May in March

Yesterday the Feather and Cross group from our church was to do a tour in the Sugar Bush with an Indigenous guide. We are a group of Lutheran Christians interested in learning more about our Indigenous neighbours and exploring ways to live in right relationship. We do a number of events throughout the year, and this would have been the third year with a trip to the Sugar Bush. It was cancelled because of the forecast for heavy rain and winds. Also, the trees are not running because of the unusually warm spring. It is as if we are experiencing May in March.

I recall, not so many years ago, hearing that the effects of climate change would be much more rapid than were imaginable. This prediction seems to be spot on, and leaves one wondering. There has, of course, rightly been much conversation about how the climate change reflects on humans acting badly. Others also weigh in on the observation that solutions, concerns, etc. are largely anthropocentric. This, too, is commonly true although we are starting to hear people reframing the crisis in a way that draws attention to the way in which other species are paying the price for our folly. Some, too, speak of the burden this is for the earth itself.

I recall, some years ago, having this image in my mind of the earth experiencing humanity as a pesky insect that it finally, on day, decides to swat. I find this image becoming more and more prominent in my mind, as things become increasingly apocalyptic. I’m not sure if we live with a willful blindness, or if we are caught in habits of activity that we cannot extricate ourselves from. But to call it troubling is an understatement and I wonder how the religion can assist in a time such as this.

A famous apocryphal tale told of Luther was that he was once asked what he would do should he know that the world would end the next day. He was reported to have said that he would plant an apple tree. Luther scholars scoff at the veracity of this although it is an interesting and possibly helpful way to frame how we should comport ourselves as glaciers melt, forest fires rage, and sea level rise. To plant a tree is a pledge to hope, even if it is hoping against hope. To deprive people of hope is evil, I think, even while I realize that hope without a reality check is dangerous – a luxury we cannot afford in this current time.

But perhaps there is some hope in remembering that wisdom traditions the world over have found a way forward in remembering that humanity is a partner with all of creation, and that our first ethical responsibility is to the past and future of the earth. Despair might seem like an easier solution than imagination, but holy hope can be found when we deny ourselves – both as individuals and as a species and imagine a different future, leaning for inspiration on the artists, poets, musicians, and scientists. Moreover, in learning to live with less we might discover again that in losing we gain, and in gaining less we redefine what more is.

Finely Tuned in Iceland

We are nicely ensconced in Reykjavik, “we” being Gwenanne, myself and six brave pilgrims from the Waterloo area on a “Fun in the Midnight Sun” tour organized by TourMagination. We managed to negotiate yesterday’s jet lag and were up bright and early, and in time to make it to worship at Hallgrímskirkja, pictured below.

The church is a powerfully intoxicating. Built over 41 years, it looms large in Reykjavik, with its tower designed to mimic the spray of a geyser and the church itself is said to call to mind mountains, glaciers and the rock formation of this island nation called Iceland (Island in Icelandic). Visitors line up to go up the tower, take a handful of photos, and then leave, but we decided to forego the tower experience and worship with the local congregation.

Today is Trinity Sunday and the resident priest Irma Sjöfn Óskardóttir both preached and presided. The service included special guests in the form of a choir from the Dómkirkjan (Cathedral Church) of Reykjavik. They crafted a service that was inspiring, although we really understood nothing, aside from our ability to make out the form of the Lutheran service, with its overarching structure of gathering, word, meal and sending.

As the priest presided in this architectural wonder, with a kind of simplicity that draws heavily on our hunger for transcendence, I wondered how the space felt for her. I recall some years ago – in Keffer Chapel at Luther, where I work – while presiding at communion, the sense that the building was a part of symbolic clothing I was wearing that day (alb, stole and chasuble), mindful that where we are becomes a part of who we are. And then back in Hallgrímskirkjam, I heard the choir sing. I closed my eyes for a time and as the piece came to the end, the music just kept on going, spiraling around the room until it settled into silence. I thought of my colleague, Gerard, playing flutes in various guises and how he flowed through the instrument, and it struck me that the sanctuary was a kind of instrument transforming the voice of the choir; sanctifying it, in a sense. The space itself became God’s handiwork. It was a holy moment for me.

Later in the day, we enjoyed a conversation by Arnfriður Guðmundsdóttir at the University of Iceland concerning how climate change is impacting Iceland, and the church’s response to this. It was quite a different moment in the day, but holy in its own way as Arnfriður spoke of the ways in which hope can found in the tenacity of faith and its passion for justice for people and the earth. Fittingly, we learned that Guðmundsdóttir means “daughter of Guðmund,” and “Guðmund” references the hand of God. She too, was God’s handiwork. For her and for the day, we are all grateful.