Caring for the Environment: A Deeply Spiritual Act

Judy Whalley

As I walked this morning in our beautiful and long awaited springtime, I was filled admiration for the Creator’s glorious handiwork. The dogwoods, azaleas, tulips and the fresh green of the newly unfurled leaves filled me with a sense of joy and awe.

No wonder we learn in Genesis that when God looked at his creation, he found it very good. Well pleased with his creation, God then blessed humankind with the responsibility to care for this lovely earth, our island home -- to act in his image and with the love that he has for creation. Thus, to my mind, caring for the environment is a deeply spiritual act.

Observing with God

Anne Ridenour

I feel closest to God when I am alone in nature. I also sense God’s presence when I am alone waiting at an airport watching the world walk by. At the quietest of times and at the most hectic and noise filled moments, God is present. What is important, I think, is the ability to be alone and observe and be filled with all the sensory images and feelings possible for the moment. To be an observer is to be with God in the moment.

Christ Watching with Simeon

Rev. James Isaacs

I love going out for walks in areas of natural beauty. I have some favorite places to walk that I visit frequently. And I am always delighted when I come upon something that I hadn't noticed before-- some wildlife or flowers that are newly in bloom.

I have been doing this walking around in nature thing since I was very young, but I really came to appreciate it late in my teens when I had the opportunity to go on a hike with a famous naturalist on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. He knew about everything from the types of grass on the ground to what animals would feed on them. He could elaborate about the different trees and all of the birds that were in them. He was amazing, not just because he knew so much, but because as we walked, he noticed so much.

Rogationtide

Rev. Greg Syler

A few weekends ago, after the last crumbs of cake were swept off the tables and the kindly chit-chat of coffee hour had ended, my four-year-old daughter, Carter, and I found ourselves killing time on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. We washed the Jeep, then the dog – leaving the child nearly as wet as the black lab – then we took a bike ride down the lane.

Coasting down a hill, we came upon a parishioner’s home, set atop a gentle slope that leads to a wide creek and, then, the Potomac. “We’ll go see Ms. JoAnn,” Carter declared. 

Of Trash and Prayer

Rev. Sheila McJilton

Recently, I took advantage of the cool spring weather to do some much-needed yard work. Weeding and cleaning flowerbeds may seem to be routine; however, last year, I struggled with Lyme Disease. Without energy to work outside, weeds took root and flourished, so it was with gratitude for new energy that I tackled the yard.

I have long been informed by the Rule of St. Benedict—the ordinary life is shaped by intentional rhythms of work, study, and prayer. I am aware that my own life has not always been well balanced; however, last year’s challenges helped to correct that balance. In becoming more aware of my own physical limitations, I have paid attention to, and taken better care of myself—resting more, eating better, saying no to some things. My sense of awareness and prayer life have both deepened. I am more appreciative of the challenges folks with chronic illness have now. I also find myself so grateful to feel good again, returning to a more normal routine.

Unnatural Acts

John Beddingfield

Over the last few weeks, I’ve felt bad for all the tourists who have come to town hoping for cherry blossoms, but I’ve also enjoyed the slow-coming spring and have learned something especially from the cold, gray days of Lent. As we brushed away snow on Monday of Holy Week, it occurred to me that because I’ve spent my life on the Mid-Atlantic East Coast, at some level I tend to associate Easter with springtime. Easter Sunday seems as natural as the daffodils, hyacinths, and forsythia. In many churches, at the end of the Maundy Thursday liturgy, the Blessed Sacrament is processed to a chapel. Often, this chapel is garden-like, representing the Garden of Gethsemane where the disciples dozed while Jesus prayed and foreshadowing the garden of the tomb. At the Easter Vigil, when the lights finally come on and the Resurrection proclaimed, there are lilies and flowers all over the place. The message can be read as “The Lord is risen,” but also, “spring has come.” 

Honeysuckle Moments

Lianne Rozzell

I love Japanese honeysuckle. When I was growing up, my friends and I would pluck the yellow and white flowers and carefully pull the stamen through the base so that we could taste the tiny drop of sweet nectar that gives the plant its name. To this day, when I catch a whiff of honeysuckle while walking or biking in the summer, my spirit leaps with joy and recognition, and I am transported on a wave of nostalgia to a carefree, happy place. 

Watching the Light

Kathy Staudt

“Midwinter spring is its own season/ Sempiternal, though sodden toward sundown.” I think of these words, from the opening of TS Eliot’s poem “Little Gidding,” every year in Epiphany. They are especially alive for me this week, when I am teaching a class on Eliot’s Four Quartets at Virginia Seminary. Eliot’s words name the season sometimes called the “January thaw,” when we sometimes glimpse spring in a brief warm spell, but he is also naming a season of life, a spiritual awakening to the mystery of grace at a dark time, in mid-life, a season that is “sempiternal,” partaking both of our time and of God’s time, “time out of time.”

Stargazing Through Clouds

In my first year of college I took a class in astronomy. I thought it would be romantic to study the skies like sailors and shepherds, to learn constellations, and to be able to impress a date on a twilight walk. Instead, it was about math and physics. For me, there was little romance and lots of reality.

Looking for stars is sometimes like that. We try to follow patterns and signals, to discern where God might be leading us, but along the way we’re interrupted. Sight becomes fuzzy, reality redefined, and stars can seem to fall.

 Though Christmas lights still twinkle, if we’re honest, there’s perhaps an undercurrent of sadness to the celebrations.