The forecast for name-your-environmental-crisis-here often looks bleak. People who follow environmental issues know it, and sustained justice work can be a challenge. When I meet with religious groups about things like pervasive toxic chemicals, environmental justice, or global warming, someone invariably asks, “Where do we find hope?”
Here’s the truth, friends: I am done with hope. Hope hinges on outcome; it pursues a goal. Hope is illusory, transient, and insubstantial. In honestly facing life’s challenges—including the reality of human suffering, intolerance, and environmental degradation—I am likely to be disappointed if I put too much stock in hope.
To continue working for justice in a wounded world that cries out for healing, I need something more than hope. I need meaning.
This was my first visit to the Zen Center. One of the Buddhist priests had invited me to encourage his students to engage in interfaith environmental work. I was a little nervous, but something about this group—their open spirit, perhaps, and honest questions—quickly put me at ease and helped me speak from the heart. At some point, I found myself saying, “The Buddhist tradition has beautiful teachings about how all life is interconnected, and the world desperately needs this wisdom! Please share it.”
Global warming is a huge behemoth of a problem. It challenges us to work together across the globe in new and unprecedented ways—ways we clearly haven’t figured out yet, as international climate talks repeatedly fail to produce significant agreements. Meanwhile, individual people are waking up to the climate crisis, struggling to make sense of it, and wondering how to respond.
I was on a chartered bus with about 40 other people—Christians, Jews, Muslims, Unitarian Universalists, one Buddhist, and one Wiccan priest. We were united in being people of faith, in being mostly white and middle class, and in touring part of Newark, New Jersey as part of the Environmental Justice retreat of GreenFaith’s Fellowship Program.
I already knew that low-income communities and communities of color are disproportionately affected by environmental degradation; if there are toxic emissions or pollution to be found in a community, it’s most likely on the “other side of the tracks,” where poverty and the legacy of racism and discrimination combine to form communities that have little leverage in the fight against larger corporate interests. And so it is in the Ironbound, a historically immigrant community in Newark, so-named because it is bounded on three sides by railroad tracks—and on the fourth side, by Newark Airport.
At the end of each month's interfaith environmental conference call, we close our time together with a prayer. Often, I'll ask a clergy-person to lead us. Today, though, the theme of this month's call--"greening" the holidays--had me thinking about the current Jewish holiday of Sukkot, which ends today at sundown. What follows are the words I offered at the close of today's call.
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Today is the last day of the Jewish festival of Sukkot, during which we are commanded to go outside and sit in temporary dwellings, open to the elements. This act of moving outside for seven days is a reminder of our impermanence and fragility, our connection to the natural world, and our responsibility to be engaged with and active in the larger world, outside our comfort zone. All of that might sound pretty heavy.
But during this festival of Sukkot, we are also commanded to be happy and joyful!
On Wednesday, September 28, 2011, I offered testimony at the U.S. State Department hearing in Austin in opposition to the proposed Keystone XL pipeline. Although I had prepared my testimony in advance, I revised it during the hearing to address the very real concerns being expressed by our union brothers and sisters about their need for jobs. I'd love to hear your thoughts--about this testimony, about this issue, about your experience of the hearing... feel free to send me an e-mail.
I hear it in almost every congregation I visit: “We’re not sure it’s our role to get involved in advocating on issues. You know, separation of church and state.”
To these anxious congregation members, I can easily explain the facts and related details (see note below), usually ending with an earnest appeal for them to get involved and advocate on issues like health care, childhood hunger and global warming. But often, it’s clear that they are not convinced. It’s not that they don’t believe me; it’s that the facts about the “separation of church and state” are not their actual source of concern.
Last week when I saw this article about nearly 1/3 of the Chesapeake Bay being a “dead zone” this year, it felt like someone punched me in the gut. I made some kind of audible groaning sound and reeled—as much as that’s possible while sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. For this native Texan who’s lived in the Lone Star State her whole life (except for a nine-month stint in New Orleans when I was five) to be so moved by environmental trauma in another part of the country might seem odd. I mean, there are environmental traumas happening every day all around the world. Why does this one make me want to curl into a little ball of wounded sorrow?
Going to the park, to work, to the grocery store or pretty much anywhere today is venturing out into a religiously pluralistic setting. In all of those places, there are bound to be people who profess different religious beliefs than you do, or who profess no beliefs at all. In many of these settings, we keep quiet about our religious views so as not to offend or distance ourselves from others. I wonder, though, if this leaves us saying nothing real at all, and sometimes increases the distance between us rather than bringing us together in actual relationship.
I try to arrive at the house of worship early. Of course there are practical reasons for that: usually, I’ve never been there before, so I need time to evaluate the space where I’ll be meeting with people or speaking—a classroom or library, the social hall or sanctuary; I need time to set out publication materials on a table somewhere; and locating water, coffee and restrooms is always a good idea. More than that, though, I like to arrive at the house of worship early so I can explore.
I’ve watched documentaries on PBS about India and read stories about Krishna dancing with the gopis, and various gods and goddesses—Kali, Hanuman, Ganesh. I’ve read books about the history of Hinduism and studied it in my World Religions class at Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary. But Sunday, June 12th was my first visit to a Hindu temple.
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This was my first visit to the Zen Center. One of the Buddhist priests had invited me to encourage his students to engage in interfaith environmental work. I was a little nervous, but something about this group—their open spirit, perhaps, and honest questions—quickly put me at ease and helped me speak from the heart. At some point, I found myself saying, “The Buddhist tradition has beautiful teachings about how all life is interconnected, and the world desperately needs this wisdom! Please share it.”
I was on a chartered bus with about 40 other people—Christians, Jews, Muslims, Unitarian Universalists, one Buddhist, and one Wiccan priest. We were united in being people of faith, in being mostly white and middle class, and in touring part of Newark, New Jersey as part of the Environmental Justice retreat of 
At the end of each month's interfaith environmental conference call, we close our time together with a prayer. Often, I'll ask a clergy-person to lead us. Today, though, the theme of this month's call--
On Wednesday, September 28, 2011, I offered testimony at the U.S. State Department hearing in Austin in opposition to the 
I hear it in almost every congregation I visit: “We’re not sure it’s our role to get involved in advocating on issues. You know, separation of church and state.”
