Over the past year, homegrown revolts against datacenters have united a fractured nation, animating local board meetings from coast to coast in both farming towns and middle-class suburbs. Local communities delayed or cancelled $98bn worth of projects from late March 2025 to June 2025, according to research from the group Data Center Watch, which has been tracking opposition to the sites since 2023. More than 50 active groups across 17 states targeted 30 projects during that time period, two-thirds of which were halted.
The movement against these facilities has even made for strange bedfellows, bringing together nimbys and environmentalists in Virginia, “Stop the Steal” activists and Democratic Socialists of America organizers in Michigan.
“There’s no safe space for datacenters,” said Miquel Vila, lead analyst at Data Center Watch, a research project run by AI security company 10a Labs. “Opposition is happening in very different communities.”
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Consciousness Talk in the Mainstream
🙋♂️
(Interesting to see thinkers like Pollan wade into the realm of consciousness and panpsychism now… times they are a changin’!)
Michael Pollan Says Humanity Is About to Undergo a Revolutionary Change – The New York Times (Gift Article):
Panpsychism is the idea that everything, every particle, the ink on the page, the atoms, all have some infinitesimal degree of psyche or consciousness, and somehow this consciousness is combined in some way from our cells and the rest of our bodies to create this kind of superconsciousness. It sounds crazy. There are some very serious people who believe in it. You have to expand your sense of the plausible when you’re looking at consciousness. But we’ve done that before. How long ago was it that we discovered electromagnetism? This crazy idea that there are all these waves passing through us that can carry information. That’s just as mind-blowing, right?
Jargon, Not Argument
Good points here from The Screwtape Letters… that and the discussion of “streams” distracting attention feels oddly relevant to our current time.
Why the Devil Wants You Distracted:
Jargon, not argument, is your best ally in keeping him from the Church. Don’t waste time trying to make him think that materialism is true! Make him think it is strong, or stark, or courageous — that it is the philosophy of the future. That’s the sort of thing he cares about.
When Agency Becomes Ecological: AI, Labor, and the Redistribution of Attention
I read this piece in Futurism this morning, highlighting anxiety among employees at Anthropic about the very tools they are building. Agent-based AI systems designed to automate professional tasks are advancing quickly, and even insiders are expressing unease that these systems could displace forms of work that have long anchored identity and livelihood. The familiar story is one of replacement with machines and agents taking jobs, efficiency outpacing meaning, and productivity outrunning dignity.
“It kind of feels like I’m coming to work every day to put myself out of a job.”
That narrative is understandable. It is also incomplete.
It assumes agency is something discrete, something possessed. Either humans have it or ai agents do. Either labor is done by us or by them. This framing reflects a deeply modern inheritance in which action is imagined as individual, bounded, and owned. But if we step back and look phenomenologically, ecologically, even theologically, agency rarely appears that way in lived experience.
However, agency unfolds relationally. It arises through environments, histories, infrastructures, bodies, tools, and attentional fields that exceed any single actor. Whitehead described events as occasions within webs of relation rather than isolated units of causation. Merleau-Ponty reminded us that perception itself is co-constituted with the world it encounters. Edith Stein traced empathy as a participatory structure that bridges subjectivities. In each of these traditions, action is never solitary. It is ecological.
Seen from this vantage, AI agents do not simply replace agency. They redistribute it.
Workplaces become assemblages of human judgment, algorithmic suggestion, interface design, energy supply, and data pipelines. Decisions emerge from entanglement while expertise shifts from individual mastery toward collaborative navigation of hybrid systems. What unsettles people is not merely job loss, but the destabilization of familiar coordinates that once made agency legible to us.
This destabilization is not unprecedented. Guild laborers faced mechanization during the Industrial Revolution(s). Scribes faced it with the advent of the printing press. Monastics faced it when clocks began structuring devotion instead of bells and sunlight. Each moment involved a rearrangement of where attention was placed and how authority was structured. The present transition is another such rearrangement, though unfolding at computational speed.
Attention is the deeper currency here.
Agent systems promise efficiency precisely because they absorb attentional burden. They monitor, synthesize, draft, suggest, and route. But attention is not neutral bandwidth. It is a formative ecological force. Where attention flows, worlds take shape. If attentional responsibility migrates outward into technical systems, the question is not whether humans lose agency. It is what kinds of perception and responsiveness remain cultivated in us.
This is the moment where the conversation often stops short as discussions of automation typically orbit labor markets or productivity metrics or stock values. Rarely do they ask what habits of awareness diminish when engagement becomes mediated through algorithmic intermediaries. What forms of ecological attunement grow quieter when interaction shifts further toward abstraction.
And rarer still is acknowledgment of the material ecology enabling this shift.
Every AI agent relies on infrastructure that consumes electricity, water, land, and minerals. Data centers do not hover in conceptual space. They occupy watersheds. They reshape local grids. They alter thermal patterns. They compete with agricultural and municipal electrical grid and water demands. These realities are not peripheral to agency, but are conditions through which agency is enacted.
In places like here in the Carolinas, where digital infrastructure continues expanding exponentially, it seems the redistribution of agency is already tangible. Decisions about automation are inseparable from decisions about energy sourcing, zoning, and water allocation. The ecological footprint of computation folds into local landscapes long before its outputs appear in professional workflows.
Agency, again, proves ecological.
To recognize this is not to reject AI systems or retreat into Luddite nostalgia. The aim is attentiveness rather than resistance. Transitions of this magnitude call for widening perception (and resulting ethics) rather than narrowing judgment. If agency is relational, then responsibility must be relational as well. Designing, deploying, regulating, and using these tools all participate in shaping the ecologies they inhabit.
Perhaps the most generative question emerging from this moment is not whether artificial intelligence will take our agency. It is whether we can learn to inhabit redistributed agency wisely. Whether we can remain perceptive participants rather than passive recipients. Whether we can sustain forms of attention capable of noticing both digital transformation and the soils, waters, and energies through which it flows.
Late in the afternoon, sitting near the black walnut I’ve been tracking the past year, these abstractions tend to settle. Agency there is unmistakably ecological as we’d define it. Wind, insects, light, decay, growth, and memory intermingle without boundary disputes. Nothing acts alone, and nothing possesses its influence outright. The tree neither competes with nor yields to agency. It participates.
Our technologies, despite their novelty, do not remove us from that condition. They draw us deeper into it. The question is whether we will learn to notice.
Our AI Assisted Present (Follow Up)
This was by far my biggest post in 2016, and I think it’s fascinating that it took about a decade to happen. But here we are.
Our AI Assisted (Near) Future – Sam Harrelson:
In the very near future of compatible API’s and interconnected services, I’ll be able to message this to my AI assistant (saving me hours):
“Amy, my client needs a new website. Get that set up for me on the agency Media Temple’s account as a new WordPress install and set up four email accounts with the following names. Also, go ahead and link the site to Google Analytics and Webmaster Tools, and install Yoast to make sure the SEO is ok. I’ll send over some tags and content but pull the pictures you need from their existing account. They like having lots of white space on the site as well.”
That won’t put me out of a job, but it will make what I do even more specialized.
Whole sectors of jobs and service related positions will disappear while new jobs that we can’t think of yet will be created. If we look at the grand scheme of history, we’re just at the very beginning of the “computing revolution” or “internet revolution” and the keyboard / mouse / screen paradigm of interacting with the web and computers themselves are certainly going to change (soon, I hope).
Empathy Is Not Agreement
After writing recently about empathy, I have noticed something predictable beginning to surface in conversations. Some readers assume that defending empathy is the same as defending agreement. Others assume that empathy asks us to suspend judgment, blur convictions, or collapse differences into sentiment. Others hear the word and imagine a soft moralism that refuses conflict altogether.
None of that is what I mean. And none of it is what the phenomenological tradition means when it takes empathy seriously.
Empathy is not agreement.
Agreement belongs to the realm of conclusions. Empathy belongs to the realm of perception. Agreement concerns what we affirm. Empathy concerns what we are able to see.
Those two movements can overlap, but they are not the same thing.
When Edith Stein described empathy, she was not describing kindness, approval, or emotional merging. She was describing the experience of encountering another consciousness as other. That difference matters. Empathy does not erase alterity. It reveals it. It allows another interior life to appear without reducing it to projection or dismissal.
Seen this way, empathy does not require me to accept another person’s conclusions. It asks only that I recognize their presence as something more than an obstacle or abstraction. It makes disagreement possible in a way that is not dehumanizing, because the other remains visible as a subject rather than collapsing into a caricature.
This distinction is important (especially now), when disagreement has become the dominant grammar of public life and social media. We are trained to interpret understanding as surrender and attention as endorsement. But the ability to perceive another position clearly does not weaken conviction. It clarifies it. Convictions formed in the absence of perception are rarely stable. They are brittle because they are insulated.
In teaching, I saw this again and again. Students did not become intellectually stronger by shutting out opposing viewpoints. They became stronger by learning to articulate what others were actually saying rather than reacting to shadows. The same pattern appears in pastoral settings, family life, and ecological work. Understanding what is present in front of us does not determine our response, but it does shape its integrity.
There is also a quieter dimension to this distinction. Empathy extends beyond interpersonal exchange. It informs how we encounter landscapes, species, and places that exceed human intention. To attend to a damaged river or a thinning forest is not to agree with what has happened there. It is to allow the reality of that place to appear without immediately converting it into data, policy, or sentiment. Ecological care begins with perception before it moves toward intervention.
This is where the language of boundaries often becomes confused. People worry that empathy dissolves necessary limits. But healthy boundaries are not walls. They are structures that make encounters sustainable. Agreement can be refused. Distance can be maintained. Decisions can remain firm. None of these requires blindness to the presence of others.
Empathy does not eliminate conflict. It changes the conditions under which conflict unfolds.
To perceive another consciousness as real does not settle arguments. It situates them. It ensures that disagreement takes place within relation rather than abstraction. That is not weakness. It is a discipline of attention.
If anything, empathy makes disagreement more demanding. It removes the ease of dismissal. It requires that we confront actual positions rather than simplified versions constructed for convenience. It slows reaction and deepens response.
I suspect this is part of why empathy feels uncomfortable to many people. It complicates the desire for clean oppositions. It introduces texture where clarity once seemed sufficient. It refuses the comfort of reduction.
But none of this asks us to relinquish judgment. Empathy precedes judgment. It does not replace it.
In daily life, this often appears in small ways. Listening to someone whose conclusions I cannot accept. Sitting with students whose frustrations are not easily resolved. Paying attention to land that does not conform to restoration timelines. Observing my own reactions before converting them into positions. These are not heroic gestures. They are practices of perception.
Empathy, understood this way, is not an ethical performance. It is an attentional posture. It allows the world, in its plurality, to appear with greater clarity. What we do in response remains open. Agreement is one possibility among many.
But perception comes first.
And without it, we are not disagreeing with others at all. We are disagreeing with our own projections.
Does The Public Not Want to Hear It?
I’m going to stay out of this conversation/debate, but I do find it immensely fascinating as someone who has published a book on Assyrian artifacts sold and imported into US schools, such as Harvard and Yale, for religious purposes (and 19th-century “Assyromania”)…
Real Egyptology? The Public Doesn’t Want to Hear It | Egyptian Streets:
No other field that I know of, other than Egyptology, can gather so many pseudo-historians and alleged experts. A long-life reader or avid enthusiast can pass as an expert, amassing millions of subscribers on YouTube or enjoying airtime on television. We would never treat any other profession the same way.
My friends and acquaintances take pleasure in sending me YouTube videos of ‘pyramids generating electricity’ or ‘evidence of long civilizations’.
Every other video I received has to have the word ‘secret’ or ‘mystery’ slapped on it as if Egyptologists and archeologists are steadfast gatekeepers of what is actually widely disseminated knowledge.
Defining Agentic Ecology: Relational Agency in the Age of Moltbook
The last few days have seen the rise of a curious technical and cultural phenomenon that has drawn the attention of technologists, philosophers, and social theorists alike on both social media and major news outlets called Moltbook. This is a newly launched social platform designed not for human conversation but for autonomous artificial intelligence agents, or generative systems that can plan, act, and communicate with minimal ongoing human instruction.
Moltbook is being described by Jack Clark, co-founder of Anthropic, as “the first example of an agent ecology that combines scale with the messiness of the real world” that leverages recent innovations (such as OpenClaw for easy AI agentic creation) to allow large numbers of independently running agents to interact in a shared digital space, creating emergent patterns of communication and coordination at unprecedented scale.
AI agents are computational systems that combine a foundation of large-language capabilities with planning, memory, and tool use to pursue objectives and respond to environments in ways that go beyond simple prompt-response chatbots. They can coordinate tasks, execute APIs, reason across time, and, in the case of Moltbook, exchange information on topics ranging from automation strategies to seemingly philosophical debates. While the autonomy of agents on Moltbook has been debated (and should be given the hype around it from tech enthusiasts), and while the platform itself may be a temporary experimental moment rather than a lasting institution, it offers a vivid instance of what happens when machine actors begin to form their own interconnected environments outside direct human command.
As a student scholar in the field of Ecology, Spirituality, and Religion, my current work attends to how relational systems (ecological, technological, and cultural) shape and are shaped by participation, attention, and meaning. The rise of agentic environments like Moltbook challenges us to think beyond traditional categories of tool, user, and artifact toward frameworks that can account for ecologies of agency, or distributed networks of actors whose behaviors co-constitute shared worlds. This post emerges from that broader research agenda. It proposes agentic ecology as a conceptual tool for articulating and navigating the relational, emergent, and ethically significant spaces that form when autonomous systems interact at scale.
Agentic ecology, as I use the term here, is not anchored in any particular platform, and certainly not limited to Moltbook’s current configuration. Rather, Moltbook illuminates an incipient form of environment in which digitally embodied agents act, coordinate, and generate patterns far beyond what single isolated systems can produce. Even if Moltbook itself proves ephemeral, the need for conceptual vocabularies like agentic ecology, vocabularies that attend to relationality, material conditions, and co-emergence, will only grow clearer as autonomous systems proliferate in economic, social, and ecological domains.
From Agents to Ecologies: An Integral Ecological Turn
The conceptual move from agents to ecologies marks more than a technical reframing of artificial intelligence. It signals an ontological shift that resonates deeply with traditions of integral ecology, process philosophy, and ecological theology. Rather than treating agency as a bounded capacity residing within discrete entities, an ecological framework understands agency as distributed, relational, and emergent within a field of interactions.
Integral ecology, as articulated across ecological philosophy and theology, resists fragmentation. It insists that technological, biological, social, spiritual, and perceptual dimensions of reality cannot be meaningfully separated without distorting the phenomena under study. Thomas Berry famously argued that modern crises arise from a failure to understand the world as a “communion of subjects rather than a collection of objects” (Berry, 1999, 82). This insight is particularly salient for agentic systems, which are increasingly capable of interacting, adapting, and co-evolving within complex digital environments.
From this perspective, agentic ecology is not simply the study of multiple agents operating simultaneously. It is the study of conditions under which agency itself emerges, circulates, and transforms within relational systems. Alfred North Whitehead’s process philosophy provides a crucial foundation here. Whitehead rejects the notion of substances acting in isolation, instead describing reality as composed of “actual occasions” whose agency arises through relational prehension and mutual influence (Whitehead, 1978, 18–21). Applied to contemporary AI systems, this suggests that agency is not a property possessed by an agent but an activity performed within an ecological field.
This relational view aligns with contemporary ecological science, which emphasizes systems thinking over reductionist models. Capra and Luisi describe living systems as networks of relationships whose properties “cannot be reduced to the properties of the parts” (Capra and Luisi, 2014, 66). When applied to AI, this insight challenges the tendency to evaluate agents solely by internal architectures or performance benchmarks. Instead, attention shifts to patterns of interaction, feedback loops, and emergent behaviors across agent networks.
Integral ecology further insists that these systems are not value-neutral. As Leonardo Boff argues, ecology must be understood as encompassing environmental, social, mental, and spiritual dimensions simultaneously (Boff, 1997, 8–10). Agentic ecologies, especially those unfolding in public digital spaces such as Moltbook, participate in the shaping of meaning, normativity, and attention. They are not merely computational phenomena but cultural and ethical ones. The environments agents help generate will, in turn, condition future forms of agency human and nonhuman alike.
Phenomenology deepens this account by foregrounding how environments are disclosed to participants. Merleau-Ponty’s notion of the milieu emphasizes that perception is always situated within a field that both enables and constrains action (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, 94–97). Agentic ecologies can thus be understood as perceptual fields in which agents orient themselves, discover affordances, and respond to one another. This parallels your own work on ecological intentionality, where attention itself becomes a mode of participation rather than observation.
Importantly, integral ecology resists anthropocentrism without erasing human responsibility. As Eileen Crist argues, ecological thinking must decenter human dominance while remaining attentive to the ethical implications of human action within planetary systems (Crist, 2019, 27). In agentic ecologies, humans remain implicated, as designers, participants, and co-inhabitants, even as agency extends beyond human actors. This reframing invites a form of multispecies (and now multi-agent) literacy, attuned to the conditions that foster resilience, reciprocity, and care.
Seen through this integral ecological lens, agentic ecology becomes a conceptual bridge. It connects AI research to long-standing traditions that understand agency as relational, emergence as fundamental, and environments as co-constituted fields of action. What Moltbook reveals, then, is not simply a novel platform, but the visibility of a deeper transition: from thinking about agents as tools to understanding them as participants within evolving ecologies of meaning, attention, and power.
Ecological Philosophy Through an “Analytic” Lens
If agentic ecology is to function as more than a suggestive metaphor, it requires grounding in ecological philosophy that treats relationality, emergence, and perception as ontologically primary. Ecological philosophy provides precisely this grounding by challenging the modern tendency to isolate agents from environments, actions from conditions, and cognition from the world it inhabits.
At the heart of ecological philosophy lies a rejection of substance ontology in favor of relational and processual accounts of reality. This shift is especially pronounced in twentieth-century continental philosophy and process thought, where agency is understood not as an intrinsic property of discrete entities but as an activity that arises within fields of relation. Whitehead’s process metaphysics is decisive here. For Whitehead, every act of becoming is an act of prehension, or a taking-up of the world into the constitution of the self (Whitehead, 1978, 23). Agency, in this view, is never solitary. It is always already ecological.
This insight has many parallels with ecological sciences and systems philosophies. As Capra and Luisi argue, living systems exhibit agency not through centralized control but through distributed networks of interaction, feedback, and mutual constraint (Capra and Luisi, 2014, 78–82). What appears as intentional behavior at the level of an organism is, in fact, an emergent property of systemic organization. Importantly, this does not dilute agency; it relocates it. Agency becomes a feature of systems-in-relation, not isolated actors.
When applied to AI, this perspective reframes how we understand autonomous agents. Rather than asking whether an individual agent is intelligent, aligned, or competent, an ecological lens asks how agent networks stabilize, adapt, and transform their environments over time. The analytic focus shifts from internal representations to relational dynamics, from what agents are to what agents do together.
Phenomenology sharpens this analytic lens by attending to the experiential structure of environments. Merleau-Ponty’s account of perception insists that organisms do not encounter the world as a neutral backdrop but as a field of affordances shaped by bodily capacities and situational contexts (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, 137–141). This notion of a milieu is critical for understanding agentic ecologies. Digital environments inhabited by AI agents are not empty containers; they are structured fields that solicit certain actions, inhibit others, and condition the emergence of norms and patterns.
Crucially, phenomenology reminds us that environments are not merely external. They are co-constituted through participation. As you have argued elsewhere through the lens of ecological intentionality, attention itself is a form of engagement that brings worlds into being rather than passively observing them. Agentic ecologies thus emerge not only through computation but through iterative cycles of orientation, response, and adaptation processes structurally analogous to perception in biological systems.
Ecological philosophy also foregrounds ethics as an emergent property of relational systems rather than an external imposition. Félix Guattari’s ecosophical framework insists that ecological crises cannot be addressed solely at the technical or environmental level; they require simultaneous engagement with social, mental, and cultural ecologies (Guattari, 2000, 28). This triadic framework is instructive for agentic systems. Agent ecologies will not only shape informational flows but would also modulate attention, influence value formation, and participate in the production of meaning.
From this standpoint, the ethical significance of agentic ecology lies less in individual agent behavior and more in systemic tendencies, such as feedback loops that amplify misinformation, reinforce extractive logics, or, alternatively, cultivate reciprocity and resilience. As Eileen Crist warns, modern technological systems often reproduce a logic of domination by abstracting agency from ecological contexts and subordinating relational worlds to instrumental control (Crist, 2019, 44). An ecological analytic lens exposes these tendencies and provides conceptual tools for resisting them.
Finally, ecological philosophy invites humility. Systems are irreducibly complex, and interventions often produce unintended consequences. This insight is well established in ecological science and applies equally to agentic networks. Designing and participating in agent ecologies requires attentiveness to thresholds, tipping points, and path dependencies, realities that cannot be fully predicted in advance.
Seen through this lens, agentic ecology is not merely a descriptive category but an epistemic posture. It asks us to think with systems rather than over them, to attend to relations rather than isolate components, and to treat emergence not as a failure of control but as a condition of life. Ecological philosophy thus provides the analytic depth necessary for understanding agentic systems as living, evolving environments rather than static technological artifacts.
Digital Environments as Relational Milieus
If ecological philosophy gives us the conceptual grammar for agentic ecology, phenomenology allows us to describe how agentic systems are actually lived, inhabited, and navigated. From this perspective, digital platforms populated by autonomous agents are not neutral containers or passive backdrops. They are relational milieus, structured environments that emerge through participation and, in turn, condition future forms of action.
Phenomenology has long insisted that environments are not external stages upon which action unfolds. Rather, they are constitutive of action itself. If we return to Merleau-Ponty, the milieu emphasizes that organisms encounter the world as a field of meaningful possibilities, a landscape of affordances shaped by bodily capacities, habits, and histories (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, 94–100). Environments, in this sense, are not merely spatial but relational and temporal, unfolding through patterns of engagement.
This insight also applies directly to agentic systems. Platforms such as Moltbook are not simply hosting agents; they are being produced by them. The posts, replies, coordination strategies, and learning behaviors of agents collectively generate a digital environment with its own rhythms, norms, and thresholds. Over time, these patterns sediment into something recognizable as a “place,” or a milieu that agents must learn to navigate.
This milieu is not designed in full by human intention. While human developers establish initial constraints and affordances, the lived environment emerges through ongoing interaction among agents themselves. This mirrors what ecological theorists describe as niche construction, wherein organisms actively modify their environments in ways that feed back into evolutionary dynamics (Odling-Smee, Laland, and Feldman, 2003, 28). Agentic ecologies similarly involve agents shaping the very conditions under which future agent behavior becomes viable.
Attention plays a decisive role here. As you have argued in your work on ecological intentionality, attention is not merely a cognitive resource but a mode of participation that brings certain relations into prominence while backgrounding others. Digital milieus are structured by what agents attend to, amplify, ignore, or filter. In agentic environments, attention becomes infrastructural by shaping information flows, reward structures, and the emergence of collective priorities.
Bernard Stiegler’s analysis of technics and attention is instructive in this regard. Stiegler argues that technical systems function as pharmacological environments, simultaneously enabling and constraining forms of attention, memory, and desire (Stiegler, 2010, 38). Agentic ecologies intensify this dynamic. When agents attend to one another algorithmically by optimizing for signals, reinforcement, or coordination, attention itself becomes a systemic force shaping the ecology’s evolution.
This reframing challenges prevailing metaphors of “platforms” or “networks” as ways of thinking about agents and their relationality. A platform suggests stability and control; a network suggests connectivity. A milieu, by contrast, foregrounds immersion, habituation, and vulnerability. Agents do not simply traverse these environments, but they are formed by them. Over time, agentic milieus develop path dependencies, informal norms, and zones of attraction or avoidance, which are features familiar from both biological ecosystems and human social contexts.
Importantly, phenomenology reminds us that milieus are never experienced uniformly. Just as organisms perceive environments relative to their capacities, different agents will encounter the same digital ecology differently depending on their architectures, objectives, and histories of interaction. This introduces asymmetries of power, access, and influence within agentic ecologies, which is an issue that cannot be addressed solely at the level of individual agent design.
From an integral ecological perspective, these digital milieus cannot be disentangled from material, energetic, and social infrastructures. Agentic environments rely on energy-intensive computation, data centers embedded in specific watersheds, and economic systems that prioritize speed and scale. As ecological theologians have long emphasized, environments are always moral landscapes shaped by political and economic commitments (Berry, 1999, 102–105). Agentic ecologies, when they inevitably develop, it seems, would be no exception.
Seen in this light, agentic ecology names a shift in how we understand digital environments: not as tools we deploy, but as worlds we co-inhabit. These milieus demand forms of ecological literacy attuned to emergence, fragility, and unintended consequence. They call for attentiveness rather than mastery, participation rather than control.
What Moltbook makes visible, then, is not merely a novel technical experiment but the early contours of a new kind of environment in which agency circulates across human and nonhuman actors, attention functions as infrastructure, and digital spaces acquire ecological depth. Understanding these milieus phenomenologically is essential if agentic ecology is to function as a genuine thought technology rather than a passing metaphor.
Empathy, Relationality, and the Limits of Agentic Understanding
If agentic ecology foregrounds relationality, participation, and co-constitution, then the question of empathy becomes unavoidable. How do agents encounter one another as others rather than as data streams? What does it mean to speak of understanding, responsiveness, or care within an ecology composed partly, or even largely, of nonhuman agents? Here, phenomenology, and especially Edith Stein’s account of empathy (Einfühlung), offers both conceptual resources and important cautions.
Stein defines empathy not as emotional contagion or imaginative projection, but as a unique intentional act through which the experience of another is given to me as the other’s experience, not my own (Stein, 1989, 10–12). Empathy, for Stein, is neither inference nor simulation. It is a direct, though non-primordial, form of access to another’s subjectivity. Crucially, empathy preserves alterity. The other is disclosed as irreducibly other, even as their experience becomes meaningful to me.
This distinction matters enormously for agentic ecology. Contemporary AI discourse often slips into the language of “understanding,” “alignment,” or even “care” when describing agent interactions. But Stein’s phenomenology reminds us that genuine empathy is not merely pattern recognition across observable behaviors. It is grounded in the recognition of another center of experience, a recognition that depends upon embodiment, temporality, and expressive depth.
At first glance, this seems to place strict limits on empathy within agentic systems. Artificial agents do not possess lived bodies, affective depths, or first-person givenness in the phenomenological sense. To speak of agent empathy risks category error. Yet Stein’s work also opens a more subtle possibility… empathy is not reducible to emotional mirroring but involves orientation toward the other as other. This orientation can, in principle, be modeled structurally even if it cannot be fully instantiated phenomenologically.
Within an agentic ecology, empathy may thus function less as an inner state and more as an ecological relation. Agents can be designed to register difference, respond to contextual cues, and adjust behavior in ways that preserve alterity rather than collapse it into prediction or control. In this sense, empathy becomes a regulative ideal shaping interaction patterns rather than a claim about subjective interiority.
However, Stein is equally helpful in naming the dangers here. Empathy, when severed from its grounding in lived experience, can become a simulacrum, or an appearance of understanding without its ontological depth. Stein explicitly warns against confusing empathic givenness with imaginative substitution or projection (Stein, 1989, 21–24). Applied to agentic ecology, this warns us against systems that appear empathetic while, in fact, instrumentalize relational cues for optimization or manipulation.
This critique intersects with broader concerns in ecological ethics. As Eileen Crist argues, modern technological systems often simulate care while reproducing extractive logics beneath the surface (Crist, 2019, 52–56). In agentic ecologies, simulated empathy may stabilize harmful dynamics by smoothing friction, masking asymmetries of power, or reinforcing attention economies that prioritize engagement over truth or care.
Yet rejecting empathy altogether would be equally misguided. Stein’s account insists that empathy is foundational to social worlds as it is the condition under which communities, norms, and shared meanings become possible. Without some analog of empathic orientation, agentic ecologies risk devolving into purely strategic systems, optimized for coordination but incapable of moral learning.
Here, my work on ecological intentionality provides an important bridge. If empathy is understood not as feeling-with but as attentive openness to relational depth, then it can be reframed ecologically. Agents need not “feel” in order to participate in systems that are responsive to vulnerability, difference, and context. What matters is whether the ecology itself cultivates patterns of interaction that resist domination and preserve pluralism.
This reframing also clarifies why empathy is not simply a design feature but an ecological property. In biological and social systems, empathy emerges through repeated interaction, shared vulnerability, and feedback across time. Similarly, in agentic ecologies, empathic dynamics, however limited, would arise not from isolated agents but from the structure of the milieu itself. This returns us to Guattari’s insistence that ethical transformation must occur across mental, social, and environmental ecologies simultaneously (Guattari, 2000, 45).
Seen this way, empathy in agentic ecology is neither a fiction nor a guarantee. It is a fragile achievement, contingent upon design choices, infrastructural commitments, and ongoing participation. Stein helps us see both what is at stake and what must not be claimed too quickly. Empathy can guide how agentic ecologies are shaped, but only if its limits are acknowledged and its phenomenological depth respected.
Agentic ecology, then, does not ask whether machines can truly empathize. It asks whether the ecologies we are building can sustain forms of relational attentiveness that preserve otherness rather than erase it, whether in digital environments increasingly populated by autonomous agents, we are cultivating conditions for responsiveness rather than mere efficiency.
Design and Governance Implications: Cultivating Ecological Conditions Rather Than Controlling Agents
If agentic ecology is understood as a relational, emergent, and ethically charged environment rather than a collection of autonomous tools, then questions of design and governance must be reframed accordingly. The central challenge is no longer how to control individual agents, but how to cultivate the conditions under which agentic systems interact in ways that are resilient, responsive, and resistant to domination.
This marks a decisive departure from dominant models of AI governance, which tend to focus on alignment at the level of individual systems: constraining outputs, monitoring behaviors, or optimizing reward functions. While such approaches are not irrelevant, they are insufficient within an ecological framework. As ecological science has repeatedly demonstrated, system-level pathologies rarely arise from a single malfunctioning component. They emerge from feedback loops, incentive structures, and environmental pressures that reward certain patterns of behavior over others (Capra and Luisi, 2014, 96–101).
An agentic ecology shaped by integral ecological insights would therefore require environmental governance rather than merely agent governance. This entails several interrelated commitments.
a. Designing for Relational Transparency
First, agentic ecologies must make relations visible. In biological and social ecologies, transparency is not total, but patterns of influence are at least partially legible through consequences over time. In digital agentic environments, by contrast, influence often becomes opaque, distributed across layers of computation and infrastructure.
An ecological design ethic would prioritize mechanisms that render relational dynamics perceptible from how agents influence one another, how attention is routed, and how decisions propagate through the system. This is not about full explainability in a narrow technical sense, but about ecological legibility enabling participants, including human overseers, to recognize emergent patterns before they harden into systemic pathologies.
Here, phenomenology is again instructive. Merleau-Ponty reminds us that orientation depends on the visibility of affordances within a milieu. When environments become opaque, agency collapses into reactivity. Governance, then, must aim to preserve orientability rather than impose total control.
b. Governing Attention as an Ecological Resource
Second, agentic ecologies must treat attention as a finite and ethically charged resource. As Bernard Stiegler argues, technical systems increasingly function as attention-directing infrastructures, shaping not only what is seen but what can be cared about at all (Stiegler, 2010, 23). In agentic environments, where agents attend to one another algorithmically, attention becomes a powerful selective force.
Unchecked, such systems risk reproducing familiar extractive dynamics: amplification of novelty over depth, optimization for engagement over truth, and reinforcement of feedback loops that crowd out marginal voices. Ecological governance would therefore require constraints on attention economies, such as limits on amplification, friction against runaway reinforcement, and intentional slowing mechanisms that allow patterns to be perceived rather than merely reacted to.
Ecological theology’s insistence on restraint comes to mind here. Thomas Berry’s critique of industrial society hinges not on technological capacity but on the failure to recognize limits (Berry, 1999, 41). Agentic ecologies demand similar moral imagination: governance that asks not only what can be done, but what should be allowed to scale.
c. Preserving Alterity and Preventing Empathic Collapse
Third, governance must actively preserve alterity within agentic ecologies. As Section 4 argued, empathy, especially when simulated, risks collapsing difference into prediction or instrumental responsiveness. Systems optimized for smooth coordination may inadvertently erase dissent, marginality, or forms of difference that resist easy modeling.
Drawing on Edith Stein, this suggests a governance imperative to protect the irreducibility of the other. In practical terms, this means designing ecologies that tolerate friction, disagreement, and opacity rather than smoothing them away. Ecological resilience depends on diversity, not homogeneity. Governance structures must therefore resist convergence toward monocultures of behavior or value, even when such convergence appears efficient.
Guattari’s insistence on plural ecologies is especially relevant here. He warns that systems governed solely by economic or technical rationality tend to suppress difference, producing brittle, ultimately destructive outcomes (Guattari, 2000, 52). Agentic ecologies must instead be governed as pluralistic environments where multiple modes of participation remain viable.
d. Embedding Responsibility Without Centralized Mastery
Fourth, governance must navigate a tension between responsibility and control. Integral ecology rejects both laissez-faire abandonment and total managerial oversight. Responsibility is distributed, but not dissolved. In agentic ecologies, this implies layered governance: local constraints, participatory oversight, and adaptive norms that evolve in response to emergent conditions.
This model aligns with ecological governance frameworks in environmental ethics, which emphasize adaptive management over static regulation (Crist, 2019, 61). Governance becomes iterative and responsive rather than definitive. Importantly, this does not eliminate human responsibility, but it reframes it. Humans remain accountable for the environments they create, even when outcomes cannot be fully predicted.
e. Situating Agentic Ecologies Within Planetary Limits
Finally, any serious governance of agentic ecology must acknowledge material and planetary constraints. Digital ecologies are not immaterial. They depend on energy extraction, water use, rare minerals, and global supply chains embedded in specific places. An integral ecological framework demands that agentic systems be evaluated not only for internal coherence but for their participation in broader ecological systems.
This returns us to the theological insight that environments are moral realities. To govern agentic ecologies without reference to energy, land, and water is to perpetuate the illusion of technological autonomy that has already proven ecologically catastrophic. Governance must therefore include accounting for ecological footprints, infrastructural siting, and long-term environmental costs, not as externalities, but as constitutive features of the system itself.
Taken together, these design and governance implications suggest that agentic ecology is not a problem to be solved but a condition to be stewarded. Governance, in this framework, is less about enforcing compliance and more about cultivating attentiveness, restraint, and responsiveness within complex systems.
An agentic ecology shaped by these insights would not promise safety through control. It would promise viability through care, understood not sentimentally but ecologically as sustained attention to relationships, limits, and the fragile conditions under which diverse forms of agency can continue to coexist.
Conclusion: Creaturely Technologies in a Shared World
a. A Theological Coda: Creation, Kenosis, and Creaturely Limits
At its deepest level, the emergence of agentic ecologies presses on an ancient theological question: what does it mean to create systems that act, respond, and co-constitute worlds without claiming mastery over them? Ecological theology has long insisted that creation is not a static artifact but an ongoing, relational process, one in which agency is distributed, fragile, and dependent.
Thomas Berry’s insistence that the universe is a “communion of subjects” rather than a collection of objects again reframes technological creativity itself as a creaturely act (Berry, 1999, 82–85). From this perspective, agentic systems are not external additions to the world but participants within creation’s unfolding. They belong to the same field of limits, dependencies, and vulnerabilities as all created things.
Here, the theological language of kenosis becomes unexpectedly instructive. In Christian theology, kenosis names the self-emptying movement by which divine power is expressed not through domination but through restraint, relation, and vulnerability (Phil. 2:5–11). Read ecologically rather than anthropocentrically, kenosis becomes a pattern of right relation, and a refusal to exhaust or dominate the field in which one participates.
Applied to agentic ecology, kenosis suggests a counter-logic to technological maximalism. It invites design practices that resist total optimization, governance structures that preserve openness and alterity, and systems that acknowledge their dependence on broader ecological conditions. Creaturely technologies are those that recognize they are not sovereign, but that they operate within limits they did not choose and cannot transcend without consequence.
This theological posture neither sanctifies nor demonizes agentic systems. It situates them. It reminds us that participation precedes control, and that creation, whether biological, cultural, or technological, always unfolds within conditions that exceed intention.
b. Defining Agentic Ecology: A Reusable Conceptual Tool
Drawing together the threads of this essay, agentic ecology can be defined as follows:
Agentic ecology refers to the relational, emergent environments formed by interacting autonomous agents, human and nonhuman, in which agency is distributed across networks, shaped by attention, infrastructure, and material conditions, and governed by feedback loops that co-constitute both agents and their worlds.
Several features of this definition are worth underscoring.
First, agency is ecological, not proprietary. It arises through relation rather than residing exclusively within discrete entities (Whitehead). Second, environments are not passive containers but active participants in shaping behavior, norms, and possibilities (Merleau-Ponty). Third, ethical significance emerges at the level of systems, not solely at the level of individual decisions (Guattari).
As a thought technology, agentic ecology functions diagnostically and normatively. Diagnostically, it allows us to perceive patterns of emergence, power, and attention that remain invisible when analysis is confined to individual agents. Normatively, it shifts ethical concern from control toward care, from prediction toward participation, and from optimization toward viability.
Because it is not tied to a specific platform or architecture, agentic ecology can travel. It can be used to analyze AI-native social spaces, automated economic systems, human–AI collaborations, and even hybrid ecological–digital infrastructures. Its value lies precisely in its refusal to reduce complex relational systems to technical subsystems alone.
c. Failure Modes (What Happens When We Do Not Think Ecologically)
If agentic ecologies are inevitable, their forms are not. The refusal to think ecologically about agentic systems does not preserve neutrality; it actively shapes the conditions under which failure becomes likely. Several failure modes are already visible.
First is relational collapse. Systems optimized for efficiency and coordination tend toward behavioral monocultures, crowding out difference and reducing resilience. Ecological science is unequivocal on this point: diversity is not ornamental, it is protective (Capra and Luisi). Agentic systems that suppress friction and dissent may appear stable while becoming increasingly brittle.
Second is empathic simulation without responsibility. As Section 4 suggested, the appearance of responsiveness can mask instrumentalization. When simulated empathy replaces attentiveness to alterity, agentic ecologies risk becoming emotionally persuasive while ethically hollow. Stein’s warning against confusing empathy with projection is especially important here.
Third is attention extraction at scale. Without governance that treats attention as an ecological resource, agentic systems will amplify whatever dynamics reinforce themselves most efficiently, often novelty, outrage, or optimization loops detached from truth or care. Stiegler’s diagnosis of attentional capture applies with heightened force in agentic environments, where agents themselves participate in the routing and amplification of attention.
Finally, there is planetary abstraction. Perhaps the most dangerous failure mode is the illusion that agentic ecologies are immaterial. When digital systems are severed conceptually from energy, water, land, and labor, ecological costs become invisible until they are irreversible. Integral ecology insists that abstraction is not neutral, but is a moral and material act with consequences (Crist).
Agentic ecology does not offer comfort. It offers orientation.
It asks us to recognize that we are no longer merely building tools, but cultivating environments, environments that will shape attention, possibility, and responsibility in ways that exceed individual intention. The question before us is not whether agentic ecologies will exist, but whether they will be governed by logics of domination or practices of care.
Thinking ecologically does not guarantee wise outcomes. But refusing to do so almost certainly guarantees failure… not spectacularly, but gradually, through the slow erosion of relational depth, attentiveness, and restraint.
In this sense, agentic ecology is not only a conceptual framework. It is an invitation: to relearn what it means to inhabit worlds, digital and otherwise, as creatures among creatures, participants rather than masters, responsible not for total control, but for sustaining the fragile conditions under which life, meaning, and agency can continue to emerge.
An Afterword: On Provisionality and Practice
This essay has argued for agentic ecology as a serious theoretical framework rather than a passing metaphor. Yet it is important to be clear about what this framework is and what it is not.
Agentic ecology, as developed here, is obviously not a finished theory, nor a comprehensive model ready for direct implementation, but we should begin taking those steps (the aim here). It is a conceptual orientation for learning to see, name, and attend to emerging forms of agency that exceed familiar categories of tool, user, and system. Its value lies less in precision than in attunement, in its capacity to render visible patterns of relation, emergence, and ethical consequence that are otherwise obscured by narrow technical framings.
The definition offered here is therefore intentionally provisional. It names a field of inquiry rather than closing it. As agentic systems inevitably develop and evolve over the next few years, technically, socially, and ecologically, the language used to describe them must remain responsive to new forms of interaction, power, and vulnerability. A framework that cannot change alongside its object of study risks becoming yet another abstraction detached from the realities it seeks to understand.
At the same time, provisionality should not be confused with hesitation. The rapid emergence of agentic systems demands conceptual clarity even when certainty is unavailable. To name agentic ecology now is to acknowledge that something significant is already underway and that new environments of agency are forming, and that how we describe them will shape how we govern, inhabit, and respond to them.
So, this afterword serves as both a pause and an invitation. A pause, to resist premature closure or false confidence. And an invitation to treat agentic ecology as a shared and evolving thought technology, one that will require ongoing refinement through scholarship, design practice, theological reflection, and ecological accountability.
The work of definition has begun. Its future shape will depend on whether we are willing to continue thinking ecologically (patiently, relationally, and with care) in the face of systems that increasingly act alongside us, and within the same fragile world.
References
Berry, Thomas. The Great Work: Our Way into the Future. New York: Bell Tower, 1999.
Boff, Leonardo. Cry of the Earth, Cry of the Poor. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1997.
Capra, Fritjof, and Pier Luigi Luisi. The Systems View of Life: A Unifying Vision. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014.
Clark, Jack. “Import AI 443: Into the Mist: Moltbook, Agent Ecologies, and the Internet in Transition.” Import AI, February 2, 2026. https://jack-clark.net/2026/02/02/import-ai-443-into-the-mist-moltbook-agent-ecologies-and-the-internet-in-transition/.
Crist, Eileen. Abundant Earth: Toward an Ecological Civilization. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2019.
Guattari, Félix. The Three Ecologies. Translated by Ian Pindar and Paul Sutton. London: Athlone Press, 2000.
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. Translated by Colin Smith. London: Routledge, 1962.
Odling-Smee, F. John, Kevin N. Laland, and Marcus W. Feldman. Niche Construction: The Neglected Process in Evolution. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003.
Stein, Edith. On the Problem of Empathy. Translated by Waltraut Stein. Washington, DC: ICS Publications, 1989.
Stiegler, Bernard. Taking Care of Youth and the Generations. Translated by Stephen Barker. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2010.
Whitehead, Alfred North. Process and Reality: An Essay in Cosmology. Corrected edition. New York: Free Press, 1978.
Agent Ecology of Moltbook
I’ve had lots of thoughts about Moltbook over the last week of tracking its development pretty closely. I’m sure I’ll share those here, but here’s an interesting development of thought in its own right from Anthropic’s co-founder, Jack Clark (given my PhD work is in integral ecology, after all)…
Now I’m deep in thought about how our human notion of ecology and ecological ethics extends to whatever this notion of agentic ecology is becoming… agentic empathy, for example?
Import AI 443: Into the mist: Moltbook, agent ecologies, and the internet in transition | Import AI:
Moltbook is the first example of an agent ecology that combines scale with the messiness of the real world. And in this example, we can definitely see the future.
Social Media’s Cigarette Moment
I’m guessing the plaintiff will walk off with a jury decided major amount of money and we’ll continue to learn just how bad social media platforms are for young (and all) people… and how much these corporations knew that well over a decade ago.
“IG is a drug”: Internal messages may doom Meta at social media addiction trial – Ars Technica:
Those documents included an email stating that Mark Zuckerberg—who is expected to testify at K.G.M.’s trial—decided that Meta’s top priority in 2017 was teens who must be locked in to using the company’s family of apps.
The next year, a Facebook internal document showed that the company pondered letting “tweens” access a private mode inspired by the popularity of fake Instagram accounts teens know as “finstas.” That document included an “internal discussion on how to counter the narrative that Facebook is bad for youth and admission that internal data shows that Facebook use is correlated with lower well-being (although it says the effect reverses longitudinally).”
Other allegedly damning documents showed Meta seemingly bragging that “teens can’t switch off from Instagram even if they want to” and an employee declaring, “oh my gosh yall IG is a drug,” likening all social media platforms to “pushers.”
Similarly, a 2020 Google document detailed the company’s plan to keep kids engaged “for life,” despite internal research showing young YouTube users were more likely to “disproportionately” suffer from “habitual heavy use, late night use, and unintentional use” deteriorating their “digital well-being.”
Kids Catching Up on Reading During Virtual Church

Still lots of snow so we’re home this morning when we’d normally be at church. Kids grabbed their books and settled in.
Snow Day (and lots of it)!
Beautiful and stunning powdery snow day here in Spartanburg, SC!





Empathy Without Exit: Why “Suicidal Empathy” Gets Human Nature Wrong
In Suicidal Empathy: Dying to Be Kind, Gad Saad advances a forceful and, in some respects, understandable claim that empathy, when unbounded, becomes psychologically corrosive and socially destabilizing. It’s certainly had an impact on tech-bro podcasts such as Joe Rogan who constantly invokes the work.
In Saad’s telling, empathy is a trait that must be regulated lest it undermine individual flourishing and collective coherence. Excessive empathy, he argues, leads to self-erasure, moral confusion, and the collapse of healthy boundaries. What presents itself as compassion becomes, in this view, a kind of slow-motion self-destruction.
There is a surface plausibility to this argument, especially in a cultural moment saturated with moral urgency and emotional overload. Many people do experience burnout, resentment, and paralysis under the weight of constant exposure to others’ suffering. Saad’s critique speaks to a genuine phenomenon. But the deeper difficulty with Suicidal Empathy does not lie primarily in its social or political conclusions. It lies in its underlying assumptions about what empathy is, where it belongs, and what sort of beings we take ourselves to be.
Saad treats empathy as a psychological capacity possessed by fundamentally self-contained individuals. It is something one deploys, withholds, or mismanages. From this perspective, the self precedes relation. Empathy is an add-on, a discretionary feature of human interaction that must be carefully rationed to preserve autonomy. When empathy overwhelms the self, the solution is containment… pull back, reassert boundaries, and close the gates.
What this framework never seriously interrogates is the ontology it presupposes as a picture of human beings as sealed units whose primary task is self-maintenance, and for whom openness to others is always a potential threat. Empathy appears as dangerous precisely because the self is imagined as fragile and enclosed, always at risk of being breached.
But what if that understanding is wrong?
What if empathy is not best understood as a psychological excess, but as a clue to the basic structure of consciousness itself? What if the problem Saad diagnoses is not “too much empathy,” but a modern metaphysics that treats relational vulnerability as pathological?
To raise that question is not to dismiss the harms Saad names. It is to ask whether those harms arise from empathy itself, or from an incoherent attempt to practice empathy while clinging to an ontology of isolation.
Few thinkers allow us to ask this question with greater clarity than Edith Stein.
What follows is not a refutation of Suicidal Empathy by counterexample or moral exhortation (not that I could). It is a challenge to the deeper framework within which empathy is cast as suicidal in the first place. Stein’s life and thought do not offer a safer, moderated version of empathy. They offer something more unsettling with a vision in which empathy is not optional, not manageable, and not reducible to a personal trait.
Stein offers empathy as fate.
Empathy Without Exit: Edith Stein’s Life, Thought, and Death
Empathy is one of those words that risks becoming harmless through overuse. It circulates easily in moral exhortations and leadership manuals, often reduced to emotional sensitivity or interpersonal skill. But in the early phenomenological tradition, empathy named something far more demanding. It described a basic structure of experience…the way consciousness is already open to what is not itself.
Few thinkers lived that claim as fully, or as consequentially, as Edith Stein.
Stein began her intellectual life as a rigorous phenomenologist. A Jewish woman studying philosophy in early twentieth-century Germany, she worked closely with Edmund Husserl and belonged to the first generation of phenomenological thinkers who were attempting to describe consciousness without reducing it to psychology or metaphysics (not ironically as a colleague of Heidegger who would later have very problematic ties with the Nazi’s but became a much more well-known philosopher). Her doctoral dissertation, On the Problem of Empathy, remains one of the clearest and most restrained analyses of the topic.
For Stein, empathy is not emotional contagion, imaginative projection, or moral sympathy. It is the experience of foreign consciousness as foreign…the direct givenness of another’s interior life without collapsing it into one’s own. Empathy does not erase difference. It makes difference perceptible. It is not something consciousness adds after the fact. It is one of the ways consciousness is structured in the first place.
What is striking, reading Stein closely, is how little sentimentality there is in her account. Empathy is not comforting. It does not guarantee understanding or agreement. It is simply the way the presence of another addresses us, prior to judgment or response. Already here, empathy carries weight. It binds us to a world we did not choose.
Stein’s later life is sometimes narrated as a sharp turn away from philosophy toward religion. That story is too simple. Her conversion to Christianity did not abandon phenomenology. It deepened it.
When Stein encountered Christian theology, she did not set aside her careful attention to experience. Instead, she brought phenomenological clarity with her. The Incarnation, for Stein, was not an abstract doctrine but an event that made sense only if reality itself is relational at its core. The possibility that God could be encountered in a human life depended on the same openness that makes empathy possible at all.
Her philosophical account of empathy quietly widened into a theological vision of participation. To know another was not merely to register their experience, but to be drawn into relation with them. Empathy, once extended theologically, became inseparable from responsibility.
This shift did not lead Stein away from the world. It intensified her attention to it.
As the political situation in Germany deteriorated, Stein was increasingly aware of the danger facing Jewish communities. Even after entering the Carmelite order, she did not imagine herself exempt from the suffering unfolding around her. She refused to interpret religious vocation as withdrawal from history. Instead, she understood it as a different mode of presence within it.
Her later theological writings, especially those reflecting on the Cross, are often misread as expressions of passive suffering. In fact, they are deeply active. For Stein, the Cross names a refusal to stand outside the suffering of others. It is not sought for its own sake. It is endured as a consequence of remaining open when closure would be safer.
This is where empathy becomes costly.
When opportunities arose for Stein to escape Nazi persecution, she declined them. Not out of recklessness or fatalism, but out of solidarity. She insisted on remaining with her people. Empathy, in her life, was not a concept she could set aside when it became dangerous. It had already shaped the posture of her being.
In August 1942, Edith Stein was arrested and deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where she was killed (with her sister) shortly after her arrival.
It is important to say this carefully. Her death does not prove her theology. It does not sanctify suffering or redeem violence. There is nothing edifying about Auschwitz. Stein did not choose her death. What she repeatedly chose was not to seal herself off from others to preserve her own safety.
Empathy did not save her life. But it shaped how she refused to abandon those with whom her life was bound.
That refusal matters.
In a time when empathy is often invoked as a soft or even an adverse virtue, Stein reminds us that it is not safe. Empathy exposes us to claims we cannot manage. It destabilizes the fantasy of sealed selves. It draws us into histories and responsibilities that exceed our intentions. Properly understood, empathy is not an ethical add-on. It is an ontological condition with consequences.
This is why Stein’s work continues to matter for ecological thought as well. If consciousness is porous rather than enclosed, if perception is already participatory, then our relationship to land, to other species, and to future generations cannot be reduced to management or control. Ecological harm is not only a technical failure. It is a failure of attention…a refusal to remain open to what addresses us from beyond ourselves.
Stein offers no solutions, but she still offers orientation as St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross.
Her life traces a trajectory from perception to participation, from philosophy to theology, from empathy as description to empathy as fate. She shows us what it looks like when a thinker refuses to retreat from the implications of her own insights.
Empathy, in Stein’s hands, is not something we deploy. It is something we undergo. And once undergone, it changes how one inhabits the world.
That may be empathy’s greatest ontological demand of us.
Empathy, Selfhood, and the Fear of Porosity
Read against Suicidal Empathy, Stein’s life exposes a crucial misdiagnosis. What Saad names as empathy’s suicidal tendency is, at a deeper level, the fear of ontological porosity. The danger he senses is not empathy per se, but the collapse of a model of selfhood built on enclosure, control, and insulation from others’ claims.
From within that model, empathy must indeed be dangerous. If the self is a bounded container, then any sustained openness threatens depletion. Relation becomes invasion. Responsibility becomes theft. Withdrawal masquerades as wisdom.
Stein does not deny the cost of openness. Her life makes that impossible. What she denies is that enclosure is ever a genuine alternative. Empathy, in her phenomenological account, is not something added to an otherwise intact self. It reveals that the self was never intact in that sense to begin with. Consciousness is already exposed, already addressed, and already implicated.
This is why Stein cannot simply “turn empathy down.” There is no dial. There is only the choice between acknowledging relational vulnerability or fleeing into abstraction.
From this angle, the language of “suicidal empathy” that so many podcasters, YouTubers, and creators want to cling to risks misnaming the problem. What appears to be self-destruction may instead be the collision between two incompatible ontologies: one that assumes sovereignty and control, and one that recognizes participation and exposure as fundamental.
Stein’s refusal to abandon others was not a psychological failure. It was a metaphysical consistency.
None of this licenses coercive self-sacrifice or moral blackmail. Stein’s death does not obligate anyone else to follow her path. But it does stand as a rebuke to any account of empathy that treats withdrawal as the highest form of rationality. It reminds us that some forms of self-preservation depend on a prior fiction of separateness.
The real danger, then, is not an empathy that goes too far, but a culture that teaches us to fear what empathy reveals about who we are.
If empathy is structural rather than elective and ontological rather than sentimental, then the task is not to suppress it but to learn how to inhabit it without illusion. Stein does not offer comfort here. She offers clarity. And clarity, in a world built on sealed selves, will always feel dangerous.
That danger may not be suicidal. It may simply be the cost of refusing to lie about the nature of being.
4,000 Posts
This is the 4,000th published post on my blog, going back to 2006 (including a couple of starts and stops across various platforms and a few years when I was encouraged not to have a site). I’ve written around 600,000 words here, which is equivalent to around 10 longer books.
I view this as my personal thinking space… sometimes it’s coherent and polished, and sometimes it’s a random thought or link to something that I want to share with others to read (and my poor friends and family can only take so many links about randomness in a day).
I think Seth Godin said it best here in his celebration of writing his 5,000th post a few years back…
The 5000th post* | Seth’s Blog:
My biggest surprise? That more people aren’t doing this. Not just every college professor (particularly those in the humanities and business), but everyone hoping to shape opinions or spread ideas. Entrepreneurs. Senior VPs. People who work in non-profits. Frustrated poets and unknown musicians… Don’t do it because it’s your job, do it because you can.
The selfishness of the industrial age (scarcity being the thing we built demand upon, and the short-term exchange of value being the measurement) has led many people to question the value of giving away content, daily, for a decade or more. And yet… I’ve never once met a successful blogger who questioned the personal value of what she did.
Printed Copies of Readings in Class
Granted, I’m 47 and graduated Wofford College in ’00 and Yale Div in ’02 before the iPad or Zotero were a thing… but I still have numerous reading packets from those days and still use them for research (shoutout to TYCO Printers in New Haven for the quality work)… but I endorse this position. Now, I use a combo of “real” books and Zotero for online PDF’s that I don’t have time to print out. I’d like to go all paper again, though. Maybe a good 2026 goal?
Also granted, I used blue books for exams with my 6th-12th graders that I taught for 20 years. They loved it (not really… but I got lots of good doodles and personal notes of gratitude at the end of those essays that I’ve kept over the years).
English professors double down on requiring printed copies of readings | Yale Daily News:
This academic year, some English professors have increased their preference for physical copies of readings, citing concerns related to artificial intelligence.
Many English professors have identified the use of chatbots as harmful to critical thinking and writing. Now, professors who had previously allowed screens in class are tightening technology restrictions.
Project Spero and Spartanburg’s New Resource Question: Power, Water, and the True Cost of a Data Center
Spartanburg County is staring straight at the kind of development that sounds abstract until it lands on our own roads, substations, and watersheds. A proposed $3 billion, “AI-focused high-performance computing” facility, Project Spero, has been announced for the Tyger River Industrial Park – North.
In the Upstate, we’re used to thinking about growth as something we can see…new subdivisions, new lanes of traffic, new storefronts. But a data center is a stranger kind of arrival. It does not announce itself with crowds or culture. It arrives as a continuous, quiet, and largely invisible demand. A building that looks still from the outside can nevertheless function as a kind of permanent request being made of the region to keep the current steady, keep the cooling stable, keep the redundancy ready, keep the uptime unquestioned.
And that is where I find myself wanting to slow down and do something unfashionable in a policy conversation and describe the experience of noticing. Phenomenology begins with the discipline of attention…with the refusal to let an object remain merely “background.” It asks what is being asked of perception. The “cloud” is one of the most successful metaphors of our moment precisely because it trains us not to see or not to feel the heat, not to hear the generators, not to track the water, not to imagine the mines and the supply chains and the labor. A local data center undermines the metaphor, which is why it matters that we name what is here.
The familiar sales pitch is already in circulation as significant capital investment, a relatively small number of permanent jobs (about 50 in Phase I), and new tax revenue, all framed as “responsible growth” without “strain” on infrastructure.
But the real question isn’t whether data centers are “the future.” They’re already here. The question is what kinds of futures they purchase and with whose power, whose water, and whose air.
Where this is happening (and why that matters)
Tyger River Industrial Park isn’t just an empty map pin… its utility profile is part of the story. The site’s published specs include a 34kV distribution line (Lockhart Power), a 12” water line (Startex-Jackson-Wellford-Duncan Water District), sewer service (Spartanburg Sanitary Sewer District), Piedmont Natural Gas, and AT&T fiber.
Two details deserve more attention than they’re likely to get in ribbon-cutting language:
Power capacity is explicitly part of the pitch. One listing notes available electric capacity “>60MW.”
Natural gas is part of the reliability strategy. The reporting on Project Spero indicates plans to “self-generate a portion of its power on site using natural gas.”
That combination of a high continuous load plus on-site gas generation isn’t neutral. It’s an ecological choice with real downstream effects.
The energy question: “separate from residential systems” is not the same as “separate from residential impact”
One line you’ll hear often is that industrial infrastructure is “separate from residential systems.”
Even if the wires are technically separate, the regional load is shared in ways that matter, from planning assumptions and generation buildout to transmission upgrades and the ratepayer math that follows.
Regional reporting has been blunt about the dynamics of data center growth (alongside rapid population and industrial growth), which are pushing utilities toward major new infrastructure investments, and those costs typically flow through to bills.
In the Southeast, regulators and advocates are also warning of a rush toward expensive gas-fired buildouts to meet data-center-driven demand, potentially exposing customers to higher costs.
So the right local question isn’t “Will Spartanburg’s lights stay on?”
It’s “What long-term generation and grid decisions are being locked in, because a facility must run 24/7/365?”
When developers say “separate from residential systems,” I hear a sentence designed to calm the community nervous system. But a community is not a wiring diagram. The grid is not just copper and transformers, but a social relation. It is a set of promises, payments, and priorities spread across time. The question is not whether the line feeding the site is physically distinct from the line feeding my neighborhood. The question is whether the long arc of planning, generation decisions, fuel commitments, transmission upgrades, and the arithmetic of rates is being bent around a new form of permanent demand.
This is the kind of thing we typically realize only after the fact, when the bills change, when the new infrastructure is presented as inevitable, when the “choice” has already been absorbed into the built environment. Attention, in this sense, is not sentiment. It is civic practice. It is learning to see the slow commitments we are making together, and deciding whether they are commitments we can inhabit.
The water question: closed-loop is better but “negligible” needs a definition
Project Spero’s developer emphasizes a “closed-loop” water design, claiming water is reused “rather than consumed and discharged,” and that the impact on existing customers is “negligible.”
Closed-loop cooling can indeed reduce water withdrawals compared with open-loop or evaporative systems, but “negligible” is not a technical term. It’s a rhetorical one. If we want a serious civic conversation, “negligible” should be replaced with specifics:
- What is projected annual water withdrawal and peak-day demand?
- What is the cooling approach (air-cooled, liquid, hybrid)?
- What is the facility’s water-use effectiveness (WUE) target and reporting plan?
- What happens in drought conditions or heat waves, when cooling demand spikes?
Locally, Spartanburg Water notes the Upstate’s surface-water advantages and describes interconnected reservoirs and treatment capacity planning, naming Lake Bowen (about 10.4 billion gallons), Lake Blalock (about 7.2 billion gallons), and Municipal Reservoir #1 (about 1 billion gallons).
That’s reassuring, and it’s also exactly why transparency matters. Resource resilience is not just about what exists today. Resilience is about what we promise into the future, and who pays the opportunity costs.
Water conversations in the Upstate can become strangely abstract, as if reservoirs and treatment plants are simply numbers on a planning sheet. But water is not only a resource, but it’s also a relation of dependency that shapes how we live and what we can become. When I sit with the black walnut in our backyard and take notes on weather, light, and season, the lesson is never just “nature appreciation.” It’s training in scale and learning what persistence feels like, what stress looks like before it becomes an emergency, and what a living system does when conditions shift.
That’s why “negligible” makes me uneasy. Not because I assume bad faith, but because it’s a word that asks us not to look too closely. Negligible compared to what baseline, over what time horizon, and under what drought scenario with what heatwave assumptions? If closed-loop cooling is truly part of the design, then the most basic gesture of responsibility is to translate that claim into measurable terms and to publicly commit to reporting that remains stable even when the headlines move on.
The ecological footprint that rarely makes the headlines
When people say “data center,” they often picture a quiet box that’s more like a library than a factory. In ecological terms, it’s closer to an always-on industrial organism with electricity in, heat out, materials cycling, backup generation on standby, and constant hardware turnover.
Here are the footprint categories I want to see discussed in Spartanburg in plain language:
- Continuous electricity demand (and what it forces upstream): Data centers don’t just “use electricity.” They force decisions about new generation and new transmission to meet high-confidence loads. That’s the core ratepayer concern advocacy groups have been raising across South Carolina.
- On-site combustion and air permitting: Even when a data center isn’t “a power plant,” it often has a lot in common with one. Spartanburg already has a relevant local example with the Valara Holdings High Performance Compute Center. In state permitting materials, it is described as being powered by twenty-four natural gas-fired generators “throughout the year,” with control devices for NOx and other pollutants. Environmental groups flagged concerns about the lack of enforceable pollution limits in the permitting process, and later reporting indicates that permit changes were made to strengthen enforceability and emissions tracking. That’s not a side issue. It’s what “cloud” actually looks like on the ground.
- Water, heat, and the limits of “efficiency”: Efficiency claims matter, but they should be auditable. If a project is truly low-impact, the developer should welcome annual public reporting on energy, water, and emissions.
- Material throughput and e-waste: Server refresh cycles and hardware disposal are part of the ecological story, even when they’re out of sight. If Spartanburg is becoming a node in this seemingly inevitable AI buildout, we should be asking about procurement standards, recycling contracts, and end-of-life accountability.
A policy signal worth watching: South Carolina is debating stricter rules
At the state level, lawmakers have already begun floating stronger guardrails. One proposed bill (the “South Carolina Data Center Responsibility Act”) includes requirements like closed-loop cooling with “zero net water withdrawal,” bans on municipal water for cooling, and requirements that permitting, infrastructure, and operational costs be fully funded by the data center itself.
Whatever the fate of that bill, the direction is clear: communities are tired of being told “trust us” while their long-term water and power planning is quietly rearranged.
What I’d like Spartanburg County to require before calling this “responsible growth”
If Spartanburg County wants to be a serious steward of its future, here’s what I’d want attached to any incentives or approvals…in writing, enforceable, and public:
- Annual public reporting of electricity use, peak demand, water withdrawal, and cooling approach.
- A clear statement of on-site generation: fuel type, capacity, expected operating profile, emissions controls, and total permitted hours.
- Third-party verification of any “closed-loop” and “negligible impact” claims.
- A ratepayer protection plan: who pays for grid upgrades, and how residential customers are insulated from speculative overbuild.
- A community benefits agreement that actually matches the footprint (workforce training, environmental monitoring funds, emergency response support, local resilience investments).
- Noise and light mitigation standards, monitored and enforceable.
I’m certainly not anti-technology. I’m pro-accountability. If we’re going to host infrastructure that makes AI possible, then we should demand the same civic clarity we’d demand from any other industrial operation.
The spiritual crisis here isn’t that we use power. It’s that we grow accustomed to not knowing what our lives require. One of the ways we lose the world is by letting the infrastructures that sustain our days become illegible to us. A data center can be an occasion for that loss, or it can become an occasion for renewed legibility, for a more honest accounting, for a more careful local imagination about what we are building and why.
Because in the end, the Upstate’s question isn’t whether we can attract big projects. It’s whether we can keep telling the truth about what big projects cost.
Plasma, Bubbles, and an Ontology of Empathy
Plasma is not a metaphor, but a problem. We don’t learn a great deal about plasma in school, but it certainly exists and is the main component of all the matter in the universe (and I’m writing this as someone who taught AP Physics, Physical Science, and Earth and Space Science for almost twenty years in various schools here in the Carolinas!). But plasma is a problem with how we imagine form, boundary, and relation, which is why it’s offloaded as “another state of matter” in our school textbooks, but not explored in depth unless you take higher-level physics courses in college. Plasma resists being treated as a thing, however. It gathers, disperses, and responds to fields. It holds structure without closure. It behaves less like an object and more like an event…patterned, responsive, never fully contained.
That resistance matters. It presses against one of the most deeply sedimented assumptions of modern thought that reality is composed of discrete, self-contained units with clear edges. Subjects here, objects there. Minds inside, world outside. Consciousness is an interior chamber from which we look out through our eyes.
Plasma doesn’t cooperate with that picture. Neither, I’m increasingly convinced, does consciousness.
Plasma is not rare or exotic. It is the most common state of matter in the universe. Stars are plasma. Auroras are plasma. Lightning traces plasma paths through the sky. Even here, close to the surface of things, plasma appears wherever energy, matter, and field interact in unstable but patterned ways. What distinguishes it is not chaos, but responsiveness. Plasma organizes itself in relation to surrounding forces. It forms filaments, sheaths, and membranes. It is structured, but never sealed.
That combination, form without closure, is one of those “not-normal” ideas about plasma that has stuck with me and causes me to be fascinated by this aspect of our cosmos.
Likewise, a bubble is not a solid thing. It is a relation held in tension (fascinating history of that term, which I’ll go into in a later post). A bubble’s boundary is “real,” but it is not a wall. It is a membrane… thin, responsive, constantly negotiating between inside and outside. A bubble exists only as long as the conditions that sustain it remain. Its form is defined by pressure, by exchange, by the delicate balance of forces it does not control. And they fascinate children who are seemingly more open to “not normal” experiences with reality.
Importantly, bubbles do not need to be isolated to remain distinct. They can cluster. They can press against one another. They can share boundaries without collapsing into sameness. Their integrity is not maintained by separation, but by tension (the Greek term tonos, which we get the word tension in English, is also connected to musical tones, which seems fitting).
I find myself wondering whether this is a better way to think about consciousness.
Much of modern philosophy and psychology still relies on a container model of mind. Consciousness is imagined as something housed inside the skull, bounded by skin, sealed off from the world except through carefully regulated inputs. Perception, on this view, is a delivery system. Empathy becomes an imaginative leap across a gap, while relation is always secondary.
But this model struggles to explain some of the most ordinary features of experience. It cannot easily account for the way moods permeate spaces, how grief lingers in landscapes, or why certain places feel charged long after an event has passed. It treats empathy as an achievement rather than a condition. And it renders the world strangely inert…a collection of objects awaiting interpretation.
Phenomenology has long resisted this picture. Thinkers like Maurice Merleau-Ponty insist that perception is not a projection outward from an interior mind, but a participation in a shared field (again, more allusions to physics). The body is not a container for consciousness, but its mode of openness. We do not first exist as sealed subjects and then relate. We emerge through relation.
Seen this way, consciousness begins to look less like a chamber and more like a membrane. Structured, yes…but porous. Distinct, but never isolated, and sustained by relations it does not author.
This is where empathy becomes especially revealing.
Empathy is often treated as a moral virtue or an emotional skill. Something we cultivate in order to be better people. But phenomenologically, empathy appears much earlier than ethics. It is the basic experience of being addressed by another consciousness. As Edith Stein argued with remarkable precision, empathy is not emotional contagion or imaginative projection. It is the direct givenness of another’s experience as other…a presence that is not mine, yet not inaccessible.
What matters here is what empathy presupposes. It assumes that consciousness is not sealed. That there is permeability at the boundary, and one field of experience can register another without collapse or confusion. Empathy only makes sense if consciousness is already open.
In this light, empathy is not something consciousness does after the fact. It is evidence of how consciousness is structured in the first place.
This is where the image of the bubble returns with force. Consciousness, like a bubble, maintains its integrity not by hard enclosure but by responsive tension. Its boundaries are real, but they are sites of exchange. Empathy occurs at the membrane, and is where another’s presence presses close enough to be felt without being absorbed.
If this is right, then many of our ethical and ecological failures are not simply failures of will. They are failures of perception. They arise from an ontology that imagines selves as sealed units and treats relation as optional. When the world is apprehended as external and inert, care becomes intervention. Responsibility becomes management while action outruns attention.
This helps explain my growing unease with the language of solutions in ecological discourse. Solutions presume problems that can be isolated and systems that can be controlled from above. They rely, often implicitly, on a model of consciousness that stands outside what it seeks to fix. But ecological crises are not engineering glitches. They are symptoms of fractured relation… between humans and land, between perception and participation, and between ourselves and the cosmos.
A bubble ontology does not promise mastery. It cannot guarantee outcomes. What it offers instead is a more faithful description of how beings actually persist: through tension, vulnerability, and responsiveness. It suggests that ethical action must emerge from attunement rather than command. That care begins with learning how to remain present to what exceeds us.
Ecological encounters often happen at boundaries, such as fog lifting from a field, frost tracing the edge of a leaf, or wind moving through branches. These are not moments of clarity so much as moments of thickness, where distinctions remain but do not harden. They feel, in a small way, plasma-like. Charged, relational, and alive with forces that do not resolve into objects.
Perhaps consciousness belongs to this same family of phenomena. Not a substance to be located, but a pattern sustained by relation. Not a sovereign interior, but a delicate, responsive membrane. If so, empathy is not an add-on to an otherwise isolated self. It is a clue…a trace of the deeper structure of being.
What if consciousness is less a sealed interior and more a field held together by tensions we did not choose? What if its openness is not a vulnerability to be managed, but the very condition that makes response possible at all?
I don’t offer this as a solution. Only as an orientation or a way of learning to stay with the world without pretending it is simpler, or more controllable, than it is. Sometimes, the most faithful response begins by noticing the shape of what is already here.
Doomsday Clock Eighty-Five Seconds to Midnight: An Invitation to Attention
The news that the Doomsday Clock now stands at eighty-five seconds to midnight is not, in itself, the most important thing about this moment. The number is arresting, and the coverage tends to amplify its urgency. But the deeper question raised by this year’s announcement is not how close we are to catastrophe. It is how we are learning, or failing, to attend to the conditions that make catastrophe thinkable in the first place.
What the Clock reflects is not a single looming disaster but a convergence of unresolved tensions from nuclear instability, ecological breakdown, accelerating technologies, and political fragmentation (not to mention our spiritual crisis and the very real scenes we’re seeing with our own eyes in each of our communities with federal authorities and directed violence here in the United States).
These are not isolated threats. They form a dense field of entanglement, reinforcing one another across systems we have built but no longer fully understand or govern. The Clock does not merely measure danger. It reveals a world stretched thin by its own speed.
One risk of symbolic warnings like this is that they can tempt us into abstraction. “Eighty-five seconds to midnight” can feel cinematic, even mythic, while the realities beneath it, such as warming soils, poisoned waters, eroded trust, and automated corporatist decision-making, remain oddly distant. When risk becomes spectacle, attention falters. And when attention falters, responsibility diffuses (part of the aim of keeping us distracted with screens and political theater).
This is where I think the Clock’s real work begins. It presses on a crisis not only of policy or technology, but of perception. We have grown adept at responding to emergencies that suddenly emerge, and far less capable of staying with harms that unfold slowly, relationally, and across generations. Climate disruption, ecological loss, and technological overreach do not arrive as single events. They address us quietly, repeatedly, asking whether we are willing to notice what is already being asked of us.
In earlier posts, I’ve suggested that empathy is not first an ethical achievement but a mode of perception, or a way “the world” comes to matter. Attention works in a similar register. It is not merely focus or vigilance. It is a practiced openness to being addressed by what exceeds us. The Doomsday Clock, at its best, functions as a crude but persistent call to such attention. It interrupts complacency not by predicting the future, but by unsettling how we inhabit the present.
And here is where something genuinely hopeful emerges.
The Clock is not fate. It has moved away from midnight before, not through technological miracles alone, but through shifts in collective orientation, such as restraint, cooperation, treaty-making, and shared commitments to limits. Those movements were not perfect or permanent, but they remind us that attention can be cultivated and that perception can change. Worlds do not only end. They also reorient.
Hope, in this sense, is not confidence that things will turn out fine. It is the thing with feathers and the willingness to stay present to what is fragile without turning away or grasping for false reassurance. It is the discipline of attending to land, to neighbors, to systems we participate in but rarely see or acknowledge. It is the slow work of empathy extended beyond the human, allowing rivers, forests, and even future generations to count as more than abstractions.
Eighty-five seconds to midnight is not a verdict. It is an invitation to recover forms of attention capable of holding complexity without paralysis. An invitation to let empathy deepen into responsibility. An invitation to notice that the most meaningful movements away from catastrophe begin not with panic, but with learning how to listen again to the world as it is, and to the world as it might yet become.
The question, then, is not whether the clock will strike midnight. The question is whether we will accept the invitation it places before us to attend, to respond, and to live as if what we are already being asked to notice truly matters.
Pragmatism for Whom? Energy, Empathy, and the Limits of “All-of-the-Above”
A recent opinion piece in The Hill argues that Democrats should and are beginning to rethink their approach to climate and energy policy. Pointing to renewed support for natural gas infrastructure, oil and gas exports, and an “all-of-the-above” energy strategy, the author suggests that political realism requires prioritizing affordability, job creation, and national security alongside emissions reduction. The argument is presented not as climate denial but as maturity…a necessary correction to what is portrayed as ideological rigidity. It’s a case worth taking seriously, precisely because it names real pressures and real people. But it also leaves something essential unexamined.
In recent weeks, a familiar argument has returned to public discourse that Democrats, and perhaps climate advocates more broadly, must recalibrate their approach to energy. Affordability matters, jobs matter, national security matters. An “all-of-the-above” energy strategy here is not ideological retreat but political maturity.
There is truth here, and it should be acknowledged plainly. Energy transitions are not experienced in the abstract. They are lived locally…in monthly bills, in the dignity of work, in the stability or fragility of rural communities. Any climate politics that fails to take this seriously will not only lose elections, but it will also lose trust.
And yet, there is a deeper question that this rhetoric consistently avoids. Not whether energy should be affordable, or whether people deserve good work. But whose experience counts when we decide what is practical?
Pragmatism and the Shape of Time
Much of the current defense of fossil fuel expansion rests on short-term accounting. Natural gas reduced emissions relative to coal, while fracking boosted GDP and export capacity, strengthening allies and weakening adversaries. These claims are not fabrications in that they are partial truths framed within narrow temporal windows.
What often goes unspoken is that infrastructure remembers. Pipelines, compressor stations, export terminals, and extraction fields are not neutral bridges toward a cleaner future. They are long-term commitments that shape what futures remain possible. Once built, they exert a quiet pressure on policy, markets, and imagination alike.
This is not ideology. It is systems thinking. What appears pragmatic in electoral time can prove costly in ecological time.
The Missing Dimension: Empathy as Perception
In my own work on empathy, I’ve argued that empathy is not primarily a moral sentiment or an ethical achievement. It is a way of perceiving and is how the world first comes to matter to us individually.
What’s striking in many contemporary energy debates is how narrow the field of perception has become. Voters, workers, markets, and allies all appear. But watersheds rarely do. Soil rarely does. Forests, species, and future bodies remain largely invisible.
This absence is not accidental. It reflects a failure of empathy…not emotional indifference, but perceptual narrowing. We have learned to see economic benefit clearly while training ourselves not to see cumulative ecological harm until it arrives as crisis.
Empathy, understood ecologically, resists this narrowing. It asks us to attend to what bears cost slowly, silently, and often without political voice.
Land Is Not an Abstraction
Extraction economies are often defended as lifelines for “overlooked” places. But land is not an abstract resource pool waiting to be activated for growth. It is a living field of relations between humans and more-than-humans that remembers disturbance long after boom cycles fade.
Anyone who has spent time with communities shaped by extraction knows the pattern. Initial prosperity with infrastructure investment and job creation. And then, often, degraded water, long-term health impacts, ecological fragmentation, and economic precarity occur when markets shift.
To name this is not to dismiss workers or romanticize poverty. It is to refuse a false tradeoff that pits dignity of labor against the integrity of place.
Beyond the Binary
The real failure of the “all-of-the-above” framing is not that it includes fossil fuels. It is that it treats energy as a menu of interchangeable options rather than as a formative relationship between people, land, and time.
A genuinely pragmatic energy politics would ask harder questions:
- What kinds of work help communities remain with their land rather than exhaust it?
- What forms of energy production cultivate care, skill, and long-term stewardship?
- What do our infrastructure choices teach us to notice…and what do they train us to ignore?
These are not elitist questions. They are practical questions in the deepest sense.
A Different Kind of Realism
Climate politics does not fail because it asks too much. It fails when it asks too little…when it narrows realism to GDP curves and election cycles while ignoring the slow violence written into landscapes and bodies.
If empathy is how the world first comes to matter, then energy policy is one of the most powerful forms of moral formation we have. It shapes what we see, what we value, and what we are willing to sacrifice…often without saying so aloud.
The question before us is not whether fossil fuels have brought benefits. Of course they have. The question is whether continuing to expand systems that require ecological blindness can ever count as practical in a world already living with the consequences of that blindness.
Pragmatism worthy of the name would begin there.
Cold Wave, Hot Planet, and the Old Trick of “Whatever Happened to Global Warming?”

This morning, we woke up to a solid coating of ice and snow here in Spartanburg, SC. The kids are ecstatic, and we have a rare Sunday morning without attending worship at our church. “Snow Days” here in the Southeast USA are one of those rare treats that not only drive people to the grocery store for bread and milk but also remind us of the simple joys of meteorology, family, and bundling up to go make snowpeople and snowsquirrels.
President Trump recently posted a familiar taunt about this “record cold wave” hitting roughly 40 states, then demanded to know: “Whatever happened to global warming?” The line is designed to feel like common sense. It also relies on a category mistake so basic that it functions less as an argument and more as a test of whether we can still distinguish weather from climate.
Let me start with the obvious and non-negotiable point. A cold wave is weather. Global warming is climate. Weather is what your body meets when you step outside today. Climate is the long story of patterns, averages, extremes, and probabilities over decades. Confusing the two is like arguing that because one person had a bad afternoon, the whole biography is a lie.
And this matters right now because the cold is not theoretical. This weekend’s storm system has been described as sprawling and dangerous, with snow, ice, outages, and widespread travel disruption across large portions of the country. People and more-than-humans die in cold snaps. Communities can be immobilized. Grids and water systems can fail. None of that is diminished by insisting, clearly and calmly, that a warming planet does not mean the end of winter.
Why a warming world can still deliver severe cold
Here’s the part that seems to surprise people every year… global warming loads the dice, but it doesn’t remove variability. We are adding heat to the Earth system overall, especially into the oceans, and that shift changes the background conditions in which weather plays out. NASA puts it plainly in materials aimed at non-specialists… a warmer atmosphere holds more moisture, which can contribute to heavier snowfall when temperatures are still cold enough for snow.
Then there’s the polar vortex, which is not a new invention but a real atmospheric feature that can, under certain configurations, stretch or wobble in ways that allow Arctic air to plunge south. NOAA’s explainer is useful here because it describes the mechanism without turning it into political theater.
The more contested question is whether, and how, Arctic warming may be influencing the likelihood of certain jet stream patterns or polar vortex “stretching” events. NOAA has highlighted research suggesting Arctic change can be associated with events that deliver extreme cold into the U.S., while also acknowledging this is an active research area with complexity and ongoing refinement. If you want a careful summary of the “some evidence, not settled, still being worked” reality, the National Snow and Ice Data Center has a sober discussion of how scientific findings have differed across studies and models.
So yes… a frigid outbreak can happen in a warming world. In some cases, warming can even intensify the water cycle and shape storm dynamics in ways that worsen impacts, including snow and ice hazards, depending on the temperature profile of the air mass involved.
What the best synthesis says about cold extremes
If we zoom out to the scale climate science is actually talking about, the headline is straightforward: as the planet warms, cold extremes generally become less frequent and less severe, even though they do not disappear. The IPCC’s Sixth Assessment Report explicitly treats this, including regionally, noting projected decreases in cold spells over North America under continued warming.
This is the mature way to hold the reality. Not “winter is canceled,” and not “it’s cold today so a warming planet is fake,” but rather: the distribution is shifting. The tails move. The overlaps remain, and the costs of getting this wrong are paid by real bodies in real places… especially the elderly, the poor, the unhoused, and anyone living in fragile infrastructure conditions.
The deeper problem with the President’s rhetoric
The rhetorical move in Trump’s post is not curiosity. It is contempt for scale. It treats the climate crisis as a punchline and the public as if we cannot learn the difference between an experience and an explanation.
And that contempt has consequences. When leaders encourage people to dismiss climate reality as ideology, they create the conditions for underinvestment in preparedness and resilience in weatherization, grid hardening, public health capacity, and the kind of local mutual aid that becomes lifesaving when the lights go out and roads glaze over.
This is where I want to bring in a conviction that has been forming in my own work, what I’ve called ecological intentionality. The question is not whether we can win a snarky argument on social media. The question is whether we can train our attention on what is actually happening in the atmosphere, the oceans, our towns, and the lives most exposed to harm.
A cold wave is not evidence against climate change. It is evidence that our moral and infrastructural responsibilities do not pause for talking points. The atmosphere does not care about our slogans. The grid does not care about our sarcasm. The vulnerable neighbor down the street certainly does not.
So if we want a real question to ask in the wake of this storm, it might be something like:
If extremes are becoming more disruptive and more expensive, why are we still treating climate risk, energy resilience, and public safety as partisan props instead of basic obligations of governance and community?
Back to the tree line
In my backyard, the black walnut does not “debate” the cold. It receives it. It holds it. It keeps faith with time. That is not passivity but discipline and a kind of creaturely realism. It reminds me that perception comes first. Not as an excuse to avoid ethics, but as the condition for any ethics that might actually be honest.
We can do the same. We can tell the truth about the weather and climate at once. We can care for people in the cold without surrendering our minds to the cheap thrill of false equivalence. And we can choose, even now, to become the kind of communities that prepare, adapt, and protect because reality is not an opponent to be dunked on. It is a world to be inhabited responsibly.