Readings: Psalm 95:1-6; Leviticus 23:39, 42-43

Climate change is happening. For reasonable people, there is no question about that.

Even the U.S. government’s Environmental Protection Agency has acknowledged that: “Rising global temperatures have been accompanied by changes in weather and climate. Many places have seen changes in rainfall, resulting in more floods, droughts, or intense rain, as well as more frequent and severe heat waves. The planet’s oceans and glaciers have also experienced some big changes – oceans are warming and becoming more acidic, ice caps are melting, and sea levels are rising. As these and other changes become more pronounced in the coming decades, they will likely present challenges to our society and our environment.”1 And that is to put it mildly. In all likelihood, climate change will result in catastrophic consequences for coming generations of humans. I am terrified about the kind of world in which my grandchildren will live.

We humans are primarily responsible for this climate change. Our burning of fossil fuels to produce energy, along with deforestation, industrial processes and some agricultural practices have released large amounts of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases into the atmosphere. Those gases act like a blanket around the earth, trapping energy in the atmosphere and causing it to warm. A warming climate will bring changes that can affect our water supplies, agriculture, power and transportation systems, the natural environment, and human health and safety.

The choices we have made in recent years plus the choices we make today will affect the amount of greenhouse gases we put in the atmosphere in the near future and for years to come.

Alan AtKisson, an author who writes extensively about sustainable development, said: “Global warming is undeniably an ethical issue, and we must face it as such. That means asking hard questions about responsibility, accountability, and the differences between actions – whether political, economic, or wholly personal — that are right versus those that are wrong.”2 From an ethical point of view allowing global warming to continue is simply immoral; it is wrong!.

But I am not going to talk specifically about climate change today. Rather, I am going to talk about a sense of reverence and a sense of fragility that may offer a theological perspective about why we must value, nurture and sustain this precious planet.

Earlier you heard those classic words from the 95th Psalm: “O come let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation. Let us come into God’s presence with thanksgiving. (Why be thankful?) For our God is a great God; a great ruler above all gods. Let us worship and bow down, let us kneel before our God, our Maker.”

Echoing that psalm, traditional Christianity, rooted in ancient creeds, calls people to bow down before an omnipotent (all-powerful) and omniscient (all-knowing) deity. Reverence, in Christian orthodoxy, means standing in awe of that God’s power and might; worshiping God, the creator, whose judgment about us decides our destiny.

Globally, most Christians revere and worship a theistic supernatural being – God, they affirm, is real and out there somewhere. But that notion of God doesn’t work for me. Some of us, who still see ourselves as Christians, look to a God beyond that kind of theism. Perhaps a God who, in Paul Tillich’s terms, is the “Ground of All Being” or the “Ultimate Mystery.” Or Bishop Spong’s sense of God as Being within each of us. Or a God who is simply the Spirit of Love.

In my case, drawing on the insights of theologians Lloyd Geering and Don Cupitt, I see God, not as any kind of objective reality but as a metaphor, a word symbol for life’s most important and enduring values.

And my question today is: What can reverence mean for liberal Christians who conceive of God in non-theistic terms? Can my gratitude go beyond that of the Psalmist and be steeped in some sense of awe and reverence that doesn’t require an omnipotent divine being?

I found help with that question in an essay by Unitarian theologian David Bumbaugh.1 Much of what I saw today comes directly from his writing. He says: “We (liberals) have (championed) the ramparts of reason and are prepared to defend the citadel of the mind against superstition until the very end. But we have lost the vocabulary of reverence, the ability to speak of that which is sacred and holy.”

He says: “In attempting to recover the vocabulary of reverence, I find myself looking to the sciences for a lexicon. The history of science in the 20th century was the history of a continuously enlarging understanding of the universe, its evolution, its history and its structure. We have explored the world of the microcosm and the world of the macrocosm. We have found at both extremes incredible complexity. And in that complexity is a source of awe and reverence.”

Speaking of the microcosmic, Bumbaugh says: “In high-energy subatomic physics we have encountered a reality that can only be fully explicated in the language of mathematics and that, when translated into our common discourse, confounds our settled conventions…

“We have discovered a world in which particles emerge from and return to the undifferentiated void, a world in which particles oscillate in time between past and future; a world that, incredibly, is changed and altered by the very fact of observing it; a world in which the distinctions between subject and object disappear…

“We are not sure what all this means, but it is clear that at this fundamental level of reality, there is no distinction between you and me and the tree and the rock. Ultimately, the more we understand of our universe at this level, the more we are driven to reverence before the mystery of the invisible, ineffable reality in which our existence is rooted.”

So our increasing understanding of the microcosmic mysteries of our existence inspires reverence from those of us who see God in ways that transcend traditional theism.

Bumbaugh wrote: “At the other extreme, the macrocosmic world, we discover a universe far larger than we can encompass in our imaginations. Over the past century, our estimates of the age and expanse of the universe have proven to be far too modest. We have found a universe that is many billions of years old.”

Bumbaugh contends: “The universe, beginning from an unimaginably hot and dense singularity, evolved through a series of stages, each of which produced the conditions necessary for the succeeding stage. Our sun, our solar system, our planet, our own beings are all late stages of this evolving mystery. (So) the more we understand the macrocosm, (the big picture) the more reason we have to stand in awe and reverence at the process that shaped and structured its evolution and our evolution.”

Bumbaugh said: “The history of the universe is our history; we are all of us recycled stardust. Our very existence is rooted in the fundamental processes of the universe itself. How can we not stand in awe before the fact of our emergence as a consequence of those same vast processes that created galaxies, suns, stars and planets?”

For me, that is where real reverence is rooted. I am grateful that the reality of who I am today is a consequence of processes that created galaxies, suns, stars and planets.

Bumbaugh says: “Building on Darwin’s work in the 19th century, biologists have presented us with a powerful understanding of how we are rooted in fundamental processes. Life did not simply emerge on earth, but that life is a defining artifact of the earth; that the earth became a self-regulating, living entity – Gaia; that we do not live on earth, but rather we exist as elements in earth’s living system.”

In the last few years, the mapping of the human genome has reminded us how much we are part of Gaia, that living entity. Bumbaugh says: “Our genome structure is not markedly different from that of fruit flies or mustard plants. We are intimately related to every living thing that creeps, crawls or flies; to everything that is rooted in the earth and reaches for the sun; to every living thing that inhabits the dark depths of the oceans. We are but one form that life has taken, one expression of Gaia’s living process…

“In a curious way (and this is where I feel a real sense of reverence myself) we carry with us in our bodies the very environment in which we evolved. The heat of our bodies is the heat of the stars, tempered to the uses of life. The salt in our blood and our tears is the salt of ancient oceans, encapsulated and carried with us, generation upon generation, into strange and distant places. The past is not dead. It lives in us. The evolutionary universe, the ancient environment, the emergence of complex life – all of that is recapitulated in every moment of our existence.”

How can we not stand in awe of that? How can we not be thankful for the complexity of our very existence?

Although the stories at the heart of our own Christian tradition may be stories in the history of a particular people in a particular time, I think our language of reverence itself arises from our knowledge of the universe.

And that reverence is what can provide the theological basis for striving to address climate change and protect this planet.

Bumbaugh says: “The knowledge of the universe itself gives us a doctrine of incarnation that suggests not that the holy became human in one place at one time to convey a special message to a single chosen people, but that the universe itself is continually incarnating itself in microbes and maples, in hummingbirds and human beings, constantly inviting us to tease out the revelation contained in stars and atoms and every living thing.”

For those like me who see Jesus, not as the divine Son of God in our midst, but as a courageous sage and social prophet, and for those of us who see God as other than an all-powerful distant deity – the language of reverence is rooted in the story of existence and the universe itself.

That becomes a religious story whispering of a larger meaning of our existence or in Bumbaugh’s words each of us is “a self present in the singularity that produced the emergent universe; a self present at the birth of the stars; a self related through time to every living thing on this planet; a self that contains within it the seeds of a future we cannot imagine in our wildest flights of fantasy.”

That non-traditional evolutionary sacred story invites us to stand in awe; and it calls us to create a whole new vocabulary of reverence even as we commit to cherishing and caring for the earth.

But at the same time, I think there is a second dimension of awe and reverence rooted in the strength of fragility. (strong, yet fragile – yes) So now, let me move to the particularities of the religious stories at the heart of the western religious traditions, at the heart of Islam, Judaism and Christianity – specifically to the biblical festival of Sukkot, the harvest festival so important in ancient Israel and so significant in modern Judaism.

Sukkot arrives in the fall, a week after Yom Kippur on the Jewish calendar. It is a festival of thanksgiving that calls families to build temporary huts, sukkahs. Folks live in their sukkah, more or less, during the holiday. Meals are eaten inside the sukkah; sometimes people sleep there. Sukkot is an occasion for great hospitality, for inviting others to come into the sukkah, for celebrating community.

I remember attending an interfaith meal in the sukkah of a Jewish temple in Whittier where my college classmate, Haim Beliak, was the rabbi. That sukkah was a huge canvas tent, sturdy and impressive, filled with laughter and joy as dozens of people of various religions broke bread together.

Or there was the sukkah into which Kay and I were invited at the home of Rabbi Steven Julius Stein and his husband, also named Steven. Located behind their home, that sukkah had clearly been constructed by one who understood engineering; it was an impressive edifice built of PVC pipe, metal and other ingredients. Again, there was lively conversation and merriment in the mingling of the Rabbi’s family, congregants and interfaith friends.

But a more intriguing sukkah is that described by Harvey Cox, the professor who drew me to Harvard in the 1960’s.4 Harvey is a Baptist Christian and his wife Nina is Jewish. They have a son, Nicholas. They chose to nurture Nicholas’ faith in Judaism, while Harvey and Nina try to live bridging both worlds of Christianity and Judaism.

Their sukkah in Cambridge is a lot more primitive than the two I just described. Cox wrote: “Here we are – Nina, Nicholas and I – crouched under a jerry-built shanty in our scrawny front yard, munching on sandwiches and drinking lemonade with Allen and Darryl from across the street and their two boys. Sometimes neighbors stroll by, look with interest and wave. We invite them to stop for a glass of lemonade. Some do. We reassure them this ramshackle shed will not be a permanent addition to the neighborhood.”

Cox said: “The sukkah should be temporary. The walls are decorated with fruits and vegetables, but the roof made of leaves and branches should allow the sun to be seen by day and the stars by night.”

You see the link to reverence – the sun and the stars.

Historically, many meanings have been attached to Sukkot – you heard earlier the text from the Hebrew holiness code, the sukkah as a reminder of fragile huts in which the Israelites were said to have dwelt during years of travel in the desert after the exodus from Egyptian slavery; or maybe the sukkah can be a recollection of the flimsy overnight shelters in which harvesters rested and slept while gathering crops in ancient Israel; or maybe it’s just a simple Jewish occasion of thanksgiving.

But Rabbi Arthur Waskow, has captured another meaning that perhaps relates to reverence and to the critical importance of responding to climate change. He speaks of the “fragility” of the sukkah. Wind, rain, any number of things could collapse the sukkah, especially one like Cox’s rickety creation. The sukkah is fragile, even as life itself is fragile; even as this planet and its climate are fragile.

Cox said: “Cancer, plane crashes and the inevitable onset of senility all remind us that as human beings we are frail and vulnerable. We know that even within gated communities and with the best health insurance policies and retirement plans, disaster can strike at any moment.”

The fragile sukkah – and the fragility of life.

Back to reverence. I think the sukkah reminds us of two things.

First, the earth – part of that universe that is at core of our awe and reverence – the earth itself is fragile and our behavior threatens its sacred existence more and more each day. Resources are running out, species are dying, the ozone layer is punctured and the atmosphere is poisoned. The earth, our sukkah, is in real danger.

And our narcissism, our grotesque consumerism, is creating that danger!

The earth is our sukkah – it is fragile. We must care for it. Our reverence for Gaia, the living entity, calls us to action.

But there is yet another reason why I tie the sukkah to reverence. And that is, in Harvey Cox’s words: “Even though the sukkah is an invaluable reminder of the fragility of all life, it also reminds us that even within this fragile shanty, we can still eat and drink and enjoy friends and family.”

You see, those gathered in the sukkah form a community. And community is how we nurture and sustain one another amidst the fragile and unpredictable realities of our lives. Community offers strength amidst fragility.

When you enter this sanctuary each week, perhaps you feel some awe, reverence, sacredness. But ultimately, this beautiful space is but a sukkah, temporary in the broad scope of history; fragile. And

• what is really holy is not the building but the community that gathers within its walls;
• what is sacred is the family of faith that shares stories and tries to find meaning in life;
• and what is indeed awesome, calling forth reverence, is the way folks hold onto each other and care for each other when winds shake the sukkah and its inhabitants.

So, when all of the stuff in this sermon is put together, I guess it means that I don’t think we need to bow down and worship a frightening God of power and might. Instead, we journey together through life,

• grateful for the gift of existence itself, fragile as it may be,
• awed by the microcosmic and macrocosmic wonders of a mysterious evolving universe,
• and deeply thankful for the people who gather in the sukkah with us.

And unless we do something very soon to respond to climate change, the earth as the sukkah for all of this planet’s people will cease to exist. Amen.

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1 United States Environmental Protection Agency, “Climate Change: Basic Information.” Found at: http://www.epa.gov/climatechange/basics/

2 Alan AtKisson, ”Global Warming is an Ethical Issue.” Found here

3 David Bumbaugh, “Toward a Humanist Vocabulary of Reverence.” Boulder International Humanist Institute, Fourth Annual Symposium (Boulder, Colorado, February 22, 2003).

4 Harvey Cox, Common Prayers: Faith, Family, and a Christian’s Juorney Through the Jewish Year.” Houghton Miflin Company, New York City, 2001. (Chapter 4, pages 56-69)