Recently in Bible and ecology Category

Biologists in FL are working to preserve native species threatened by the catastrophic Gulf oil spill, and they've dubbed it "Operation Noah's Ark." Echoing that story in the biblical book of Genesis, Jack and Anne Rudlow are collecting what critters they can house in their Gulf Specimen Marine Lab to preserve and then release when the danger is past. The whole matter is so heartbreaking.

So many good people who have worked so hard over so many years to conserve, preserve, do the right thing. And then this. In a virtual instant, irresponsibility wrecks havoc on a colossal level. So many innocent creatures- -- dolphins, fish, birds, and turtles -- suffering torturous deaths because of our insatiable thirst for profit and cheap energy.

And I think of the little girl I met in Richmond some weeks ago. A beautiful child with long blond hair that fell in loose curls to her waist. In all her eight years, she had never cut it. Yet she determined that the next day she'd join whoever else showed up (at the Children's Museum, I think it was), to cut it all off -- "to help with the oil." The program is called "Matter of Trust." Her mother, wistfully running her hands through the girl's hair, explained that they'd been told that human hair has a unique capacity to sop up oil. In my mind, "obscene" was the word that pierced the sorrow. Compare her sacrifice, her concern and commitment to BP's profit, politicians' popularity, and our obstinate demand for oil.

Sorry for the downer, but there it is. Meanwhile, the sun shines its summertime heat on the green Virginia hills, storm clouds thunder through at night, and Beaver Beverly's guy Vernon has ambled up from the pond where she's busy working to have himself an afternoon snack of the maple shoots sprouting in the shade. He's within the dogs' scope and territory... if they'd just raise their big sleepy heads to look. They're all safe for now.  

The storied "sea" (actually a freshwater lake) where Jesus performed miracles among its fisher-folk and from which Jesus called his disciples to become "fishers of men" is now off limits. Galilean fish stocks are so depleted that Israel has instituted a ban on fishing there, in effect for two years, in the hopes that that piscis population will rebound. For those of us who know Galilee from the gospel stories, it's easy to get sentimental, wishing for a 21st century reality just like we read about Jesus' first century one.

But as Louis Jenkins' poem that Garrison Keillor read on today's Writers Almanac reminds us, "Everything changes." He observes, "Dinosaurs did not disappear from the earth but evolved into birds and crock pots became bread makers and then the bread makers all went to rummage sales along with the exercise bikes."

I've been thinking with church groups lately about what the Bible says about environmental issues, and how different the message can be when we consider that everything changes. That we today can radically transform our conditions, that we can take for granted safety from wild animals and the weather and have no worries about access to food makes Genesis 1's command to subdue and have dominion mean differently than it did in its ancient context.

In the case of Galilee, it means a fishing ban -- active care and wise restraint -- in what would seem on the surface to be directly opposed to Jesus' encouraging such industry. The biblical notion of controlling and ruling over the non-human natural world is transformed into intelligent stewardship. Paradoxically, that would seem to be exactly what the biblical texts promote.

There's something surreal about walking across the great plaza of the Louvre, riding the escalators under the modern glass pyramid, and coming face-to-face with Baal, etched in limestone some 3,500 years ago. That famous stela, discovered at the ancient city of Ugarit (now Syria's Ras Shamra), depicts the storm god whose name became synonymous with wrongful worship in the Bible. He strides purposefully forward holding a staff that touches the ground and blooms at its tip -- indicative of the fertility that followed the rains he brought. A famous biblical story in 1 Kings 18 pits the prophets of Baal against the prophet of Yahweh (Elijah) during a drought. After Baal failed to respond to the prophets' pleas for a sign, Elijah called on Yahweh who dramatically consumed the sacrifice... And then, the narrator tells, it began to rain. The rain may seem to modern readers an afterthought, simply part of the story's setting. Actually, it made a strong theological statement: that it was Yahweh, not Baal the so-called god of storms, who controlled the weather and could bring rain in a devastating drought. So much has changed since the artist carved this depiction of Baal, and so much is still the same. I wonder how many prayers went up last week for the Icleandic volcano to cease its spewing. How many prayers for protection from earthquakes, hurricanes, and fire? How many prayers right now are being prayed for rain?

A version of this post first appeared in Christian Century's "Theolog."

It's spring, and Richmond is busting out in lush green. White pompoms of elderberry blossoms are bustling with bees. Hard new figs are attached impossibly to smooth branches, and my grape vine sports countless tiny clusters of lime green nubbins. The cats stretch out in the sunshine to doze. And on Fridays, the kids across the alley fire up their grill. My whole body breathes, with every sense, and exhales in well-being. The luscious smell of sizzling burgers, the hoo-hoo of doves, the heat (ah heat) of a southern, not-quite-summer sun, the tender crunch of sugar snap peas, and the riotous beauty of blood red teacup roses nestled among dripping white honeysuckle. With all five, physical senses buzzing, a sixth, the spiritual, shimmers. In spring, it seems perfectly right that the Bible would include a Song of Songs, also called the Song of Solomon. 
 

"Yuck-o and the Fiery Serpent" sounds like a YA short story or moralistic tale. It is neither. Instead, it's how anyone might react to reading about a particularly awful parasite called the guinea worm. Because it burns like hell on its way out, it shares description as a "fiery serpent" with strange biblical creatures.  I'll spare you the details of how drinking infected water gets the little buggers growing in one's gut til they're mature enough to burrow out of your skin. Slowly. Some relief may be had by soaking the site in water,... and so the cycle goes. The good news, I'll tell you upfront, is that this particularly gruesome and painful parasite can be completely eradicated. Human beings are the worms' sole host.  

Some people associate the "fiery serpent" with snakes described in the book of Numbers (chap 21). According to the story, God sent biting snakes to afflict the Israelites whose complaining on their desert trek exasperated God. But I wonder if it isn't rather the "fiery serpent" of Isaiah 14:29 that we should think of -- predicted to plague Philistia, when they rejoiced over the death of Judah's king. Whatever the case, the biblical (Hebrew) term is "seraph," which certainly adds another dimension to our ideas about that order of angels.

 Summer came flying into Virginia this year. Just last week, I was scraping frost off the windshield, and today they predict highs near 90, even in Charlottesville. So last evening, as we in the Commonwealth rotated away from the sun, I gave some serious thought to hanging out in the hammock or maybe paddling up Ivy Creek. But at the Nature Center not half a mile away, Rebecca Solnit was visiting from San Francisco and scheduled to read a bit from her recent work. At the last minute, I trundled up there and found myself nodding like a dashboard bobble-head as she read about houses, about public and private spaces, about desire, imagination, and the ways we get and spend.
 Years ago, a provocative phrase took hold of me and keeps nagging for attention: "smaller houses, bigger homes."

February, and I'm excited to be heading to MN... for a few days, anyway. I know. You'd think it's the worst time, and yet -- to share warm conversation about books with family and friends and friends-yet-to-meet -- is an especially sweet pleasure in the midst of winter's hold on the north. And word's getting out. This morning's New York Times ran an article about the surprising pleasure of trekking into the frozen wilderness of Minnesota's border lakes -- the waterways we share with Canada. They snake their way through piney islands, rocks, and fiercely clear air for more miles than you can imagine,... and there's not a motor in sight or auditory range. It's awesome in ways we seldom experience anymore but that, with no warning or fanfare, lay bare our deepest and perhaps truest connection to each other and this great green-blue globe of earth. To touch a little such wildness, or be touched by it, can be transformative, as the whole biblical book of Numbers ("In the Wilderness," as the Hebrew title identifies the book) attests. Dangerous, yes, but good.

When crises hit, many people turn to the Bible... and find many things. While some hear words of comfort, hope and promise, others hear words of condemnation, judgment and blame. The biblically-informed '>Pat Robertson blamed the Haitians for making a pact with the devil for which God is now punishing them. Some Haitians themselves see the destruction as evidence of God's displeasure and desire for them to be more devout, as a recent Washington Post article reports. But Christians and Jews all over the world see in their sacred texts a message of compassion, succor and aid for the Haitians. Countless congregations are gathering funds to help, seeing in this destruction not the devastating hand of a God angry at the Haitians but the call of a passionate God to respond with love. In a rebuttal of Robertson, Jon Stewart (?!) quotes a few such relevant texts. Shoot, the Bible says a lot of things... and so does its God. Meanwhile, basic needs are tremendous and the grief so great. 

Ah, the stately cedars of Lebanon. They are celebrated in the Bible as the tree of choice for the great Jerusalem temple built by Solomon with the help of his Phoenician friend Hiram, the king of Tyre. Solomon's own palace complex included "The House of the Forest of Lebanon" (1 Kings 7:2-5). So grand, these trees were the metaphor of choice to describe an indomitable king of Israel compared to his "thornbush" rival (2 Kings 14:9), the illustrious fate of a righteous person (Psalm 92:12), and the haughty might of Assyria at the peak of its power (Ezekiel 31:3). A generation after the great Babylonian war machine had razed Solomon's glorious temple, and the people could rebuild, it was to the cedars of Lebanon that they looked for the strength and grandeur that would grace their second temple (Ezra 3:7).  

Too big to fail? An article recently published in my hometown newspaper noted that global warming is jeopardizing these storied trees.