During the last few weeks of October, I hiked often to the place on Hawk Ridge overlooking Lake Superior where I had taken students in our Women and Spirituality classes to dive deep into our spiritual connections with nature. We would encircle the large spruce to ground and center, and occasionally were given a blessing by an eagle soaring overhead. The students would then disperse throughout the ridge, taking time in solitude for their own personal encounters with nature. As we reassembled, each would share their discoveries, and then one by one, they would share their favorite passages from the readings for the day. Always we would come to the point in our time together when I would invoke these words from Carol P. Christ: “There are no hierarchies among beings on earth. We are different from the swallows who fly in spring, from the many-faceted stones on the beach, from the redwood tree in the forest. We may have more capacity to shape our lives than other beings, but you and I will never fly with the grace of a swallow, live as long as a redwood tree, nor endure the endless tossing of the sea like a stone. Each being has its own intrinsic beauty and value….” (“Rethinking,” 321). How can one listen to these words and not be changed?
It seems so obvious, yet I was raised in a culture that taught me otherwise. In my years of studying Western philosophy, I was struck by how often philosophers felt the need to establish the uniqueness and superiority of humans to all other beings. The capacity for reason, self-reflection, language, even humor have been given as bases for human preeminence. I found myself being drawn into this mindset, though at the same time questioned and resisted this belief. In the creation story of the Anishinaabe, the indigenous peoples of the region I inhabit, humans are created last. The lesson they drew from this was that humans, being the last to be created, have much to learn from all the others who have been here far longer than we. Similarly, in the creation story of the Christian religion in which I was raised, humans are created last, but the lesson that followed was that humans, as the pinnacle of creation, are to have “dominion” over all others (Gen: 1:28). Even though I was raised with the understanding that this implied a responsibility to take care of all the rest of creation, it nevertheless still placed me at the top. More often, that dominion, when understood as domination, has been used to justify the belief that everything on earth has been created for our use and benefit, even to the point of destruction and extinction.
These philosophies and theologies form the bases of the Western paradigm of mind/body value dualism, in which all things associated with the body and the earth – women, people of color, sexuality, pleasure, emotions, plants, animals, immanence, change – are regarded as less than, indeed impediments to, the more highly valued spirit, mind, reason, culture, white, Western, enlightened, male, transcendent, God, thereby justifying their conquest and domination. Yet, Christ boldly counters, “There are no hierarchies among beings on earth.” Such a simple statement, and yet so revolutionary. Christ deftly disrupts the entrenched belief in certain humans’ preeminence by illustrating the many ways that each being has its own special and unique abilities. She moves us to grasp in our depths that every being has value not for what it can provide as a resource for human existence, but simply and profoundly in and of itself.
This, she said, is the supreme relativizing, to know that humans are no more valuable to the life of the universe -- and no less; that the life force cares no more for “human creativity and choice than it cares about the ability of Bermuda grass to spread or moss to form on the side of a tree” (“Rethinking,” 323). It is stunning in its dissolution of hierarchy, in its profound egalitarianism, in its deepest respect of all beings.
The implied ethic holds respect and reverence for all in the interdependent web of life. Recognizing the value inherent in all beings, it places limits on our actions. We are not to take more than we need. Enlisting our love and deeply felt connections, it counsels us to act to enhance the life possibilities of all beings (“Rethinking,” 321-322). For once one knows that love, one cannot simply stand by. One must act.
Nearly thirty years ago, Christ wrote, “the knowledge we could destroy this earth weighs heavily on me” (Laughter, 213). Today, this knowledge also weighs heavily on me, as I’m sure it does many of you. It weighs heavily on billions around the globe. We hear it this week in the voices of the protestors outside the COP26 Summit on climate change, voices often among the less valued – youth, people of color, citizens of the global South -- imploring the wealthiest nations of the world to act now to reduce carbon emissions and keep fossil fuels in the ground.
We would all do well to listen to these voices. Long ago, Christ warned of the political and ecological consequences of systems of thought that value transcendence over immanence, that give priority to life in some transcendent realm over life on earth, arguing that such belief systems justify inaction, and at worst, even encourage the destruction of the planet. In their stead, Christ expounded a “thealogy” that recognizes the divinity within all beings, and that in acknowledging our finitude as part of the cycle of life and death, calls on us to live, love, and act for love of this life. As she said, “Our task is here” (Laughter, 215).
Her deep recognition of the preciousness of life pierces me. The possibility that we will destroy this earth, and soon, feels very present. I can sense the impending harm. I have long lived on this precipice between life and death in very personal, bodily ways. Having survived several episodes of sudden cardiac death, I feel the exquisite gift of this life, this earth, with every nerve in my body. Echoing Albert Camus, “I love this life with abandon” (“Nuptials,” 69). Christ’s eloquent argument that we must act to stop the impending destruction — simply for love of this life — moves me to my very core. “What can stop us,” she wrote, “is that we love this life, this earth, the joy we know in ourselves and other beings enough to find the thought of the end of the earth intolerable” ("Rethinking,” 323). May we all love this life enough.
Not far from my home, hundreds of mostly indigenous women, as well as members of catholic worker communities, have camped for months along the route of the construction of the Enbridge Line 3 pipeline that will bring millions of barrels of tar sands through indigenous territories and pristine waters. They have gathered to pray, protect, and resist, and have suffered brutality at the hands of arresting police - and they persist. Acting out their love and connection with the land and water, they have dedicated their lives to their protection. They inspire by their example, and show us what it means truly to live by that ethic of love.
The world has much to learn from them, and from the wisdom of Carol Christ. Sadly, Carol Christ died this past July, and in her passing, the world lost a visionary and an impassioned voice for all beings on earth. I will be forever grateful for all that I learned from her. May her wisdom and love live on.
Notes
Camus, Albert. 1970. “Nuptials at Tipasa.” In Lyrical and Critical Essays. Ed, and with notes by Philip Thody. Trans. Ellen Conroy Kennedy. New York: Vintage-Knopf.
Christ, Carol. 1987. The Laughter of Aphrodite: Reflections on a Journey to the Goddess. New York: Harper & Row.
Christ, Carol P. 1989. “Rethinking Theology and Nature.” In Weaving the Visions: New Patterns in Feminist Spirituality. Ed. Judith Plaskow & Carol P. Christ. New York: HarperOne.