Texts:
The Spiritual, Yet Common Man
First off with Belden Lane, a professor of theology at Saint Louis (a Catholic school), his emphasis on spirituality through nature was intriguing. He calls one of the subject he teaches "the connections between geography and faith," two seemingly disconnected disciplines. He also professes this of himself: "the relationship of Christian spirituality to the wonder and beauty of the natural world is close to my heart, whether seen in the earth-sensitive practices of Celtic spirituality or Calvin and Edwards' perception of the world as a theater of God's glory in the Reformed tradition. The Celtic traditional religion's earthiness has always been linked to New Age in my mind, especially because of Enya, who actually has rejected the label but nonetheless draws much inspiration both lyrically and musically from the themes of vastness and mystery of landscapes. I also like Lane's reference to Calvin and Edwards, both brilliant minds in the Christian history. It's interesting that they can both be associated with the "white male" (aka oppressive) canon and I wonder how much this may bear with eco-feminist criticism. Nonetheless, seeing the influences behind a person is quite revealing and allows me to see him or her as a limited human being who, despite the limitation, reaches out to a greater tradition and history, to tap into past thinkers and learn from them in humility. Lane calls his wife a "spiritual director," which manifests this same kind of respect. I find that ... admirable.
The awe with which Lane introduces his piece, "Transformation at Upper Moss Creek," by quoting Tagore and John of the Cross (two of my favorite poets) gave me a feeling of skepticism, actually. I thought, how in the world is this guy going to follow up the words of these two giants? The beginning, too, was inconspicuous, betraying no sign of "brilliancy." But as I read through the text, and travel with him through the seemingly forbidden forest, past the "thickly grown sycamore brush [that] seems to resist entry" to find a sense of wholeness. When he does reach a spot of rest, he begins talking to trees.... Yes, talking to trees--I could not believe that I was reading about a man who takes a trip out to the woods and talks to trees, and actually ... not weirded out by it but, in fact, living the moment with him. The hushed atmosphere, the young pine, and the wood burning ushered a calmness into my own room, as I realized the privilege of communing in such a sacred moment. But he does assure us that he's "not accustomed to talking to trees." (Lol)
The Sort of Spiritual, But Definitely NOT Common Man
Thoreau, of course, inspires in us the sense of awe and intimacy with nature that he has been blessed first hand, reminding a bit of devotional books in which the writer experiences God and passes that along to the reader. Of course, it's essential that one experiences nature for him or herself, but Thoreau's pretty darn good guide. Upon reading the first line of "Ktaadn": "Int he morning, after whetting our appetite on some raw pork, a wafer of hard bread, and a dipper of condensed cloud of waterspout, we all together began to make our way up [to the...] highest peak," I was immediate struck with familiarity with the same "manly" man who camped out in Walden for a year and lived on his own home-grown beans. Between "raw pork" and "hard bread," this guy's rough, and they're not settling for anything less either: "the highest peak." Yet despite his charisma and power, evident in the command of the English grammar, he is baffled by the sheer greatness and fearfulness of nature, the "vast, Titanic" scape "such as man never inhabits." He's scolded by her who "says sternly":
Yet, that does not mean the small is not of any significance. The mountain-cranberries "which filled every crevice between the rocks, together with blueberries(yay!), which had a spicier flavor the higher up they grew" were absolutely endearing. I remember fondly the occasions in his journal in which Thoreau starts the record with "Today we went a-cranberrying." A small affair indeed, but uniquely colored and lively against the backdrop of much seriousness. If I recall correctly, cranberries are native to America, and I did missed them sorely especially during Thanksgiving while in China. The vibrancy and depth of their color means abundance and richness in accordance with the glory of autumn and harvest and sweeps the Concord woods each year. Sure, the mountains are majestic, but berries, crimson in hue, punctuate it with their own poignancy. I'm personally quite small myself, and wear a flaming scarf all day long.
It's a Woman!
Mary Frohlich is the first and only woman writer in this week's texts (even the scriptures excerpted about the environment were all penned by men). I found myself engaging much more with this critical article than the previous ones, perhaps due to her succinct wording and references; but to recount them all to drag this blog out to an unnecessary length, so I shall draw out the bulk of her arguments and passages I find especially poignant.
In this article, Frohlich mainly attempts to link the Christian faith with the current ecological crisis as reflected in the title: "Under the Sign of Jonah: Studying Spirituality in a Time of Ecosystemic Crisis." The primary metaphor, Jonah in the dark belly of the big fish, serves to explore the same "conversion" experience one must go through to gain true awareness of the state Earth is in and become a servant to it. She calls the this process a "complete restructuring of [...] life in relation to a reality transdent to itself" (28), that one sees with God's view of the earth, just as Jonah had to come to terms with God's compassion for Ninevah. This reminds me of a story by Leo Tolstoy in which men discuss the nature of God in a cafe and finally cease to do so when a wiser one points out that everyone has been projecting his own view onto God, as if insisting on the sun orbiting the earth when it ought to be the other way around. Frohlich notes that "to accept this complete change of worldview was hard for Jonah as dying" and resistance will arise because, honestly, it's painful. For the alcoholic to truly altar his life, he has to ultimately "hit bottom," realizing the utter futility of even attempting to quit on his own and thereby embracing a "profound interdependence" on reality beyond himself (29). I really love her wording "cybernetic" for describing the world, how we live in a structure with all parts closely linked. And by pointing to the "creative, self-healing potential of creation itself"(30), she invites us to partake of this incredible restoration, to be small yet significant contributors in the larger picture. I find it humbling to be part of such a community, beloved of God and watched over by God who is in the same process of bringing wholeness to it. This may be close to what Frohlich terms an "awakening" that will catalyze deep changes in the consciousness. The word makes me think of epiphany, or resurrection and Easter, a time of new life.
When relating her personal experience of a childhood sacred place being trashed and commercialized, Frohlich tells us that "we cannot rest in a simplistic romanticism of Earth-connection" (33). This is to confirm Prof. Corrigan's and my earlier suspicion that nature writing is not necessarily "therapeutic" as some seem to believe. The lamentation that follows exposure to devastations done to the earth can be as deep and dark as any other journey. In fact, the analogy to Conrad's Heart of Darkness, according to Frohlic, parallels that of Christ who entered into the heart of the earth in his death. In this moving passage, she writes:
The pragmatic paradigm she introduces comes from Albert Nolan's four stages of Compassion, Structural Change, Humility, and Solidarity for those who wish to commit to serving the poor. She believes that those "on the path to an ecocentric conversion must pass" through these stages as well.
- Belden Lane, "Transformation at Upper Moss Creek" (from The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality)
- Thoreau, "Ktaadn"
- Mary Frohlich, "Under the Sign of Jonah: Spirituality in a Time of Ecosystemic Crisis"
- Some Scriptures Pertaining to the Environment
The Spiritual, Yet Common Man
First off with Belden Lane, a professor of theology at Saint Louis (a Catholic school), his emphasis on spirituality through nature was intriguing. He calls one of the subject he teaches "the connections between geography and faith," two seemingly disconnected disciplines. He also professes this of himself: "the relationship of Christian spirituality to the wonder and beauty of the natural world is close to my heart, whether seen in the earth-sensitive practices of Celtic spirituality or Calvin and Edwards' perception of the world as a theater of God's glory in the Reformed tradition. The Celtic traditional religion's earthiness has always been linked to New Age in my mind, especially because of Enya, who actually has rejected the label but nonetheless draws much inspiration both lyrically and musically from the themes of vastness and mystery of landscapes. I also like Lane's reference to Calvin and Edwards, both brilliant minds in the Christian history. It's interesting that they can both be associated with the "white male" (aka oppressive) canon and I wonder how much this may bear with eco-feminist criticism. Nonetheless, seeing the influences behind a person is quite revealing and allows me to see him or her as a limited human being who, despite the limitation, reaches out to a greater tradition and history, to tap into past thinkers and learn from them in humility. Lane calls his wife a "spiritual director," which manifests this same kind of respect. I find that ... admirable.
The awe with which Lane introduces his piece, "Transformation at Upper Moss Creek," by quoting Tagore and John of the Cross (two of my favorite poets) gave me a feeling of skepticism, actually. I thought, how in the world is this guy going to follow up the words of these two giants? The beginning, too, was inconspicuous, betraying no sign of "brilliancy." But as I read through the text, and travel with him through the seemingly forbidden forest, past the "thickly grown sycamore brush [that] seems to resist entry" to find a sense of wholeness. When he does reach a spot of rest, he begins talking to trees.... Yes, talking to trees--I could not believe that I was reading about a man who takes a trip out to the woods and talks to trees, and actually ... not weirded out by it but, in fact, living the moment with him. The hushed atmosphere, the young pine, and the wood burning ushered a calmness into my own room, as I realized the privilege of communing in such a sacred moment. But he does assure us that he's "not accustomed to talking to trees." (Lol)
The Sort of Spiritual, But Definitely NOT Common Man
Thoreau, of course, inspires in us the sense of awe and intimacy with nature that he has been blessed first hand, reminding a bit of devotional books in which the writer experiences God and passes that along to the reader. Of course, it's essential that one experiences nature for him or herself, but Thoreau's pretty darn good guide. Upon reading the first line of "Ktaadn": "Int he morning, after whetting our appetite on some raw pork, a wafer of hard bread, and a dipper of condensed cloud of waterspout, we all together began to make our way up [to the...] highest peak," I was immediate struck with familiarity with the same "manly" man who camped out in Walden for a year and lived on his own home-grown beans. Between "raw pork" and "hard bread," this guy's rough, and they're not settling for anything less either: "the highest peak." Yet despite his charisma and power, evident in the command of the English grammar, he is baffled by the sheer greatness and fearfulness of nature, the "vast, Titanic" scape "such as man never inhabits." He's scolded by her who "says sternly":
"Why came ye here before your time. This ground is not prepared for you. Is it not enough that I smile in the valleys? I have never made this soil for thy feet, this air for thy breathing, these rocks for thy neighbors. I cannot pity nor fondle thee here, but forever relentlessly drive thee hence to where I am kind. Why seek me where I have not called thee, and then complain because you find me but a stepmother? Shouldst thou freeze or starve, or shudder thy life away, here is no shrine, nor altar, nor any access to my ear."I would agree that, at this point, mother nature is not kind, her rebuff almost unnerving. The wildness with which Thoreau is fronted pushes him low to the ground where all traces of his Genius vanishes. Humanity is at best minuscule in comparison to the expanse that we tamely call "sky."
Yet, that does not mean the small is not of any significance. The mountain-cranberries "which filled every crevice between the rocks, together with blueberries(yay!), which had a spicier flavor the higher up they grew" were absolutely endearing. I remember fondly the occasions in his journal in which Thoreau starts the record with "Today we went a-cranberrying." A small affair indeed, but uniquely colored and lively against the backdrop of much seriousness. If I recall correctly, cranberries are native to America, and I did missed them sorely especially during Thanksgiving while in China. The vibrancy and depth of their color means abundance and richness in accordance with the glory of autumn and harvest and sweeps the Concord woods each year. Sure, the mountains are majestic, but berries, crimson in hue, punctuate it with their own poignancy. I'm personally quite small myself, and wear a flaming scarf all day long.
It's a Woman!
Mary Frohlich is the first and only woman writer in this week's texts (even the scriptures excerpted about the environment were all penned by men). I found myself engaging much more with this critical article than the previous ones, perhaps due to her succinct wording and references; but to recount them all to drag this blog out to an unnecessary length, so I shall draw out the bulk of her arguments and passages I find especially poignant.
In this article, Frohlich mainly attempts to link the Christian faith with the current ecological crisis as reflected in the title: "Under the Sign of Jonah: Studying Spirituality in a Time of Ecosystemic Crisis." The primary metaphor, Jonah in the dark belly of the big fish, serves to explore the same "conversion" experience one must go through to gain true awareness of the state Earth is in and become a servant to it. She calls the this process a "complete restructuring of [...] life in relation to a reality transdent to itself" (28), that one sees with God's view of the earth, just as Jonah had to come to terms with God's compassion for Ninevah. This reminds me of a story by Leo Tolstoy in which men discuss the nature of God in a cafe and finally cease to do so when a wiser one points out that everyone has been projecting his own view onto God, as if insisting on the sun orbiting the earth when it ought to be the other way around. Frohlich notes that "to accept this complete change of worldview was hard for Jonah as dying" and resistance will arise because, honestly, it's painful. For the alcoholic to truly altar his life, he has to ultimately "hit bottom," realizing the utter futility of even attempting to quit on his own and thereby embracing a "profound interdependence" on reality beyond himself (29). I really love her wording "cybernetic" for describing the world, how we live in a structure with all parts closely linked. And by pointing to the "creative, self-healing potential of creation itself"(30), she invites us to partake of this incredible restoration, to be small yet significant contributors in the larger picture. I find it humbling to be part of such a community, beloved of God and watched over by God who is in the same process of bringing wholeness to it. This may be close to what Frohlich terms an "awakening" that will catalyze deep changes in the consciousness. The word makes me think of epiphany, or resurrection and Easter, a time of new life.
When relating her personal experience of a childhood sacred place being trashed and commercialized, Frohlich tells us that "we cannot rest in a simplistic romanticism of Earth-connection" (33). This is to confirm Prof. Corrigan's and my earlier suspicion that nature writing is not necessarily "therapeutic" as some seem to believe. The lamentation that follows exposure to devastations done to the earth can be as deep and dark as any other journey. In fact, the analogy to Conrad's Heart of Darkness, according to Frohlic, parallels that of Christ who entered into the heart of the earth in his death. In this moving passage, she writes:
Jesus' descent into the "heart of the earth" appears not only as the affirmation of his true biological humanity, but also as the expression of his compolete and unflinching commitment to solidarity in the life of the earth-community--even unto full participation in its terrifying rhythms of death, dismemberment, and being made into food for others. It is not by going "somewhere else" that Jesus revealed the transformed life that we call the resurrection, but rather by going into the very heart of the earth, including those aspects that are a "heart of darkness." Jesus, the prophet of prophets, reveals to us that although the Earth is not God, divinity truly dwells transformatively in the heart of the Earth. (35)If going through death, through such terrifying landscapes, brings us into a newer, deeper knowledge, how can we then commune in this painful experience of our Lord? Frohlich brings St. John of the Cross into the discussion, especially his contemplations in Dark Night of the Soul. What I thought of was the experience of insomnia in my own life, a literal encounter with darkness. While laying in bed at night, staring into the darkness, a void, for hours upon hours, gradually something inside of me began to change. Perhaps my soul was becoming accustomed to and began becoming one, almost, with the darkness that previously brought nothing by anguish, gnashing of teeth, and now, an altogether unknown kind of wholeness. In the darkness, absence gradually became a ... presence. And I have been allowing this awareness of darkness and absence (and pain) to become integrated into who I am. It is a purging experience indeed, hard to put into words, but undoubtedly crucial to, as Frohlich phrases it, "expatriating the very root of narcissism" and ushering a "radical delight in and interconnection with the totality of the created world" (37).
The pragmatic paradigm she introduces comes from Albert Nolan's four stages of Compassion, Structural Change, Humility, and Solidarity for those who wish to commit to serving the poor. She believes that those "on the path to an ecocentric conversion must pass" through these stages as well.
1. In the first one, Compassion: Touching the Earth, she notes that students who reflect on personal encounters with nature soon arrive at a "deep experience of lamentation over the destruction that is being wrought on the natural places they love [especially for those] from 'third world' settings where destruction is often already beyong repair" (38). This brought to mind so many memories of my home, Hakah villages in which, as my friends often recount, trees have been cut and burnt so that there is nothing but bare hills left for the eye to see.
2. Frohlich mentions "the fascination with alternative spiritualities such as those of indigenous peoples and Asian monks." This was an interesting though, considering her further quotation from Thomas Berry who proposes that one "let go of the spirituality of the prophet in favor of that of the indigenous shaman" (39). I'm not yet sure what the balance should be here, how far into pagan ritual this will take us but perhaps, more precisely, how to successfully marry knowledge of, say, traditional Chinese medicine based on Daoism with the Christian faith.
3. The third stage, in which "activism fails and the activist's ideals wither in the face of ugly realities" really struck me (40). The humility that emerges when one is faced with the impasse "in which there appears to be no way forwrad without relinquishing the very pillars upon which one's worldview has hitherto rested" is absolutely priceless. When we try so hard, in arrogance, to fix everything with scientific advancements, technologies, and mindset, the possibility of catastrophic failure ought to flag a warning sign.
4. In the section on solidarity, Frohlich writes that one can come to experience "wroking and struggling with them [the poor] rather than for them" and "operate from an embedded sense of participation in the holistic processes of creation" (41). In Dr. Prevette's class on missional public policy, the word "holistic" was often brought to the table in discussions on changing a community, economically, spiritually, and environmentally, through outside resources. Instead of trying to push rigid theoretical paradigms that may potentially destroy a village when implemented practically, we do have to come to an understanding of our human finiteness and, like Frohlich says, "let go into the totality beyond [our] grasp" (41).On a note of the scholar who is working in the field of ecological studies, Frohlich differentiates the framework under which one operates, which I find very important too. For some, it "may be an egocentric drive for power, a socialcentric desire ot have a recognized role in a group (for example, one's academic guild), or a theocentric passion" (42). I think of Newton who loved God devoutly and studied the gravitational laws which resulted in Principia, almost a testimony of his awe and wonder for God's creation.
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