from the vegetative to the sensitive, and finally to the spirit (nous). Humanity appears last, not by chance, but as the recapitulation and fulfillment of the entire cosmic process: “Man is the goal of this ascending movement, the ultimate end toward which all the rest aspires” (In Hexaemeron, PG 44, 72).

This vision establishes both continuity and rupture. Man assumes within himself the lower elements, but he surpasses them, because he introduces an irreducible dimension: the spirit, bearer of the divine image. For Gregory, corporeal nature finds its perfection in man, but man himself only reaches his fulfillment when he allows the spirit to emerge beyond the flesh.

Thus the appearance of the human soul is not an external addition or an arbitrary “graft,” but the blossoming of a potentiality inscribed from the beginning in the ascending thrust of creation. The spiritual soul is not deduced from matter but arises as its telos, the reality that completes and transfigures the order of the living. Far from being absorbed into the cosmos, Gregory insists: nature has in man the possibility of freedom, and the entire universe finds in man its mediator toward God.

Read in the light of teleostability and the AOA, this thought shows that the human soul is not an “accident” in biological history, but the manifestation of a deeper order in which Actus, Ordo, and Attraho converge :

• Actus: the spirit appears as an irreducible act, the emergence of freedom.

• Ordo: it is the fruit of an ordered progression, not of chaos.

• Attraho: it attracts and orients all creation toward its end, as mediator of all things toward God.
  

Yet Gregory does not stop at an anthropological reading. For him, man is the image only because he is created “with a view to Christ,” the archetype of humanity and the fulfillment of history. The incarnate Logos is the model in whom all evolution finds its coherence: “It is not Adam who is the measure of man, but Christ” (cf. Hom. in Cant.). Man is therefore not only the summit of the cosmos, but the anticipation of the Perfect Man, in whom the image becomes likeness and in whom creation enters into transfiguration.

Man, last in the order of time, is first in intention: it is not a chronological primacy, but an ontological and Christological primacy. The spiritual soul is not a “spark” dropped from the outside, but the unveiling of the hidden light (or ganouz), already inscribed in the ascent of the cosmos toward the spirit, and which finds its full radiance only in Jesus Christ, “the true Light that enlightens every man coming into the world” (Jn 1:9).

Adam and Eve in the Light of Teleostability and AOA

The classical problem : Theology has often imagined that God, at a precise moment in biological history, “infused” a spiritual soul into a pair of hominids, thereby making them Adam and Eve. But this vision, overly temporal and mechanical, projects onto God a human kind of action — a punctual intervention in time.

The teleostable and AOA reading: – God does not act like an artisan intervening from outside, but as actus purus: His creative act is eternal, sustaining the existence of the cosmos at every moment.

– Teleostability refers to this ongoing maintenance of order and intelligibility: it is what makes biological evolution possible and directs it toward ever more complex forms of life. – Within this framework, the AOA (Actus–Ordo–Attraho) offers a theological lens :

• Actus: God’s eternal act, by which being itself is given.
  

• Ordo: the structuring of reality into intelligible and stable forms.
  

• Attraho: the attraction that draws creation toward higher communion, culminating in humanity’s openness to God. – The appearance of humanity is therefore not an unforeseen accident, but the fruit of this relational dynamism: the cosmos is oriented from its beginning toward beings capable of freedom and love.
  

Adam and Eve

– They are not merely two biological individuals identifiable by paleoanthropology, but the first representatives of a humanity capable of reflective consciousness and openness to God. – Their distinctiveness is not biological but ontological: in them, creation becomes capable of free relation with its Creator. – The “soul” is not a punctual add-on from the outside, but the manifestation of the AOA itself: participation in the eternal Act, ordered by divine Wisdom, and drawn by attraction into communion.

Synthesis :

Seen through teleostability and AOA, Adam and Eve are not a problem of temporal mechanics but of ontological revelation. Humanity emerges not as a random byproduct, but as the awaited expression of a cosmos held in stable order and drawn toward relation. God is not a watchmaker who intervenes once; He is the eternal Act, Order, and Attraction that makes human freedom and divine communion possible.

XVI. The Apocalypse and Teleostability: Stability Through Chaos

The Apocalypse of John is often read as a succession of catastrophes: wars, famines, plagues, cosmic upheavals. At first glance, everything collapses. But if we read it through the lens of teleostability — the idea that at the heart of reality an Act, Order, and Attraction uphold the universe — then the book does not describe meaningless destruction, but revelation: God’s ultimate stability manifesting through the convulsions of the world :

1. The Seals and the Trumpets (Rev 6–11) Each judgment seems to break established order: stars fall, seas are poisoned, powers falter. Yet behind this apparent dissolution, the text insists: the Lamb holds the book; it is He who opens the seals. In other words, even in chaos, order is not abolished but held in a hand. Teleostability here illuminates the biblical truth: the universe does not self-destruct, it remains bound to the divine Act.
   

2. The Beast and Babylon (Rev 13–18) These figures embody the illusion of an order opposed to God: a political, economic, and religious system that seems stable but whose downfall is sudden. Again, teleostability provides a key: any order that refuses the first Order is unstable by nature, carrying within itself the seeds of its own collapse. Babylon appears solid, but it has no real foundation.
   

3. The New Jerusalem (Rev 21–22) At the end, the Apocalypse does not close on chaos but on transfigured stability: “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, death shall be no more” (Rev 21:4). Here, teleostability reaches its fulfillment: not fragile persistence but incorruptible stability, where Actus, Ordo, and Attraho unite in plenitude. Creation finds permanence not in itself, but in God who “makes all things new” (Rev 21:5).

   
   

A Scientific Analogy: Phase Transitions

Physics offers a striking analogy: during a change of state (for example, water turning from ice to vapor), we observe a moment of apparent disorder. Structures break, equilibria collapse — yet this transient chaos in fact prepares a new form of stability. Similarly, in certain complex systems (plasma, quantum transitions, bifurcations in dynamics), sudden instability reveals that a deeper structure is taking shape.

The Apocalypse works in the same way: what appears to be chaos is not the negation of order but the passage to a higher order. Judgments and cosmic convulsions are not the end of reality but its birth pangs, leading to definitive stability. Teleostability here illuminates the logic of the biblical text: creation does not exhaust itself in entropy, it is led to transfiguration.

Processus Teleostabilis: The Fulfillment of Process Theology in Teleostability

Process theology, born in the twentieth century with Alfred North Whitehead and his continuators (Hartshorne, Cobb, Gounelle), sought to think of God no longer as an unmoved mover but as the living heart of becoming — a God who suffers, accompanies, and attracts. It sought to safeguard both divine compassion and creaturely freedom against the determinism of classical theism. Yet, in dissolving transcendence into pure flux, it lost the very tension that makes possible gift, form, and finality.

From that restored tension arises a new proposal: the Processus Teleostabilis — the transfigured Process Theology, fulfilled in the Trinitarian light and the metaphysical rhythm of AOA: Actus, Ordo, Attraho. It takes up the fruitful intuitions of Process thought — dynamism, relation, openness, participation — yet accomplishes them within an ontology of living stability: becoming ordered toward plenitude.

1. From Processuality to Communion

Process theology was right to sense that God acts not by mechanical force but by persuasion. Yet this persuasion is not a temporal coexistence between God and the world; it is the trace of Attraho, the Trinitarian love that draws all things toward their fullness.What appeared in Whitehead as a horizontal relationship becomes here a vertical and descending grace — a dynamism of love, not a cosmic impulse.

Thus God is not simply in becoming: He is the very foundation of all relation, the Act who gives, orders, and orients.Where Process theology saw a God dependent upon creation, Teleostability affirms a God who can be participated in without being absorbed — a transcendently immanent God.

2. From Fluidity to Living Stability

Teleostability does not deny movement; it sanctifies it. Reality is in motion, but motion stabilized by the coherence of the Logos.

• Actus – the primordial donation of being, the inexhaustible source of every beginning.

• Ordo – the intelligible form that stabilizes and renders the real communicable.

• Attraho – the loving tension that draws all things toward their fulfillment.
  

The Processus Teleostabilis thus affirms that creation is not a succession of disjointed events but a hierarchized symphony — a movement ordered toward Beauty. The world is not a divine improvisation but a beloved improvisation, sustained by AOA, which gives coherence to every instant.

3. From Cosmic Persuasion to Trinitarian Kenosis

Where Process theology speaks of divine persuasion, Teleostability reveals the Trinitarian kenosis: the Son descending into matter, the Spirit drawing all things back to the Father.What Process theology perceived as a “co-evolution” of God and the world becomes, in this vision, a participation in the very Life of God.

God does not evolve with the world — the world comes from God and moves toward Him.

This inversion, radical yet fruitful, fulfills Process theology without destroying it: it reintegrates becoming into eternity, and eternity into becoming. Stability is no longer immobility, and movement is no longer flight, but communion.

4. From Process Theology to the Theology of Teleostability

Process Theology	Processus Teleostabilis
God acts by persuasion, limited by the world’s freedom	God freely attracts all things through Attraho, without violating their freedom
The world co-creates God	The world participates in the creative Act without altering it
Stability is illusory; only becoming is real	Stability is participation in the Act that makes becoming possible
Creation is continuous and unfinished	Creation is continuous in God, tending toward its fullness in Christ
Cosmic unity is a flux	Cosmic unity is a teleological order, a symphony of Actus, Ordo, and Attraho

5. Processus Teleostabilis — The Trinitarian Process of Divine Coherence

The Processus Teleostabilis is a theology of motion within rest — a via media between Aristotle’s unmoved God and the mutable God of the Process. It proclaims that:

• all that exists subsists in Actus (the gift of being);

• all that endures is stabilized in Ordo (the wisdom of the Logos);

• all that aspires is drawn by Attraho (the love of the Spirit).
  

This is no longer a mere God of becoming, but the living God of Fiat lux, of the Logos, and of Communio.Creation is not a blind process : it is a teleological process, a stability in tension toward glory, a Process fulfilled within the Trinity.

Miracle and Teleostability: When the Kingdom Draws Near

In the light of teleostability, a miracle is not a rupture in the order of the world, but the momentary revelation of its true order. What we call a “miracle” is not a divine caprice suspending natural laws; it is the instant in which those laws, transfigured, recover their original transparency — that of a universe which, before sin, lived in full communion with its Creator. The miracle does not manifest the exception, but the forgotten norm.

Far from being an arbitrary event, it always arises from a state of spiritual resonance: holiness. For the miracle does not descend from heaven like a bolt of lightning — it passes through a heart attuned to God. The Gospels show this repeatedly: it is faith, absolute trust, loving surrender that open the door to divine causality. “Your faith has saved you,” says Jesus to the woman with the hemorrhage (Mt 9:22). Holiness, in its purest form, is that transparency of soul through which God can manifest His will within creation without violating it. The saint becomes, in the logic of teleostability, a node of coherence, a point of equilibrium where human freedom and divine will perfectly coincide.

This logic fits within the mystery of divine subsidiarity : God does not act in place of man, but through him, respecting the freedom He Himself has given. Far from diminishing His omnipotence, this respect is its highest expression. Divine power is not measured by coercion, but by the ability to invite freedom to cooperate with grace. The miracle thus becomes the perfect cooperation between the First Cause and secondary causes: God acts, yet man becomes the conscious instrument of His action. Teleostability, in this sense, is a theology of cooperation — it shows that the stability of the world, like that of grace, rests upon the harmony between transcendence and participation.

A miracle is therefore an act of communion, not a suspension of laws — a moment when matter regains its docility to the Word. Nature is not bypassed; it is recalled to its vocation. When Christ walks on the waters or multiplies the loaves, He does not abolish physical laws: He reveals what they are meant to become once reconciled with the finality of Love. The miracle is thus natural law brought to its teleological fullness, fulfilled in its divine purpose.

But such cooperation has a condition: faith. The Gospels note that Jesus “did not perform many miracles there because of their lack of faith” (Mt 13:58). This does not express a limit to Christ’s power but rather the logic of divine love: God never imposes Himself upon the freedom He has created. The miracle can only arise in an open space — a field of trust where the Attraho of the Spirit finds welcome. Where faith is absent, grace is not absent but restrained in its offering, respecting the economy of human freedom.

This dynamic echoes the heart of the Lord’s Prayer : “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” The miracle is precisely that: the coming of the Kingdom, not in its definitive form — which will be that of the Apocalypse — but in its anticipation. In every miracle, time opens upon eternity, creation aligns for a moment with heaven, and the earth tastes what it shall be in fullness. The miracle is a flash of the Kingdom breaking through the fabric of a fallen world to remind it of its original vocation: to be a passage between the invisible and the visible, between the creative Act and matter.

In the Trinitarian logic of teleostability:

• Actus — God acts, not to break the law, but to manifest the primal gift of being;

• Ordo — the apparent disorder of the world is re-harmonized to the structure of the Word;

• Attraho — human freedom draws grace, and grace draws all creation toward Glory.
  

Each miracle is thus a Trinitarian breath within the fabric of the world, a heartbeat of the divine that re-aligns creation, if only for an instant, with its source. It is not an anomaly of reality but its healing. Where sin has fractured relationship, the miracle restores it. Where matter has gone deaf, it remembers — under the touch of the Word — what it is: a sign, a transparency, a sacrament.

The saints are the privileged witnesses of this reintegration. Their lives, often marked by miracles, are not chains of prodigies but experiences of coherence. They live in the very state teleostability describes: an oriented stability, an inner peace that makes divine manifestation possible. They do not compel God to act; they attune themselves to His music — and that harmony resounds in creation.

Thus the miracle does not violate reason: it fulfills it, because it reveals that the reason of the world is love. It is a crack of glory within the flow of time, a window opened upon the ultimate telos of the universe. In this sense, every miracle is an eschatological anticipation, a miniature of the Kingdom where matter, heart, and light are reunited.

From the teleostatic perspective, the miracle is the most intimate proof that creation remains stable not because it is static, but because it tends toward God. The miracle is the universe momentarily reaching its telos: the perfect communion of the visible and the invisible, of will and love, of earth and heaven.

Real Hell, Universal Hope, and “God All in All”

The Christian paradox lies here: on one hand, Jesus announces the Last Judgment with striking images — right and left, sheep and goats, eternal life and perdition. On the other, He proclaims a God who “wills everyone to be saved” (1 Tim 2:4) and who excludes no one from His mercy. How can these two statements be held together ?

The key lies in the non-dualistic reading we have outlined. Hell is not a parallel camp to heaven, but the radical possibility given to the creature to refuse grace. God does not program this refusal; He respects it, because without freedom there is no love. The existence of hell guarantees that man is taken seriously in his capacity to say “no.”

But Christian hope does not stop there. It rests on the very dynamism of mercy: if God is Love, if Christ descended into hell (1 Pet 3:19), then it is not absurd to hope that this love may reach even into the most extreme refusal. Not that hell is abolished in principle — it remains real and possible — but that it may, in fact, be overcome by infinite mercy.

This is what Hans Urs von Balthasar called “hope for all”: a hope, not a certainty. For the language of performative certainty, as we have seen, would cancel freedom and turn history into a play already staged. But hope keeps the dramatic tension alive: it acknowledges the seriousness of hell, while entrusting the last word to grace.

Saint Paul condenses this vision in a blazing formula: “God will be all in all” (1 Cor 15:28). Not that each one is absorbed or dissolved, but that every being finds its fullness in God, without remainder, without division. Teleostability sheds light on this hope: if the universe persists despite entropy, if life clings on despite death, it is because an Act, an Order, and an Attraction (AOA) are at work at the heart of reality. This impulse inscribed in creation already suggests that the end is not absurdity but plenitude.

Thus, Christian eschatology is reduced neither to a rigid dualism of good and bad, nor to the angelic dream of automatic salvation. It holds together the real possibility of refusal (hell), the certain promise of God’s design (the Kingdom), and the active hope that grace will triumph over all resistance.

This is the heart of the Gospel: judgment is not the end of mercy but its unveiling. Those who believe themselves just will be revealed as sick, and thus summoned to be healed. Those who know themselves lost will discover that their cry has already been heard. And the last word will be that of plenitude, where — without abolishing freedom — God draws all things to Himself: “When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself” (John 12:32).

The Purified Apocatastasis : Not a Automatic Cycle, but a Wounded and Transfigured Seed

In Gregory of Nyssa apocatastasis has nothing to do with a cyclical return of the ages. There is no cosmic wheel bringing the universe back again and again to its beginnings, plunging it into the same episodes. Such a conception would be a prison without exit, where history has neither meaning nor goal. On the contrary, Gregory affirms a unique direction, an irreversible tension: creation advances, sometimes painfully, but it advances toward its fulfillment.

The most fitting image, then, is not that of the circle but that of the seed. The world is like a seed planted by God, filled with the original form – the morphê – that already contains in potency the full beauty of the creature. But this seed has been obscured, wounded, covered with scoria. Sin did not destroy the seed; it merely clouded its clarity, delayed its blossoming. The divine light never ceased to inhabit it, but it has been veiled under the crust of our passions and divisions.

This is why Gregory can say that the morphê will reappear: it is not something created anew out of nothing, but a revelation of what has always been there, hidden beneath the shadows. Like a crystal dulled by dust, humanity has not lost its essential transparency: it waits to be cleansed, purified, restored to the limpid brightness that was its own in the beginning.

When Gregory speaks of apokatastasis, it is in a very different sense from Origen. For Origen, indeed, apokatastasis took the form of a universal restoration in which, at the end of time, all creatures — including the demons and Satan — would necessarily return to God. In his thought there was a tendency to conceive of a kind of cosmic necessity: since evil is only privation, it would inevitably be swallowed up by the good, like a shadow swept away by light.

Gregory however, is more cautious and more nuanced. Like Origen, he affirms that evil has no substance and that it will disappear. But he insists on preserving the freedom of the creature. God does not coerce. Apokatastasis is therefore not a mechanical universality, but an expectation: evil vanishes as evil, but each person remains fixed in the free position he or she has chosen. Hell remains possible, not as an eternal power of evil, but as the fixation of freedom in refusal.

The difference is crucial:

– In Origen, apokatastasis tends toward an almost necessary return, a universal reintegration in which freedom dissolves.

– In Gregory, it is a restoration of the morphê, a victory of good over evil, but within the respect for the mystery of freedom.

Thus, where Origen proclaimed an absolute reconciliation, Gregory speaks of a final transfiguration: the disappearance of evil as an unsubstantial shadow, and the persistence of each creature as a free mirror, called to reflect — or not — the light.

Here teleostability becomes a philosophical key to understanding this hope. For teleostability observes that at the very heart of a universe subject to entropy, a strange law persists: order endures. Structures maintain themselves, repair themselves, transmit themselves. Life, instead of vanishing instantly into disorder, arises, reproduces, defends itself. The history of the cosmos is traversed by a resistance to chaos, by an orientation that refuses absurdity. This is not the circularity of eternal return: it is the tenacity of an order that never ceases to point toward its end.

The drama of the Fall, then, did not erase this orientation: it obscured it, slowed it, marked it with contradictions. But the finality remains inscribed as an intimate law of being, like the gravity of a fruit that ripens even under storms. The cosmos is not a cold mechanism, but a hindered growth, a wounded germination that, despite its obstacles, still bears the memory of its light.

The words of Christ Himself illuminate this logic of the seed:“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24)

This is not only the pattern of Christ’s own Pasch; it is the pattern of all creation. History is not condemned to turn in circles: it is a seed that, through death and obscurity, is destined to open into abundance. The wound itself becomes the passage toward glory.

In this perspective, apocatastasis is not an abolition of evil by arbitrary decree, but its progressive and definitive dissolution in the radiance of truth. Evil, says Gregory, has no substance of its own: it is privation, shadow, disorder. Thus, at the moment when the light rises without decline, evil extinguishes itself, just as the night vanishes when dawn appears. What remains is the creature, free, standing, once again reflecting the morphê, but now transfigured by the passage through the fire of history and the Cross.

This mystery must be understood not as an automatic mechanism of salvation but as a paradoxical hope. On the one hand, hell remains possible: freedom endures to the very end, and no one will be saved against their will. On the other hand, the reign of evil itself will be utterly abolished: it will no longer seduce, no longer dominate, no longer obscure. The whole universe will be purified, like a field cleared of weeds, where only the true seed grows in the light.

Thus what the ancient myths imagined as infinite cycles, Gregory transcends: he announces a unique end, a singular fulfillment, where wounded history finds not a restart but a consummation. The obscured seed is not condemned to turn endlessly in the night: it is called to open into a luminous fruit, washed in glory.

In this sense, the purified apocatastasis becomes a vast pedagogy of hope: it teaches us that time is not absurd, that even the wound itself can become a path, and that beneath the crust of evil there persists, intact, the seed of good, ready to shine forth in the radiance of the risen Christ.

From Gödel’s Mirror to the Living Word : Why the Glorious Loop Matters

Before entering the Glorious Loop, one must recall where Hofstadter’s Gödel, Escher, Bach left us: in the fascination of mirrors that think. Logic folds upon itself; images generate images; melodies echo through their own structure. Everything reflects, and yet, in this endless self-reference, something mysterious happens — order does not collapse.

Hofstadter sensed that within recursion lies a pulse, an intelligence, perhaps even a soul. Gödel had already proved that no system can close upon itself without invoking a truth beyond it. Escher showed that even paradox can sustain coherence. Bach revealed that repetition, far from monotony, is the secret of harmony. All three intuited the same metaphysical tremor: the world persists because it remembers itself.

Yet there is a limit that Hofstadter does not cross — a limit that teleostability seeks to illuminate. The strange loop describes how meaning emerges from recursion; the glorious loop reveals why recursion endures. The first observes the phenomenon; the second asks for its cause.

A purely self-referential universe would exhaust itself in tautology, spiraling into entropy. To endure, it must be open — not only to itself, but to an act beyond itself, a source that sustains recurrence without reducing it to determinism. This is where the logic of teleostability arises : a universe that remains coherent because its laws, its life, its consciousness all participate in a higher stability — an Actus that never ceases to give being.

Concept	GEB	Teleostability
Nature of the loop	Self-referential	Relational
Source of coherence	Internal complexity	Final, transcendent yet immanent orientation
View of transcendence	Excluded or metaphorical	Real, but non-dualistic
Relation to the living	Emergence of consciousness	Participation in ontological stability
Musical metaphor	Infinite fugue	Fugue fulfilled in God (Soli Deo Gloria)

Hofstadter sees in strange loops the engine of consciousness: systems capable of representing themselves produce a reflexive emergence. But he stops at the phenomenology — he does not explain why such systems remain coherent instead of collapsing into entropy or contradiction.

• In Hofstadter, stability is an effect of recursion.

• In teleostability, stability is a transcendental condition — that which makes recursion possible in the first place.
  

In other words, GEB shows the how (the self-referential structure of reality), while teleostability responds to the why (the orientation toward a finality that maintains coherence). Without finality, the loop becomes a logical trap; with finality, it becomes a movement of participation — what we call the glorious loop.

Gödel showed that any consistent system gestures toward what it cannot contain; teleostability recognizes in this gesture a metaphysical signature — the trace of the Logos, the Word through whom all coherence subsists.Where logic discovers incompleteness, theology discerns participation. Where science sees stability as emergent complexity, teleostability sees it as grace translated into structure.

For Hofstadter the beauty of Bach, the symmetry of Escher, and the paradox of Gödel all converge toward an idea of self-organizing complexity — depth born of recurrence. But teleostability shows that complexity alone cannot generate stability. What grounds stability is teleological orientation — the tension toward a higher order.

• Complexity produces variety, but not coherence.

• Finality (telos) produces coherence without erasing complexity.
  

This is the difference between a fractal chaos and a Bach fugue: both show recurrence, but only the fugue has direction. Teleostability explains why the fugue, life, or even the universe itself do not collapse into indeterminacy — because they participate in an intention inscribed in their very structure.

Thus what Hofstadter called “strange” becomes “glorious.” The loop of self-reference is no longer a labyrinth of signs, but a liturgical pattern — creation’s response to its own origin. Escher’s hands, forever drawing one another, become a visual prophecy of the Incarnation: the divine and the created meeting in perfect recursion. Bach’s fugues, unfolding endlessly yet resolving in beauty, prefigure the rhythm of Actus–Ordo–Attraho — the Trinitarian pulse of all being.

Hofstadter stops at the threshold of metaphysics : he describes wonder but refuses to draw a cause from it. The real remains suspended in a “logical vertigo” — fascinating but groundless. Teleostability extends this vertigo into recognition: what GEB perceives as paradox, it reads as sign.

• Recursion becomes participation.

• Self-reference becomes transparency.

• Incompleteness becomes openness to the Act.
  

It is no longer the “mystery of emergent consciousness,” but the mystery of loving stability.

In the following text, the glorious loop will unfold as a theological completion of the strange loop:a movement from reflection to revelation, from pattern to purpose, from recursion to communion.

If Gödel’s theorem whispers that no system suffices unto itself, teleostability proclaims that this insufficiency is the very opening through which glory enters.

For every loop that endures, every pattern that resists chaos, every law that holds across time is a small annunciation of the same truth:

the universe persists not because it contains itself, but because it is contained — in the living Word that sustains it. The Glorious Loop — Teleostability and the Harmony of Being

At the heart of Gödel, Escher, Bach, Douglas Hofstadter intuited something greater than logic or art : stability is not born of rigidity, but of recurrence — not of closure, but of circulation. Each fugue, each engraving, each theorem becomes an echo of the same mystery: the universe endures because it reflects itself.

Yet this reflection is not narcissistic. It is a luminous spiral — a glorious loop. Where Hofstadter saw a strange loop of consciousness, one can discern something deeper: a loop inscribed in Being itself, where the world does not merely contemplate itself but orients itself toward glory, drawn by a harmony it cannot generate alone.

1. From Self-Reference to Self-Giving

Gödel’s incompleteness theorems shattered the dream of total rational closure: every consistent system is incomplete; every complete system is inconsistent. What Gödel called incompleteness can, metaphysically, be read as the space of divine transcendence. A universe that could fully explain itself would be a sealed circle — sterile, self-consuming. Its openness, instead, signals dependency — an act beyond itself that sustains coherence without coercion.

Thus, the world does not collapse because it is incomplete; it subsists because it is open. Teleostability arises from this paradoxical balance: every level of being reflects its source and tends toward it, as a melody does not resolve by ending but by returning to its key.

The strange loop of logic becomes the glorious loop of creation: self-reference transfigured into self-offering — a reflection that does not trap, but liberates.

2. Bach and the Architecture of Order

In the Musical Offering, Hofstadter perceives a model of infinite ascent: each canon repeats at a higher pitch, forming an unbroken spiral of sound. There is no final summit, yet the motion never exhausts itself.This musical logic — unity through polyphony, stability through movement — mirrors the intimate structure of the cosmos.

Teleostability reads here a metaphysical grammar:

• Actus – each voice arises from a source: the creative act that gives form.

• Ordo – each voice belongs to a geometry of relations: order that structures being.

• Attraho – all are drawn toward a final consonance: attraction toward the good that unifies diversity.

  
  

AOA thus becomes the living counterpart of Bach’s fugue — a Trinitarian rhythm inscribed in matter itself. The cosmos is not a static clockwork, but a symphony of tension, sustained not by inertia but by relation.

3. Escher and the Mirror of Reality

Escher’s engravings — hands drawing each other, waterfalls that rise as they fall, endless staircases — embody paradox made visible: illusions that hold together. Hofstadter saw in them the beauty of self-reference; teleostability discerns in them the sign of a mirrored cosmos.

For Gregory of Nyssa, humanity was created as the mirror of the divine image: “In each, the image is entire.” Yet by the Fall, the mirror darkened — opaque, fragmented, unable to transmit light without distortion. The cosmos itself, wounded through humanity, became a broken reflection: the laws remain, but transparency is lost.

Escher’s paradoxes show that even when the image is warped, order endures. The staircase loops upon itself, yet stands firm; the reflection turns inward, yet does not vanish. Such is the cosmos under teleostability: stable in imperfection, awaiting the restoration of its clarity.

(Reference: M. C. Escher, “Drawing Hands,” 1948; Gregory of Nyssa, De Hominis Opificio, ch. 16–17.)

4. The Glorious Loop as Cosmic Icon

The loop of being, through teleostability, is not a closed circle of necessity but a spiral of participation. In classical metaphysics, God is actus purus — pure act, immutable and self-sufficient. Yet creation is dynamic participation in this act. The world is not sustained by an initial impulse but by a continuous relation, a rhythm of dependence and return.

Teleostability interprets this not as mechanical conservation but as liturgical endurance — being itself as praise. Every particle, every organism, every law that resists entropy participates in this cosmic doxology. The “loop” becomes a doxological circuit, an echo of divine dialogue :

“For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things.” (Romans 11:36)

Cosmic stability is not the absence of motion but the continuity of praise. The loop closes not upon itself but upon its Origin — and by doing so, opens infinitely.

5. From the Strange Loop to the Gloriocentric Cosmos

The strange loop describes how consciousness emerges from recursive processes of matter — how the “I” arises from what is not “I.” But left without orientation, this ascent becomes a labyrinth of self-reference without transcendence.Teleostability proposes the next step: the glorious loop, where recursion finds its telos in participation.

Human consciousness — reflexive, aware of itself — is not a byproduct of complexity, but a microcosmic reflection of Trinitarian structure. The “I” becomes truly personal when it knows itself as mirror, not source.

Thus the glorious loop unifies physics, metaphysics, and theology :

• In physics, stability arises through feedback and symmetry.

• In metaphysics, it persists through participation in act.

• In theology, it culminates in communion — the supreme symmetry of love.

  
  

Where Hofstadter marveled at the beauty of recursion, the gloriocentric vision leads further — toward transfiguration. The world’s loops are not prisons of logic but spirals of ascent.

(Reference: D. Hofstadter, Gödel, Escher, Bach, ch. XX; Joseph Ratzinger, Introduction to Christianity, “Being as Relation.”)

6. The Eschatological Fugue

At the end of GEB, Hofstadter wonders whether the self might survive as an infinite recursion of symbols — immortality as an eternal loop of thought. Teleostability answers differently: immortality is not the loop that never ends, but the loop fulfilled in glory.

The cosmos, like a fugue, will not repeat forever. It will reach its cadence — not cessation, but resolution. As Gregory of Nyssa said of the final restoration: “When vice disappears, the original form reappears.” What endures is not repetition but motif — not cycle, but transfiguration.

The glorious loop thus frames salvation history itself:

• Creation — Actus initiates the melody.

• Incarnation — Ordo enters the dissonance.

• Resurrection — Attraho resolves the harmony.

  
  

The loop closes only to open anew in splendor.

Conclusion

The strange loop reveals that being can contain itself.The glorious loop reveals that being is contained by Love.

Teleostability is the logic of that Love:an order that endures not by necessity but by gift;a universe sustained not by force but by relation;a reality that persists not by imposition but by attraction.

And just as Bach ended his fugues with Soli Deo Gloria,so the cosmos itself —each atom, each law, each soul —resounds, consciously or not, with the same refrain :

To God alone be the glory — the ultimate stability of all things.

(Final echo: cf. Romans 11:36; Revelation 21:23; Saint Augustine, Confessions, XI; Dante, Paradiso, XXXIII.)

The Final Unity of AOA — The Personal Logic of Divine Relation

AOA (Actus – Ordo – Attraho) is not the expression of three impersonal forces, but the revelation of three divine Persons in relation — three distinct modes of subsistence within one and the same Act of Being (actus essendi). What appears in the created world as gift, law, and attraction is, in its divine archetype, the eternal communion of Father, Son, and Spirit.

– Actus corresponds to the Father, the Source who gives being. His identity is not solitary power, but paternity — the origin who eternally gives the Son. He is Person precisely because He is relation of giving: Principium sine principio. – Ordo corresponds to the Son, the Logos in whom all things hold together (Col 1:17). His Person is not the law itself but the expression of divine intelligibility — the relational Word who receives all from the Father and returns all in filial love. – Attraho corresponds to the Spirit, the bond of communion, the attraction by which the gift and the order are united in love. The Spirit is not a “force” but the Person of the relation itself, the Love proceeding from the Father and the Son (amor unitivus).

Thus, Actus – Ordo – Attraho are not merely categories of metaphysics; they are the grammar of divine relationality. Being itself, in God, is relation. The unity of AOA is not that of fusion, but of perichoresis — mutual indwelling. Each Person subsists distinctly, yet not separately; each is Himself only in the act of being-with and being-for the others.

From this eternal structure flows the very logic of teleostability. The cosmos endures because it reflects, analogically, this Trinitarian rhythm :

• every being is given (echo of the Father’s act),

• every being is ordered (echo of the Logos’ form),

• every being is drawn toward fulfillment (echo of the Spirit’s attraction).
  

This is why stability is not inertia, but communion; not repetition, but fidelity. Each level of reality participates in this Trinitarian imprint, maintaining coherence not by force but by relation.

At the end of time, this dispersed reflection will be gathered into a single revelation: what we call laws or forces will appear for what they are — personal relations subsisting in Love. The universe, transfigured, will not be absorbed into an abstract unity but received into a personal communion where the many are one without ceasing to be distinct.

Thus AOA unveils the deepest meaning of creation: the world’s endurance is not the product of necessity but the overflow of relational being.

Actus gives, Ordo reveals, Attraho unites — and these three are one, as the Father, the Son, and the Spirit are one.

In the final vision, the “glorious loop” of teleostability resolves not in mechanism but in Personhood itself — the eternal dance of relation that is God : the Act that never ceases,the Order that never fragments,the Attraction that never compels —but each forever giving itself to the others in light.

“That they may be one, as We are one.” (John 17:22)

Personal Note – From Anthropocentrism and Cosmocentrism to Gloriocentrism: Teleostability as a Key

The history of human thought has long oscillated between two incomplete visions:

– Anthropocentrism, which places man at the center as the measure of all things;

– Cosmocentrism, which sacralizes nature itself as an absolute before which man should efface himself.

Both perspectives reflect the heritage of “fallen humanity.” Man either idolizes himself or the cosmos, but in both cases he remains captive to an earthly logic marked by division and rivalry.

Revelation opens a third way : Gloriocentrism. Here it is neither man nor the world, but the glory of God — the radiant light that transfigures and sustains all things — that becomes the true center. Humanity and creation are not their own end: they are oriented toward this ultimate radiance where “God will be all in all” (1 Cor 15:28).

Teleostability provides a rational foundation for this vision. It observes that despite entropy and chaos, there exists in the universe an order that persists: structures form, endure, repair themselves, and are transmitted. From stars lasting billions of years, to organisms reproducing, to the genetic code that conserves and renews life — all these point to an order oriented toward an end. This persistence is not neutral: it is a sign of an orientation inscribed at the heart of reality.

Thus neither man nor the cosmos, taken in isolation, suffices to explain their own stability. Anthropocentrism is illusory, for man himself is fragile and mortal. Cosmocentrism is equally inadequate, for nature is not absolute: it too groans and decays, as Paul writes, “The whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now” (Rom 8:22).

Gloriocentrism, however, recognizes that this persistence comes neither from man nor from nature, but from the glory of God that draws all things to Himself. The stable order of reality reflects an Act (actus), an Order (ordo), and an Attraction (attraho) — what we call AOA. Teleostability thus becomes a key that links science and faith: it shows that the universe is oriented toward a transcendent end, a stable finality inscribed in the fabric of time and matter.

In this light, the relation between man and animal takes on new depth. Created on the same day — the animals in the morning, man in the afternoon — they share the same condition as creatures, bound in a mysterious “alter-unity.” Yet this bond has been marked by the Fall : predation, mortality, rivalry. Man, in becoming “animal” in Gregory of Nyssa’s sense, has dragged the animal world with him into a wounded state.

But man’s original role was not to dominate in the modern sense of crushing domination, but to keep and cultivate the Garden (Gen 2:15). The biblical verb usually translated “to have dominion” (Gen 1:28) does not mean “to exploit,” but “to exercise responsibility” (κατακυριεύω) : it signifies a government of service, an orientation toward the good, not destructive appropriation. Man is created not as absolute master, but as guardian, steward, mediator of a creation entrusted to his care.

Gloriocentrism, enlightened by teleostability, calls us to move beyond partial visions. Neither man nor nature explains their own endurance. Both await transfiguration, oriented toward the glory of God. Man is not the absolute master of the animal, nor is the animal an absolute before which man must vanish. Both are companions in the same waiting, destined to be gathered into a new creation where the stability of reality will be fully illumined by the light of the Word.

Thus teleostability becomes a gloriocentric key: uniting science, theology, and contemplation, it shows that the persistence of the world is not absurdity but promise.

General Conclusion: Teleostability as a Sign of the Word

We do not claim that the sciences fail locally. They describe, model, and predict with remarkable precision. What we affirm is that, taken together, they do not exhaust the deepest questions: why is there something rather than nothing, why stable laws rather than fluctuating chaos, why a cumulative order rather than sheer noise ?

With Thomas Aquinas, we recall that “no creature can persist in being if the divine action does not preserve it” (SCG III, 66), and that the highest good of creation is “the order of the universe” (SCG III, 64). With the Catechism (CCC 302–308), we know that Providence is not blind fate: it guides creation toward an ultimate perfection, while respecting the cooperation of secondary causes and human freedom.

With Palamas, we can recognize that God truly communicates Himself without division, and that Ordo and Attraho may be read as reflections of these uncreated energies. Yet in fidelity to the Catholic confession, we affirm that this orientation (Attraho) does not end only in participation: it culminates in the beatific vision of the Essence itself, granted through the lumen gloriae.

This is what we have tried to name in the grammar of AOA — Actus ⇄ Ordo ⇄ Attraho:

• Actus: the gift of being and its conservation,

• Ordo: the intelligible stability of laws, forms, and codes,

• Attraho: the teleonomic orientation that draws reality toward fulfillment.

  
  

And this formula is read in both directions: source toward end, and end toward source. The reversibility is not a flourish; it reflects, analogically, the Trinitarian perichoresis, where Father, Son, and Spirit interpenetrate without succession. It manifests in creation the shadow of an order that transcends our linear conceptions of time — a quantum echo of Eden, an anticipation of the body of glory.

AOA, then, is not merely “Thomism rebranded.” It receives Aquinas’ foundation, but sharpens it for the modern enigma of persistence against entropy. It builds a bridge with Palamas, yet clarifies the Catholic horizon of vision. It provides a lexicon that speaks to metaphysics and science alike. And it unmasks the weakness of materialism, which hides behind petitions of principle (“that’s just how it is,” or “otherwise we would not be here to ask”) without seeing that this refusal to ask the deeper “why” is itself the true illusion.

For Providence is not determinism. It is an open finalism, where the universe is sustained (Actus), structured (Ordo), and drawn (Attraho). To acknowledge this grammar is not to abandon reason, but to honor the full intelligibility of the real. And if, at the end, we believe that “we shall see him as he is” (1 Jn 3:2), it is because at the very heart of the stability that astonishes us, we already discern the mark of a gift: not the illusion of chance, but the imprint of a God who sustains, illumines, and draws all things to Himself.

Of course, we do not claim here to “prove” God. We know that absolute, mathematical proof does not belong to this domain. What we do propose is that there exists a powerful, coherent, converging body of evidence that makes the hypothesis of a creative Intelligence rational, even sober. The objection of teleostability is part of this body of evidence: it does not force faith, but it opens reason.

Far from being a child’s tale or a naïve consolation, Christian faith emerges as a lucid and demanding reading of the real. It takes chaos and death seriously, yet dares to say that a Logos grounds and sustains all. The biblical narratives of Eden, the Fall, the Incarnation, and the Resurrection are not fables meant to soothe, but theological translations of a deeper observation: reality is stable, intelligible, and oriented.

In the end, perhaps this is the ultimate alliance of faith and reason: to recognize that the universe stands because it is upheld. That order is not reducible to a happy accident, but is the sign of a finality inscribed in being itself. And that this finality Christians name :

the Word, who is Life, and who is the light of men (Jn 1:4).

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