Holding the Earth in prayer

One week after Easter, I watched the total solar eclipse in Kingston, Ont. Perfect timing for Eastertide: chill darkness, indescribable light, death and resurrection embodied in the most spectacular of nature’s wonders. It was the year of two Holy Weeks — the second one spent pondering solar astronomy in prayerful anticipation of a rare event. When it was over, it left a residue of awe and blessedness, a profound sense of connection to a cosmos abounding in love and grace.

And the “other” Holy Week? I have to admit that it paled in comparison. It should not have. The message of its familiar rituals never grows old. Yet it’s said that God’s first revelation is creation itself, and my most meaningful encounters with the sacred have always taken place outdoors. I’ve grown impatient with enclosed church walls, and I now doubt the capacity of tradition — however beautiful — to embrace in prayer and ritual the central crisis of our time: the climate catastrophe and the future of life on Earth.

We gather as a Church to worship in community and to reflect upon our neighbours in need of care and attention. Yet it’s a mistake to think of “the environment” as yet another concern tacked on to a long list of intercessions. The fate of the Earth is an all-encompassing matter. It asks of us a spirit of profound conversion and repentance, and the stirring of this spirit is the proper work of liturgy and prayer.

We have plentiful resources to revitalize our life of worship. Christianity has deep roots in earth and in the rich symbolism of creation. Our faith is endowed with stories and images that bless nature and the material world — the lilies of the field, the eucharistic meal of bread and wine, God who takes on human form, in deep engagement with the earth-bound world of life and death. Yet apart from occasional prayers, nature has long been exiled from Christian worship. Most of us pray within stone walls, in rectangular buildings modeled on the law courts of ancient Rome, some with very large carbon footprints. Being human, we’re culture-bound, so it shouldn’t surprise us that we’ve absorbed into our liturgies — and our salvation story — a human-centred bias that doesn’t account for the new wisdom of ecosystem science. While Christianity centres on humanity as the object of God’s saving love, the insights of ecotheology inform us that God weaves plant and animal life into an interconnected web of creation. We are not “superiors,” but relatives; siblings to “the least of these.” Rarely does this vital insight emerge in the prayers we pray, in the Victorian-era hymns we sing or in the elaborate artifacts of Christian worship.

We hear the expression lex orandi, lex credendi — what you pray is what you believe. Let’s ask ourselves what we believe about our kin in the web of God’s creation. Then let’s form ourselves according to that belief.

A number of parishes are beginning to organize prayerful time outdoors. Last fall, our pastor led a meditative walk through Toronto’s High Park, with frequent pauses for reflective readings and a picnic-table eucharist under an autumn canopy of red and gold. On another occasion, we had a Garden Eucharist at the church, where a rough tree stump made a suitable altar for chalice and bread. That image touched me with the truth that all matter is sacred, however humble. It’s the rich symbolism of such small gestures that gives liturgy its power to prod the conscience and stir the imagination.

In June, our parish church suffered a catastrophic fire and the loss of priceless artwork by the Group of Seven. It was both a tragedy and a call to think anew, to draw inspiration from the natural world as a place of worship and sustenance. Perhaps we can learn from the Forest Church movement in Britain or the Wild Church Network in North America. Both worship outdoors; both have a Christian basis and both express panentheism — a spirituality that sees God in all things, yet beyond them. Here in Ontario, we have gardens, ravines, backyards and parks with flat, accessible trails. We have the creativity to write or gather prayers that speak to our growing awareness of the beauty and vulnerability of creation.

Let’s try outdoor worship, as much as we can manage in our too-brief spring and summer. Autumn, too! Not as an occasional venture, but as a weekly way of reconnecting, body and soul, with God’s earth. I’m aware that this suggestion raises many practical questions. Yet creativity is a gift of the Holy Spirit, and we have an abundance of resources to help us imagine and plan our way forward.

On its own, liturgical ritual in the outdoors won’t save the planet. Yet consistent praying with the beauty of God’s creation can open our hearts to love what God has given us. And what we love, we will care for, nurture and protect — as family and as kin.