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Ecological Catastrophe and the Uneasy Evangelical Conscience |
Excerpt written by Richard D. Moore of the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. The blog can be read in full at Moore to the Point.
I’ve left my hometown lots of times. But never like this.
Sure, I’ve teared up as I’ve left family and friends for a while, knowing I’d see them again the next time around. And, yes, I cried every day for almost a year in the aftermath of a hurricane that almost wiped my hometown off the map. But I’ve never left like this, wondering if I’ll ever see it again, if my children’s children will ever know what Biloxi was.
As I pass that sign on Highway 90 telling me I’m leaving Biloxi, I can look out behind the water’s horizon and know there’s a Pale Horse there. A massive rupture in the ocean’s floor is gushing oil into the Gulf of Mexico, with plumes of petroleum great enough to threaten to destroy the sea-life there for my lifetime, if not forever. Everything is endangered, from the seafood and tourism industries to the crabs and seagulls on the beach to the churches where I first heard the gospel of Jesus Christ.
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I am leaving this morning, but I am leaving changed.
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In our era, the abortion issue is the transcendent moral issue of the day (as segregation was in the last generation, and lynching and slavery before that). Too often, however, we’ve been willing not simply to vote for candidates who will protect unborn human life (as we ought to), but to also in the process adopt their worldviews on every other issue.
Moreover, we’ve seen some of the theological and ideological fringes in the environmentalist movement, fringes that enabled us to see them as not “with us,” and, frankly, to enable us to make fun of the entire question as a silly enterprise. But perhaps the void is being filled by leftists and liberals and wannabe liberal evangelicals simply because those who ought to know better are off doing something else. Working with our secular progressive neighbors on, for instance, saving the Gulf no more compromises the evangelical witness than our working with feminists to combat pornography or with Latter-day Saints to protect marriage.
We’ve had an inadequate view of human life and culture.
What is being threatened in the Gulf states isn’t just seafood or tourism or beach views. What’s being threatened is a culture. As social conservatives, we understand…or we ought to understand…that human communities are formed by traditions and by mores, by the bond between the generations. Culture is, as Russell Kirk said, a compact reaching back to the dead and forward to the unborn. Liberalism wants to dissolve those traditions, and make every generation create itself anew; not conservatism.
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When the natural environment is used up, unsustainable for future generations, cultures die. When Gulfs are dead, when mountaintops are removed, when forests are razed with nothing left in their place, when deer populations disappear, cultures die too.
And what’s left in the place of these cultures and traditions is an individualism that is defined simply by the appetites for sex, violence, and piling up stuff. That’s not conservative, and it certainly isn’t Christian.
Finally, we’ve compromised our love.
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Will people believe us when we speak about the One who brings life and that abundantly, when they see that we don’t care about that which kills and destroys? Will they hear us when we quote John 3:16 to them when, in the face of the loss of their lives, we shrug our shoulders and say, “Who is my neighbor?”
I’m leaving Biloxi today, with tears in my eyes. But I’ll be back. I’ll be back whether the next time I see this place it’s a thriving seacoast community again or whether it’s an oil-drenched crime scene. But I pray I’ll never be the same.
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 As the ongoing oil gush gets worse and worse, we are increasingly prompted to remember that our own actions contribute to the problem. Loving God requires that we use what He has given us in a responsible manner. This summer, instead of consuming oil for powering our vehicles, let’s consume food for powering our bodies! What better way to start the summer than by BIKING! The following list (adapted from the Washington Area Bicyclist Association) gives tons of great reasons to bike.
1. Bicycles increase mobility for those who don’t have access to motor transport.
2. Bicycles increase mobility for those who don’t qualify to drive a car.
3. Bicycles increase mobility for those who can’t afford motor transport.
4. Bicycling can be faster than walking, transit or motor vehicles.
5. Bicycling is the most energy efficient form of transportation ever invented.
6. You get exercise from bicycling.
7. You save travel money by biking. If you switch from a car this includes purchase price, gas, tires, fluids, insurance, maintenance, washing, parking, etc.
8. You reduce stress by bicycling.
9. Biking is therapeutic for the mind and spirit —it is fun and can make you happy.
10. Cycling is therapeutic for the cardiovascular system—live healthier.
11. Regular cycling provides better muscle tone, bone mass improvement, and clearer skin.
12. Regular bicycling helps with personal weight management — new full-time bicycle commuters can expect to lose an average of 13 pounds their first year of bicycle commuting if they maintain the same eating habits.
13. Bicycling is a great initial activity for people who are obese and can help them on their way to a healthier life.
14. Regular cycling can lead to lower health care expenses — save money for a nicer vacation.
15. Biking allows the rider to appreciate more of the nuances of the natural and built environment around them.
16. Your commute will be the best part of your day instead of the worst part of your day.
17. The exercise increases your productivity at work.
18. Cycling improves your self-esteem.
19. Save on the membership to a health club, get your exercise bicycling to work, school, shopping, etc.
20. Bicycling is nearly a life-long activity.
21. Bicycling is a great full family and friends activity.
22. Cycling is low impact on the body.
23. Cycling is low impact on the environment
24. Bicycling in your neighborhood is a great way to meet your neighbors and build community.
25. Camaraderie of cyclists makes it a great way to meet a nice stranger with a similar interest.
26. Bicyclists can ignore the highway traffic jam reports.
27. Feel the satisfaction (liberation, freedom) of biking past a traffic jam in the bike lane.
28. Predictable commute time.
29. Easier parking.
30. Cheaper parking.
31. Leaving your car at home provide a parking space for someone less fortunate.
32. If you are lazy, your bicycle provides door-to-door transport (you don’t have to walk across a vast parking lot).
33. Reduces the demand for parking lots and paving the earth.
34. Reduces energy consumption (see below).
35. Reduces air pollution — bicyclist emit few poisonous gases. A four-mile bicycle trip keeps about 15 pounds of pollutants out of the air we breathe.
36. Reduces greenhouse gas emissions.
37. Reduces water pollution — bikes don’t drip brake fluid, anti-freeze, transmission fluid, toxic dust, etc.
38. Reduces noise pollution — even without a muffler bikes are quiet, creating a quieter community.
39. Reduces road wear.
40. Reduces deforestation for planting of rubber plantations, because bicycles use very little rubber.
41. Reduces crime — a huge amount of crime is associated with access to motor vehicles.
42. Reduces road kill and saves animals.
43. Demonstrates a concern for the future — walk (ride) your talk.
44. Prevent and protest the sanctioned murder of innocent responsible citizens (homicide by motor-vehicle).
45. Bikes’ small profile reduces congestion.
46. Easy to vary your route by bicycle.
47. Increased bike use generates bike facilities which increase property values.
48. Bicycling gives you more fresh air than a sauna and you can still sweat and clean your pores
49. Bike Commuting is a license to dress weird and still feel smug.
50. Urban cycling keeps you humble.
51. Bicycling can be enjoyed in a wide variety of topography.
52. Cycling can be enjoyed in a wide variety of climates
53. Bicycles are a great means to see the world.
54. Bicycling is cool.
55. Biking Is Fun.
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Below is an excerpt from Scott Sabin's new book, Tending to Eden:
 In December 1997 Plant With Purpose’s technical director, Bob Morikawa, and our new Haitian director, Jean-Mari Desilus (whom we called Dezo), traveled with me to the Haitian village of Kavanac. The sun beat down on us as we walked a steep, narrow path between hillside farms, their tiny fields separated from one another by loose rock walls. Ragged corn struggled through the rocks on either side of us. My lunch was not sitting well.
After we’d crossed one ridge and were on our way up a second long slope, I told the others I needed a rest. As I sat on a large stone, contemplating the hill in front of me, two elderly women came up the hill, five-gallon buckets of water balanced on their heads. “Bon swa, blan,” they greeted me. They asked where we were going, and Dezo told them we were headed to a village meeting in Kavanac. The older woman said they were on their way to the same meeting. “We’ll let them know you will be along in a while,” she said with a teasing grin.
At the top of the last ridge, I could see the Caribbean to the south, Haiti’s tallest mountain, Pic La Selle, shrouded in clouds to the east, and the brilliant blue water of the Bay of Port-au-Prince to the north. A little farther along the ridge sat a group of about forty farmers, men and women, in an open-sided lean-to made of wood and corrugated tin. When we reached them, several sidled up to me and discreetly held out their hands while rubbing their stomachs.
I shook my head, indicating I had nothing to give them. The meeting convened and moved past pleasantries to a series of questions from the community as to what Plant With Purpose intended to do in the village. A woman stood and, in a confrontational tone, told me about the other humanitarian agencies that had worked in the area. She named two agencies that had brought food and clothes, then left and never returned. “How is Plant With Purpose going to be any different?”
After giving the question some consideration, I responded,“Well, first of all, we are not going to give you anything.”
She looked stunned.
“Second, we are not going to leave until you ask us to.” The woman stood there, speechless.
Once we understand God’s heart for justice and the vicious cycle of deforestation and poverty that traps the poor, how do we respond? The desire to help is admirable in a world where far too many pass by on the other side of the road. But determining how to respond can be complicated.
I was originally drawn to the work of serving the poor and hungry because it seemed simple, unambiguous, and virtuous. I had studied political science and was often struck by the moral ambiguity and unexpected consequences of most policy choices. Well intended programs often had the opposite effect of what their drafters expected. The most well-meaning projects could cause great harm. As I was to discover, humanitarian work can be nearly as complicated.
Many humanitarian organizations respond to poverty and injustice by giving surplus food, medicine, and clothes, and maybe starting orphanages and clinics. They focus on treating the symptoms of poverty—which sorely need to be treated. But others ask questions about the root causes: Why are people are hungry and sick? Why so many orphaned children?
The Bible seems pretty straightforward in its approach: give a cup of cold water in the name of the Lord. Our first response is often to give things away. The poor clearly lack things, and we have things, so what could be more obvious than giving out of our abundance?
Yet giving things often comes with unintended consequences. Without knowing the needs and challenges faced by local communities, our gifts can be inappropriate. In one community where we work, a relatively new bulldozer sat in front of a school yard for many years, slowly rusting. No doubt it was given with the best of intentions and was probably very expensive to ship. Yet it was completely inappropriate to the local conditions. It ended up serving as a germination bed for weeds and a few small trees before being sold for scrap.
Even when gifts are appropriate to the needs of the people, they can often create dependency. Haiti has received numerous donations and many short-term mission teams have come to share the gospel and build churches and school buildings. Yet there is a growing school of thought that much of our aid may be hurting the locals.
As we were establishing Plant With Purpose in Haiti, a longtime missionary sternly informed us that he wasn’t sure Haiti needed another well-intended nonprofit agency. “We have created a nation of beggars,” he said. “For years folks have been coming down here thinking they are helping by giving things away. But that just teaches people to beg.” Another missionary told me that after citizens in one village received cracked wheat from USAID, few local farmers bothered to plant corn because they couldn’t compete w ith free food.
Often, the problem is less with aid itself than with how it is applied. We tend to focus on short-term, immediate-impact solutions rather than long-term investments in people. Many Americans have at least a passing understanding of what handouts do to initiative, self-esteem, and motivation. We talk of how a welfare mentality creates dependency. When we see panhandlers on the street corner, most of us realize a handout won’t change their lives. A gospel tract probably won’t do much good, either—though it may be better than handing them a dollar. Unfortunately,we don’t always translate that understanding into our approach to the poor overseas.
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From Restoring Eden's blog, by Julie Joyner
 Sometimes when I am struggling, or when I’m anxious and I’m trying to get through an unpleasant situation, I close my eyes and transport myself to a peaceful haven, to a place where I have always found the most real relaxation. I imagine myself on a raft, floating gently with the waves blowing through Palmetto Creek, where I spent my summers as a child. There is a rope tied around my foot, so I won’t drift off with the current, and I am bathing in the sun on a lazy afternoon. Sometimes I vary it a bit, and I see myself resting on the bow of my Dad’s 17 foot Oday sailboat, sailing through Perdido Bay, with the waves and the sun rocking me to sleep, waking every now and then to look for dolphins, or to come about and head the other way. I open my eyes to the bluest sky and watch the clouds moving overhead above the tall mast, the sound of the boat moving through the waves interrupted only by the clanging of the rings and the flapping of the sail.
I have gathered, over my fifty-two years of extended visits to this personal paradise, a rich bank of diverse and wonderful memories. Years of deheading shrimp on the dock, of eating those same shrimp that night, breaded and fried to a golden brown. Years of fresh mullet and fresh trout, crab cakes and oysters right out of Perdido Bay. Years of swimming in warm brackish water, of learning to waterski and then teaching my children to waterski along the same routes around the creek. Years of sailing with my Dad, of watching dolphins and amazing sunsets from the dock. A lifetime of sand castles and “turtle cities”. Summer days often taken for granted, spent on the front porch swing, watching egrets, cranes and pelicans swoop down to grab dinner from just below the water’s surface.
My grandfather bought this land in 1950, seven years before I was born. And no matter where my Dad’s job took us, Perdido was always home, from June through August, back when summers lasted three months. Perdido Beach, Alabama. Every summer of my life. Every summer of my children’s lives. Year after year, kicking up the same sand down the drive to the mailbox. It has always been there, at the dead end of the two-lane highway where I learned to drive, where I taught my kids to drive, nestled between two creeks, a place where life was simple and time stood still. My very own golden pond.
We learned over the years, how to weather the hurricanes. More than once we packed up the valuables and drove inland to wait out Danny or Ivan or Katrina. We repaired the roof and rebuilt the dock. We cut up the fallen trees and cut down the dead trees, killed slowly by the salt water or the beetles. Adjusting to the altered landscape after such a loss of was a real challenge for my eighty year-old father. Now, five years later, the trees we planted to replace the lost foliage are beginning to fill in the gaps. It’s just beginning to feel cozy again.
Now we face an enemy most of us had never even thought about. We sit on the porch looking out to the bay and we wonder. The weather patterns direct a menacing darkness of a different kind which is hovering somewhere out there beyond the horizon, threatening our peaceful paradise. We wonder where this ominous oil slick, the size of Rhode Island, will make landfall. We wonder how many dolphins and sea turtles, pelicans, egrets and cranes will be lost. We wonder how, in an already hurting economy, the shrimpers and the fishermen will survive this blow and how tourism will be impacted. Will folks who are just now regaining their footing along the coast be able to withstand a catastrophe of this proportion? We watch and we wait and we listen to the news to see who will be most affected. We wonder how long it will take the marshes and the swamps, the nesting grounds for so many life forms, to recover. We go to the beaches and try to help with clean up before the oil hits. We take classes in how to deal with “contamination”, specifically how to clean oil off of animals. It is knowledge that we never knew we would need. We buy Dawn.
With this gigantic shadow looming just off the coastline, we watch, we wait, we wonder and we hope. We watch with sadness and inexplicable grief at the scope of the struggling wildlife, at the potential loss of this haven, this refuge we have called home for so long. We are confused and disoriented by it all. We are uncertain. A general oppression hangs in the air. We are afraid. We wait to see how this unexpected and unwelcome threat will impact our individual communities and our individual lives. And we wonder, most of all, why a company that boasted a pre-tax profit of 14 billion dollars last year would opt out on a $500,000 shut-off valve that could have prevented this catastrophe. We hope that the experts know what they are doing now. We hope that we can learn the lesson from this costly mistake: that we never have to repeat this one. That we can figure out a way to balance our need for energy with our absolute responsibility as stewards of this earth to pursue these goals in the safest way possible, while treasuring and protecting God’s creation and people.
It looks at this point like I will be able to enjoy the clean shores of Perdido Beach this summer since current forecasts predict a landfall west of the Alabama line. Our homeplace has probably escaped the worst of it. But I feel the loss for all those along the coastline whose lives will be drastically altered by this tragedy. And there is no doubt that, among those most affected, there are eleven families who will feel the pain of this catastrophe long after the shoreline is cleaned up.
My parents were raised just a few hours down the road in Philadelphia MS. They lived there until they were married and all of my grandparents are buried there in the town cemetery. I still own the house there where my mother was born. Every summer we make the trek from the coast of Alabama, over to our family reunion in Neshoba County, Mississippi. Though miles from the open waters, this sleepy inland town was affected in the darkest way of all. This community lost a son to the oil explosion that resulted in this terrible spill. Dale Burkeen died a hero, the crane operator who lifted every one else onto the boats to safety. He was thirty-seven, a loving husband and father, a hard working man who saved many lives before going down with the rig. It would be easy for the massive ongoing struggle with the oil slick to obscure the price he and ten others paid. It does seem insurmountable. It’s a literal, incomprehensible mess. But, as we muddle through the fallout, it is critical that we remember them. We will deal with the complex problems of this menacing evil and our lives will go on. The debate over domestic oil exploration will go on. But they will never sit down to another seafood dinner with their families; and they won’t ever enjoy another sunset over the Gulf of Mexico. After mulling it over, this is where my thoughts land. All the more reason to figure out exactly what happened, and to make damn sure that it never happens again.
For now, we need to unite our hearts and prayers in support for our neighbors to the South, remembering them as
they face these struggles in the days ahead. May the Lord give us the extraordinary patience and supernatural wisdom that we will need as we embrace these challenging times and work towards better solutions. May the Lord bring comfort and practical relief to those who find themselves on the forefront of this adversity. It is His peace that surpasses understanding th
at brings the calm in the storm and it is His strength that moves us forward to a place of overcoming.
Julie Kilgore Joyner is a native of the Gulf Coast. These days, she and her husband, Rick Joyner, live in Fort Mill, SC. They co-foundedMorningstar Fellowship and Ministries over 20 years ago and both participate in ministry leadership, with Julie focusing on music and social justice initiatives. She is the loving mother of Anna Jane, Aaryn, Amber Grace, Ben, and Sam;
and proud daughter of Mississippi natives, Jane and Clayton Kilgore.
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