So I took a course recently in order to prepare for my sabbatical. My sabbatical will be about spiritual disciplines outside of the church. This weblog is part of it. The course was an attempt to work on thinking scientifically and ecologically rather than philosophically and theologically. It has been a long time since my college science courses and I wanted to get an update on the language and a reminder of how to think scientifically about environmental issues. In the end the course was a bit of a dud. However, The syllabus was excellent and the assignments generated a lot of material. My final project was a three part "presentation" on religion and environmentalism. So...here is Section 1! Note: I do not normally write out an entire presentation, preferring an outline format. However, this particular 30-50 minute speech/workshop is based on a 15-minute sermon on the same subject that I gave during this class. You can still see parts of the way I format my sermons. Apologies for any unconventional punctuation. The actual presentation would probably not be read directly but would hit these points.
Context: This is set in the context of the original sermon, which is to say The Eliot Church of Natick, MA, located in the western suburbs of Boston, and affiliated with both the United Church of Christ and the Unitarian Universalist Association made up mostly of teachers, social workers, nurses and the like. Naturally It assumes their background, which includes a firm grounding in the scientific method. Section 1: State The Problem Thich Nhat Hanh tells us that “When [the Buddha] was challenged by Mara–who personifies delusion–[he] touched the Earth…and said ‘With Earth as my witness, I will sit here in meditation until I realize true awakening.’” (from a short meditation entitled “Touching the Earth”) There are few places where we can go today; where we human beings are not in charge, where we have not altered the landscape or the ecosystem in some way. After all, we can hike through the White Mountains among some of the tallest peaks in New England–places that feel so remote and wild to our citified and suburbanized selves–only to reach an open place. There we look down and see the result of human activity; towns and forest operations…and ski resorts…and the long ribbon of Interstate 93, which is how we all got there in the first place. The ecosystem that supports us is fading. We know this. We hear and read stories about “mountain top removal” in southern Appalachia, where whole hills and mountains are destroyed, sending toxic fumes into the air and toxic runoff into the water and the land below, permanently destroying the landscape. We know about Climate Change. The increasing levels of greenhouse gasses like carbon dioxide, methane, and nitrous oxide that have created this crisis are the result–we know–of our own human conveniences and economic desires. Also, we are well aware of more local issues. That Increased car and foot traffic in the White Mountains is an example. We know that this is the tip of the iceberg in the somewhat paradoxical situation we eco-tourists can find ourselves in. We also know that there is collateral damage evey time we leave our houses, whether we are going to work or to play. Even more locally, the debate around the removal of the spillway across from our church is another example. We have a choice to either free and repair the river’s ecosystem that has been struggling for almost a century or keep it, preserving human memories and perhaps property values along the shore. We know, or have learned through this last debate, about the diverse ecosystem of the Charles River–whose Algonquin name is Quinobequin–that we rely on in our human-constructed neighborhoods. And we have learned about how much healthier it could be if we gave nature more power over its future and gave ourselves less. In the noise of all these discussions–from the global to the particular–there are occasional fights over facts. There is actual confusion on the particulars, which is to be expected. However, the fight goes farther than that. I guess there are some folks who would like to fight over those details, to bend the truth to fit their needs. I don’t want to get bogged down arguing scientific facts like they are opinions. The forces at work are well-researched and documented. They have been tested and we know that the ecosystem that supports us is fading because we do not seem to be able to change our ways. We can argue other things–like what to do with these facts and where to put our priorities–but the facts remain. The earth is warming because of us. The water and the air are filthy because of us. We may have passed the tipping point of sustainability, again, because of us. Now, compounding the issue is that–In the midst of all the other very real and very immanent crises–this environmental crisis seems slow moving. As if we could put off worrying about these things until we fix other things. We can’t wait, of course, and we shouldn’t. These issues are intertwined, after all. At the UCC webpage you can find a statement from the People of Color Environmental Summit, for example, that makes that message clear. They state, in part, that they “Hereby re-establish our spiritual interdependence to the sacredness of our Mother Earth; to respect and celebrate each of our cultures, languages and beliefs about the natural world and our roles in healing ourselves; to ensure environmental justice; to promote economic alternatives which would contribute to the development of environmentally safe livelihoods; and, to secure our political, economic and cultural liberation that has been denied for over 500 years of colonization and oppression, resulting in the poisoning of our communities and land and the genocide of our peoples” Which is to say, that the old argument of economics, or defense, or jobs, versus the environment perpetuates a false dichotomy. A just and sustainable human ecology requires all of us to live in ways that do not destroy our home. So, let’s return to the topic of “touching the Earth”. As many of you know, over the year I have made a study of this. I have been concerned with finding ways; To return to conversation with creation To take time out of the manufactured human rush To reflect and to communicate with the natural world To Touch the Earth as Thich Nhat Hanh says And see what this planet, this universe, this holy Creation has to say. How do we do it? How do we touch the Earth? Needless to say, given my tendencies, I believe that we must approach the issue spiritually and religiously. We must make our connection to Creation our “practice.” We must, in fact, practice it every day. Now, those of you who know what I am talking about when I mention looking down from a high mountain and seeing the highway must have climbed a mountain or two. You must already have the seeds of this practice within you. So before we move on, let us take a moment, first in silence to lift up those connections, and then to share them with your neighbor. First: 1 minute of silence Then: 5 minutes of sharing
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As some of you know from an earlier post, one of the things I am doing to connect with nature is spending time on the river across the street from my house. The plan is the engage in close observation. This project brought me into closer-than-usual contact with skunk cabbage. I watched Symplocarpus Foetidus over the course of a couple weeks. It was always on the list because–it being early spring–there were few plants available along the banks of the Charles River where I live outside of Boston. The most prolific early grower in my area of observation, in fact, was the “burning bush” (Euonymus Alatus) an invasive that is now illegal to sell in Massachusetts and New Hampshire because of the tenacious hold it has on the local environment. It came here as an ornamental for lawns and "gardens". Other landscaping staples like Rhododendron can be found along the banks as well. Some migrated, no doubt, and others were planted. Skunk cabbage, on the other hand, is indigenous to this part of the world. Perhaps ironically, part of my interest comes from the fact that it, too, has been banned or regulated in parts of Great Britain. Apparently context is everything with invasive species. They are survivors, which also attracted me. These days--much of the time--I and the people I know are thinking hard about survival. Economic crises, plagues, and war seem closer to us than they were before. Our human ecology is frayed and fraying. Taking the boat out to visit a species resisting the incursion of civilization is restful, even inspiring in ways. Henry David Thoreau recognized this in his own observations. Writing in his journal on October 31, 1857, “If you are afflicted with melancholy at this season, go to the swamp and see the brave spears of skunk-cabbage buds already advanced toward a new year.” Along the river–even when the invasive burning bush is just beginning to awaken–the skunk cabbage is already well established. If the observer is in the right mood, it can be remarkable to look at. Its broad green leaves and alien flower evoke the times of the far past or far future. Its smell--designed to attract pollinators--is more rude than off-putting. Unlike most plants, the skunk cabbage is “thermogenic”, meaning it generates its own heat. This keeps much of the frost at bay, allowing it to establish itself in the wet areas of its habitat by spreading roots out and down for the majority of the year. This aspect–possibly more than its famous smell of rotting meat–is a key element to the survival of its habitat along riverbanks and other areas susceptible to erosion. My own observations, of course, did not cover its fall transformation, when the old leaves die off to reveal Thoreau’s “spears” underneath. However, I was able to see some of the benefits this provides the landscape. The approach for my observations--as I noted earlier--included regular trips by canoe or kayak out on the Charles to see how the cabbage and the ecosystem itself is doing in the human-dominated suburban community where I live. The role of the cabbage–particularly during this early spring part of the year, is a key element. It is easy to miss in many ways, but if one knows what to look for, the situation is quite clear. The Charles River (Its Algonquin name is “Quinobequin”) is a narrow, meandering body of water as it passes through Natick, MA where these observations occurred. On each side of the river at its widest points are large marshy areas that are home to a larger percentage of the wildlife that makes the Charles home. The tall grasses and brush rising out of these banks provides protection to at least two species of turtle as well as nesting areas for Blue Herons, Canadian (and feral) Geese, 3 observed species of duck, a mating pair of swans, amphibians in their various stages, and fish. There are also insects and songbirds in abundance. During this time of year the grasses have yet to recover from their winter. The wildlife conceals itself within the gray, dried remains of last year. The lone green–with its complex root system–belongs to the skunk cabbage. I was careful when taking the above picture not to disturb any of the geese who were nesting in my proximity. However, it shows the very edge of the largest of these marshes which, in addition to providing habitat for wildlife, also are responsible for flood prevention, absorbing a large portion of the excess water we experience in March and April. The limited number of green grasses that can be seen around the base of the cabbage may actually be benefiting from the warmth of the cabbage itself. It is not unusual in the spring and fall for them to heat the ground enough to eliminate the frost layer nearest their roots, giving other species a head start as well. Just visible in the picture above is a large, white house. The Charles is not in a wild and remote place. Over 900,000 people live in its watershed. Even more commute into the area daily for work or other activities. This means the ecosystem must contend with air, water, light and noise pollution on a regular basis. There are human-made structures that disturb the flow of the river and the ability of plants to take root. There is toxic runoff from the street above. Those invasives abound. The invasive plants are mostly from a couple of centuries of home and public landscaping projects. Some invasive animals–like the red-eared slider turtle–are descendents of pets and were later released into the river when their novelty wore off. Others--like the rat--are opportunists. Some of these species play nice with the environment. Others do not. The skunk cabbage functions as part of the team of species keeping the river habitat together and is frequently able to make headway in places other species cannot. At the top of the first picture, in fact, one can see the barricade that indicates the presence of a major commuting road into Boston. Twice a day it is clogged with cars and trucks going to and from the city. However, just below, in the mud that has gathered around the foundations of that road are the skunk cabbages, helping to absorb sound, clean the water, and provide safe haven for the rest of the river community. They are hard to kill and impossible to remove, which is a problem in Britain. However, it is ideal for life on the Quinobequin, where it has always made its home. Again, this isn't really just a hiking blog. That is no more true than right now. A family-wide Covid epidemic has left us isolated at home and sick as dogs. Thankfully, we are vaccinated. I actually had my second booster the day my wife started showing symptoms. Though that last shot turned out to be a couple weeks too late, I am glad for the other ones. Who knows how horrid it would have been otherwise. Anyway, this hiatus from our usual weekend hiking expeditions has made me realize how important they are. The hiking part is important, sure. More important, however, is just being outdoors. Being cooped up indoors most of the time is exhausting more than any hike. It is why I don't like winter. You are either moving around skiing, snowshoeing or whatever or you are trapped at the office or the living room. It is hard to just sit. Drives me crazy. So the past few days on into the weekend I am getting familiar with my garden. The garden is pretty much my project. My eldest son--who normally grows vegetables for a living--has customarily helped, but now he is on the Appalachian Trail. Middle son--who also grows veg--has no interest in more gardening when he gets home from work. Youngest son hates gardens and vegetables. My wife is content to let it be my project. This means it usually takes a back seat to hiking and any other free-time activities. But here I am...sick. So the past few days have consisted of me planting, weeding, dividing, and harvesting...runny nose, startling hacking cough and all. Then, exhausted, I stumble into the shade with my coffee to stare at the garden while I plan my next project...once I catch my breath. My garden--two raised beds, an herb bed, and some old plastic planters--is not pretty. Even when everything is in peak season it has the look of an amateur. That said, it is important to me. It is another way to interact with nature. It is a way to touch the ground even in my imperfection. Mid-plague when we were all falling apart and I couldn't walk more than a few feet my eldest bought me a little kneeler so I could weed the herb bed, which was all we had at the time. Then he lobbied me to buy myself the first raised bed. After the surgery on my back, he helped me put it together. It is a good memory in a dark time. I still couldn't walk much or well. Now, though, I could be outside with a reason other than feeling sad. Yeah, I had "outdoor office hours" during the plague and I am outdoors typing right now. Still, it was [and is] different when you are doing inside activities outside. My neighbors probably think I am total nerd for doing this...which I am. The garden also gave us something to talk about. It wasn't that we lacked topics! Still, this one is different. It is about resurrection and growth. It is about getting better in spite of everything that holds us down. Now--while he is marching across Virginia--I text him garden questions and send him pictures a couple times a week. It is something to share other than mountain pics, which are a bit coals-to-Newcastle right now. This week I divided the near-dead lavender. I hardened-off and planted some iffy pepper plants, basil, sage, fennel (for the flowers and the parasitic wasps that will make it home) rosemary and bush cukes. I made a tiny salad out of the greens that are coming up. I searched for and found a few reluctant perennials as they made their appearance, marking them off with parts of a pair of glasses I broke in my delirium. Then I wrestled with the mint. I have some spaces open for kale and eggplant and some empty flower pots still but--given my positive status--it is all over except the watering and weeding for a a couple more days. Now it is getting hot. So here are some pictures of my ugly garden. The middle ones are from past years. The first and last are from this week, taken from the relative shade of the parsonage during coffee breaks. You can see the kneeler in its "banjo seat" position. May your encounters with Creation be good ones this weekend, whatever they may be. I know that this weblog looks for all the world like it is about hiking. However...it is a little broader than that. As I have mentioned in other places, it is an attempt to find ways to experience spiritual connection in nature, and outside of church. What we think of as church is dying. The plague has accelerated the tendencies that already existed in our society. I am not worried. People are still finding social and spiritual connection. They are continuing to be active in the world. All this writing is part of a larger project just forming as part of my sabbatical time next year. Yes, ministers (many of them at least) get sabbaticals. They are not as long as the ones we know of from academia or business. They still exist, though. Mine is formed to delve into this question of connection and to report back here and in other places...like church...which I said was on its way out but still serves many many people who are asking life's deep questions. Anyway, this is a sermon inspired by my project and delivered to the Eliot Church of Natick, MA. It is non-creedal, so people have a wide range of views on religion and theology. Still, they have these questions and like examining them together. I preach most weeks and will NOT be posting many sermons here. This one did seem to be relevant however... Yes... I know that this is the non-church blog. Still, this is more about nature and spirituality than anything else and that is really what this is about. I am taking a course/workshop online about ecojustice and ecological literacy for religious leaders. We had an assignment to write a "psalm of praise" for our local social ecosystem. The "praise" part hung me up a bit because humans--even well-meaning ones--make quite a negative impact on the environment wherever they live...and that is pretty much anywhere. But this is what I came up with after taking the kayak out on the Charles River (Quinobequin in Algonquin). I could praise the river and the life it supports, and the people who are fighting to restore and protect it... April on The Charles: A Psalm of Praise by: Adam Tierney-Eliot Praise God for the awakening of creation In the In the temperate biomes of New England In the Inland marshes and deciduous forests of Massachusetts In the fertile valley of the meandering Quinobequin Praise God in all the miraculous wonder That emanates from its waters From the kin-dom of animals; The turtles; Both sliders and painters Rolling off the logs at another's approach The rustling on the banks of new life; Of Rodents and their predatory foxes finding their place by the water The swans on their nest, The geese (mostly Canadian), And mallards on the river current Searching for insects darting under the surface And in the air; The red-tailed Hawk, The Herons hidden away Waiting for their fish, And the frantic flight of the red-winged black bird Reveling in the new growth Of new buds and insects on the old decomposing logs Praise God for the kin-dom of plants, too; Growing river grasses pushing up amid the spindly burning bushes on the wet, spongy soil Too new to know their names And the first buds on the pines, the maples, The milkweed, The native skunk cabbage That thrives early on Quinobequin’s banks All these many organisms and more Diverse yet overlapping helping, feeding, being fed upon Native, non-native, and invaders In a constant cycle of life, death, and new life Each organism reaching out to others Both hostile and hospitable Praise the power of life and wildness To flourish in the cramped confines Of human sprawl And praise the river-keepers And dam-breachers Working for its return Walking onward toward reconnection To the ecosystem no living thing can escape Praise God for the power of creation From the small local habitats To the grand biomes That ebb and flow According to the shifting Of temperature, water, light, heat and cold God’s creation is beautiful in its complexity And its interconnection Beautiful Creation in its complexity We are connected and interconnected Praise for all God’s people Praise all God's beings Who also praise and act And bring us closer To the divine universal interconnection |
Adam Tierney-EliotI am a full-time pastor in a small, progressive church in Massachusetts. This blog is about the non-church things I do to find spiritual sustenance. Archives
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