Over these past few weeks, we’ve learned that creation care is an integral part of our faith tradition. We’ve discussed God’s care for the animals and the land. We’ve learned that we are made from soil and that one of our primary God-given tasks is that of taking care of our home—this planet, this garden, that sustains us and all life. We’ve learned that God calls this world “good” and that God’s good creation is threatened by our unsustainable use of resources like oil and gas. We have been told that the creation is groaning as it awaits our awakening, our realization that this Earth is deserving of our love and care, the same love and care offered to it by God.
Over these past few weeks, we have been reminded that God’s love is bigger than what we could ever imagine. That, as the theologian Elizabeth Johnson would say, “God’s love is broad enough for the bears” and all manner of creeping things that make these lands and waters shimmer with life. God’s love is big enough for all of it and all of us. Because we too are members of creation.
Though we like to pretend that we exist outside of the environment, we occupy a place in the ecosystem in the same way that butterflies and herons do. We too are creatures. Our survival, our health, our present and our future is predicated upon the health of the whole. We do not exist in a vacuum. Instead, we exist as a part of a system beautifully crafted by God. We eat the fruits of the land, drink the waters of the rivers, and breathe air first inhaled as carbon dioxide by the trees… All this is to say that creation care is not separate from the care of people. Creation care is the care of people. Because creation care is the care of all that has been created. And that means us too.
When asked how I came to work at the intersection of faith and environment, the shortest answer is that I love people. I love people and I know that people of faith can and have done transformative things when we work together, embodying the radical love of Jesus… The longer answer to that question is that when I was a student at Appalachian State, I took a class that changed my life. Taught by Dr. Jen Westerman, “Introduction to Sustainable Development” fulfilled a Gen-Ed requirement I still needed as a first-year transfer student. And though I was interested in the topic, I never could have imagined how impactful that class would be on my career, and ultimately, my calling.
In Jen’s class, I learned that the climate crisis was not something that would plague the far-off future but something impacting people today. Not only were people being affected, but it was the poorest and most marginalized bearing the brunt of these changes. I learned about Indigenous communities in the far north forced from their ancestral lands because the ground, the permafrost, was literally melting beneath their feet. I learned about predominantly Black communities in Louisiana meeting the same fate—but instead of melting ice, the bayous that had seen their ancestors freed from slavery were flooding; their homes and hard-fought land disappearing under salt water. I learned about King Coal and Mountaintop Removal Coal Mining. It’s just what it sounds like. And I learned how, in addition to poisoning waterways and creating cancer corridors in some of the poorest regions of our nation, Mountaintop Removal claimed the life of 4-year-old Jeremy Davidson when a 1,000-pound boulder toppled from a mining site above his home and crashed into his bedroom.
It was these human stories, the stories of Jeremy and those like him, that shook me to my core. Because I was raised with a faith that proclaimed love for my neighbor and the “least of these.” And I couldn’t ignore the fact that it was this very group suffering the most at the hands of environmental destruction–which brings us to this morning’s passage.
Today’s scripture is one many of us know well. It imagines the time of judgment when Jesus will look to us, the departed, and separate the sheep from the goats—those who have followed his commandments from those who have not. What’s interesting about this passage is what qualifies you as a “sheep” or a close follower of Christ and his law. Much to the dismay of churchgoers and clergy alike, it isn’t church attendance. It isn’t public prayer or large revivals. It certainly isn’t how we dress or our 401k profile. No, Jesus defines his followers as those who have served “the least.” And he doesn’t leave that up for interpretation.
He says, “Come you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, sick and you cared for me, I was in prison and you visited me…” And when the righteous question Jesus, saying, “We never saw you. When did we do this for you?” Jesus responds, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me.” Not only does Jesus lay out the actions that honor him, he goes a step further by saying that in caring for those who were hungry, thirsty, sick, naked, in prison, and alienated from their home, we care for him. Jesus among us.
Like those in Jesus’ time, we might be surprised by this statement. After all, the crowds in Jerusalem were not expecting the messiah to arrive on a donkey. But Jesus has always been subversive. Born in the town of Nazareth, a town equivalent to today’s slums, Jesus was unexpected. And so, it should not surprise us that those Jesus embodies are those with the least political sway and resources. When we feed the hungry, we feed Jesus. When we give water to the thirsty, we do so unto Christ. This is how we live our Christian vocation, and friends, it requires creation care. Because the very same people that Jesus claims as his own, that he identifies as in this passage, are being ecologically crucified.
In his book, Where is God? Earthquake, Terrorism, Barbarity, & Hope, theologian Jon Sobrino asserts that Jesus is crucified each and every day through the lives of the oppressed, the “least of these,” whom he calls “the crucified people.” Moreover, he connects ecological harm with this crucifixion, noting the ways that even natural disasters like earthquakes are anything but natural in their destruction. Of course, seismic shifts lead to loss. But when no funds have been invested in infrastructure, when people are living in destitute poverty, when there is already a lack of clean water and nourishing food, even a minor earthquake becomes catastrophic. In other words, power dynamics impact how crises manifest. In our current system of sin, the people with the most power fare the best in emergencies while Jesus suffers in the trenches.
Matthew 25: 31-40 tells us that feeding, clothing, and welcoming are the ways of Christ and therefore the ways of our faith. Friends, all of these activities are made more difficult by the poisoning of our environment. It is difficult to feed people when crops are withering because of unending, unprecedented drought, brought on by climate change. It is difficult to find water for the thirsty when the rivers and groundwater are poisoned with lead and other toxins like in Flint, Michigan. It is difficult to care for the sick as our world becomes increasingly toxic. Did you know that there is plastic in breast milk now? That micro and nano-plastics are in our water, food, and soil? Caring for God’s creation is caring for the animals, plants, and places. But it is also caring for each other, protecting our health, and ensuring that our children and neighbors have what they need to live a life of beauty and hope. It is our job to respond to Jesus in our lives, and that means leaving no one and nothing out. All God’s creatures. All God’s children. All God’s creation.
So how do we do it? First, we continue the good work we are already doing. We keep filling the blessing box. We keep helping neighboring cities and towns recover when disaster strikes. We keep showing up for each other with genuine care and concern about the well-being of our hearts and homes. And then, like Jesus, we go a step further.
We take stock of the land where we live, play, and pray and consider how we might bring those spaces back to life—how we might breathe into them as God breathes into us. We challenge rhetoric that claims environmental issues are partisan issues and not moral and spiritual responsibilities. We pick an issue, an area of focus, it could be water quality or plastic reduction, agriculture or climate change, wildlife conservation or environmental education for children—wherever we feel most called. And we dig in there. In the words of Frederick Buechner, “find the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” It doesn’t particularly matter what you choose because it is all connected. You don’t need to force yourself to care about something you don’t care about. You only need to realize how everyone and everything that you love relies on this planet, this place, this garden, given to us for safekeeping by God.
You don’t have to do this work alone and I hope you won’t try to. This work demands community and support. And I would love to support you. The Creation Care Alliance would love to support you. Countless other faith leaders and organizations would love to support you… would love to join you and work alongside you. Because make no mistake, you are needed in this moment. As fires rage across California, as heat stroke threatens the lives of farmers and children alike, we are called to take the crucified down from their crosses. May it be so.
]]>I’m a new mom. Not that new. My daughter Margot is 15 months old as of today. But despite how much I’ve learned over this past year and some change, I still feel pretty new. I know how to change a diaper, Margot has learned how to drink from a sippy cup, and we’ve transitioned away from bottles. But every time we figure something out, something changes.
We used to rock her to sleep. That doesn’t work anymore. Now she knows what the rocking chair does and she arches her back to avoid it at all costs. Baby dolls used to be her favorite toy, but now she is all about balls. So many balls. Every color and size… They are all over our house. We used to trust that she was safe in her “yes space,” the part of our living room that has been thoroughly baby-proofed complete with gates and outlet covers. But we can’t assume that anymore because now she can climb. Her favorite place to stand is on top of her dump truck, despite, or maybe because of, the fact that it rolls.
More than any other life experience, parenting has made the constant presence of change clear to me. Despite all my efforts to plan for the next thing, the next stage, Margot throws me for a loop. I am in a constant state of learning and striving to adjust. Change is the only constant. And I am thoroughly exhausted.
A particular challenge that I have found in this stage of parenting a young human is that everything is happening all at once. I’m no longer in that newborn bubble. So now, in addition to being Mom to my girl, managing teething, sleep patterns, and daycare schedules, I’m also working. I’m attending Zoom calls and coffee meetings and planning events. I’m a pet parent who needs to take the dogs to the vet. I’m a consumer with a running list of agencies to call about bills, student loans, and cell phone plans. I’m a spouse trying to find time to do the dishes and have meaningful conversations and date nights. I’m a concerned citizen worried about the state of our democracy, our climate, and all those who find themselves in war zones, victims of violence and state-sanctioned bombs.
The days are a constant stream of to-dos muddled by worries. It’s hard. And my hunch is that you can relate. A lot is happening in our lives. If it’s not toddlers, it’s aging parents or friends. If it’s not work, it’s illness or a raise in the rent. So much, so often. It’s hard to juggle. It’s hard to process. And it’s hard to be present. All of this has had me thinking a lot about Sabbath.
What does it mean to keep the Sabbath? And how do we do it? Is Sabbath merely rest or something more? And how do we rest when so much is happening? When so much demands our attention–in our own families and in the world?
Like many of us navigating our culture of capitalistic idolatry, where productivity is the golden calf held up above all other gods, the idea of rest for rest’s sake is challenging to me. I know that rest is not only necessary but a part of our divine inheritance. I know that we deserve rest regardless of whether or not we have “worked hard enough.” But friends, I struggle to practice this. I struggle to sit in stillness. I struggle to clear my mind. I struggle to simply be. And I think that that is why today’s passage is so intriguing to me.
In our scripture this morning, Jesus offers us a balanced take. A look at Sabbath that isn’t black and white, but gray. And in my experience, the gray area is one of God’s favorite places to dwell. So, what does practicing Sabbath look like when everything is happening all at once? Let’s go to the text.
Our scripture today recounts two instances where Jesus is questioned regarding the laws of the Sabbath. In the first story, Jesus is confronted by the Pharisees and questioned as to why his disciples are picking grain–an action that some, but not all, Jewish leaders at the time would have considered a violation of the commandment to refrain from labor on the Sabbath. In the second passage, Jesus reprimands the Pharisees who conspire against him after he heals a man who has a withered hand on the Sabbath–an injury that may seem insignificant today, but at the time, was likely a life or death issue as it would have prohibited many kinds of physical labor.
Before saying anything else, I want to note that these kinds of passages have been used historically in ways that are antisemitic. They’ve pinned Jesus against Judaism, seeking to elevate Christianity by denouncing the Pharisees as overly rigid or ritualistic. But neither Jesus nor his disciples are Christians. They are Jewish. These confrontations are happening within the same religious context. This isn’t about Christianity versus Judaism. This is an inner-communal conversation between Jesus and religious authority figures regarding what constitutes Sabbath observance, and more broadly, how we sometimes let doctrine get in the way of our love.
The crux of the argument is this–while the Pharisees assert that harvesting grain and healing should not happen on the Sabbath because it constitutes labor, Jesus maintains that the “principle of doing good is what should govern the Sabbath.” Instead of a strict adherence to doctrine, Jesus asks the Pharisees to honor the intention and context of the labor they are criticizing. The disciples are likely harvesting grain instead of eating what was prepared the day before because they are on their way to preach with Jesus. And being present with the masses, teaching them about God’s love, that is a good thing. These implications continue in the next story of Jesus’ healing the man with the withered hand when Jesus asks the crowd, “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the sabbath, to save life or to kill?” Here, Jesus takes us to the heart of sabbath observance, to why we do what we do–reminding us and the Pharisees not to become so preoccupied with the rules that we forget their purpose. We don’t observe the sabbath just to say that we did. We observe the sabbath to be reminded of whose we are, why we are, and what that means.
So, back to our original question. How do we keep the sabbath when everything is happening all at once? According to Jesus, Sabbath observance doesn’t require that we tune out the needs of our family or the world. It doesn’t require stillness or that we master the art of meditation. Instead, Sabbath observance is governed by the principle of doing good, and I would add, the spaciousness to respond to the moment we find ourselves in.
In truth, spaciousness is what I see most in these passages. The disciples have the space in their day to respond to the needs of their bodies. Can you imagine if we had room to do that? Jesus has the space in his day to respond to the needs of the man in front of him who needs healing. Can you imagine if we had room to do that? To respond to the needs of our human and more than human neighbors? The couple whose car has broken down or the box turtle who needs help crossing the road? What if we had the room in our day to take the plastic we noticed weeks ago out of the creek? To fix the birdhouse? To call our senators and remind them of their obligations to create a more just and loving world? Jesus and his disciples had the space, the time, to respond to the moment before them with intention and presence. They made that time. They created that space. And we can as well.
Of course, Sabbath doesn’t give us more hours in the day. We have to step outside the chaos of commerce and productivity worship and walk into the world with our eyes wide open. We have to look up from our phones. And yes, we have to rest. We have to rest in ways that fill our spirits and keep us open-hearted. We have to stop over-planning and start trusting that the day will come to us if we throw out our arms and accept what comes through God’s abundant love.
You may wonder why someone called to the intersection of faith and environment just preached about Sabbath. It’s true, sometimes my sermons are more pointedly ecological. But make no mistake. Sabbath is essential to the achievement of creation care and climate justice. We cannot respond to the needs of a world aching for our presence if we cannot be present to our own needs–our own tired bones and the needs of our loved ones. We have to practice presence, and we have to understand our interconnectedness. We too are a part of creation. Our burn-out and exhaustion will benefit no one and nothing. Without Sabbath, we will not only tire of the good work we are called to do, but we will have no energy to be who we are called to be in all our many roles.
Sabbath may not happen on Sunday for you. It might happen in hourly increments. Or maybe on Thursdays. It might happen through time spent on your porch. It might show up in the form of belly laughter while catching up with old friends. It may happen as you cook the kind of dinner that includes chopping, and stirring, and simmering. It might be prayer, or a nap, or mediation. It might be dancing. The important thing to remember is that Sabbath is not a stepping out, but a stepping in. And thank goodness. Because this broken and bleeding world needs you in your fullness, entirely awake.
Professor of theology and ecology, Norman Wirzba, says that Sabbath “is fundamentally about saying yes to the gift of this life, the gift of community, the gift of our friends, the gift of our places.” And friends, I want that for all of us. Instead of waking to the “shoulds” of our to-do list, I want us to wake with “yes” on our lips… Imagine if Sabbath was defined by the principle of God’s goodness–for our neighbor, for ourselves, and all of creation. Imagine what that would look like. What would it take to make that happen? May it be so.
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