This morning my public radio station has been repeatedly calling Earth Day a “secular holiday,” but I’d prefer to look at it in another way. In the sermon our pastor gave us on Sunday, we were reminded that it is not so much the word of politicians and scientists that we should follow, but God’s word, calling us to be stewards of the gardens we find ourselves placed in. He cited the bible passages for the day (Genesis 2, Psalm 148), and then he gave us this, from Martin Luther:
“God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars.”
I found another quote from Luther this morning:
“Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”
I’ll bet we could find similarly inspiring quotes from other faith leaders, and maybe this can be a prompt for a more spiritual Earth Day symposium. Or this: on this Earth Day, what good news have you observed in the world around you? Indeed, even as we think our world goes to pieces, let the gospel prevail!
Earth Day here has been halcyon, and if you're Facebook inclined, you can search out International School of Prague to see some posts of interesting activities. I took my 11th graders out to an orchard in the woods behind our school, stirring a debate akin to the dilemma in Chekhov's 'Cherry Orchard' (our current text of study). If the orchard owner decided to sell, how might the village zoning committee react? What would be proactive, and positive to earth and its inhabitants? Chekhov is an excellent voice for stewardship, even if his characters often get things back-assward. In that ilk, today's melancholic poem despite my otherwise upbeat spirits:
ReplyDeleteLet Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew and dog will have his day.
And so such creatures prop the heavens up
upon their shoulders for awhile,
seeking some repose from God-knows-what
to justify their lowly rank and file.
The Earth now has its day, by citizen decree:
‘let lights go out and flowers grow,
the new three Rs instruct the likes of you and me,
the old irrelevant to what we know:
we’re stewards to ourselves, a finger in the air
to gauge the turning tides. We till
our garden graves remiss to reminisce: “suffer
the children, come unto me,” still.