The second law of thermodynamics states that entropy—roughly, disorder—always increases in closed systems. Heat flows from hot to cold. Organized structures decay. Information degrades. Energy disperses. The universe trends toward equilibrium, uniformity, heat death.
This fundamental law of physics has haunted me since I first learned it. As someone who loves order, systems, and patterns, the idea that disorder is thermodynamically inevitable feels almost personally offensive.
And it raises theological questions: Is entropy part of God's good creation, or a consequence of the fall? Does physics itself bear the marks of corruption?
The Physics of Decay
Let me clarify what entropy actually is, because popular explanations often mislead. Entropy isn't exactly disorder—it's a measure of how many microscopic states correspond to a given macroscopic state. High entropy means many possible microstates; low entropy means few.
A clean room has low entropy because very few arrangements of objects count as "clean." A messy room has high entropy because many arrangements count as "messy." Left to themselves, rooms tend toward messiness not because nature prefers chaos, but because there are statistically more ways to be messy than clean.
The second law states that in isolated systems, entropy increases over time. Locally, you can decrease entropy (clean the room), but only by increasing entropy elsewhere (you expend energy, generate heat, increase disorder in your body's chemical processes). Globally, total entropy always increases.
Creation and Thermodynamics
So was the second law part of original creation? This is contentious among Christian scientists and theologians.
Some argue entropy results from the fall. Originally, creation was perfect—no decay, no death, no disorder. The fall introduced corruption into creation itself, manifested physically as thermodynamic decay.
This view has intuitive appeal. It links physical and moral decay, suggests creation originally didn't include death and deterioration, and provides a mechanism for how sin corrupted not just humanity but the cosmos.
But it faces serious problems. The second law appears fundamental to physics. Stars burn because entropy increases. Life metabolizes because entropy increases. Complexity emerges because entropy increases (more on that in a moment). A universe without entropy increase would be radically different—probably incompatible with life as we know it.
The Autistic Systematic Tension
My autistic mind wants systematic consistency. Either entropy is good (part of God's creation design) or bad (result of the fall). Either physical laws are fallen or they're not.
But maybe that's a false dichotomy. Maybe I'm imposing simplicity on a reality that's more complex and more interesting.
Entropy Enables Complexity
Here's the paradox: entropy increase enables the complexity we value. This sounds contradictory—doesn't disorder destroy complexity?—but it's thermodynamically sound.
Complexity emerges when systems are driven away from equilibrium. Life exists because the sun creates a thermodynamic gradient—hot sun, cold space—and life emerges in between, using that gradient to create local order while increasing total entropy.
Your body maintains its organized structure by importing low-entropy energy (food) and exporting high-entropy waste (heat, carbon dioxide). You're a localized decrease in entropy, sustained by increasing entropy elsewhere.
Without entropy increase, there would be no gradients, no flows, no changes—just static equilibrium. No stars, no weather, no metabolism, no life. Entropy increase is necessary for anything interesting to happen.
Fall and Futility
Yet Scripture clearly links the fall to cosmic corruption. Romans 8:20-21 says creation was "subjected to futility" and awaits liberation from "bondage to corruption."
This language resonates with entropy. Futility suggests purposeless degradation. Bondage to corruption describes inevitable decay. The whole creation groans like it's constrained by thermodynamic necessity.
So maybe entropy isn't simply good or bad. Maybe it's part of good creation but experienced as frustration because we're temporal beings subject to it rather than eternal beings transcending it.
The Arrow of Time
Entropy defines time's arrow. We remember the past but not the future because entropy was lower in the past. Causes precede effects because of entropic gradients. Time flows in the direction of entropy increase.
This has profound implications. If pre-fall creation lacked entropy increase, it would be timeless—or time would work differently. The fall might not have introduced entropy but changed our relationship to it—making us mortal creatures for whom entropy means death rather than eternal beings for whom it's just physical process.
Adam and Eve were created mortal but given access to the tree of life. Perhaps they were always thermodynamic beings (entropy applied to them), but they had access to a source that sustained them against entropic decay. The fall cut off that access, leaving them subject to processes that were always operating but previously not threatening.
Resurrection and Reversal
The resurrection promises entropy reversal. Corruption puts on incorruption. Mortal puts on immortality. Decay is defeated. Death is swallowed up in victory.
This can't mean returning to a pre-entropic universe—that would be thermodynamically boring. It must mean transcending entropy's limiting effects while retaining whatever generative possibilities it enables.
The resurrection body is physical but not corruptible. It exists in time but doesn't decay. It's subject to physical laws but not limited by them. Somehow, it escapes entropy's bondage while remaining genuinely material.
I don't know how this works thermodynamically. Maybe the resurrection involves connecting to an infinite energy source that sustains organization indefinitely. Maybe it involves escaping closed-system constraints. Maybe the physics of new creation works differently than current physics.
Present Implications
How does this affect how I live now?
First, it helps me accept decay without despair. Entropy increase is natural. My body ages, relationships require maintenance, achievements fade, organizations decline. This isn't punishment—it's physics.
But second, it motivates resistance. The resurrection promises entropy reversal. Every act of healing, repair, restoration, preservation participates proactically in that promise. When I maintain relationships, fix bugs in code, restore damaged ecosystems, create order from chaos—I'm working against entropy, anticipating new creation.
Third, it cultivates humility. I can create local order, but only by increasing disorder elsewhere. Every good thing I accomplish has thermodynamic costs. This should temper triumphalism and foster realism about limitations.
Science Fiction Speculations
Science fiction often explores entropy themes. Isaac Asimov's "The Last Question" asks whether entropy can be reversed—whether universal heat death is avoidable. The story spans trillions of years as increasingly sophisticated computers tackle the question, finally answering at the universe's end.
Arthur C. Clarke's "The Nine Billion Names of God" imagines cataloguing all God's names as a way of completing creation's purpose—at which point the stars begin going out, entropy apparently reversing as the universe fulfills its telos.
These stories grapple with entropy's apparent inevitability and humanity's hope for transcendence. They're secular eschatology—imagining endings, transformations, reversals.
Christian eschatology offers something these lack: not just reversal but resurrection. Not escape from physical reality but its transformation. Not the end of time but its redemption.
Systematic Theology and Physics
I want my theology and physics to cohere. My autistic brain demands systematic integration. But maybe perfect integration isn't possible yet.
Physics describes the world as it is—fallen, groaning, subjected to futility. Theology describes the world as it was meant to be and will be redeemed to become. The gap between them is the space where we live—subject to entropy yet hoping for resurrection.
One day physics and theology will perfectly cohere, because creation will be what it was meant to be. Until then, the tension between thermodynamic inevitability and eschatological hope is part of living between the times.
Conclusion
Is entropy part of the fall? I think the answer is both yes and no—which is frustrating for someone who craves clarity.
Entropy increase appears fundamental to physics. It enables complexity, defines time, makes interesting processes possible. In that sense, it's part of good creation.
But we experience entropy as futility—inevitable decay that limits, threatens, and ultimately kills us. In that sense, it's connected to the fall, part of the bondage from which creation groans for release.
The resolution isn't denying either reality but holding them in tension while hoping for resurrection—when physics and purpose perfectly align, when decay is defeated, when entropy's bondage breaks.
Until then, I live thermodynamically—subject to entropy, fighting local battles against disorder, creating temporary order that eventually disperses. But I live eschatologically too—anticipating the day when incorruption swallows corruption and death is finally defeated.
The second law remains in effect. For now. But not forever.