Guilty vs guilt: the path to liberty is honesty

Do you feel guilty about the effect your actions are having on the planet? Are you in fact guilty of having mistreated the community of creation to which we all belong?

There are two meanings to the term "guilt" and its cognates. The first is objective guilt, the state of having committed an offence. The second is the subjective feeling of regret, remorse and unease over the perception of having done wrong. The two do not necessarily go together. It is quite possible to feel guilty (subjective) without actually having committed any wrongdoing (objective). Conversely, it is also possible to commit an offence and so bear objective guilt without any corresponding subjective feeling of guilt, due to some combination of ignorance, insensitivity, acculturation and denial.

An interesting new poll reports that when 17,000 people across 17 countries were surveyed regarding both their subjective feelings of eco-guilt and their objective ecological impact, there was a strong negative correlation between the two. Those doing most to mess the place up feel least angst about it. Those most ridden by guilty feelings are objectively least to blame.

I have argued previously that a Christian response to feelings of eco-guilt can avoid legalism and self-righteousness through a proper focus on the liberating good news of Jesus (and I also discussed eco-guilt in these three posts). Yet while we do not need to be paralysed in self-accusation (or distracted by self-righteous condemnation of others), some brutal honesty about our contribution to planetary failure is essential. The Christian response to feelings of guilt is neither wallowing nor suppression, but sober judgement concerning the cause of the guilt: am I objectively guilty? And if so, then there is but a single Christian response: repentance.

And so let us face up to the fact that if the average lifestyle of a citizen of the developed world were to be shared with the rest of the world, we would need something like three planets. Our consumption of finite resources, our apathy towards the origin and destination of our goods, our acquiescence in the face of a political and economic system that behaves like a tumour cell, our wilful blindness to the cumulative consequences of our quotidian choices, our unwillingness to look beyond the next pay-check or election cycle, our insensitivity to the present and future suffering and destruction required for our luxuries: let us be honest with ourselves. Where we remain ignorant, let us discover what is the case, what is the true cost of our "cheap" consumption. Only the truth will set us free: the messy, complex and sometimes brutal truth about ourselves; the surprising, simple and energising truth about God's abundant graciousness towards us in Christ.

“What must I do to win salvation?” Dimitri asks Starov in The Brothers Karamazov, to which Starov answers: “Above all else, never lie to yourself.”

Ecological legalism and Christian freedom

Some questions: What is your carbon footprint? How does it compare to the global average? To the global required average? And what are you doing to reduce it?

Dig beneath the surface of ecological issues and for many people, apart from fear, the second most significant factor driving our responses is guilt. So much of the discourse around ecological responsibility has the feel of a new legalism, a set of norms available to external quantification and verification that can at best provide useful guidance and at worst either crush motivation or provide an open door to self-righteous superiority (depending on the size of one's footprint). Indeed, the whole concept of an ecological or carbon footprint is ripe for interpersonal comparison and when linked to moral judgements of the necessity of reducing it, the full range of contemporary ecological psychoses becomes manifest: holier-than-thou accusation, desperate performance, pious self-denigration, tokenistic conformity, resentful rejection, weary indifference, paralysing despair.

If we are nonetheless to take our ecological concerns seriously (as the scriptures, reason and a passing familiarity with our present condition suggest), then do we have to live with such legalism? Of course not.

Basically, we need a way to talk about the good life to which Christ calls us that speaks in the tones of grace not law (apart from the law of love). This good life may well often look like taking up a cross and denying myself, but I walk it in hope and faith that the path of love is ultimately the path of life, even if I have to wait for God to raise the dead to see it.

We are set free by Christ to live as servants of God and neighbour. This is the only path to life, and at times it can feel narrow, and yet the content is actually quite flexible. Andrew Cameron speaks of the ethical life as being like a river - there is a strong current in one direction (love), but within that, there is water moving in all kinds of ways, at different speeds and so on. Yet there are still river banks. This is his attempt to speak of how the scriptures can be quite specific in their prohibitions ("do not lie"), but general in their exhortations ("love your neighbour").

The question for us as Christians seeking to follow Christ amidst a world of ecological degradation is therefore: what is the space of Christian ecological freedom? Where are there hard lines that we ought not cross? And, much more importantly, how do we talk about (and live) the strong current of love? Complicating matters is the fact that many aspects of our ecological crises are cumulative, involving too much of an otherwise good thing, rather than the commission of acts that are in themselves always wrong. In this way, I think that ecological irresponsibility has a somewhat similar structure to drunkenness, or gluttony. I may know that once I have had ten drinks, then I am in disobedience to the warnings of scripture against inebriation, but there is not necessarily a line we can draw in the sand and say that up to this many drinks is I am simply enjoying the fruit of the vine. Perhaps legal blood alcohol limits for driving might give us a ballpark estimate, and perhaps contraction and convergence models of carbon reductions (applied on a per capita basis for our nation) might give us a ballpark estimate for our the path of our personal carbon footprint goals, but the law of the land is always going to be both too precise and too blunt an instrument for forming the mind of Christ within us.

If our goal is defined too narrowly in terms of certain emissions levels or atmospheric concentrations or personal footprints, then the complex world of goods and the discernment required to navigate it can become oversimplified. Even amidst the grave perils we face, Christian obedience is a path of freedom and joy, of trusting the goodness of God under the weight of a cross, of dying to self and receiving new life being granted as a gift.

Some better questions: How does new life in Christ lead into delightedly sharing my neighbour's burdens? In what ways are my neighbours threatened by ecological degradation? Which parts of my life and the life of my community contribute to this path of destruction? How can I discover new patterns of thankfulness, contentment and engagement to express the abiding peace I have received from Christ and the deep concern for my neighbour this grants me?

How to avoid thinking about climate change

Climate change is not an environmental issue. Of course, it has ecological implications (including making the bleak outlook for biodiversity considerably worse), but it is also an issue of justice (especially international and intergenerational), of national security, of resource (especially water) management, of economics, of agriculture and so of food security, of public health, of national and international law, of geopolitical stability, of refugees, of urban management, of energy generation, of cultural continuity, of archeology and so on, and so on.

Yet labelling it an "environmental" issue enables those who would rather not think about just how large and scary a threat it is to put it in the basket with other "environmental" causes and so to treat it (in accordance with some ideologies) as a "luxury" issue that we will get to with the time and resources left over once we've thought about the more important issues of the economy and, well, okay, the economy some more.

Here are some common strategies used to deflect or defer the matter from being a topic of common reflection at the dinner table, over the back fence or on the train (if any of these social interactions still occur in an age of T.V. dinners, local estrangement and iPods):

1. Metaphor of displaced commitment: "I protect the environment in other ways".
2. Condemn the accuser: "You have no right to challenge me".
3. Denial of responsibility: "I am not the main cause of this problem".
4. Rejection of blame: "I have done nothing wrong".
5. Ignorance: "I didn't know".
6. Powerlessness: " I can't make any difference".
7. Fabricated constraints: "There are too many impediments".
8. After the flood: "Society is corrupt".
9. Comfort: "It is too difficult for me to change my behaviour".

- S. Stoll-Kleemann, Tim O'Riordan, Carlo C. Jaeger, "The psychology of denial concerning climate mitigation meaures: evidence from Swiss focus groups", Global Environmental Change 11 (2001), 107-11.

Do any of these sound familiar? Each of these strategies may sometimes be founded on a half-truth, but even when that is the case, most of the time they are simply employed to avoid having to deal with an issue that is much more conveniently placed into the "too hard" basket.

The good news is that Christian discipleship, although not (of course) designed to prepare us for responding well to climate change, actually prepares us for responding well to climate change. Or at least, it ought to if we are sending down deep roots into the life-giving stream of God's grace. Each of the above strategies is countered by convictions arising from the gospel narrative.

1. "I protect the environment in other ways": Since we are saved by grace, there is no need to justify ourselves through our actions. Therefore, we are free to take the actions that will actually love our neighbour and glorify God, not simply do those we feel duty-bound to do to meet some minimum standard.

2. "You have no right to challenge me": Since our judge is also our saviour, we fear no one's condemnation. If others are making accusations against us, we can consider them soberly, without needing to jump to our own self-defence. Similarly, since God has poured out his Spirit on all flesh, we can never safely write off anyone's speech, since it may be a divine word addressed to us.

3. "I am not the main cause of this problem": That may be partially true, but if you are reading this blog, it is highly likely that you have enjoyed at least something of the kind of lifestyle that has cumulatively got us into this mess (this also applies to #4). God's forgiveness of even those who have sinned much means an honest acknowledgement of liability can become the first step into sanity. But even where it is largely true that my contribution to the problem has been small, loving one's neighbour isn't done out of obligation or based on quid pro quo. We love because God has first loved us, an experience that brings an unexpected realignment of our priorities such that even enemies are included within the scope of our care. Insofar as we have been forgiven much, the small debts that others may owe to us are no grounds for a diminishment of love towards them.

4. "I have done nothing wrong": Extending the previous answer, the good Samaritan was neither the main cause of the victim's problem, nor had he even done anything wrong, but he saw himself as the wounded man's neighbour and so helped him anyway, even at personal expense. Christ invites us to go and do likewise.

5. "I didn't know": Ignorance is not bliss; it can be culpable. Knowledge of God leads into deeper knowledge of and solidarity with the groaning creation, opening us to the vulnerability that comes from paying close attention. We may find that we are no longer merely observers, but get caught up in the action. As we begin to learn about the world and its fractures, what we do with what we know matters. Acting upon the (limited) knowledge we have is a privilege and an opportunity to learn more.

6. "I can't make any difference": In Christ, we are liberated from the impossible burden of saving ourselves. Our actions may not preserve a stable climate or rescue civilisation from collapse, but they can indeed make a difference. Empowered by the Spirit, the seeds that we plant or water may indeed grow into unexpectedly fruitful trees of great beauty. In the Lord, our labour is not in vain.

7. "There are too many impediments": Impediments to total solutions there may be, but the possibility of non-trivial action is secured by the Spirit's work opening the path before our feet to keep trusting, loving and hoping. Our actions need not secure ultimate ends to remain worthwhile.

8. "Society is corrupt": All too true. Yet it is the nihilism of despair to conclude that we ought therefore to eat, drink and be merry, to play the whole corrupt game because if you can't beat them, you may as well join them. Such despair overlooks the divine commitment to even this corrupt society: "For God so loved the corrupt world...".

9. "It is too difficult for me to change my behaviour": On the contrary, it is too risky to remain comfortable. The attempt to freeze history, or at least to distract oneself sufficiently from the rush of ongoing change to preserve the fiction of stability is one of the surest ways of losing all that one holds dear. Clinging onto one's life means losing it, seeing it ossify and decay from the very grasp with which one attempts to preserve it. Only letting go of control of one's life is the path to discovering that life is granted anew.

Loving our (climate) neighbours

"Acting rightly with respect to the earth is a source of hope, for those who so act give expression to the Christian belief that it is God’s intention to redeem the earth, and her oppressed creatures, from sinful subjection to the domination of prideful wealth and imperial power. Such actions witness to the truth that the history of global warming has gradually unfolded; that those poor or voiceless human and nonhuman beings whose prospect climate change is threatening are neighbours through the climate system to the powerful and wealthy. And Christ’s command in these circumstances is as relevant as ever: 'love your neighbour as yourself.'"

- Michael Northcott, A Moral Climate: the ethics of global warming
(London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 2007), 285.

Northcott (a professor of Christian ethics here in Edinburgh) articulates a fundamental point for Christian discussions of ecology. That love is our motivation and the criterion of our choices: not greed in seeking profits or power through higher regulations, not fear or self-protection, not enlightened self-interest or guilt. Any Christian discussion of ecological responsibility needs this corrective lest we simply mirror or unthinkingly baptise unbelieving discourse and assumptions.

Note that framing the discussion within the concept of love doesn't necessarily mean that only humans are included within the sphere of our concern. Northcott here suggests, quite radically for some perhaps, that nonhuman beings can also be our neighbours. Much more needs to be said on this, but to suggest animals (and plants?) as neighbours, as fellow members of the community of life and fellow breathers of the divine Spirit, need not imply that there are not ordered relationships between different forms of life, though it does at the very least imply that nonhuman creatures are loved by God for what they are, not simply for what they can be for us humans.

UPDATE: Were the animals also waiting for the coming Messiah?

Joyfully embracing less (and more!)

Doing without. Making do. Cutting consumption. Dropping luxuries.

Often an ecologically responsible lifestyle is put forward as a necessary asceticism to avoid the worst of the outcomes for our former (and ongoing) profligacy: "If you fly, we all die." This method relies on guilt and fear to motivate change, which may have some initial success, but are generally quite terrible at securing long term transformation.

But it need not be so. While a certain measure of fear can be a healthy part of facing the truth of our situation, true conversion is not simply away from, but towards: away from the false idols of wealth, security, consumption, endless growth and towards the living and true way that is Christ. We don't just shun death; we embrace life. And while some degree of fasting from luxuries is a healthy spiritual discipline to focus the mind on the pleasures of God, Christian discipleship is also about feasting, celebration and joy. Lent gives way to Easter.

Another way of putting this, is that consumerism is a false idol, promising far more than it can deliver, and ultimately diminishing our capacity for real enjoyment of what it offered in the first place. Renouncing this idol is not primarily about ecological mitigation, but first it is a simple matter of spiritual health, of being truly alive, deeply human. By the way, this is one of the reasons why I am suspicious of "bright green" technological optimism, which promises us that if we just build enough nuclear plants/wind farms (delete according to taste), then we can go on as gluttonously as before. Our need to change goes far beyond our carbon footprint, or even our entire ecological footprint.

And so it is not only possible and necessary, but good in all kinds of senses (not just ecologically, but psychologically, relationally, socially, spiritually) to shun consumerism, where "I am what I buy", and embrace the living and true God, who gives us every good thing to enjoy. This may mean embracing a life of "less", but in more important ways it is also walking towards a life of more, much more.

Less purchasing unnecessary products out of boredom, jealousy, indifference, laziness or habit; more attention to the wonderful blessings one already has. Less "stuff" and clutter; more reclaiming of lost skills of resourcefulness, sharing, creativity and building to last.

Less climbing the career ladder to keep up with the Joneses, to afford the latest toy or to impress the parents/peers/pets; more satisfaction in thoughtful service of the common good. Fewer debts; more freedom. Fewer hours; more time.

Less solitary living; more discovering the joys and sorrows of community. Fewer mansions and holiday homes and investment properties; more being at home in oneself and in God.

Less meat and animal products; more creativity and health in cooking. Less year round supply of whatever foodstuff takes my fancy today, more appreciation of the seasons and local produce. Less fast food; more hospitality. Less unceasing gorging; more cycles of mindful fasting and celebratory feasting.

Less advertising; more contentment. Fewer toys; more fun. Fewer shoes; more walks. Fewer wardrobe changes; more changes of heart. Fewer boxes; more room in life for the unexpected. Less retail therapy; more healing of desire.

Less unnecessary driving; more perambulation, pedalling and public transport for exercise, socialising and increasing intimacy with the local area. Less international travel; more depth of appreciation for local delights. Less business travel, more saving time and money through video conferencing. Less suburban sprawl; more new urbanism.

Less reliance on a finite supply of cheap energy to meet my every whim; more consideration of what is worth doing. Less watching; more observation.

Less wealth; more riches. Fewer heavy burdens of fear, guilt, desperation; more hope, forgiveness, peace. Less treasure that fades; more treasure that lasts.

Gloom and doom

"The environmental gloom and doom stories do make me worry, and make me feel quite, um, guilty and kind of, um, that I can't do anything, it's all too big for me."

- comment from an unnamed British lady in this video around 1:01.

Fear. Guilt. Impotence.

These three are, I suspect, very common responses to such doom and gloom stories. And they feed on each other.

Our fears are given depth by the knowledge that we have contributed to the predicament in which we find ourselves. Perhaps our contribution has been small in absolute standards, but we have, through our silence and our spending, implicitly condoned and encouraged patterns of natural resource exploitation that are decimating biodiversity, destabilising the climate, depleting the aquifers, stripping the soils, acidifying the oceans and flattening the forests.

Our guilt is compounded by the apparent futility of personal attempts at making amends. What difference will my puny acts of contrition or defiance actually make against the juggernaut of global consumption?

And feeling impotent to avert approaching catastrophe doesn't help our levels of anxiety. No wonder denial can be such an attractive option for some.

What we do with what we know: a story

A few years ago, I was diagnosed with cancer. It was not an easy cancer to explain to people, because, basically, the doctors hadn’t seen any cases quite like it before and could not identify precisely where it had started or what caused it. Since it was such a rare growth, they could also not give me a meaningful prognosis. The scans indicated that it was of a significant size, in a critical location and there was good reason to think it was probably growing quite rapidly. Their recommendations were that surgery would be almost impossible (one of them told me, “I’m not into killing my patients”), but that chemotherapy and/or radiotherapy might have some effect (one oncologist spoke of “curative doses” and another simply of reducing its size).

Now at this point, I had a variety of possible responses open to me. I could go and get further oncological opinions (I had already gone to three different hospitals and had multiple scans and a variety of tests).

I could have weighed up the probable side effects of treatment (quite a long list!) and decided that it was not worth it and tried to make the most of my remaining time, however long or short that turned out to be.

I could have heeded the many voices telling me that traditional medicine doesn’t know how to deal with cancer and that I needed various alternative treatments: homeopathy, acupuncture, meditation, herbal remedies, hypnosis, miracle diets and many more that were urged upon me by well-meaning contacts, often with powerful testimonials.

I could have listened to the Christian sisters and brothers who told me that I would be healed if I had faith, that God loves miracles and would preserve my life without treatment, that they had seen or been given amazing recoveries after prayer.

I could have embraced the cynical critiques of the medical system by noting that it is in doctors’ interests to keep me thinking that I am sick, that I need them, that I need their expensive and complicated treatments.

I could have gone onto Google and attempted my own re-diagnosis on the basis of extensive reading of the most popular sites, or by consulting the most helpful discussion boards.

Each of these options were being put forward by people who apparently desired good for me. Yet deciding to go ahead with the recommended treatment was a relatively easy conclusion for me. Despite its costs, I do not at all regret the decision and suspect there is a very good chance I would not be here today without the excellent treatment I received at the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. Indeed, it has been three years today since I had my last radiotherapy dose, a few more days since my final round of chemo.

I’m sharing this story not for the sympathy vote, nor to celebrate an anniversary, and nor yet to ridicule the faith or intentions of those who urged me to avoid treatment. I share this story to raise the issue of the relation of knowledge to ethics. How does our knowledge of the world affect our obligations and opportunities to pursue good?

Many factors contributed to my decision to accept treatment, but significant amongst them was the considered advice of recognised experts in the field based on years of empirical research. I was not morally bound to follow this advice. The research has not been exhaustive. Not all the experts I saw recommended exactly the same treatment. My case involved some degree of novelty. Not all cancer treatment is as effective as mine has been so far. But I do believe I would have been both foolish and seriously at fault if I had simply ignored their advice, or acted as though the diagnosis must be wrong because I’ve heard of some misdiagnoses in the past, or if I had presumed that I would be alright because some tumours undergo spontaneous remission.

It would be no good to say that since the scriptures don’t tell me whether or not to trust doctors, then I have no reason to trust them. It would equally be no good to say that since the scriptures don’t tell me to have cancer treatment, then I was under no moral obligation to take the advice of the oncologists seriously.

Of course, receiving treatment in order to try to stay alive was neither my only nor my highest moral obligation. There are worse things than death. There are ways of staying alive that diminish the point of being alive. But all things considered, I believe there was a compelling moral case for me to accept the recommended treatment. I believe that not only was it possible to pursue this treatment without being distracted from more important things (like loving those around me and praising the wonders of the one who gives all life), but that the treatment was in fact a means to that end, keeping me alive for more service and song, and opening many opportunities to love and praise that I might otherwise not have had.

It may be obvious where I am going with this, but in case it is not let me spell it out. There is a large and diverse body of scientific experts with years in the field who point to widespread and growing empirical evidence of a critical diagnosis, which we cannot in good conscience ignore. They may offer a variety of different (even sometimes conflicting) advice on specific treatment, but it would be irresponsible to dismiss their warnings or to treat the situation as though it were nothing but a distraction from what is truly important.

Our knowledge of the world, though fallible and incomplete, is nonetheless sufficient to contribute to the moral deliberation of Christians. The evidence for alarming anthropogenic climate change is strong enough such that wilfully ignoring or burying the issue at this stage has become irresponsible. This is not a denial of sola scriptura nor to fall into legalism. Nor is it to say that climate change is the only or primary moral challenge of our day, or that all Christians ought to become climate change activists. And neither yet do I claim that Christians owe their allegiance to any particular mitigation strategy. But as one significant pastoral and social issue amongst others, and one linked to fears and guilt, to anger and confusion, to questions of greed and of faith, hope and love, addressing climate change Christianly is neither a luxury nor a distraction from the gospel.

Williams on our delusions of control and finality

"Human beings are perennially vulnerable to the temptation of arrogating divinity to themselves. It is a temptation manifest in the refusal to accept finitude, creatureliness and dependence – what Ernest Becker has called the 'causa sui project', the delusion that the world is my world, a world controllable by my will and judgement. But it is no less manifest in what we call the apocalyptic delusion, the belief that we can stop, reverse or cancel history, that we can assume the 'divine' prerogative of acting with decisive finality in the affairs of the world, that we can 'make an end'. Because our human history is marked by an ultimate severing of relations in death, and because death is something we can inflict (though not resist), it is not surprising that we nurture this delusion. It can be a source of relief: by the murder of another, by the obliteration of a race, by the consignment of someone to the isolation of prison or hospital, by the suffocation of my own memory, I can be free ('A little water clears us of this deed'). Or it can be a source of horror and despair: death ends all hope of reconciliation, it fixes in an everlasting rictus the hopeless grimace of failure in a relationship. We may stand appalled at our destructiveness, believing that we have indeed destroyed, annihilated, our possibilities.

"The resurrection as symbol declares precisely our incapacity for apocalyptic destruction – and equally declares that the 'divine prerogative' of destruction is in any case a fantasy. God’s act is faithful to his character as creator, and he will destroy no part of this world: his apocalyptic act is one of restoration, the opening of the book which contains all history."

- Rowan Williams, Easter: Interpreting the Easter Gospel, 17.

Williams makes at least two important points here. First, our desire to "wrap things up", achieving neatness and cohesion, can be a symptom of a refusal to be a creature, a misdirected protest against our own finitude. Not only is this futile, it is destructive. The attempt to achieve a 'final solution' to problems ought to make us shudder. Our projects remain provisional and ambiguous; they are open to correction, misunderstanding, clarification, reinterpretation, confusion and opposition. The attempt to leave an indelible and irrefutable stamp upon history is an inhumane megalomania - a warning against all utopian dreams.

Second, this desire for finality is often expressed in fantasies of destruction, obliteration, erasure. But God doesn't work like this. He is the creator of new things through the resurrection and transformation of the old. The "end of the world" of which Jesus' resurrection is a sneak preview is not really an end, but a new beginning in which all things are made fresh.
Both these points are in a similar vein to these two quotes from Moltmann.

Jesus and climate change XIV

But what’s he doing now?
You might be thinking: it’s all very well that God created the world and continues to sustain what is good, despite our many problems. It’s all very well that God has shown us we’re not alone but has come to dwell with us in Jesus, that back then he began a solution and promised to do more, that one day, if we believe this promise, he will finish the job he began in raising Jesus from the dead. But what about now? Climate change wasn’t an issue in Jesus’ day, and who knows whether God’s ultimate renovation will come in time to avert the potential climate catastrophes that are beginning to unfold around us. What is God doing now?

God is creating a community based on love, not fear and guilt. Actually, he’s making lots of them, all over the world. Little gatherings of people who have caught a glimpse of what God was doing in Jesus and are excited by it, people who want to be part of a renewed world, people who can’t wait for it to happen and so who start to live as though it were already true, a community that has begun to understand that death is not the last word on life, a group that refuses to let past hurts determine the present because Jesus’ death sets us free, a movement that will not give up hoping no matter how bad things get, because God can raise the dead.

What is God doing now? He’s growing a family in which everyone is a precious brother or sister and has access to the Father, a family in which fear of missing out has been replaced by trust, and mutual concern and hope. Of course, there are still family squabbles. And it’s a family with much to learn about how deeply God loves his creation. Despite its failures, this community hopes for God’s promised future while acknowledging that we’re not there yet and so doesn’t pretend to be perfect. But it’s a family where failure isn’t final either. And crucially, it’s a family that spans the globe and brings together Arabs and Jews, blacks and whites, Chinese and Americans, rich and poor, carbon-emitters and carbon-sufferers.
Eight points to the first person to guess the city near which this ruin is found.
Series: I; II; III; IV; V; VI; VII; VIII; IX; IX(b); X; XI; XII; XIII; XIV; XV.

Jesus and climate change IX

This problem is deeper than simply ignorance, and much older than the industrial revolution.

But that’s not all. Not only is the problem one to which we’ve all contributed in different ways at various times individually and collectively, through what we’ve done and haven’t done, what we’ve said or thought or even hoped for, in short, not only are we guilty, we’re also trapped in a phenomenon far bigger than any of us, and that can be terrifying.

And so, I suspect the deepest and most common response for many people in the face of climate crisis is fear. We can feel helpless in the face of forces that appear beyond our understanding, let alone control. If we take seriously some of the possible predicted scenarios, the future can seem bleak and hopeless.

We might fear for our children: will they inherit a world as rich and diverse as the one we have enjoyed? Will they inherit problems larger and more pressing than those we already face? We might fear for international order: will dwindling water supplies spark more conflict? Will the powerful nations continue to demand special privileges while making the weaker ones bear the costs? But perhaps most of all, we might fear for ourselves.

In the face of climate change, are there things you fear?
Series: I; II; III; IV; V; VI; VII; VIII; IX; IX(b); X; XI; XII; XIII; XIV; XV.

The gospel: how is it good news? VI

Good news!
Jesus is king. It’s good news – because fear and terror don’t rule. Neither terrorists nor the politics of fear run the lives of those who trust the prince of peace.

Jesus is king. It’s good news – because injustice doesn’t rule. Oppression has a used-by date. So we are freed from the nightmare of having to achieve a perfect world now, free to work in small ways to make the improvements we can. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice, for they will be filled.

Jesus is king. It’s good news – because karma doesn’t rule. We don’t need to take revenge, to even the score ourselves. Nor are we trapped irredeemably in our mistakes. Where Jesus is, grace reigns, not karma.

Jesus is king. It’s good news – because the church doesn’t rule. We are Christ’s body and his ambassadors, but we are not him. We don’t need to confuse our opinions with his truth. We follow as best we can, but no one person or institution is beyond error. We are free to admit our mistakes and learn from them.

Jesus is king. It’s good news – because my mortgage doesn’t rule. If Jesus is the Christ, then nothing else need rule my life, not a quest for wealth, for security, for status or influence. These all take their place as secondary things, tertiary things, quarternary things! I am free to be content and generous, enjoying God’s good gifts by sharing them wisely and liberally.

Jesus is king. It’s good news – because our children don’t rule. I don’t need to make my life revolve around maximising their every possibility, preventing every possible misfortune. I am free to love them enough to want to see them grow up as children of God, relying on him, not me.

Jesus is king. It’s good news – because my plans don’t rule. I am not left to my own devices to muddle out a path of my own devising in a mix of dream and nightmare. I am called to high and noble task: to love God with all my heart, mind, soul and strength, and to love my neighbour as myself. Or to put it another way: To be faithful to God by loving my neighbour, and to be faithful to my neighbour, by loving God.

The crucified Jesus is king. It’s good news – because my past doesn’t rule me. Broken relationships are not final. Guilt is atoned for. Forgiveness and reconciliation are possible because, as Paul said, Christ died for our sins.

The risen Jesus is king. It’s good news – because sickness and death don’t rule. We may fall ill, we may get cancer, we may be in accidents, or be intentionally injured. But death will not have the last word since we follow the one who is the resurrection and the life.

But how does he rule? And how can we know he does - when so often it seems like the bullies get the last laugh?
Series so far: I; II; III; IV; V; VI.
Five points if you can guess the Australian state in which this picture was taken.

von Balthasar on atonement

It is always the dogma of the removal of guilt through representative substitution that shows most decisively whether an approach is merely anthropologically or truly christologically (that is, theologically) centred. Without this dogma, it always remains possible to interpret everything in rational terms as an expression of human possibility, no matter how much historical mediation one wishes to build in. Our inability to resolve this dogma into gnosis is the true scandal; it is a signal and a warning that this is where genuine faith begins.

-Hans Urs von Balthasar, Love Alone is Credible
(trans. D. C. Schindler; San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2004 [1963]), 100.

Ever since at least Feuerbach, some people have taken theological language (language about God) as really just a metaphorical way of talking about humanity and the human condition. Of course, whatever we think or say about God reveals something of what we think about ourselves (and vice versa), but this is an implication, not the (true, hidden) meaning of theology. In this passage, von Balthasar points out that it is the doctrine of the atonement - of Christ's dealing with our guilt by dying for our sins, dying for us - that bursts the bubble of thinking we're actually just talking about ourselves. Either we drop this doctrine, or we drop the focus on ourselves.

Would Jesus vote green? X

Guilt (cont)
I said there was something right about feeling guilty. But like the other responses, there is also something wrong. Not just because we feel guilty for the wrong things. Not just because others might sometimes be more guilty. No, guilt is an inadequate response because of Jesus.

He said he came not to be served, but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many (Mark 10.45). He wasn’t out to maximise his own benefit, but to do what was best for others, to serve. In the end, his service led to his execution on a Roman cross. He gave his life. Even as he was dying, his concern was for those who had been torturing him. He prayed: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing (Luke 23.34).* Even in death, he was serving. Indeed, he calls his death a 'ransom', a price paid to free those held in slavery. We are enslaved by our guilt, by our habits of selfishness and thanklessness. If we will admit our slavery, Jesus sets us free. Not free to do whatever we feel like – that would not be freedom from selfishness but just more slavery. But Jesus’ sets us free from guilt so that we too can become servants.
I realise there are textual issues with this verse. I choose to blatantly ignore them for the moment.

Jesus dealt personally with our deadly behaviour by bearing its consequence - death - for us on the cross. By rising again to life, he achieved a decisive victory over sin and death and began their undoing in the world. Because of this, we can be redeemed from death and set free from sin to enjoy a perfect relationship with our gracious Creator God.

Jesus’ death opened the way to both a new relationship between creature and creator, and a new relationship between human creatures and the rest of creation. Because of Jesus, we are no longer enslaved to sin or trapped in sinful ways of living: we are free to live in loving obedience to God - including by being good stewards of the rest of creation. We can be free from the godless greed and selfishness that led to our present environmental mess, free to live in the manner originally intended by the creator - namely in joyful submission to him, in selfless love towards our fellow creatures and with great care for the rest of creation.
Thanks to Meredith for some of the ideas and wording of this post. See her excellent series on ten things I think about the environment, esp this one. Ten points for guessing the Sydney suburb containing this quarry wall.
Series: I; II; III; IV; V; VI; VII; VIII; IX; X; XI; XII; XIII.

Would Jesus vote green? IX

Guilt (cont)
In fact the various ecological crises that we face today are a classic example of what the Bible calls ‘sin’. Sin is a bigger problem than simply the actions of any one individual. It is an addiction, a deadly habit, found in each of us and woven into our social fabric.

This problem is bigger than simply ignorance. Many environmentalists think that if only people really knew what was happening, we would spontaneously correct their behaviour, and we’d demand legislative change to curb the abuses of the big corporations. But education alone is not enough. Surveys in America indicate that 80% of people there identify themselves as environmentalists, but this doesn’t prevent them from consuming more per capita than any other nation, or stop many of them from believing that they are perfectly entitled to do so. I suspect that Australia may not be too different.

The scale of the threat may be novel, but its nature is not. The peace and harmony which God intended for his world were not destroyed by the industrial revolution. The problem is much older than that. For thousands of years, humanity has generally ignored God, failing to thank him or to properly care for his good world, placing our own interests before those of our neighbour.

I used to be a high school teacher. During the last week of the year, I would play a game with my students. I have described the game back here (you'll need to be familiar with the game to understand the next paragraph). I played this game in all my classes.

Without fail, I won back every lolly I gave out. None of them were able to consistently vote green. None could stand to see their neighbour also benefit when the prospect of personal gain loomed so large. But with everyone pursuing personal gain, everyone lost. Time and time again. Do you think adults would do any better? I’d love to try that game using ten dollar notes rather than lollies and find out.

We like to think that we’d vote green, but every day in various ways, all too often we each pick red. And we know it. And so we feel guilty.

But Jesus always voted green. I’m not talking about voting for the Greens party in a political sense. Or even about voting for environmental values. He voted green in that he played the game of life without assuming that it’s a competition; he made himself vulnerable by pursuing the good of others; he trusted God and so followed his way of peace, even though it led him into conflict with those who were violent. Jesus didn’t pursue self-interest first. And it cost him his life.(more)
Series: I; II; III; IV; V; VI; VII; VIII; IX; X; XI; XII; XIII. Photo by CAC.

Would Jesus vote green? VIII

Guilt
The problem is not simply out there; it is also in here. And many of us are all too aware of this. And so, the fourth common response is guilt.

We hear of waste, and think of what we recently tossed away; we hear of oil depletion and we think about the size of our car; we hear of water shortages and think of our decadently long shower this morning. Of course, there is a difference between feeling guilty and being guilty. And we often feel guilty over things not our fault, or over minor things, while ignoring our larger errors. And not everyone is equally at fault. There are powerful decision-makers, such as corporations and governments, whose decisions carry more weight than mine or yours. We might not all be as guilty as some.

Nonetheless, there is something quite appropriate about feeling guilt and shame. There is something right about it because we do bear some responsibility, collectively and individually, for many of the serious problems faced by our world. Our lifestyle, our attitudes so often reflect a me-first approach, whose environmental, social and personal costs are becoming more and more apparent. Many of us presume that we deserve our standard of living, or vote for politicians who will maintain and increase Australia’s affluence before all other considerations. We are often greedy and envious, wanting to hoard and consume more things than our neighbour. Or apathetic about the suffering of others. Or unthinkingly wasteful. We are usually happy to ignore how products make their way onto the shelves. And so often we are simply thankless. Having received so much from God, do we say thank you? Jesus said that our life is more than the abundance of possessions, that loving God and our neighbour are more important than financial security or chasing our dreams or the perfect romance or the pursuit of happiness. Do we live like this?(more)
I can't remember the actual name, but fifteen points for the best suggested title of this painting. If anyone can find the actual name (and give a link to prove it), then perhaps I'll give them twenty points.
Series: I; II; III; IV; V; VI; VII; VIII; IX; X; XI; XII; XIII.

Would Jesus vote green? III

There’s a whole range of possible emotional responses to these statistics: apathy, disbelief, curiosity, sorrow, fear, anger, suspicion, guilt, impotence, despair, grief, resolve, self-righteousness. And most of us probable feel some combination of these.

I wonder whether we mightn’t be able to broadly classify these responses into five groups under the following headings:

(a) Scepticism
(b) Sorrow
(c) Anger
(d) Guilt
(e) Fear

In each case, I think there is something fundamentally correct about the response, but also something mistaken. In the following posts, I will take these five common responses as launching pads for considering Jesus’ own attitudes towards the earth.
Eight points for guessing the Sydney suburb.
Series: I; II; III; IV; V; VI; VII; VIII; IX; X; XI; XII; XIII.