Places tell stories. Places tell stories because in every place exists a meshwork of all creation which weaves a narrative throughout time. People, plants, animals, insects, and all God’s creatures interact with the land. Shape the land. Inhabit the land.
Through this inhabitation, the land gains memories. The land holds the laughter of the young girl as she swings from a branch into a river, the joyous refrain of the family yelling into a cavern and hearing their echo, and the deep sigh of a couple as they watch the sun set over the ocean. Places tell stories. Over time, these stories become memories embedded in the land. These memories are then passed on through generations. They shape a collective consciousness…one we choose to accept, or one we choose to disrupt. We see a place telling a story in the song given to us from First Isaiah. The prophet writes of a carefully cultivated vineyard. It is clear that the “beloved” tended the crops, nurtured the soil, and even protected his vineyard from danger.[1] This song seems to suggest that the beloved learned from the land. That he took the time to hear the story that the land told him – what crop would grow given the climate, what crops had been there before given soil quality, and even what animals – including humans – participated in the ecosystem which would enable a healthy yield. Places tell stories…but we don’t always listen. This listening part is key because, without it, vineyards yield rotten grapes like what ended up happening in the “Song of the Vineyard” in Isaiah.[2] You see, if we don’t listen, we instead presume to know the story of the places in which we dwell – or worse, impose our own narratives, constructed for us and by us to keep us in power. Instead of turning to the land for her wisdom, we blame her for producing the rotten grapes. We complain about her climate, chastise her soil, and kill her animals. We manufacture the story told to us by the place to fit our own narratives. So, places do tell stories. The question we must ask, however, is who is the author? When I started this sermon, I said that places tell stories because God’s creatures inhabit them. From this inhabitation, the land gains memories. I then painted rather idyllic scenes – a girl laughing, family singing, and a couple falling in love. But what if I had this backwards? This notion that humanity gives land meaning, memory, and purpose ultimately led us to rotten grapes… We can surmise how we arrived here by looking at our Gospel. In Matthew, Jesus gives context to First Isaiah’s prophecy. Jesus explains that after initially caring for the land, the landowner leased it out and left the country. Human greed crept in. No longer was the landowner present to listen to the story of the place – rather, he tried to rewrite the vineyard’s story to be one of profit. Then, from this imposed narrative of profit, came the exploitation and murder of marginalized persons.[3] Returning to Isaiah, enter rotten grapes and God’s righteous anger… Speaking to God’s people through the prophet, God names abuse, neglect, violence, and injustice – against both people and the land – as the cause of rotten grapes, of unmet expectations of what the world could be.[4] Places tell stories. Like the idyllic scenes, the land…she also holds the tears of the young boy who went to bed hungry again, the final breath of the migrant woman who died in the Arizona desert, the blood of the enslaved which seeped into the U.S.’s soil, and the footprints of the Tuscarora tribe on whose land we stand today. Places tell stories. Over time, these stories become memories. These memories – both the joyous and traumatic – are then passed on through generations. They shape a collective consciousness…one we choose to accept, or one we choose to disrupt. So, what if I had it all backwards? What if places tell stories not because humans give meaning to the place where we are but rather, the place – the land – actually gives meaning to us? Perhaps, we only are because we are here…embodied members of an enmeshed system, located in a physical place which tells its own story of redemption, of which we’re only but a small part. This reversal is important because if we continue to believe that we humans give meaning to place, positioning ourselves at the center of the narrative, then we will continue to yield rotten grapes because we will never listen…not to each other, not to the environment, and if we don’t listen to the life around us – then we’re most certainly not listening to God. And if we continue to yield rotten grapes, Jesus tells us in Matthew that “the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom.”[5] But if we flip this mindset and allow place to give meaning to humanity, then suddenly we’re brought into relationship with plants, animals, insects, and all God’s creatures. When we do this, then maybe the end of the “Song of the Vineyard” sounds a bit different. Instead of rotten grapes, we hear of a Bread and Wine which gives life and sustenance to the world. Instead of White Supremacy and hatred, we hear of liberative Love. This is the ecology about which St. Francs of Assisi taught the world as he modeled Christ for humanity through his love and compassion for not only people – but also the entire place in which he found himself. St. Francis preached to the birds, reconciled with the wolves, and invoked praise of God through the created world. He allowed place to tell his story, rather than forcing his story on the place. As a result, he found himself at peace with God and, by extension, the world. As Pope John Paul II recounted, “As a friend of the poor who was loved by God's creatures, Saint Francis invited all of creation – animals, plants, natural forces, even Brother Sun and Sister Moon – to give honor and praise to the Lord. The poor man of Assisi gives us striking witness that when we are at peace with God we are better able to devote ourselves to building up that peace with all creation which is inseparable from peace among all peoples.”[6] What St. Francis taught us, then, is that we – people, plants, and animals – are inextricably bound up in one another...a truth upheld by faiths and spiritualties, liberation movements, and climate advocates across time and space. He taught that we only are because we are here…embodied members of an enmeshed system located in a physical place. St. Francis saw us, saw himself, in this ecology because he believed in an incarnate embodied God who located God’s self in a physical place, navigating the terrain and learning from the environment. St. Francis knew that Jesus Christ wasn’t just some spiritual being without a body located in the ether. No, he is God incarnate who dwelled in a place…listening, learning, and redeeming – disrupting the collective consciousness of a fallen world.[7] As we come to the end of the “season of creation” on this feast day of St. Francis, consider what story the place you inhabit tells you. What memories does it hold? Do some digging. Listen for the truth and wisdom that sits in the land. Then, if necessary, confess and rewrite your narrative.[8] Amen. [1] Isaiah 5:1-2. [2] Isaiah 5:2, 4. [3] Matthew 21:33-39. [4] Isaiah 5:4-7. [5] Matthew 21:43. [6] Pope John Paul II, 20th century, World Peace Day. [7] Matthew 21:42-43. [8] God of compassion, we confess that we have squandered your creation, and mistreated those you give into our care. We are truly sorry and we humbly repent. Fill us with your Spirit, that we may care for all that you have made, according to your will and in the fullness of your love; through Jesus Christ our Redeemer. Amen. (BOS 2018, 104, Blessing of Animals) |