Looking Again: Reflections Among the Trees

“This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”

—Toni Morrison, in The Nation, March 23, 2015

Detail of Baltimore Oriole from John James Audubon’s Birds of America.

First, a flashback: I am five, walking down my grandparents’ New England street. Braving July heat, I pass beneath twin rows of elms, their columns shading the cracked pavement my bare feet press. Looking up, I see the soft pendant pockets of orioles’ nests adorning the trees’ hanging branches. A flash above reveals (in Emily Dickinson’s perfect phrasing) “One of the ones that Midas touched,” the “Meteor of Birds.” And their music recalls Dickinson again: “A Troubadour opon the Elm / Betrays the solitude.”[1]

Flash forward sixty years: Green Street, as it happens to be called, has diminished shade, cast by a few aspiring choke-cherries and swamp maples. The elms are long gone, victims of Dutch elm disease; gone, too, are my grandparents. Traveling this street, I feel these absent presences like ghost limbs.

The elms fell to a fungus that scientists believe arose in Asia and was accidentally introduced into North America in the late 1920s.[2] Dutch elm disease decimated urban forests as well as the pastoral landscape that animated my childhood. In the intervening years between then and Green Street’s decline, more trees of all species have fallen, reflecting the broader fact that the news about the planet, or at least humans’ place on the planet, is not good. Because of acid rain, sugar maples, New England’s signature species, have been succumbing to stresses they would normally have withstood for as much as 400 years.

Sounding the alarm, the contemporary Cherokee writer Marilu Awiakta begins “Dying Back” with stark images:

On the mountain
the standing people are dying back—
hemlock, spruce and pine
turn brown in the head.
hardwood shrivels in new leaf.[3]

Trees or, as the Cherokee call them, the Standing People, are among the proverbial canaries in the coal mine. A highway sign at the border leaving New Hampshire and entering Maine warns that foreign firewood is prohibited: in May 2018 emerald ash borer entered the town of Madawaska, which borders Edmonton, New Brunswick, and the insect quickly moved southward.[4] The Blue Ridge Mountains are faring worse than many northern locations; the metallic green beetle that has killed many million ash trees is endemic. Scientists have warned of these and similar problems for many years.[5]

American elm (Ulmus Americana), The American Cyclopædia

Insects are not the only tree destroyers, and the loss of old trees, particularly, has long been cause for both legal action and public commentary. Even the Puritans forbade “indiscreet fyring of the woods,” and by the mid-seventeenth century, regulations prohibited indiscriminate tree-cutting in the seacoast region of what is now Maine and New Hampshire.[6] In 1844, surveying what she called Scenes in My Native Land, the writer-activist Lydia Sigourney simultaneously celebrated some of the United States’ most venerable trees and raged against settlers’ clear-cutting practices. She understood such assaults on the nation’s great forests as wholesale destruction of future generations’ heritage, warning, in her poem “Fallen Forests,” “Man’s warfare on the trees is terrible.”[7]

But Sigourney did more than warn: like Awiakta, she used her power with language to help create change. She, and many other American women writers, understood that words can, in moving us to act, advance environmental healing. Ecofeminists have long connected exploitation of the planet with exploitation of those the dominant culture designates as Others: women, people of color, the elderly, the poor, the disabled, immigrants, children, animals. Understood as closer to nature, they signify corporeality, and thus, mortality. Othering enables the culturally powerful to displace their fear of death. Restorative projects must therefore think about “the environment” from many angles. Some of the most moving and perhaps most hopeful visions have come from writers who speak to children, including many voices from what scholars designate the long nineteenth century.[8] Their work speaks to everyone, and it speaks well beyond their own time.

We need to heed these voices. Because poetry can evoke powerful emotions, including empathy for non-human presences, it offers transformative potential. Female-authored poetry has been especially effective in shaping affective responses that can move us—literally as well as figuratively—to progressive action. One writer whose work still permeates popular culture is the working-class poet Lucy Larcom. Her “Plant a Tree,” which has long stirred participants in Arbor Day celebrations across the country, begins by imagining a healing future: “He who plants a tree, / Plants a hope.”[9] Subsequent stanzas conjure other elevating effects. Trees provoke “joy,” “comfort,” “peace,” “youth,” “love”; birds “throng” to their “shelter” and voice their “bliss,” while humans rest in the “blessèd” shade. Although Larcom insists that “[g]ifts that grow, are best,” she does not say directly what readers quickly intuit: trees inspire wonder.

Because poetry can evoke powerful emotions, including empathy for non-human presences, it offers transformative potential.

Children’s voices echo this idea. Writing from North Carolina in 1910, African American teenager Christina Moody composed “The Little Seed,” whose eponymous narrator “planned of days to come, / When his body would be great and tall.” When he breaks apart, “instead of death, a pretty stem / Lifted up his little green head.” Finally, “the seed that was wee, grew into a tree / ’Twas a wonderful sight to behold.”[10] Moody’s imagination of unseen marvels unfurling over many years articulates a transgenerational standpoint that urges children and their parents to respect nature’s generative power, and intimates human responsibility for growing beings. The poem conjures children’s increasing strength—and it underscores their agency.

Moody’s final exclamation summons a communal outlook, as does an 1896 Lizette Woodworth Reese poem that embraces immigrant workers’ experiences:

A Street Scene

The east is a clear violet mass
Behind the houses high;
The laborers with their kettles pass;
The carts are creaking by.

Carved out against the tender sky,
The convent gables lift;
Half way below the old boughs lie
Heaped in a great white drift.

They tremble in the passionate air;
They part, and clean and sweet
The cherry flakes fall here, fall there;
A handful stirs the street.

The workmen look up as they go;
And one, remembering plain
How white the Irish orchards blow,
Turns back, and looks again.[11]

Reese’s poem celebrates the conjunction of labor and transcendence. Labor is heavy, but the sky is “tender” and “[t]he convent gables lift” the viewers’—and readers’—spirits. Piled high, the fallen cherry blossoms create “a great white drift” that signifies spring’s rebirth. For the worker who pauses for contemplation, they conjure “white” “Irish orchards” and a return home. Appearing during a time of intense, violent anti-Irish sentiment in the United States, the poem teaches children (and its adult readers) how the trees’ beauty inspires an ostensible Other to re-see the past and the present. As readers too turn back, and look again, they share the worker’s admiration for the trees’ insistent loveliness, and they gain an amplified understanding. In bringing people together, the cherry trees elicit a desire for continuity, for a “clean and sweet” future that embraces both people and the earth. The effects are bidirectional: trees bestow curative powers through their beauty; the beauty animating Reese’s poem promotes care for trees—and for other people.

The restorative selflessness that “A Street Scene” cultivates emerges explicitly in an 1898 poem by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. “Tree Feelings” evinces curiosity, astonishment, imagination, and exhilaration:

I wonder if they like it—being trees?
I suppose they do. . . .
It must feel good to have the ground so flat,
And feel yourself stand right straight up like that—
So stiff in the middle—and then branch at ease,
Big boughs that arch, small ones that bend and blow,
And all those fringy leaves that flutter so.
You’d think they’d break off at the lower end
When the wind fills them, and their great heads bend.
But then you think of all the roots they drop,
As much at bottom as there is on top,—
A double tree, widespread in earth and air
Like a reflection in the water there.

I guess they like to stand still in the sun
And just breathe out and in, and feel the cool sap run;
And like to feel the rain run through their hair
And slide down to the roots and settle there.
But I think they like wind best. From the light touch
That lets the leaves whisper and kiss so much,
To the great swinging, tossing, flying wide,
And all the time so stiff and strong inside!
And the big winds, that pull, and make them feel
How long their roots are, and the earth how leal!

And O the blossoms! And the wild seeds lost!
And jeweled martyrdom of fiery frost!
And fruit trees. I’d forgotten. No cold gem,
But to be apples—and bow down with them![12]

George Inness, The Elm Tree

The narrator begins with wonder and, as she imagines her own treeness with increasing intensity, expresses an ecstatic, passionate vision that ends with simultaneous plenitude and self-loss, an inevitable and ineffable elevation and bowing down.

Trees do more than offer hope: they embody a promise for the future. For beings who need oxygen, trees are literally the breath of life. Mature trees in particular perform irreplaceable ecological tasks, both for and well beyond human animals’ needs: cooling neighborhoods, offering beauty, sequestering carbon, providing habitat, feeding insects and animals, enriching the soil, fostering biodiversity, filtering pollutants. Without them, most earth-bound life could not exist. Healing and renewal, as the writers I’ve shared suggest, require that humans respect the natural world and appreciate its awe-some—and even awe-ful—power.

To be clear: the earth will heal without our help; we must first heal ourselves if we wish to continue receiving its gifts. As the poets I’ve shared insist, we must recognize our manifold affiliations, our kinships with others and our corporeal home. A nineteenth-century value, which Gilman’s poem performs so powerfully, conveys the necessary perspective most precisely: humility.

These writers’ words give me hope that we can renew our Green Streets. Although I’m not conventionally religious, I often find myself hiking in New Hampshire woods, where stone walls mark what were once fields. Maple, beech, birch, and oak shoulder aside boulders larger than houses, taller than church steeples. In the White Mountains, the trees wrap roots around rocks, reaching for the sky.

Karen L. Kilcup is the Elizabeth Rosenthal Excellence Professor of English, Environmental & Sustainability Studies, and Women’s & Gender Studies at UNC Greensboro. Kilcup’s work includes Fallen Forests: Emotion, Embodiment, and Ethics in American Women’s Environmental Writing, 1781-1924 (Georgia, 2013), Who Killed American Poetry?: From National Obsession to Elite Possession (Michigan, 2019), and “Stronger, Truer, Bolder”: Nineteenth-Century American Children’s Writing, Nature, and the Environment (Georgia, 2020). Kilcup is a past president of the Society for the Study of American Women Writers and currently editor of ESQ: A Journal of Nineteenth-Century American Literature and Culture.

[1] Emily Dickinson, “One of the Ones that Midas touched” (F1488B.1); “New feet within my garden go” (F79A), Emily Dickinson Archive, http://www.edickinson.org/editions/1/image_sets/240674, http://www.edickinson.org/editions/1/image_sets/235323. Dickinson characteristically flouts spelling norms with “opon.”

[2]  “Dutch elm disease,” APS [The American Phytopathological Society], https://www.apsnet.org/edcenter/disandpath/fungalasco/pdlessons/Pages/DutchElm.aspx

[3] Marilu Awiakta, “Dying Back,” in Selu: Seeking the Corn-Mother’s Wisdom (Golden, CO: Fulcrum, 1993), 5.

[4] Ed Morin, “Emerald Ash Borer Discovered in Aroostook County,” Maine Public, May 29, 2018, https://www.mainepublic.org/post/emerald-ash-borer-discovered-aroostook-county. “Cooperative Agricultural Pest Survey (CAPS), Emerald Ash Borer (EAB), Agrilus planipennis,” Department of Agriculture, Conservation, and Forestry, https://www.maine.gov/dacf/php/caps/EAB/index.shtml.

[5] Karen Chávez, “Invasive pests No. 1 threat to WNC Forests,” Citizen Times, May 12, 2016, https://www.citizen-times.com/story/news/local/2016/05/12/invasive-pests-no-1-threat-wnc-forests/84189454/

[6] Karen L. Kilcup, Fallen Forests: Emotion, Embodiment, and Ethics in American Women’s Environmental Writing, 1781-1924 (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2013), 84.

[7] Lydia Sigourney, “Fallen Forests,” in Scenes in My Native Land (Boston: James Munroe, 1845), 117.

[8] Although definitions vary, scholars often demarcate the long nineteenth century in the U.S. as the years encompassing independence to World War I.

[9] Karen L. Kilcup, “Education by Poetry: Robert Frost, Women, and Children,” in Robert Frost in Context, ed. Mark Richardson (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2014), 372-73. Lucy Larcom, “Plant a Tree,” in Over the River and Through the Wood: An Anthology of Nineteenth-Century American Children’s Poetry, ed. Karen L. Kilcup and Angela Sorby (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013), 35.

[10] Christina Moody, “The Little Seed,” in Over the River, 36.

[11] Lizette Woodworth Reese, “A Street Scene,” in Over the River, 53.

[12] Charlotte Perkins Gilman, “Tree Feelings,” in Over the River, 31.

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Recommended Citation: Kilcup, Karen L. (2019): “Looking Again: Reflections Among the Trees,” The Yale ISM Review: Vol. 5: No. 1, Article 3. Available at https://www.ismreview.yale.edu

Congregations and the Healing of Creation

The four-acre plot on which my congregation’s building stands includes three kinds of gardens:

  • Rain gardens—deep-dug hollows filled with native plants, whose roots cleanse the water that drains from this land into an environmentally sensitive watershed near Lake Michigan
  • Flower gardens—signs of welcome, bursts of beauty
  • A memorial garden—a circle of earth shaded by trees, where human ashes are buried, and where we remember that we were formed by God from the dust of the earth and that to dust we shall return (Gen. 3:19)

On other church properties, in this region and across the country, vegetable gardens flourish, as careful tenders cooperate in the hard work of planting, nurture compost to rebuild depleted soil, and delight in harvests of fresh vegetables to share with their hungry neighbors.

In such gardens, healing is taking place. But this is not healing as it is often imagined in contemporary Western culture, where specialized professionals provide therapies for specific ailments—in this case, ailments afflicting the natural world, such as ecological imbalances or environmental degradation. If seen as corrective therapies, our gardening and similar modest acts of what congregations often call “creation care” accomplish very little. The damage already done to creation is so massive that congregations could recycle every worship folder, compost every ounce of kitchen waste, and eschew every trace of pesticide, while making only miniscule contributions to creation’s repair. Creation’s wounds are so many—forests and soils destroyed, waters poisoned and depleted, species extinguished, and the atmosphere heated to life-threatening temperatures. How could our little gardens even begin to make a difference amid such widespread degradation?

Small-scale, community-based activities such as these participate in healing of a different kind. In Christian tradition, practices of healing pursue wholeness—a wholeness experienced not through cure, necessarily, but through the restoration of right relationship. In the gardens springing up around churches, congregants are practicing how to live more fittingly within creation; they are rehearsing right relationship, trying it on for size, and increasing their capacity to inhabit it. They remember with their bodies the story of how God created humans to tend and keep a garden—a garden that needs human care just as much as humans need the garden’s produce (Gen. 2:15)—and they make life-giving connections between work, soil, and the needs of those who are hungry. They learn about local waters and strive to protect them. They notice and cultivate beauty. Caring for the simple burial places of those who have died, they remember that they, too, are mortal creatures, formed by God from the earth itself (Gen. 2:7).

All this is necessary because beneath creation’s visible wounds lies another wound: a great tear in the fabric of creation caused by the self-separation of human creatures from the nonhuman members of creation, and from one another in the human family. Humanity’s most privileged members have pursued their own desires with little regard for the well-being of the rest of creation, including the marginalized people most affected by environmental degradation. Perhaps the most important practices of healing that a congregation can undertake involve forming the faithful to live toward the healing of this wound, this great rending which is at the root of so much damage to the earth and its most vulnerable members. The first signs of such healing may appear in congregants themselves, even if the initial impact of their actions on the physical world is small. But as they rediscover their lost, yet rightful, sense of belonging in creation, they gain the freedom to live responsibly and act boldly beyond the congregation. In other words, a community’s apparently modest forms of creation-care contribute to freeing its members from harmful patterns of behavior and form them to participate, deliberately and generously, in the massive economic and cultural transformations that are required to avert climate catastrophe.

In Laudato Si’, an encyclical letter addressing the environmental crisis, Pope Francis provides a trenchant analysis of the sources and effects of environmental degradation, and he advocates numerous specific remedies to be undertaken on a global scale. Undergirding the encyclical as a whole, however, is the urgent summons to recognize, embrace, and love the earth as “our common home”—a home that is “common” to an “us” that includes every natural element and all living creatures, especially those who suffer the effects of poverty and environmental degradation. Drawing on the spiritual insight of St. Francis of Assisi, the pope writes that “if we feel intimately united with all that exists, then sobriety and care will well up spontaneously,” creating in us “a refusal to turn reality into an object simply to be used and controlled.”[1]

Each congregation worships God in a unique location on creation’s dazzling, complicated map.

But how can we arrive at a sense of being intimately united with all that exists? For Christian congregations, it is worship that most fully unites them with all that exists. To affirm this is not to co-opt liturgy as a means to the end of ecological renewal. Rather, it is to highlight affirmations that already shape Christian liturgies and the people who participate in them. When we gather to worship God, the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer of all that is, we are invited into right relationship with God and all that God has made. The specific words and movements through which this grand reception of right relationships is expressed differ from one liturgical tradition to another. But in this context, creation is sung about, and prayed for, and reimagined, not at all as an object to be used and controlled, but rather as a beloved home to be inhabited with gratitude, joy, and care.

Each congregation worships God in a unique location on creation’s dazzling, complicated map. Often, it’s this location—its distinctive beauty, its specific environmental hazards—that brings certain elements of the liturgy into special prominence. In my congregation near Lake Michigan, for example, our landscape is wet and green—a good thing—but it is also subject to frequent floods caused by unwise development, and its streams and lakes have absorbed poisons released by harmful industrial processes. What does it mean to pray over water, on this landscape? Prayers for the healing of imperiled waters are sometimes included in our prayers of intercession, but another prayer—a prayer of thanksgiving—brings the living water on which we depend into worship in a way I find especially powerful. Offered while water is poured into the font during a baptismal service or at the beginning of some services of Holy Communion, this prayer praises God for water and all the blessings water has borne.

Joined to Christ in the waters of baptism
we are clothed with God’s mercy and forgiveness.
Let us give thanks for the gift of baptism.

Holy God, holy and immortal, holy and mighty,
you are the river of life,
you are the everlasting wellspring,
you are the fire of rebirth.

Glory to you for the waters of the earth:
Glory to you for Sand Creek and Lake Michigan,
for rainfall and wetlands,
for Silver Lake and the Kankakee River,
for the Mississippi, the Gulf of Mexico, and all the earth’s oceans,
and for the life that flourishes in and near these waters.

Praise to you for your saving waters:
Noah and the animals survive the flood.
Hagar discovers your well.
The Israelites escape through the sea,
and drink from your gushing rock.
Namaan washes his leprosy away,
and the Samaritan woman will never be thirsty again.

At this font, holy God,
we praise you for the water of baptism
and for your Word that saves us in this water.

Breathe your Spirit into us and into all creation.
Illumine our days.
Enliven our bones.
Dry our tears.
Wash away the sin within us,
and drown the evil around us.

Satisfy all our thirst for your living water,
Jesus Christ, our Savior,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and forever.

Here the waters of the world and of my local watershed flow together, and God is at work in them all. God is also at work in and for those who pray these words today, as God has been at work in and on behalf of their forebears, bringing liberation and redemption. Prayers such as this one invite worshipers into intimate union with God and all creation. When I pray using words such as these, I realize that my baptism immerses me in Christ and, at the same time, immerses me in God’s watery creation, from which I cannot be separated and live.

In a congregation located on a desert landscape, other natural elements might open more stirring paths into connection with creation. At the United Church of Santa Fe, New Mexico, Pastor Talitha Arnold and her congregation have attended closely to the dry land in which they dwell, asking how the desert shapes them and draws them close to God and all creation. Arnold has spoken of how alien the hymns of transatlantic culture sound in that context. “Field and forest, vale and mountain, flow’ry meadow, flashing sea, chanting bird and flowing fountain”— where are the arroyos, the red rocks, and the prickly pears? This congregation, Arnold has written, needs “a liturgical life that connects the people to the desert around them,” and it has developed one.[3] A large piece of fiber art hanging at the front of the worship space depicts a landscape of dry hills, layered in browns and tans and reds; in the foreground is a native plant, bent by desert winds—it is their Tree of Life.[4] The congregation’s “Whole Earth Covenant” commits the people of United Church of Santa Fe, corporately, to “develop through worship, education, and our interpretation of Christian traditions, a spirituality that reflects our home in the desert and our respect for all of creation in all its diversity.” As individuals they have pledged to change their lifestyle and consumption patterns, engage with issues threatening the planet, and to “recognize that as desert dwellers we have a special responsibility to protect its delicate ecosystems, and not least, to wisely use water which is precious to all life.”[5]

Even while living into the kind of healing that bears witness to wholeness and right relationship, I long and hope for the other kind of healing as well—that is, for a cure, a redress of environmental injury and illness, so that there might be a life-giving climate, plenty of clean water, and soil that supports growth. Efforts to repair creation’s material wounds will require economic, technological, and cultural changes in which Christians join with people of every nation, class, and creed.

In congregations, members can encounter many entryways into the urgent, indispensable work that lies before the entire human family at this crucial juncture in the history of the planet. Some may start in the garden, others on an altar guild charged with bringing creation’s beauty into worship or on a building committee trying to lower the heating bill. Some may work on a hospitality team committed to stopping the use of disposable cups and utensils. Others may attend a presentation on Laudato Si’ or read a denominational policy paper on the environment. Most important, all will be renewed, in worship, in the awareness that they themselves belong to Christ, through whom all things have been created and in whom all things hold together (Col. 1:16–17). And at the end of the liturgy, they will be sent out into the world to love and serve God and the world that God has made.

Congregations whose members hear the call to participate in the healing of creation can find rich resources to support deeper engagement. GreenFaith, Interfaith Partners in Action for the Earth (www.greenfaith.org) and Blessed Tomorrow (www.blessedtomorrow.org), an interfaith advocacy and education organization supported by many U.S. religious bodies, provide material for further learning and action to address climate change, as well as links to numerous denominational programs and civic organizations working for environmental justice. Anne and Jeffery Rowthorn’s critically acclaimed book, God’s Good Earth: Praise and Prayer for Creation (Liturgical Press, 2018), contains an abundance of ecumenical resources for prayer, reflection, and worship.

An increasing number of congregations, some of them environmental leaders in their communities, heartily collaborate with people of different faiths, or none, to renew the common home they share. For example, during the Global Climate Strike on September 20, 2019, dozens of Twin Cities congregations joined a historic youth-led protest at the state capitol. Afterwards, some protesters gathered at Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church in Minneapolis for prayer, reflection, and conversation about next steps. Such participation in a global movement for change reflects this congregation’s ongoing concern for creation’s repair, a concern that finds vivid articulation in OSLC’s regular worship life as well. This community often gathers around the large stone baptismal font at the entrance to the nave; its basin, flowing with living water, is carved in the pattern of the Mississippi River, which flows just a few blocks away.

Throughout what is likely to be a long and difficult struggle to renew the health of this planet, people who are formed in practices of healing within embodied, worshiping Christian communities will continue to be nourished and emboldened in communion with God, humankind, and all that is. Even when damage seems overwhelming, we will sing psalms that help us to see creation in its God-given wholeness, a wholeness of which we ourselves are part and to which we fully belong. We will praise God for creation’s wonderful variety and complexity, in song and image and words. We will pray for creation—both the parts that brim with beauty, and the parts whose wounds make us weep. And we will be sent out, filled with longing for the well-being of all these parts of creation, and with awareness of our kinship to them within our common home.

Dorothy C. Bass is a practical theologian and church historian. During twenty-five years as director of the Valparaiso Project on the Education and Formation of People in Faith, a Lilly Endowment project on how greater attention to practices might contribute to the renewal of Christian congregations, theology, and life, she wrote, edited, or coedited more than a dozen books, including Practicing Our Faith, Receiving the Day, and Leading Lives That Matter. She is now Senior Fellow in the Lilly Fellows Program at Valparaiso University.

[1]Pope Francis, Laudato Si’: On Care for Our Common Home, no. 11.

[2] Adapted from Evangelical Lutheran Worship (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress Press, 2006), 71. I have written this adaptation, following a pattern of naming local waters that I have heard in my own and other congregations.

[3] Arnold’s description of the congregation’s liturgical needs and her comment on hymns are from her contributions to the Yale ISM Congregations Project, https://ismcongregations.yale.edu/united-church-santa-fe-santa-fe-nm (accessed September 9, 2019).

[4] Larry L. Rasmussen, Earth-Honoring Faith: Religious Ethics in a New Key (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 367.

[5] United Church of Santa Fe Whole Earth Covenant (Adopted by vote of the whole Congregation on June 21, 2009), http://www.unitedchurchofsantafe.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/United-Whole-Earth-Covenant.pdf (accessed September 9, 2019).

Recommended Citation: Bass, Dorothy C. (2019): “Congregations and the Healing of Creation,” The Yale ISM Review: Vol. 5: No. 1, Article 4. Available at https://www.ismreview.yale.edu