Forest
Photo by Alex Vinogradov on Unsplash
I was twelve years old when the first Earth Day was celebrated in the United States on April 22, 1970. It is estimated that 20 million people attended the inaugural events at tens of thousands of sites, including elementary and secondary schools, universities and community centers across the country. [1]
In my hometown of Long Beach, California, there were several walks and events; it felt like the world was waking up to planet justice and care. The walk I was on with my school friends was 20 miles and we passed through the industrial part of the city, the beautiful beaches, the impoverished areas, the parks and some different residential areas. We were to see all the ways the earth was being impacted: what was cared for, what was neglected, and how could we take steps to protect and nourish our resources.
As young people just entering our adolescence, we were so hopeful, positive, and sure we could correct some of the apparent damage. Sadly, as the years and decades have passed, neither my generation nor many of the generations since have buckled down to commit ourselves to climate care. The result is that we stand at a crossroads. This is a spiritual issue as much as a public health, economic or political issue.
The stakes now are set: either we act in love to protect the earth, to mitigate the damages of climate change, or we spin slowly into the demise of much of the earth’s inhabitants including ourselves.
In her essay, “Loving in a Vanishing World,” author Emily Johnston suggests that we think about earth care as a sacrament. [2] Johnston notices that the word “sacrament” comes from the Latin word for “solemn oath” and says that it was a word used by the early Christians “as the translation of the Greek word for ‘mystery’.” [3] She wants to know if we, the human inhabitants of the world, will take a solemn oath to risk our lives for someone we love, for creatures and flora and fauna that depend on our actions from here on out. The continuing vitality of the globe depends on the light that “must come from within” she writes.
The stakes now are set: either we act in love to protect the earth, to mitigate the damages of climate change, or we spin slowly into the demise of much of the earth’s inhabitants including ourselves. But what I like about Johnston’s essay is that she frames it in such a positive and beautiful way: we have been given a “gift that has never before been given to humans: the chance to shepherd human and animal life into the coming centuries and millennia, when we know that otherwise much of it would otherwise disappear.” [4] We can think about our actions as a sacrament. A means of grace. A form of worshiping God who made all of this world. We could live like we care.
I have a friend who is a retired United Methodist clergywoman, and this last year she has been taking classes in “forest bathing” as she prepares to lead retreats in the woods for spiritual formation. Forest bathing is a form of prayer, mindfulness, really soul restoration by walking in a natural environment and making a conscious effort to connect with what is around you. To lean into the aliveness of the earth, to feel a sense of gladness and gratitude, to join the earth in prayer. After my friend and I had a conversation about her focus in this area, we decided that we would both spend some time in the timber and then write poems to reflect on what happened to us spiritually. I wrote the following poem after I literally spent some time with my hands against the bark of a tree overlooking Red Rock Lake one late afternoon.
Trees
When I put my hand upon the tree
I could feel it praying, the rough bark
stretched over the tender cambium
so there would be privacy, things whispered
within not meant for the outside world,
not meant for the blue jays standing on the neck of the sentinel
or even for the woodpecker drilling for bugs.
These prayers are emerging from the sapwood
and the hardwood, layers of life
that reach higher with a woody silence
climbing from the roots and holding everything,
the names of the years ringed at the center
and prayers abiding there, quiet strength.
When I put my hand upon the tree
I can feel it bearing the weight of the air
that I did not know, the changes
in the way the rain falls or the sun rises,
the long goodbyes to fireflies or mountain lions
who have all moved on or gone away
but who are no longer here -- the tree has watched the world
and when I stand beneath its heavy certainty,
I feel it has watched me too, maybe watched over me,
has shaded my mind from a bright heat too difficult to bear,
has welcomed my story within the stories of the squirrel and deer
gathering on its limbs or beneath its canopy.
I put my hand upon the tree and I pray too
that we could companion this time in patience,
and watch together the night settle over the timber
and the stars emerge, and the wind cool the earth beneath us.
As we come to Earth Day 2024, perhaps we should all get out and walk in the timber. Put your hand in prayer against the living bark of an old tree that has seen the years pass, and feel inspired again to commit to creation care as a sacrament, a way of being in worship, and as a way of being a faithful disciple of Jesus who asks us to give our lives for the Creation that He loves.
[1] “Today in History - April 22, 1970. Library of Congress. www.loc.gov
[2] Johnston, Emily. “Loving in a Vanishing World” in All We Can Save, truth, courage and solutions for the climate crisis. Edited by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson and Katharine K. Wilkinson, © 2021
[3] Ibid. p. 257
[4] Ibid. p. 258
Mary Bellon
The Rev. Dr. Mary Lautzenhiser Bellon
The Rev. Dr. Mary Lautzenhiser Bellon is a clergy member of the Iowa Annual Conference of The United Methodist Church. "Abiding in Hope" is a spiritual support project of the conference.