During December of 2004, I was in India giving lectures to a group of religious leaders. I had been in the north of the country on the 26th of that month when the tsunami swept across the Indian Ocean destroying everything in its path. The country was understandably traumatized by this tragedy, terrified people not knowing where to go, what to do, or who to reach. We opened those mornings with the celebration of the Eucharist, though for most of us, the idea celebration was furthest from our minds. Rather, we gathered to commemorate the death and resurrection of Jesus as we mourned the tragic deaths of so many and prayed for their resurrection. While the scope of this natural disaster was still unfolding before our eyes, to a group of religious leaders of the country, many of whom had suffered personal loss, the homilist described the catastrophe that was enveloping thousands of people as the just retribution of an avenging God It is true that our religious tradition, particularly our biblical tradition, is replete with references to some aspect of the theme of retribution – righteousness is rewarded and wickedness is punished. We find this theology in both biblical testaments. Furthermore, various forms of natural disaster are often depicted in the Bible as divine retribution. This prompts us to ask: Is there a relationship between the moral order in human life and the natural order of the world? Are natural disasters really punishment for human sin? In order to answer these questions, we must first remember that the biblical people had a very different understanding of the cosmos than we do. They believed that God's cosmic rule was rooted not in brute power, but in divine righteousness. This same principle of righteousness governs the order on earth, because the same creator established all order in the beginning. Therefore, what happens on one plane of reality has repercussions on another; disruption in one dimension of God's created order affects the harmony of the entire system. Such a worldview held that moral order and natural order are inherently interrelated. This understanding of the structure of the world could easily hold that there may very well be a connection between wickedness and natural disaster. This ancient Near Eastern worldview may appear quite naïve to contemporary believers whose perception of world order rests on sophisticated scientific understanding. We perceive the natural world in a way very different from that of our religious ancestors. We may acknowledge that human actions do have repercussions on the rest of creation, but this is because of the fundamental interdependence among the various dimensions of natural creation, not because God used the natural world as an agent of reward and/or punishment. What then are we to think of the biblical passages that describe natural disasters as God's punishment for our sin? First, they demonstrate that our religious ancestors struggled with the same question that confounds us today: Why has this catastrophe happened to us? Their understanding of the integrated structure of the natural world provided them with an answer - moral failure has upset the delicate balance of the universe. Though we are faced with the same question, our scientific grasp of the forces of nature prevents us from proposing that answer in the same way. Our failure to understand and respect the interdependent character of natural creation is indeed the cause of some environmental calamities. However, such situations do not occur because religious or cultic laws have been violated. Actually, a natural disaster is natural because it is nature's way of reestablishing balance within itself. It is a disaster to us, when we suffer from it.

Dianne Bergant, CSA

There are so many passages in the Bible that lend themselves to the development of an ecojustice perspective. Such a section is found in the Wisdom of Solomon, a relatively little known and even less frequently cited source of ancient Israelite wisdom. It is a reinterpretation of an earlier tradition that recounts the plagues that God sent upon Egypt in order to free the Israelites from its oppressive grip (Wis 11:2-19:22; cf. Exod 7:14-12:31).

In his retelling of the story, the author, known as Pseudo-Solomon, does not view the exodus as a military feat, but as a refashioning of nature. The very sequence of events in his description follows the pattern of the creation narrative (Gen 1:1-2:4a) rather than the account of the liberation of the people as found in the Book of Exodus. The Book of Wisdom makes a unique contribution to biblical creation theology. Instead of moving from salvation to creation, as traditional Old Testament theologians claim is the fundamental focus of the Bible, it begins with creation and moves to salvation. In fact, the book itself begins and ends with affirmations of God's creative purpose: "[God] created all things so that they might exist" (1:14); "The whole creation in its nature was fashioned anew . . . so that your children might be kept unharmed" (19:6).

The statements about the renewal of creation suggest that Pseudo-Solomon believed that there was an inherent balance between and among the various spheres of the natural world, a balance that requires that any state of serious disequilibrium must be corrected. In other words, moral failure affected cosmic balance. He believed that nature itself, complying with the laws established by God, seeks to rectify any imbalance. This would mean that balance is not only a characteristic of the natural world, but is also an active principle by which the world organizes and reorganizes itself. Without forcing the biblical material to fit into contemporary scientific categories, one can say that the universe, the earth and all its components are part of a dynamic cosmic design within which each has a place in the overall goal of that design.

Pseudo-Solomon's reinterpretation of the plagues reveals several important points. First, It underscores his faith in the creative ingenuity of God, his respect for the intrinsic value of creation, and his understanding of the interconnectedness of all of its components. These were ideas that he inherited from his Jewish religious tradition. Second, it shows how he used the new insights of his day to reinterpret traditions of the past. He had no reservations about circumventing earlier perceptions (the miraculous character of the exodus events) that did not correspond to his present worldview.

We in our day can do no less than he did in his. We can agree with his faith in the creative ingenuity of God, without also ascribing to his ethnocentric bias. We can share his respect for the intrinsic value of creation, without allowing our scientific perspective to overshadow our religious insight. We have advanced far beyond his understanding of the interconnectedness of all of the components of the natural world. We have come to see how less than central we are in the vast universe. We are dependent on the workings of the universe; it is not dependent upon us. However, this does not mean that we are insignificant. Our religious tradition says that we have been made but a little less than elohim (Ps 8:6). Furthermore, because of the quality of our consciousness, scientists consider us an example of the natural world reflecting upon itself. This worldview points again to the intrinsic value of the universe and to the interconnectedness of all of its components. With all of the differences in worldviews, Pseudo-Solomon still points the way toward the practice of reshaping the tradition for a new age.

Dianne Bergant, CSA

The affinity of creation theology to the wisdom tradition of Israel has long been recognized. However, in such study creation regularly has been considered one theme among many, and usually one of secondary importance rather than the basis of all theology as is proposed here. Furthermore, when not dismissed as a mythological account of primeval origins, creation is typically considered a feature of literary expression (e.g., nature poetry or imagery that characterizes something other than nature itself).

This is not the point of view of the present reflection. Here, the lens through which material from the Book of Job will be examined and the standard against which it will be evaluated will a perspective sensitive to the integrity of creation, not one flowing from the bias and tyranny of unyielding anthropocentrism, which has held sway for so long.

Who does not know the story found in the Book of Job? After long and apparently pointless argument with his unsympathetic visitors, Job turns to God and demands some kind of explanation of the suffering that has unexplainably overwhelmed him. God does respond, but with questions rather than answers, and the questions address the design and operation of the natural world and not the specifics of Job's afflictions: "Where were you when I founded the earth? . . . Have you ever in your lifetime commanded the morning and shown the dawn its place? . . . Do you know about the birth of the mountain goats? . . . Do you give the horse his strength, and endow his neck with splendor? (Job 38:4,12; 39:1,19).

These are rhetorical questions meant to lead Job to a depth of understanding far greater than any level of knowledge mere answers would provide. The marvel of this questioning technique is seen in its ability to bring Job to real wisdom despite, or perhaps because of, the indirectness of the approach. God asks questions about cosmic nature and Job gains insight into human nature. The wonders of creation that are paraded before Job were not unknown to him before this extraordinary revelation. By and large, they constituted the everyday world that he knew, but which he did not understand; the ordinary world within which he lived, but which he seems to have taken for granted. This breathtaking, even mystical, experience of creation has catapulted him out of his narrow confines of anthropocentrism into the vast expanses of mystery. It has brought him to realize that human history unfolds within the broader context of the natural world, and not vice versa. Job comes to see that the natural world does not merely serve the ends of human history. His encounter with the ineffable Creator-God has led him to this new insight. It is an insight that transforms him from a self-pitying victim of circumstances to a human being who has endured the struggles of human finitude and emerged chastened, yet nonetheless a mystic. In his last response to God, Job admits that he has been converted to God's point of view, even without comprehending it. God has taken human suffering, the most pressing concern of human life, and has situated it within a broader context. That context is material creation in its entirety. God's speeches have shown Job that, in the midst of measureless natural grandeur, the ambiguity of human life can be confronted with the honesty and humility that it requires, an honesty and humility that can admit to and accept the limited capacity of human comprehension. Creation itself has expanded Job's vision and called him to a deepening of faith that goes beyond understanding. In the end, cosmology does not defeat anthropology; rather it opens its arms to welcome back its prodigal son.

The implications of such a transformed attitude are profound as well as wide-reaching. The shift from an anthropocentric to a cosmocentric worldview requires not only a new way of understanding the universe itself, but also a reexamination of many, if not most, of the tenets of the faith. Notions such as frugality and sufficiency in our use of natural resources, the viability of human life and the earth's ability to sustain it will all play an indispensable role in theological thinking. The irresponsibility and impertinence of human self-centeredness will be replaced by a sense of respect and responsible stewardship, and the bottom line of monetary calculation of resources will give way to aesthetic contemplation of natural beauty, a contemplation not unlike that of Job. "I had heard of you by word of mouth, but now my eye has seen you" (42:5).

Dianne Bergant, CSA

In his poem "Desiderata," Max Ehrmann states: "You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars." People today have come to see that they are not 'over and against' nature, but embedded in it, in the very creative matrix that has given them life and that continues to give life to new forms of genetic codes and, therefore, to new species through what is called `natural selection.' Furthermore, nature is embedded in human beings who are truly children of the universe, made of the same stuff as are the mountains and the rain, the sand and the stars. They are governed by the laws of life and growth and death, as are the birds and the fish and the grass of the field. They thrive in the warmth of and through the agency of the sun, as does every other living thing. They come from the earth as from a mother, and they are nourished from this same source of life. This is more than poetry. New scientific insights and the resulting appreciation for the integrity of creation have begun a transformation of our anthropological perspectives that many regard as truly revolutionary. No longer is humankind thought to be the center of the universe. No longer is human ingenuity accorded free reign over the rest of the natural world. No longer are rights over nature claimed without an accompanying acknowledgment of human responsibilities. The long-established anthropocentric perspective is crumbling and women and men are struggling to fashion a new model for understanding their place in the universe.

Without attributing a scientific mentality to the ancient Israelites, a similar sense of interconnectedness can be found in some of its poetry. In the Song of Songs, the natural world is not merely the stage upon which the drama of heterosexual love is played, the props of which can be set up and dismantled once a scene is completed. Rather, human love is an expression of the natural world. It is born because of it, and as a part of it. It is an aspect of the allurement that is at the heart of the macrocosmic universe. Lovers look into each other's eyes and there glimpse the passion of creation. As they applaud each other's body employing figures of speech, the lovers are also enhancing their appreciation of the world with the eyes of love. That is the way metaphors function; though two very different objects are connected by a single characteristic, within the metaphor itself, each object adding dimension of meaning to the other. In the Song of Songs, as the lovers describe their experience of each other's body, they are investing their experience of creation with the love that has left them spellbound.

Many people believe that mysticism is far from their own experience; they are not holy enough for it. Actually, we do not need to pray for this form of mysticism. All we have to do is open our senses to the wonders of the world and allow them to life our minds and hearts to God.

Dianne Bergant, CSA

Many people who are committed to social justice may still overlook what has come to be called ecojustice. They do not realize that living in harmony with the natural world is fundamental to living in harmony with other people. It is very clear that most of the wars fought are over land and/or control of necessary or desired natural resources. If we concentrate on social harmony with little or no regard for eco-harmony, we may soon exceed the planet's ability to support us. We have no more right to exploit and selfishly manipulate the treasures of the natural world than we have the right to exploit and manipulate the people that live in it. If pushed to their limits, both creation and human beings will eventually revolt.

Perhaps we have not realized the gravity of ecological issues, because we were not attentive to the limits of the natural wealth of the world, a world that has been prodigal in surrendering its treasures to us. Even when we have been conscious of nature's limits, we may have disregarded them because we believed that the wealth of creation was ours for the taking. After all, does not our biblical tradition assure us that we were commissioned by God to "subdue the earth and have dominion over the fish and the birds and every living thing" (cf., Gen 1:26; 28)? This understanding of our relationship with the rest of the created world was even illustrated formerly in some catechisms, and even in some elementary science books, by means of a pyramid. In this depiction, the vast variety of mineral creation formed the base of the figure; vegetation in its myriad forms was situated just above the mineral world; all of the forms of animate creation were located higher still; and human beings enjoyed the pride of place at the top.

This symbolic representation led us to believe that God had created the less complex forms of nature to serve the needs and ends of the more complex forms. This view of the world has made a lasting impression on our scientific imagination and on the theological understanding that both explains and supports it. We learned it so well that we find it difficult to appreciate how inadequate and how biased it is. Such an anthropocentric (human-centered) worldview is certainly not the worldview found in the Bible. There we read that "the earth is the LORD"s (Ps 24:1). Its fundamental value does not lie in its usefulness to us. Rather, it lies in the fact of its having come from the creative hand of God, who acknowledged that all things were good even before humans appeared on the scene (Gen 1:4,10,12,18,21,25). We may have been told "to subdue and have dominion" (Gen 1:26,28), "to serve it (the garden) and to guard it" (Gen 2:15), but we were not directed to be autonomous in our governance of the treasures of creation. Rather, we are meant to be stewards, responsible for creation and accountable to God.

In the ancient Near Eastern world, representations of monarchs or of gods were frequently set up to signify the locale where the royal or divine ruler reigned supreme. The image was merely a symbol, and it represented the rule or reign, not the ruler. It functioned much like a national flag does today, representing the extent of the sovereignty and jurisdiction of the ruler, whether human or divine. We are "image of God" (Gen 1:26, 28), which means that we represent God but we are not gods. A close look at the Bible shows that the motive for the first sin was precisely a desire to "be like God," and to do so in a way contrary to the way that God seemed to have wanted (Gen 3:5; cf., Ezek 28:2, 6, 9). This unwillingness to acknowledge the limitations of our governance may be at the heart of much of the arrogance we exhibit today in our attitudes toward the rest of creation. We still want to "be like God," boasting unconditional authority and unlimited control over other people and over the rest of nature.

Limited governance does not mean that we must put an end to scientific-technological progress. However, it does mean that as we test and probe and experiment with nature, as we alter and redirect and fashion it, as we "subdue" and "have dominion," we must cherish the earth, nurture its fruitfulness, and foster its growth. We must "serve it and guard it." We can, indeed we must, exercise control over the earth, but this must be done in accord with the life processes that are operative within its heart. We human beings have the serious responsibility of acting as faithful stewards, who serve the wishes of the owner as we manage the resources of the owner. It should be clear from this understanding of the creation accounts of the Bible that our religious tradition calls us to ecological responsibility.

Dianne Bergant, CSA