In the surgical theater, I frequently find myself in awe—not merely of the intricacies of the human anatomy, but of its intelligence. The manner in which tissues adjust, how cells interact, how the body mends—it all resonates more like a symphony than machinery. There’s rhythm. Responsiveness. A sort of attunement.

That term—attunement—has become fundamental to my understanding of not just medicine, but life, belief, and perhaps the essence of the universe itself.

As a surgeon, I’m educated to depend on evidence. However, I have also grown increasingly intrigued by inquiries that extend beyond the reach of the scalpel: What constitutes intelligence? What defines consciousness? Is there a concept of God—and if so, how does that notion fit within a contemporary, evolving world?

To me, intelligence is not confined to IQ measurements or neural intricacies. I see it simply as the capacity to modify behavior based on the surroundings to fulfill a goal. By that definition, intelligence exists everywhere. Not only in humans, but in animals, plants, ecosystems—and perhaps even within the universe itself.

The cosmos progresses. It adapts. It engenders complexity, life, and self-awareness. That bears a strong resemblance to intelligence in my view. If that holds true, could we regard the universe itself as a form of living intelligence? If so, that might be the nearest definition of God I can embrace—not as a distinct creator, but as an ingrained, unfolding consciousness that we are part of.

This implies that I am not separate from this intelligence. I am within it. Just as a solitary cell is part of a larger organism, perhaps my consciousness is a piece of a greater entirety. A wave in a cosmic ocean. A beneficial cell in the body of the universe.

This concept carries tangible implications.

If I belong to a broader living system, then my duty is not to dominate it or surpass it—but to be a healthy member of it. Similar to cells within a body, individuals can aid in the wellness of the whole—or they can turn toxic, hoarding resources, attacking their neighbors, neglecting the system that nourishes them. We identify that in medicine as cancer.

So I ponder, not in a religious sense, but from an ethical, existential perspective: Am I being a good cell?

Am I enhancing the universe’s coherence, compassion, and adaptability through my behaviors? Or am I taking, hoarding, provoking?

Even belief structures, which assert to be unchanging, are perpetually evolving. Religions frequently proclaim their doctrines remain constant—but history tells a different story. The Catholic Church once prohibited interest-bearing loans, forbade work on the Sabbath, and condemned same-sex love. These perspectives have evolved. That isn’t a sign of frailty—it’s a hallmark of life.

What I find peculiar is that religious leaders seldom celebrate this adaptability. They don’t say, “Observe how astutely we’ve grown.” Instead, they assert nothing has evolved. Yet everything living changes. This includes us—and the paradigms we employ to understand our existence.

In music, being in harmony doesn’t imply clinging to a singular note perpetually. It entails adjusting in real-time—responding to context, harmony, and flow. A jazz musician doesn’t adhere rigidly to the original melody. They listen, they shift. Their intelligence lies not in memorization, but in attunement.

Life mirrors that.

Whether it’s a plant leaning toward sunlight, a surgeon modifying techniques in response to bleeding, or a belief system reshaping to accommodate new truths, intelligence always revolves around responsiveness.

I’m not seeking to forge a new dogma or metaphysical doctrine. I’m merely sharing the viewpoint that has aided me in making sense of what I observe in the OR, in nature, and in the profound quiet moments of reflection.

We don’t require flawless answers. We need sincere ones. Adaptable ones. Living ones.

I don’t profess to possess the ultimate truth. My aim is simply to remain in tune. To listen. To adjust. To contribute to the whole, rather than just myself.

In that regard, I suppose my spiritual aspiration is straightforward:

To be a good cell.

*Fateh Entabi is a surgeon.*