There is a realm of time where the goal is not to have but to be, not to own but to give, not to control but to share, not to subdue but to be in accord. Life goes wrong when the control of space, the acquisition of things of space, becomes our sole concern.
Rabbi Abraham Heschel, The Sabbath
I’ve written before about how Christian theology has often failed the Earth; too often, we read the words of Genesis – that we have dominion over the Earth, that we ought to subdue it – or read Psalm 8, and we take them at face value and call it a day. The result is a misguided, sinful notion that we can do whatever it is we’d like with the land, air, and water on which all life depends.
But, the Bible is more complicated than that. A Christian relationship with the Earth is a far cry from this dominating, hateful approach to the ways Christian cultures have historically regarded the Earth (an approach which is anything but Christlike).
I preached this sermon at the First Congregational Church of Glen Ellyn, a suburban UCC congregation where I currently work as the senior high youth director. In it, I borrow the concept of the Sabbath – born out of Jewish practice and expounded upon through millennia by Jewish theologians, but still present in Christian tradition – to suggest a different way we might come to relate to the other life on our planet.
I use a text from the prophet Isaiah, which you can read here, to highlight the ways in which Jesus was firmly rooted in his own Jewish faith – and then to explore the implications of this teaching for our relationship to our planet and all life on it.
You can watch the sermon in the video below, or read it in the transcript on the following page.
I have a funny relationship to reports on the climate crisis. On one hand, I so desperately want the crisis to be covered by media sources – and I want it covered honestly, with transparency and frankness. I want to read the IPCC reports as they come out. I want to know the full extent of the crisis we’re in, because I want to be a knowing witness to what is unfolding, and perhaps even an agent in its change.
And yet, when reports on the climate crisis do come out, it is often so upsetting that my first instinct is to look away. I get a funny feeling in my stomach, and my hands sweat, and I can only sigh deeply at headlines that announce what kind of world we’re heading towards. Usually, I bookmark the story, and I spend a few days dreading it before I finally find the courage to read what bad news that report contains.
It’s been this way for a while, but I had no words for what I was experiencing. Eco-grief is a term I’ve recently become acquainted with, and learning it was relief – like a drink of water in a dry land. Eco-grief refers to a broad range of emotions experienced in response to the loss of ecosystems and species, and to environmental destruction. Like other forms of grief, it includes emotions like sadness, despair, frustration, anger, confusion, loss, and hopelessness – among others.
It was a relief to just have these emotions named, and to realize that I was not alone in my feelings of grief. Naming it and seeing that I was not alone became my foundation for acting for a different kind of future.
These are the thoughts I carried with me as I wrote this sermon; my convictions about the need for action for the Earth, my sense of grief in the climate crisis, and my knowledge that many others carry this grief, but still feel alone. And I believe that this is a place where people are sorely in need of hearing the Gospel.
I preached this sermon at my seminary, the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago, as part of our observance of the Season of Creation, a liturgical movement which seeks to pray for and act to protect creation. You can access the audio to the sermon here, or read it below. I’d love to hear your thoughts about eco-grief or the sermon in the comments, and if the sermon touches you in anyway, I’d be delighted it you shared it.
What happens when we view the whole earth as an icon for the Holy Trinity?
The Whole Earth in the Trinity
This post is the second in a three-part series on ecotheology and biodiversity. Last month, I discussed how the Christian theological tradition contributed to the ethical frameworks which allow people to justify their immoral behavior toward the earth. You can access that post here.
Today, I am posting here about how the Trinity can help us to shake some of our anti-earth theologies. I am posting it today especially because of the Trump Administration’s shameful weakening of the Protected Species Act, which has happened today. We Christians cannot stand idly by as the lives of thousands of species are in jeopardy; we must respond faithfully, and reclaim our faith as one in which even the sparrow’s life has infinite value.
It is an ancient knowledge which tells us that human life and non-human life are tied together, our livelihood resting in the well-being of the other. It is something that Vine Deloria Jr., the theologian whose work I discussed last week, explains as being central of Native American religion in his book God is Red. And yet, it is also something forgotten by many of us in Western cultures, and so reports on climate change often read as if the news of the interrelatedness of all life is something recently discovered. For example, in the New York Times report I referenced last month on mass extinction, one scientist, Robert Watson, framed the findings of this study as something newly added to the conversation on ecology. “For a long time, people just thought of biodiversity as saving nature for its own sake … but this report makes clear the links between biodiversity and nature and things like food security and clean water in both rich and poor countries.”
Who is it, exactly, that thought that preserving biodiversity had nothing to do with the well-being of all creation – including us human animals? And what are their backgrounds, that allowed them to think this way for so long?
Deloria would argue that Western Christian theology contributed to this kind of thinking, and that this kind of thinking is contrary to the ways Native American religion posits human relationship to the earth. In writing about the native understanding of creation, he says, “To exist in a creation means that living is more than tolerance for other life forms—it is recognition that in differences there is the strength of creation and that this strength is a deliberate desire of the creator.”
In this framework, biodiversity has inherent value in its own right, regardless of how much or how little it benefits humanity. It is a “deliberate desire of the creator.” It’s a far cry from how the editorial board of the New York Times describes the importance of biodiversity when they write, “Biodiversity loss, [the report] says, is an urgent issue for human well-being, providing billions and billions of dollars in what experts call “ecosystem services.” This is a framework in which biodiversity is important only because it is imperative to human well-being and financially beneficial; it is only important because it can fulfill human desire. And Christian theology has been an active participant in developing this earth-as-tool mindset which has led us to the ecological disaster we face now.
But, it doesn’t have to be this way.
Christian theology does not have to be a death-dealing force when it comes to discussing the earth, nor should it be. It is imperative at this time in history to draw on our theological tradition to find a life-giving, life-sustaining approach to the earth and all its inhabitants because, as I discussed last week, our theologies influence the actions of people outside of our seminaries and churches – either for good or for ill.
At the core of this discussion is the question of anthropocentrism. Whereas Deloria considers the values and experiences beyond those of humans, the New York Times, in this editorial, expresses concern only for human values and concerns. As Western cultures come to understand more and more than our fate as human beings is tied up with the fate of our non-human neighbors, we must begin to consider more than just our values and experiences; we must abandon our anthropocentrism.
This might first appear to present a problem for Christian theology; after all, in our tradition, humanity was honored with the imago Dei, and God became truly human in Jesus Christ. These are high praises for human beings, which exalt us over and above non-human life as the crown jewel of creation. One goal of ecotheology is to find parts of our tradition which help us to claim the value of non-human life. I think one place we might begin is with the Trinity.
The Trinity, which sees perfect unity in multiplicity and perfect differentiation within one being, offers us a model for making sense of our own home of planet earth, which simultaneously and mysteriously functions as one complex organism and as a complex web of an uncountable number of individual living beings. Brian Swimme, a professor of evolutionary cosmology, once described it this way: “The universe is a single, multiform energetic unfolding of matter, mind, intelligence, and life,” – a reality we can see reflected in the mystery of the Holy Trinity. This is the argument of Brazilian ecofeminist and liberation theology, Ivone Gebara. She describes the Trinity as being a reflection not of stagnant dogma, but as a reflection of life lived, as something which is better experienced than catechized. Above all, she says, the Trinity is relationship, and we participate in it constantly. She writes, “We need to reaffirm that the Trinity is an expression of the Mystery, both one and multiple, that envelops us, that has made us what we are, and in which we participate ceaselessly… The Trinity is relationship, after all: an existential experience in ourselves and in the world.”
However, despite the dynamism of the Trinity, we have clung to exclusive language which limits our understanding of the Divine. For so long, we have clung to our traditional and exclusively male imagining of God – the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit – at the expense of allowing our living faith to, well, live. We are left with a god theologian Sandra Schneiders cheekily describes as “an old man, a young man, and a bird.” The truth, which Gebara points to, is that God is so much bigger, transcending the images and metaphors we use to point towards this reality. This does not mean that the image of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit is inaccurate, but our dogmatic approach to this image being The Only Image for God closes our minds. Instead, we must be able use many images if we wish to use language to describe God, which is something Jesus did when he spoke of God as a mother hen, a woman with a lost coin, a shepherd and, of course, a father.
In reality, we use many images for God all the time, though people are often miffed (to put it mildly) by incorporating other trinitarian formulations in church. But to do so is important in the world of ecotheology; by opening up our language about the Trinity, we can come to see the Trinity in many and various places throughout creation. The whole earth becomes an icon of the Holy Three in One.
This allows Christian theology to loosen its death grip on anthropocentric faith and begin to see non-human life as inherently valuable, rather than valuable only as a tool for humankind. When we consider the earth and its biodiversity as worthy only because it is useful to us, this is another way of expressing our perceived dominance over the earth, which is the kind of attitude which created our ecological crisis. Coming to see value inherent in the earth is a crucial step in being in right relationship with it. Rather than seeing it as something to be protected just because of its utility, we can instead come to appreciate all life in its abundant diversity as being “deliberately desired by the creator,” as Deloria puts it, in both its superb interconnectedness and particularity.
What do we make of the unique and multiform structure of our planet? What do we make of it that no two non-human animals are alike, even those of the same species? What do we make of it that every one of these individuals has a role to play in its own neighborhood, and that not one of them could live without the other? What do we make of it that we are equal to these non-human animals, at least in our distinction as having been formed by the Creator?
And how could we ever make sense of these things, expect through the Trinity, the mystery of our interrelatedness and particularity?
To see the entire earth and all its inhabitants as an icon of the Trinity, to see each living being in its particularity while knowing that our lives cannot be extricated from each other, has great implications in our lives and in our faith. It is an awe-striking change of perspective; rather than the meaning of this life coming our dominance over the world and its inhabitants, rather than seeing ourselves as exalted above our fellow creatures, we come to an “awareness of the meaning of life comes from observing how the various living things appear to mesh to provide a whole tapestry,” and the fullness of creation, the true majesty of the work of God, begins to reveal itself before us.
But it also has real ethical implications. By understanding ourselves as just one piece within the trinitarian earth, “we accept the responsibility of knowing and loving the earth as a living being, and of refraining from manipulating its secrets and destroying it,” as Gebara put it. No longer can we sit idly by as our governments destroy animal life and the few measly protections it currently has.
Acknowledging our part within the Trinity makes us aware of something new about ourselves. Seeing our own part in the Godhead calls us to be in a right relationship with the earth and its creatures, a calling I’ll discuss in the next final installation of this series.