A few weeks ago in a Missiology class (Missiology=the study
of Christian mission—we study it because we still have a lot to learn!) we had
a visitor to class: Ched Myers, a
theologian, political activist, 5th generation Californian, and
lover of land. By way of engaging us,
Ched gave us a little pop quiz to determine how many of us knew something about
the land we are in. Some of the
questions he asked: Close your eyes and
point north. Where do storms usually
come from in your region? Name three
edible, native plants to your region.
Name three species of native animals that are now extinct. Where does your garbage go? Where does your
water come from? Who are the first
peoples of the land you are on? And so
on.
We sat there. A few
stabs at answers--maybe one or two of us had one or two of them. Really, we were all pathetic. Even
Ched seemed surprised. It was
embarrassing to me (of course, not knowing things for me is always
embarrassing.) But you know, it hit
me: This is not Trivial Pursuits!! This is about relationship. I have been in Oregon since 1988—longer than
I have lived anywhere. I adore this
place, and one of the reasons I adore it is its incredible beauty and life. When was I planning to learn something about
the land I am in, and begin to make it my friend? I began to see how this is a responsibility to me as a guest
in this part of God’s beautiful creation.
As I am a good guest in someone’s house, I try to leave it as I found
it; I acknowledge the gift of hospitality given to me, and I appreciate what I
can learn about my host from the way she has created this beautiful dwelling
place she is sharing with me. Yet I have not
done this for the land I live in—I just moved in. As we sat in class feeling inadequate, it was not about the facts not known--we were being gently chided for being bad guests. As Ched put it, we were being theologically disrespectful
of the Creator. Ouch.
In the wonderful way that my studies this semester have
blended into each other, processing this insight from one class has been
informed by my learning in another class, about the theology and ethic of the
land, particularly from the vantage point of indigenous peoples. My cohort is mostly Native Americans and
Canadians, and there are a few of us are settlers (I call myself the ultimate settler because
my English ancestors settled in this country as far back as Mayflower times; my
Scottish ancestors came in the early 19th century and married into plantation
families. All of them left their native
lands behind, who knows how far back.) Friends
in my cohort are teaching me something about what it means to hold place as
central to a spiritual worldview, and the scales are beginning to fall from my
eyes. I have realized that we settlers
are the ones who introduced disconnection from place, by moving native peoples off the places that were at the root of their identity and imbued their
spiritual traditions and practices. We
are the ones who introduced the concept of land as existing for human use, of
viewing nature merely as “scenery,” sort of like the physical version of the
wallpaper on my Mac. We are the ones
who created an artificial separation between wilderness and those managed areas
where everything natural is exploited for the use of humans, and where we live
apart from other animals and our neighbors in creation. The concept of ourselves as “in” land,
dwelling alongside other creatures, adapting to the diverse particularities of
the land we are in, and partnering with the rest of creation to exist together: these are actually concepts embedded
in the Bible’s stories of creation, concepts which we have lost over generations
of settlement, and concepts which can be retaught to us by those peoples on the
earth who always understood them, and never unlearned them. (For
a beautiful expression of the intersection between creation understood as
Biblical shalom and the harmony way of indigenous peoples of North America, I recommend Randy Woodley’s book; see below under "Resources.")
The injustice of separating native peoples from their land
is another issue, although by no means unrelated. What I sense is how our dominant society’s
disconnection from God’s created world is killing us, physically and
spiritually. What I sense is the
generosity and love of native people’s desire to help us see this alternate
way. While I applaud the efforts of
environmentalists, in some of their efforts we still see a dualism between
humans and “the rest of creation.” In
native peoples there is a deep understanding that we are all in it,
together. (It is a source of some
bemusement to native peoples that we Westerners are only now “discovering” this
interconnectedness.)
Because our settled state spans so many generations, I find
myself distrusting a group of people like me to find our way back by
ourselves. Because we have waved the
Bible around for millennia and nevertheless managed to get it so, so wrong, I
am not convinced the revelation of God’s shalom in the Bible is sufficient for
us to heal this broken link. I believe
we must understand that there is revelation elsewhere as well: in nature
itself, and in the stories, experiences and accumulated knowledge of indigenous peoples. We need to be retaught--we need to listen
to these teachers.
I am blessed to be in a cohort of people who can help teach
me. But I also have to act. What else can I do? To start with, I can start getting curious about the voice of the land as it really is. I began to read about the first
peoples of this area: the Kalapuya
Indians, who we have moved to the Grand Ronde Reservation. Among them, bands of Tualatin (this would be
the people of my own city of West Linn), the Yamhill, the Pudding River
Indians. Nearby, the Molalla. On the coast, the Salishan, Siletz,
Nestucca. These are names I know from
town names, forests, and rivers. How
different to think of these not as points on a map, but as the homes of people in which we are guests. The next step I can take is to learn more
about how the Tualatin lived. What did
they know about their land that I don’t know?
As I dig into this, once again I hear names: Camas (a plant whose roots were a staple, and
the name of a town up the Columbia River—we see its purple flowers throughout
the region, and may know it as camassia), huckleberries, acorns from the oak savannahs,
trapping, hunting and fishing of elk, deer, salmon and, from the Willamette
Falls, eel. The people followed the
seasons and knew intimately how and where plants and animals flourished
according to these cycles. When I start
to consider their lives I begin to see how constructed the life I live is in this land, and
how little it has to do today with how it was originally created to be. Ched Myers talks about this in the context of
bioregion—understanding how all the pieces of each distinct bioregion are
gathered together to make it a complete whole.
When we consider this, we consider the deep shalom of creation, and the
disruption of the whole when any part is disrupted.
In addition to the deep enjoyment and spiritual connection
which is a great gift to us and a source of healing, Ched believes that at the
root of knowing our bioregion more intimately is mission—that all of mission
must include our relationship with earth itself. He talks about this as “re-placement.” It is the reclamation of the symbols of
redemption which are indigenous to the bioregion in which we who claim to
represent the church have set up shop.
It is about finding and taking to heart the songs and stories of the
peoples of the land. As he says, “these
can be woven together with the symbols, stories and songs of biblical
radicalism. This will necessarily be a
local, contextual and personal exercise….”
I have begun to consider how this can imbue ministry and
mission. I will never visit anywhere again without learning something about the host peoples of the land I am in, and to try to approach the place with the respect and intimacy they had cultivated. I have begun a modest nature walk
ministry at my church, where we will consider not just the “scenery”
around us, but the spiritual relationship we are meant to have with the rest of creation
as we move within it. I realize I am truly, as
the saying goes, a babe in the woods.
Nevertheless, my journey begins. Tiptoeing back into the creation,
finding my own piece and my own place within the diverse cosmic mystery, the place where I
was created to be. Back to shalom.
Camassia in an oak savannah, West Linn. Photo credit: Kate Bryant.
Resources:
About the culture and lifeways of the tribes of the Grande
Ronde. Be sure to click through to an
interactive display here on the site of the Confederated Tribes.
About Ched Myers' ministry and ecojustice.
