I. Why does connecting faith and environment matter?

"Our daily habits of action, for example, are dominated by an implicit faith in perpetual progress which was unknown either to Greco-Roman antiquity or to the Orient. It is rooted in, and is indefensible apart from, Judeo-Christian theology. The fact that Communists share it merely helps to show what can be demonstrated on many other grounds: that Marxism, like Islam, is a Judeo-Christian heresy. We continue today to live, as we have lived for about 1700 years, very largely in a context of Christian axioms."

First, let me be clear about the fact motivating this entire project: climate change is, unequivocally, happening. Scientists have known since the mid-19th century that greenhouse gases like carbon dioxide trap heat. The average surface temperature of the earth has risen about 1.62 degrees Fahrenheit since the late 19th century, with most of the warming happening in the last couple of decades – five of the hottest years on record have occurred since 2010. As a result, ice sheets and glaciers are melting; between 1993 and 2016, Greenland lost about 286 billion tons of ice per year. The oceans are warming, acidifying, and rising. The weather has been changing, too, with more extreme precipitation events happening as a result of global warming (NASA).

Human activity is indisputably at the root of all of this – and religion majorly influences human activity.

As I think about the link between environmentalism and religion, I struggle with what, exactly, it means to be an environmentalist. The definition varies between people. Some self-identify as environmentalists because they read articles about climate change and use a metal straw; others do so because they make enormous lifestyle changes, boycott fast fashion and consumerism, or live off the grid. There is in-fighting and finger-pointing within the environmental movement. But for the purposes of this exploration, all I care about is action. Growing up, I worried that my church's concern wasn't enough – so, in my working definition, being an environmentalist means doing something more than expressing concern; it requires significant effort.

When I first proposed writing about the interplay between religion and environmental action, I feared that such a project might not even matter in the long term, because religion is in decline. Statistically speaking, this is a valid concern. Millennials, specifically those between 23 and 38 years old, are leaving organized religion, especially Christianity, and not returning as they settle into their adult lives. The Pew Research Center found that in 2019, about two-thirds of adults in this age range attended a religious service “a few times” or less annually; two-fifths of them went rarely or never. There is a marked decline in religious engagement, for a number of potential reasons – perhaps it's millennials' heavy workload, or the availability of other forms of spiritual nourishment (Emba). The main disconnect I perceive (since I struggle with it myself) is a general suspicion that the church isn’t progressive enough, or that referencing a 2,700-year-old text isn't particularly relevant in an age of information overload and global connectedness.

But this doesn’t mean we shouldn’t worry about the compatibility of Christian faith and the environment. First off, belief systems swing in and out of vogue. When an idea is “threatened” by mainstream society, people tend to react by defending that idea (consider the polarization of American politics – that's a prime example of how a perceived threat makes a belief system more extreme and rigid). Therefore, religion shouldn’t be deemed extinct and then ignored. As climate change becomes more and more pressing a concern, placing pressure on religious institutions to adapt, the way these two concepts are intertwined may become increasingly relevant.

Secondly, considering the value of a human-centric Christian framework (and Judaic framework – these faiths share a textual basis) in the context of climate change implicates all of us, not just people of faith. Religion, especially Protestantism, is inextricable from most “Western” cultures. In his analysis of the cultural underpinnings of environmental devastation, historian Lynn White argues that the rise of Christianity in what we now know as the West paved the way for a productivity- and progress-oriented mindset that we still hold today.

I’ll soon address how this mindset is linked to theology and how it shapes our views on the environment, but the point is, Western culture is built on a Judeo-Christian foundation. There are many ways in which religion has joined forces with culture to produce anti-environmentalist thought patterns. Addressing the link between faith and environmentalism doesn’t just mean talking about religion; it means talking about a force that inevitably touches all of us.

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, this debate is meaningful because it touches a sore spot for religious people in the U.S. Hyper-liberal houses of worship, like my home church, work hard to link their theology to climate action. Meanwhile, some evangelical Christians adamantly deny climate change, while some younger evangelicals have sparked an environmentalist movement reconciling their firm Christian beliefs with a need for climate action. Many American Christians are grappling with climate change, in different ways and with different intensities. I’d argue that people of faith have a moral imperative to consider how environmentalism fits into their beliefs – and people of faith are no strangers to morality.

The content of this project is particularly relevant to religious environmentalists. Interestingly, the Pew Research center found that only 6% of adults say religion is the main factor shaping their stance on environmentalism, making it clear that there is a disconnect between the “religious” and “environmentalist” identities. Like many other liberal people who hold both of these identities, I am eager to unite to unite the two; I grew up in the church, benefiting from the moral outlook and tight-knit community it gifted me, so I can admit my personal bias when it comes to wanting a natural compatibility between Christianity and the environment. Yet I know that's probably not what I'll find. I have a hunch that the problem is much more deep-seated than conservative Christians not believing in climate change, and that the solution is not as simple as working a few prayers for climate action into the Sunday service.

Here is what I know: if we really want to marry the Christian tradition with environmentalism, we need to ask some uncomfortable questions.

Environmentalism.

Taking concrete steps towards mitigating pollution, global warming, and environmental degradation; this often means advocating for political or social change or committing to impactful, even inconvenient

lifestyle changes.

Part II

II. Anthropocentrism and the environment

What's made me the most uncomfortable, as I've considered how religion may disagree with environmental thought, is the human-centric nature of Judeo-Christian faiths. The technical term for this “human-centric” framework is anthropocentrism – the idea that humanity is more important than other species, that the world figuratively revolves around us. There is nothing inherently religious about anthropocentrism; it’s a fundamental concept that permeates many different cultures and frameworks of belief.

Commonly, anthropocentrism is used to describe anything that is informed by human morals or that places an emphasis on the value of human life. At a basic level, any view that “evaluates the universe by human standards and values” is anthropocentric (Grasse). Because we can only experience the world through human eyes, every human worldview is to some degree anthropocentric. Anthropocentrism doesn't have to mean an extreme dedication to the human species and a dismissal of other species; it more loosely refers to the prioritization of human needs (Kopnina et al).

I asked Lucas Mix, a Harvard scholar who studies the overlap between science, philosophy, and theology, about this distinction, and he clarified that while anthropocentrism may literally mean humanity at the center of everything, we generally use the term to describe any human-focused school of thought. I will be using this colloquial definition moving forward.

From an environmental perspective, there are a few alternatives to anthropocentrism; ecocentrism and biocentrism (Grasse). "Deep ecology" is a framework built off of ecocentrism.

Judeo-Christian faiths are deeply anthropocentric. Well, almost every faith is to some extent; as my former pastor, Kari Jo Verhulst, pointed out, religion answers a human need, so any framework that helps us understand our moral and cosmological belonging is indelibly human. That in and of itself has implications for the environment. There are also textual clues specifically within Judeo-Christian scripture that point to anthropocentrism, as I'll address in the next section. But before that, I want to explore what the anthropocentric nature of Judeo-Christian faiths could mean for the environment.

Within Christianity, people with a more literal belief in the Bible tend to have more anthropocentric views on climate change; that is, they care more about the direct, human effects of environmental catastrophe rather than the more abstract repercussions (Schulz). I think this has both positive and negative implications. First, as P.J Hill argues in his defense of the anthropocentric Judeo-Christian stance, being part of a human-centric religion, one that emphasizes the reduction of poverty and the worth of all people, allows us to think about environmental action in a more holistic way. People of faith may be more likely to think in terms of environmental justice, which concerns itself with the equal distribution of resources and care for those who are disproportionately affected by climate change (Jenkins). Considering the human aspects of climate change and environmental degradation is valuable and important.

But, while environmental justice is a worthy pursuit, this anthropocentric, Judeo-Christian concern with the reduction of poverty might be inherently anti-environmental – and that's an uncomfortable argument to make. Kopnina et al note that alleviating poverty through development, without a strategy for mitigating environmental impact, will harm the environment. Whether natural resources are monopolized by a few wealthy nations or distributed fairly does not matter; resource consumption, in its current form, is environmentally harmful. Hill argues that poverty alleviation, human equality, and the environment should be balanced responsibly and practically, but from the environment's perspective, completely de-prioritizing human needs would be the best choice. This is what scares me most when thinking about Judeo-Christianity and the environment. Our views on social justice, and even environmental justice, put human needs first. The next step, sacrificing human needs for the sake of the environment, is a hard one to take.

Hill suggests that we really can't escape our anthropocentrism when it comes to the environment. For instance, he says switching to an eco-centric mindset might mean having to rank the worth of all non-human things, which could become problematic, petty, and even silly. I don't think that acting eco-centrically means we have to grant voting rights to vegetables – yes, that would be silly – but I understand what Hill is trying to say. Any system we devise for thinking about and valuing nature will be anthropocentric, simply because we made it. So, transitioning to complete ecocentrism may not be humanly possible (although our current approach to the environment is obviously not ideal).

There are practical reasons for why a basically anthropocentric approach makes sense. As Hill points out, climate change is a human problem, one that requires the use of human institutions and human policy to mitigate. Of course, the best thing for the environment would be to have no people at all, but practically, that's not going to happen – religious or not, we will keep our species afloat. So, Hill says, we need to employ human solutions to address the problem at hand, and a Judeo-Christian framework is actually helpful in this regard because it makes room for progress and development.

A final message that sticks out to me is Hill's argument that anthropocentrism forces us to take responsibility. By appreciating our own importance, we can also appreciate our impact on the planet, and then propose solutions. In my opinion, this debate boils down to practicality. Is anthropocentrism inherently incompatible with environmentalism? Definitely. But can it offer us a useful foundation for tackling the problem we've created? Also yes.

I like this more practical approach, because here's the thing: people will always be anthropocentric, whether they're religious or not. People are people.

With this conclusion in mind, the next step in exploring religion and the environment is to think about the specifics of Judeo-Christian anthropocentrism. I want to look at how this particular set of human-centric beliefs has influenced our approach to the environment, for better or for worse.

"Both Judaism and Christianity are non-utopian in that commitment to their theology does not solve all the problems of human frailty. Both understand that humans, even those fully committed to that worldview, will lack adequate information about the world around them to make sound judgments, and will still often lapse into sin and act in ways that are neither good for them nor for their fellow human creatures. Thus, the Judeo-Christian position sees ample room for human institutions that will generate information and channel human activity in socially productive directions."

Anthropocentrism.

How our thoughts, as people, are inevitably intertwined with our own ways of thinking and our own needs.

Ecocentrism.

All parts of nature, living and nonliving, have worth; humanity does not have higher moral value.

Biocentrism.

All living things have worth; humanity does not have higher moral value.

Deep ecology.

Humans are not entitled to interfere with the natural world other than to meet basic needs.

III. A scriptural hierarchy of God, humans, and nature

Part III

Judeo-Christian religious text has been used to inform both anti- and pro-environmentalist mindsets. To understand how the scripture has influenced history, it's valuable to look closely at some of the textual interpretations that have shaped our environmental views.

Though scripture is full of passages that theologians read through an environmental lens, much of the basic framework comes from the first book of the Bible’s Old Testament, Genesis, which is also part of the Torah. Genesis offers a creation narrative, establishing the relationship between humankind, God, and the earth. According to Lynn White, this creation story was revolutionary because ancient scholars such as Aristotle thought about time cyclically – the visible world did not have an origin. Judaism and Christianity, on the other hand, promoted a more linear picture of time, which imbued the creation story with extra importance.

Genesis 1: 26-28 provides a rough basis for “dominion theology”, the idea that humans have the right to reign over nature. As I’ll soon address, dominion theology has been interpreted (or abused, in my opinion) throughout history to justify the exploitation of the earth.

The idea that humankind is created in God’s image is clearly anthropocentric; it establishes an elevated status for humankind (Grasse). The mandate to "subdue" the earth also lends itself to anti-environmentalist interpretations. For the most part, these verses have been used toxically throughout history, as fodder for dominion theology. Yet there’s nuance everywhere, even in these fundamental verses of Genesis. Just a few sentences earlier, in Genesis 1:18-25, God creates day and night, the sea, and fish, birds, and animals, and calls each and every new piece of creation good. Before humans show up, there’s an emphasis on the inherent beauty and worth of all parts of creation.

The theme of humankind's dominion over nature is reinforced elsewhere in the scripture. A recurring idea of “man versus nature” in the Old and New Testaments establishes a clear separation, and lack of harmony, between humankind and creation. For example, in the Old Testament, the Israelites are punished for forty years by having to struggle in the wilderness. In the New Testament, Jesus undergoes a similar trial, trapped for forty days in the wild. Like the “dominion” mandate, these passages play into a black-and-white duality, in which humankind and nature clash with one another (Grasse).

The second chapter of Genesis offers another highly referenced verse in the discussion about Judeo-Christian religion and environmentalism. Genesis 2:15 reads, “And the LORD God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and keep it." The mandate that humans tend God’s garden is the foundation for a school of thought that in some ways challenges dominion theology – “stewardship theology.” Stewardship is a buzzword in many environmentally-minded congregations seeking textual support for their environmental concern.

But seeing people as stewards of God – the dutiful keepers of God’s natural garden – is problematic and reductive in its own way. John Hainze, a scholar of environmental ethics, pointed out during our conversation that this stewardship interpretation may give us way too much power. Similarly, Verhulst noted that if we grant ourselves the authority to decide how creation is taken care of, we’re still presuming lordship over creation. Stewardship may seem less blatantly exploitative than dominion theology, but it’s anthropocentric and self-aggrandizing in the same way.

It may be useful for people of faith – and I’m talking about Christians at this point, because I’m venturing outside of the scope of the Torah – to consider other passages that put humans in their place relative to God’s creation. The text is full of passages that, though perhaps less referenced, establish a less human-centric relationship between humankind, God, and nature. The Psalms, for instance, laud the beauty of the earth and heavens. Perhaps even more powerfully, in Job 38, God basically tells humankind to sit down and be humble. Appearing in a whirlwind, the Lord sermonizes on how mankind knows nothing of the depth and diversity of God’s creation, and offers a reminder that it was God, not man, who created the vast, beautiful, mystical expanses of heaven and earth. The message, put simply, is, “Shut up, humans, you’re tiny compared to everything I know and everything I’ve made.”

So yes, the main passages referenced in the environmental debate, those found in Genesis, are inherently anthropocentric (and prone to harmful translations because of that). I’d still argue that contradictory parts of the text should be considered.

However, it’s not just the religious text that matters, but the way the scripture has been interpreted historically and how it's perfused mainstream culture. Having established a textual basis, my next step is to investigate the history of the constructive and destructive interference between religion and environment.

If we look solely at the text and not at its tangible, real-world implications, we won’t make any progress. I want to figure out how we got to where we are today.

26 And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.

27 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.

28 And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.

3 Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and answer thou me.

4 Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? declare, if thou hast understanding.

Part IV

IV. A toxic confluence of culture and religion

As I explore how the Judeo-Christian framework has molded attitudes towards the environment over time, I'll be focusing on the history of Christianity, Protestantism in particular. Not only is this what I'm most familiar with and curious about, but (Protestant) Christianity has had such an impact shaping "Western" (and especially American) culture that I think it's a useful lens for tracking dominant cultural narratives.

One scathing, and highly contentious, critique of how Christianity has impacted the environment comes from Lynn White, who I referenced earlier on. White, a historian and a Christian, claims that starting in the Middle Ages, the Christian view on the environment started shifting towards something more dominionist and exploitative. This shift was sparked by new scientific discoveries – when Medieval Europe began using rudimentary agricultural technology, White writes, "Man's relation to the soil was profoundly changed." New technology meant people thought about the environment through a more selfish, "man-versus-nature" lens, and Christianity found fertile ground in this train of thought.

According to White, Christianity is the "most anthropocentric religion the world has ever seen." He clarifies that Western Christianity, with its emphasis on action and progress rather than intellect and illumination (the focus of Eastern Christian theology) fit particularly well with scientific progress; the two informed and shaped one another. So, theology conspired with Western science to birth an entirely new worldview, one that paved the way for things like unfettered technological progress, colonialism, and, of course, environmental exploitation.

I don't buy White's whole argument. First, the Medieval attitude towards nature was probably more complex than White suggests. I also worry that White conflates cause and effect; is it Christianity itself that's toxically anthropocentric, or has Christianity been used in toxically anthropocentric ways? My hunch is that the latter is true. But despite these flaws, White gets at something essential. His idea about the interplay between Western religious frameworks and scientific attitudes, and what that's meant environmentally, is perhaps the key to understanding the extent of the conflict between environmentalism and the Christian framework.

Let's start with the Middle Ages, loosely defined as about 500-1500 AD. White suggests that exploitative attitudes towards the environment started to emerge in the West around this time. This may be true, but Medieval Christianity's approach to the environment was not particularly exploitative or dominion-based. In The Philosophical Roots of the Ecological Crisis: Descartes and the Modern Worldview, Catholic priest Joshtrom Isaac Kureethadam argues that Medieval Europeans existed in relative harmony with nature, using what they needed for survival without seeking absolute control. Christian thought reflected this. There was, culturally and religiously, an emphasis on contemplating and appreciating the wonders of nature. Saint Francis, a 13th-century saint associated with animals and nature, believed God's radiance and might were revealed through the natural world. Saint Francis' biographer, Bonaventure, wrote:

Also exemplifying the spiritual mystique Medieval Christians found in nature, thirteenth-century theologian Thomas Aquinas wrote that biodiversity reflected God's beauty: "For goodness which in God is simple and uniform, in creatures is manifold and diverse" (Kureethadam). Medieval Christians like Aquinas and Francis expressed their awe for God's creation, their respect for and deference to an all-powerful creator. Nature provided a medium through which humans could connect with a higher power. These Medieval views followed from those of even earlier Christians. Early fathers of the church, like first-century Saint Augustine, believed that God could be understood through the natural world; nature had a symbolic value, in which plants and and animals represented God's beauty and had spiritually instructive value (Kureethadam).

I appreciate this worldview. Tapping into that inspiring, spiritual feeling nature can sometimes evoke seems like one of the most instinctive ways to connect religion and the environment. I do think that now, with all the scientific knowledge we have about the natural world, some of the mystique is lost, but I wonder if there's something we can learn from the deep respect Medieval Christians (and Christians before them) had for the natural world.

So where did it all go wrong? The culprit seems to be "modernity" – a period of time spanning from the Scientific Revolution to the Enlightenment. Somewhere around this time, religion became a tool for justifying exploitative attitudes. Nature lost its mystical, symbolic value, becoming something functional and practical, to be subdued and abused by humankind. Man and nature became distinctly separate. Christianity was used as a justification.

Around the beginning of the 17th century, people (specifically, Europeans) began reading the Genesis creation narratives differently. The idea of dominion became more culturally prominent; God had given humans the go-ahead to subjugate the earth, and this became fuel for those who championed the rape of natural resources and the mechanization of agriculture. In fact, people even started interpreting Biblical references to tilling and keeping the earth as a grounds for private property laws and colonization (Kureethadam).

This re-reading of the creation narrative was directly linked to scientific progress. Thomas Sprat, the first historian of the Royal Society, the U.K's national science academy, explicitly stated that his group's objectives were to re-establish "Dominion over Things." Similarly, writer Joseph Glanvill spoke to the Royal Society of "captivating Nature, and making her serve our purposes and designments" (Kureethadam).

The exploitative, dominion-based attitudes of the Royal Society, and modern science in general, were heavily shaped by 16th- and 17th-century English philosopher Francis Bacon, the "father of experimental science." Bacon thought nature should be used practically to enable scientific progress; natural resources could be transformed into commodities (like gunpowder, paper, and tools), fueling processes such as modern agriculture and fabric dyeing. He wrote that machines don't "merely exert a gentle guidance over nature's course; they have the power to conquer and subdue her, to shake her to her foundations." More directly than anyone before, Bacon championed the idea that humans had the right to use the natural world for their own advancement. And that right was God-given. As quoted by Kureethadam, Bacon saw science and technology as a way for man to earn back the dominion over the earth that he'd lost during the original sin.

Born a few decades after Bacon, French philosopher René Descartes also facilitated this new ethic outlining the relationship between humans and nature. Though he was not a scientist, Rene offered a philosophical basis for exploitative modern science. Descartes' philosophy separated man and nature definitively; it granted humans, as opposed to nature, the utmost importance, thereby reducing nature to something to be used and profited off of (Kureethadam).

So, around the dawn of modernity, philosophy, religion, and modern science joined forces, creating a worldview that paved the way for aggressive European progress. Society became anthropocentric in a toxic way; the needs of humans were, across the board, separate from and more important than those of the natural world.

The scientific, industrial, and capitalist belief systems were all symptoms of this fundamental shift in mindset (Kureethadam). And despite their human benefits, these systems have accelerated environmental destruction. The data make it clear that since the Industrial Revolution, greenhouse gas emissions have skyrocketed. Modernization, and the ways of thinking that support it, are at the root of the climate crisis.

We're now dealing with overpopulation, overproduction, and overconsumption, and there's a heavy philosophical component to our environmental woes.

The ideas people began to accept during the 17th and 18th centuries – that humans owned the earth, that the needs over humans trumped those of the natural world – have permeated contemporary culture in a number of ways. The Protestant work ethic, which I would argue is a product and perpetuator of anti-environmentalist Christian interpretations, is worth considering.

The Protestant work ethic (as it's been dubbed by scholars) appeared during the Protestant Reformation of the 16th century and then became mainstream as Protestantism gained cultural clout. It emphasizes personal responsibility, hard work, and, most fundamentally, salvation. As Alexis Grasse puts it in her thesis, Christians had to better themselves to rise above the sinfulness of the world around them and redeem themselves in God's eyes. The Protestant work ethic's focus on personal, rather than collective, improvement, and on transcending the earth to reach a more perfect union with God, elided any kind of pro-environmentalist thinking. Grasse describes this emergent Protestant view of the earth:

In its early days, the Protestant work ethic was explicitly tied to dominion theology. According to Kureethadam, it was founded on the literal, dominion-based interpretations of Genesis that so heavily informed the emergence of the modern worldview. Rather naturally, the Protestant love of hard work and practicality played into the rapid societal changes of the modern age, so that the Protestant work ethic became an inseparable piece of the blossoming of modern industry and agriculture.

The Protestant work ethic is entangled in the modern systems we still live by. I think this is a key idea to understand, because it means that religion is linked to our culture and economy, and thus our approach to the environment. This makes the relationship between faith and environment a problem for everyone, not just people from religious backgrounds who, like me, are trying to reconcile their upbringings with the environmental crisis.

And the problem is very close to home. The Protestant work ethic has directly shaped the culture and economy of the United States. During the Second Great Awakening, American preachers and evangelists championed personal salvation and hard work; these ideas reinforced and worked in conjunction with blossoming American capitalism and industrialism (Lumen Learning). Thus, Protestantism became inextricably intertwined with American individualism and capitalism, informing an indestructible, exploitative belief system that pervaded American culture. Regardless of religious affiliation, being an American means being tied to this cultural phenomenon – one that strengthens systems harmful to the environment.

Environmentally apathetic (or injurious) Christian belief systems are ever present and evolving; they have played into the country's more recent history. In the late 20th century, the Christian Right materialized as a powerful, politicized force in American American culture and politics. The birth of conservative Christianity was influenced by a number of factors – the rise of Biblical fundamentalism as a reaction to new tensions between science and religion, the emergence of new Christian evangelical leaders (Sandeen, Whitehead). A few authors are accredited as having propelled this movement forward. In 1973, Presbyterian minister R.J Rushdoony published a book that popularized the idea of the country being a Christian nation; he advocated for a return to Biblical law, a Christian commandeering of schools, social welfare, and other systems controlled by the federal government. One of Rushdoony's contemporaries, Francis Schaeffer, wrote of Christian social responsibility, urging his readers to take moral and political stands to defend Christian ideals (Whitehead). Ironically, Schaeffer was an environmentalist himself, but that was swept under the rug (Turner).

The politicized, action-oriented brand of conservative Christianity laid out by Rushdoony, Schaeffer, and others led to the founding of the Moral Majority, a Christian organization that opposed "anti-Christian" influences in politics and culture; think abortion, women's liberation, and gay rights (Sandeen). By the 1980's, fueled by media coverage of televangelists and conservative preachers, the Christian Right had begun to gain political sway. Being Christian became a political identity. This phenomenon continues today. In 2016, evangelicals (part of the Christian Right) widely supported Trump (Whitehead).

What does the prevalence of the Christian Right mean for environmentalism? Laura Turner, in her argumentative piece on environmentalism and evangelical Christianity, notes that evangelicals tend to focus on individualism and personal responsibility – remember the Protestant work ethic! – as opposed to what's best for the common good. Fundamental Christians and other conservative Christians also have a poor reputation within the scientific community. And, due to the link between conservative Christian groups and the Republican party, there has been little political pressure to adopt an environmentalist agenda.

I feel that especially in this time of political turmoil, there's a general perception of Christians as being anti-science and anti-climate change; while I don't like this simplification (or the politicization of science), there are obvious historical roots for the stereotype.

History makes it clear that the relationship between (mainstream) Christianity and the environment has, especially in the last half-millenium, soured. As someone who values Christian tradition – and who would love to see an easy path forward for Christian environmentalism – I find this hard to swallow. We can't undo history, but can we re-write it?

"All the creatures of the sense world lead the mind of the contemplative and wise man to the eternal God. For these creatures are shadows, echoes and pictures of that first, most powerful, most wise and most perfect Principle, of that eternal Source, Light and Fullness, of that efficient, exemplary and ordering Art. They are vestiges, representations, spectacles proposed to us and signs divinely given so that we can see God."

"For man by the fall fell at the same time from this state of innocency and from his dominion over creation. Both of these losses however can even in this life be in some part repaired; the former by religion and faith, the latter by arts and sciences. For creation was not by the curse made altogether and forever a rebel, but ... is now by various labours ... at length and in some measure subdued to the supplying of man with bread; that is to the uses of human life."

"The world is repeatedly referred to as sinful, fallen, dark, and not of God. This has translated to an underlying, and perhaps unrealized, attitude of superiority or apathy towards nature. The earth may have purpose, beauty, and usefulness, but ultimately it is not the true home for humans and not as important as the salvation of souls."

Screen Shot 2020-03-29 at 5.02.01 PM.png

Climate data from NASA (2020) showing an uptick in emissions at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution.

Part V

V. Textual and traditional alternatives

What I've realized, looking at the relationship between Christianity and the environment across years and years, it that Christian theology has been constantly re-interpreted throughout history. It's offered justification and a spiritual basis for drastic societal change, beginning with the dawn of modernity. The reverberations of that cultural and religious shift are still felt in the United States today. Despite the seemingly antagonistic relationship between Christianity and the environment, this broad historical perspective suggests that perhaps there's less an inherent flaw in the scripture and more a flaw in how that scripture is used and interpreted.

This brings me back to the question of anthropocentrism. The Bible (and Torah) establish a relationship between God and humans, endowing humans with special moral responsibility. That might be the "inherent" piece I'm looking for, the deep-seated and immutable flaw that makes Christianity incompatible with the environment. So, was the intrinsic anthropocentrism of Christianity to blame for the development of a toxic worldview, or was it simply a convenient tool that supported something inevitable?

I'd argue that scientific progress was bound to happen, with or without religion, and that humans, being humans, were bound to make progress in a self-centered, anthropocentric, and ecologically damaging way. But religion perpetuated an exploitative mindset and, reciprocally, that exploitative mindset has shaped religion. Perhaps the path forward is less about rejecting a faith-based framework that is woven into our national and global history, and instead repurposing that faith – just like Bacon did – to serve environmentalist goals.

This has, to some extent, been happening. As the environmental movement became prevalent in the 1960's, and as churches garnered criticism for not acting on the environment, religious institutions had to respond, either by rejecting environmentalism or by incorporating ecological messages into their theologies (Grasse). More recently, as church attendance has dropped, in part because of a perception that religious institutions are lagging in their response to issues like climate change, liberal churches like my own are facing enormous pressure to keep themselves relevant. University Lutheran, a politically liberal church in an epicenter of liberal crunchiness, couldn't stay afloat if it didn't address environmental issues.

An entire environmental, Christian theology has evolved due to this pressure. According to Grasse, there are a few strands of "ecological Christian thought": Christian stewardship, in which humans must care for the Earth as mandated by God; eco-justice, the idea that resources should be used sustainably and distributed fairly; and creation spiritualism, which asserts that humans are not superior to the rest of the earth, and should protect all of creation. The first two schools of thought are clearly anthropocentric, which comes with its own issues, but the fact that churches have been striving to adapt indicates another wave of Biblical re-interpretation, this one pro-environmental. Even groups that have traditionally rejected environmentalism are adopting it. There's been a recent uptick in evangelical Christians who push for environmental action (Turner). Pope Francis publicly decries climate change.

Are these approaches enough? I don't think so; if they were, we'd probably see a stronger link between religious and pro-environmental identities. The idea is simply that the Bible can be interpreted in a multitude of ways, and some of those are green.

But here's the thing – in suggesting a green Biblical re-interpretation to right historical wrongs, I'm actually limiting myself to a narrow scope. Almost every example I've given of textual interpretation or religious tradition falls under the umbrella of mainstream Protestantism. Perhaps I'm giving too much weight to the hegemonic narrative. Churches like my own – a pretty typical, albeit liberal, Protestant church – are trying to re-write Christianity's ostensibly not-very-green history. Yet there are other, more subversive ideologies rooted in the Christian faith with their own, unique histories.

The fact that one narrative dominates popular understanding does not mean it's the absolute truth.

My home church is certainly crunchy and liberal, and I'm grateful, but I do get the sense that it's re-interpreting something not very progressive; other Protestant-based traditions have been politically radical (or at least liberal) from their earliest days.

One example is Quakerism. This faith was founded around 1650 by English writer George Fox, who took issue with the hypocrisy of mainstream denominations like the Church of England. Fox was imprisoned eight times for challenging the political and social systems of his era, and the Quakers were persecuted for their radical beliefs. They thought God to be in everyone, endowing every human with inherent worth; they also emphasized religious tolerance and favored individual, spiritual experiences over ritual and tradition.

The idea that the light of God touched every person challenged the hierarchical structure of other denominations of the time. Just as rebelliously, Quakers took inspiration from but did not feel indebted to the Bible. After the Quakers reached the U.S in 1656, they found themselves at the forefront of many social justice movements; Quakers in Pennsylvania declared their anti-slavery sentiments in 1696. The Quakers were also ahead of their time in taking progressive stances on gender equality, sexuality, pacifism, and other human rights issues, and they continue to hold progressive views today. Not all Quakers consider themselves Christians, but I want to consider Quakerism because of its Christian roots (BBC).

From an environmental standpoint, Quakerism is compelling. Quaker tradition emphasizes living in the present, and actively working to make the world a better place; redemption and the Kingdom of Heaven are experienced in the present, rather than after death (BBC). I think this "act now" approach lends itself to radical climate action. It's not that other houses of worship can't effectively urge people to act in the moment – my church definitely did – but doing good in the present, with no specific promise of redemption after death, is more of a central value in Quakerism.

Quakers are generally progressive in terms of climate issues, including environmental justice, and Quakerism emphasizes living simply to reduce wastefulness (BBC). This clearly fits in with my definition of environmentalism: making actual, concrete lifestyle changes to lighten one's impact on the natural world.

The religious framework of Quakerism is fundamentally radical. At its beginnings, Quakerism confronted the social and political structures of the time. The core principles of Quakerism, including equality, the worth and moral responsibility of the individual, and using one's life for good, provide a strong basis for establishment-shaking action – something we need if we want to really tackle the climate crisis.

The interwoven histories of Unitarianism and Transcendentalism also point towards another way of thinking about the environment. Unitarianism, which rejects the idea of a Holy Trinity, popped up in the mountains of Transylvania in 1568, during the Protestant Reformation. Unitarians were liberal, outcast Christians, who believed in personal choice and intellectual freedom. They took inspiration from Jesus, but did not consider it necessary to follow him dogmatically. Unitarianism, in its current form, re-surfaced in the 18th-century United States, as a reaction to a Puritan revival; instead of focusing on sin, Unitarians emphasized free will and God's all-inclusive love (Harris).

Universalism, another Christian-based denomination, arose in the U.S in 1793. The Universalists believed God's love was just that – universal. They were active in social justice movements, such as abolition, throughout the next two centuries. Eventually, in 1961, Unitarianism and Universalism merged into the Unitarian Universalist Association, a socially progressive, overwhelmingly liberal faith that takes inspiration from many different religious traditions (Harris).

Though Unitarian Universalists are not technically Christians, both Unitarianism and Universalism stem from a Protestant tradition. The UU faith lends itself to environmental action because its belief system is rooted in challenging dominant narratives and pushing forward a socially liberal agenda. More broadly, I think its emphasis on intellectual diversity and freedom makes sense in the age of climate change; this is a contemporary problem, and if solving it means shedding burdensome traditions, we need to be willing to do so. The more flexible the belief system, the easier it is to reconcile with modern environmentalism.

Transcendentalism, though not expressly a religion, is a philosophical offshoot of Unitarianism. Spearheaded by Ralph Waldo Emerson, the Transcendentalist movement popped up in Massachusetts in the early 1800's, and was formalized in the 1830's. Transcendentalism split from Unitarianism (a reason-based faith) because it sought a greater emphasis on emotional spiritual experiences (History Channel).

The Transcendentalist school of thought had some pretty blatantly environmentalist tendencies; it focused on nature, and rejected materialism. Of course, the whole movement was very academic and inward-looking, placing it only one step away from arrogance (something that doesn't bode well for the environment). Still, the Transcendentalists placed heavy spiritual value in nature. In 1841, a Transcendentalist living community called Brooks Farm was founded in Massachusetts – the idea of communal living was inspired by the Shakers, yet another nonconventional Christian-based denomination (History Channel). Though Brooks Farm failed a few years later, I think it's valuable to reflect on the simple, communal lifestyles of Transcendentalists and other utopian American groups of the time. It's a radically different lifestyle than the one we know, and it's probably a lot greener.

What I mean to say is there are other options, other stories. Any faith or philosophy has its woes; yet there exist ethics inspired by Protestantism that blatantly incorporate political liberalness, that offer ample room for intellectual growth, and that, most importantly, have a history of challenging the establishment. Pieces of the Quaker, Unitarian and Universalist, and Transcendentalist belief systems very naturally facilitate environmental action. I'm not arguing that all Christians should ditch their specific religious traditions for something less mainstream; that would be unfair, close-minded, and probably arrogant. I'm not a religious scholar and I'm not close to understanding the differences between Christian denominations. But, it might be useful to look at some of the theological and philosophical aspects of these more liberal traditions for inspiration.

Maybe I haven't ventured far enough into Christianity's radical past. Quakerism, Unitarian Universalism, and Transcendentalism are not mainstream, but they're palatable to me for some reason. Perhaps it's their liberal bent or their Massachusetts roots (isn't it interesting that my mind jumped to three ideologies with strong ties to my home state?) – but I think it's mostly that these schools of thought are relatively close to the Protestant tradition I know. Unitarian Universalism is a watered-down, loosey-goosey version of what I grew up with. And though Quakerism is highly liberal, its emphasis on hard work and personal responsibility isn't that far off from the Protestant work ethic that, as I've already laid out, played into the making of our giant environmental mess.

Other Christian offshoots reject or are entirely separate from modern Protestant history, and thus from the Protestant work ethic and its unfortunate conspiracy with capitalism. Even if these more obscure Christian groups don't have footholds in the modern United States, they help stretch my narrow understanding of what constitutes "the Christian tradition."

I want to look at the heretics, people who were burned at stake and persecuted for their weirdness. The idea is to look farther back, before the 16th-century Protestant Reformation. The Reformation is something that, probably because of my years attending Sunday School in a Lutheran church, I inherently respect; I admire the boldness and rebelliousness of Luther and Calvin and other Protestant leaders, and I recognize the Reformation as a necessary event in the history of the church. Yet I also know the Reformation gave rise to the Protestant work ethic and a host of now-mainstream denominations that are inextricably woven into the history of capitalism and the environmental crisis, especially in the United States.

There are hundreds of branches of Christianity, many extinct, many obscure. I can't paint a whole picture, but I can explore a few Christian groups that I see as healthily distanced from the Protestant work ethic and its pro-capitalist leanings.

The Middle Ages saw an upswing in heretical, anti-Catholic religious communities, which were not officially Protestant but served as a philosophical springboard for the Reformation. The Lollards are a strong example. This group was spearheaded by John Wycliffe, who was born in 1320's England and died in 1384; he was a harsh critic of the Catholic church at the time. He felt that the church had drifted away from its spiritual basis, that the clergy were too wealthy and corrupt, and, most notably, that the Bible should be translated into English (which he did) for the common people to read. Wycliffe's views gained a strong foothold among the agricultural working class of Southeast England. His followers, the Lollards, became associated with peasants' revolts and political unrest by the 14th century. They were a for-the-people, by-the-people group with strong socialist inclinations. Because of this, Lollards were deemed heretics. They were persecuted by the church, often burned at the stake, and survived through the 16th century. With their emphasis on making Christianity more accessible for the general populace, the Lollards set the stage for the beginnings of the Protestant Reformation in England (Ross, The Reformation).

Jan Hus, a Czech preacher who lived from 1369-1415, was powerfully inspired by the teachings of Wycliffe, and launched his own precursor to the Reformation in Bohemia. Like Wycliffe, he vituperated the Catholic church and was also deemed a heretic (and eventually burned at stake). By 1420, the Hussites had become more radical, some calling for an end to Catholic traditions like transubstantiation and praying to saints and others pushing forward the idea of a classless, communal society. Though the Hussites were officially stamped out by the Catholic church several centuries after Huss' death, their ideological legacy lives on in other modern-day churches with Czech roots (Theopedia, Medievalists.net).

The Lollards and Hussites were revolutionary. I think what makes them most compelling is their socialist leanings, their interest in abolishing class hierarchy in the church and attacking injustice. The environmental crisis is a capitalist problem, and the Protestant work ethic has fed into that; these pre-Reformation heretics prove that Christianity has a history of radical thought unlinked to industrialization and modernization.

There are even weirder, more hippie-ish groups – like the Adamites. The Adamite ideology existed from the beginnings of Christianity (St. Augustine wrote about it), but re-emerged in 1400's Bohemia, as new religious groups split from the Hussites. The Adamites believed they were clean of man's original sin, and thus lived a free-love, nudist lifestyle, eschewing clothes and embracing sexual promiscuity. These Bohemian Adamites didn't last long; they were quickly persecuted by their precursor group, the Taborites (Medievalists.net). Yet they represent a strange, Christian hippie subculture, one that's so far from traditional Protestant values of propriety, morality, and duty.

Centuries later, the Industrial Revolution coupled with capitalism and the Protestant work ethic, sending the planet hurtling towards an environmental crisis. But even then, Christianity had expressly anti-industrial and anti-capitalist subgroups. Christian Socialism popped up in mid-19th-century England, after a failed uprising by a working-class suffrage group. The Christian Socialists believed that Christ had authority over matters like industry and trade; that socialism would be the Christian revolution of the century; and even that the Bible had been abused in the past to placate the working classes. Christian Socialism split into many different organizations by the end of the 19th century, and informed the American Social Gospel movement of 1870-1920, which emphasized the need for generosity and justice in response to class inequality (Encyclopaedia Britannica). Clearly, anti-industrial sentiment existed within Christianity, even if that sentiment has been watered down over time. Christian Socialism doesn't look as weird to me as older traditions; it isn't as heretical, and it's still historically tied to modern Protestantism. Nevertheless, Christian Socialists are obviously anti-capitalist, and that contradicts the dominant narrative I've presented of Protestantism and capitalism going hand-in-hand.

The history of Christianity is, overwhelmingly, one of Biblical misuse and anti-environmental ethos. And that's why we need to consider the more subversive traditions, ones that aren't just liberal but are explicitly distanced from the Protestant work ethic and even from capitalism.

Actually, no matter the denomination or philosophy, Christianity has a very radical history. More mainstream Protestant traditions may have lost some of their spunk, as they've been watered down over years of hierarchy and interpretation and ritual, but the origins of Christianity lie in political upheaval. I'm talking about Jesus himself. He blessed social pariahs; he preached love and forgiveness; he tipped over money tables in a temple; he was executed for being a political rebel.

Since the dawn of modernity, the relationship between the Christian worldview and the environment has ranged from apathetic to toxic – but only if we track the most dominant or influential cultural narratives. There are, in fact, more disruptive ideologies, ones that I find illuminating in my hunt for a pro-environmentalist Christian belief system. More universally, it helps to remember that Jesus was a political radical, someone who wasn't afraid of drastic change.

Quakerism.

Politically radical

Non-materialistic

Emphasizes living in the present

Unitarian Universalism.

Highly liberal

Freedom and flexibility of thought

Transcendentalism.

Spiritual value in nature

Non-materialistic

Communal living

VI. To reject or re-interpret?

In the context of history, we've seen that religious text can be construed and purposed in a million different ways, for a million different reasons. In my eyes, this cheapens the text somewhat.

It would be easy for me to say that religious tradition is so easily suggestible, so open to interpretation, that it has no meaning. In that case, we'd be better off walking away from religion (at least, Judeo-Christian religion) entirely. But just based on my own instinct (and maybe bias), even if the text is equivocal, religious tradition holds a lot of value and significance.

I know from my upbringing that organized religion fosters communities and support networks, creates purpose and structure in people's lives, and answers the deeply human instinct of searching for meaning in the world. Perhaps most importantly, religion is all about morality. I strongly believe that because of its emphasis on doing good, religion might be an exceptionally useful, and even revolutionary, tool for addressing climate issues. Religious institutions offer a unique platform not just for educating people on climate change, but for instilling people with a sense of moral responsibility when it comes to the environment. And, because the Judeo-Christian faiths are, at their core, about the place humans occupy in God's world, they could allow us to re-frame our relationship with the earth. As White points out, it's useful to have religion as a medium for examining the space we occupy in the cosmos, as the very mindset informing most Western nations' environmental decisions is flawed. A sort of philosophical and cosmological re-evaluation is necessary.

I know I'm biased in my defense of religion; I just have a gut feeling that there is value in the Christian tradition, because I was raised in it. I know others have this feeling too. Even if there is something inherently anti-environmental in the anthropocentric foundations of Judeo-Christianity – and yes, there probably is – I'm operating under the assumption that religion isn't going anywhere because it still has cultural relevance and sway. Practically speaking, we need to work with what we've got.

There is an argument for adopting less anthropocentric, and more eco-centric, religions, such as Buddhism (White). I don't want to rule that out. However, I've established that the Judeo-Christian framework is deep-seated in Western culture, so we can't just avoid it, and, more simply, there are many people who already live within this particular religious tradition.

Even after accepting that the Christian tradition has meaning, a solution doesn't readily present itself. I do see some shadow of one in emphasizing the environmentally minded parts of the Bible – the Psalms that celebrate nature, the Genesis verses that lend themselves to stewardship interpretations, the fiery winds of Job. But doesn't that leave me exactly I started? The church I grew up in did those things, to some extent, and I felt uncomfortable with the "picking and choosing" and heavy interpretation present in our theology.

I'm starting to wonder, though, if picking and choosing might not be so bad. Is there anything wrong with interpreting the Bible through an environmental lens when people have been interpreting the Bible in an environmentally apathetic (and in some cases detrimental) way for centuries? Perhaps this is a form of moral payback – assuming, of course, that environmental action is a moral responsibility. I do think Christians benefit from learning about the entire text, including the parts that are misogynistic, violent, and otherwise discriminatory, and contemplating the ways people on the opposite of the political spectrum interpret the Bible. But, there's time pressure when it comes to environmental action. We should be incorporating environmental interpretations of scripture into our houses of worship, right now.

There is nothing wrong with interpreting the text in contemporary context; in fact, it's looking like we might need to, if we want Christianity to stay relevant. We need to be willing to look at the Bible in light of what we know today. Of course, just interpreting the Bible environmentally isn't enough; this must accompany concrete action.

I see even more promise in a somewhat contradictory, but not mutually exclusive, idea: an overall looser interpretation of the Bible. The text is rich and fascinating, but it's also ambiguous and self-contradictory. We can barely use the Bible alone to determine how we should act.

Rather, we can use big-picture Christian morals to inform a faith-based stance on the environment; morals that are Biblically inspired, but that don't require nitpicking and text parsing. Grasse explains that this is a stance outlined by Christian ecologist James Nash. According to Nash, God's love for all creation, an overarching theme in the text, clearly nudges us towards a pro-environment position, and that should be enough for constructing an environmental ethic. Nash says of the Bible:

As someone who's uncomfortable with being too committed to the words of a very old text, I'm drawn to this looser, morality-based Christian response. Nash's words tie in with a motif that's become clearer and clearer to me over the course of this project: the value of tradition over text. I know that religious tradition means so much more to me, emotionally, than the Bible itself. And I also know that there are other Christianity-based traditions out there, off-the-beaten-track ones whose value systems could inform a more radical Christian approach to environmental issues. There are a plethora of alternatives – I've only mentioned a few. For example, the Quaker, Unitarian and Universalist, and Transcendentalist traditions encompass intellectual flexibility, political liberalism, and the appreciation of nature. These values offer a stronger philosophical basis for adopting environmentalism as a lifestyle, rather than placing it somewhere in the middle of a list of concerns.

There are even more radical Christian traditions to turn to: the heretical, socialist Lollards and Hussites, the hippie-esque Adamites, and even Jesus' table-turning political activism. These traditions are unlinked to the history of capitalism and the Protestant work ethic, and thus provide a more politically revolutionary framework for being a Christian.

We need to respond radically to climate change, both in terms of political upset and individual lifestyle changes. These ideas are present in Christian-based traditions – and not just historically. Radical counter-elements still exist, even if, for some philosophies, that existence is more in thought than in actual practice.

Though the dominant narrative of Christianity over time is one tainted with anti-environmental toxicity, and though Christianity as a school of thought is clearly vulnerable to being anti-environmental, that vulnerability is not fate.

My parents have always joked that I'll become a Unitarian some day. They may be right; I could envision myself eventually transitioning to the Unitarian Universalist faith, partly because it's comfortable (based in liberal, East Coast culture) but more because of its intellectual looseness. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to totally reconcile the concepts I care about, like climate change, with a faith that's anchored in ritual or text, however liberally. This is probably a weakness on my part. I interviewed Christian scholars for this project who know so much about the Bible, who are able to understand the text spiritually and academically while still holding staunchly progressive beliefs. I doubt I can reach that point. It just feels too hard to me to carry conflicting ideas. It can, in fact, feel so impossible that I consider never returning to any kind of organized religion at all.

Yet part of me has been screaming, throughout this entire project, Who am I kidding?. I can't step away from Protestantism, not completely. My concern about the environment stems from something that looks a lot like Lutheranism, the Protestant tradition in which I was raised. For me, the environment is a moral black-and-white. I see it as my duty to take care of the earth, and I staunchly believe that I can't be a good person if I don't. My strong moral convictions, my yearning to work harder and become a better person, and my shame when I don't do the right thing are so very Protestant. For better or worse, I am a person who is motivated by morality and a sense of personal responsibility. I might struggle forever with intellectual conflicts of interest when it comes to religion, yet the way I think about the environment will always be, in some ways, Lutheran. That makes me kind of proud.

I think what's true for me also rings true to others. When you're raised to want to be a good – no, better – person, that conviction will inevitably shape your thoughts and actions. I would hope people like myself choose to repurpose their deeply ingrained morality for the good of the environment. Deciding to do so presents an inevitable, yet necessary, moral conundrum. I've chosen to tackle that conflict through writing; others might just reflect internally.

I suspect the "solution" to the conflict between Christianity and environmentalism will happen on an individual basis. There are many possible paths. If someone feels strongly tied to the Bible as a source of guidance, then they can try to use it in an environmentally productive way; personally, I don't feel tied to the text, so I'll probably look elsewhere. Being a Christian and an environmentalist takes a lot of individual rumination and reflection. In my eyes, it's not a question of religious denomination. It's a question of making a moral commitment to environmentalism and then figuring out how to make faith a part of that, drawing on both textual and traditional evidence for inspiration.

But after making that commitment, we can't grow complacent. Being an environmentalist means taking action – impactful, radical, uncomfortable action.

And if a particular religious tradition or interpretation doesn't allow for that, it's time to move on.

Part VI

"[It is] a continuing source of illumination, inspiration, and empowerment, but it should never be asked to perform tricks that are beyond its powers and dignity."