A Thinking Reed

Category: Environment

  • Economics as if people (and other living things) mattered

    I’m in Indianapolis visiting family, and one of the things I like to do whenever I’m here is make a trip to Half Price Books.

    Yesterday I picked up a copy of For the Common Good: Redirecting the Economy toward Community, the Environment, and a Sustainable Future by World Bank economist Herman Daly and process theologian John Cobb.

    My views on economics have been in flux for the past few years. I was at one time attracted to the libertarian exaltation of the free market, but I’ve become increasingly convinced of the limitations of that view.

    The conservative side of me is skeptical that a system based on acquisitiveness can really be conducive to virtue, especially as the logic of the market threatens to take over more and more areas of life. The liberal side of me is unconvinced that the rising tide will really lift all boats, at least at a rate fast enough to forestall ecological disaster. As I’ve become more interested in environmental issues I’ve been exposed to the arguments of those who maintain that unlimited growth is a dead end, literally.

    Daly and Cobb seem to be following in the footsteps of thinkers like E.F. Schumacher. They embrace the market and recognize that central planning is unworkable, but they also want to situate the market within a social and moral framework that respects the integrity of communities, both national and more local ones.

    In this respect their project seems to hark back to the decentralized “humane economy” of conservative Swiss economist Wilhelm Roepke, a thinker I admire a lot. Their goal is to rethink economic policy in a way that treats human beings as more than an abstract homo economicus, as well as being sensitive to what, following Wendell Berry, they call the “Great Economy” of all life on Earth.

    I’ve only read the introduction, but I’m eager to see where Daly and Cobb go with their project and will probably post more on these ideas as I go.

  • Notes on a theocentric ethic of creation, 3

    Heavenly Father, your Holy Spirit gives breath to all living things; renew us by this same Spirit, that we may learn to respect what you have given and care for what you have made, through Jesus Christ our Lord. – Andrew Linzey

    This prayer from Andrew Linzey nicely encapsulates the themes of a genuine Christian ethic of creation. I think in light of earlier posts on this topic, what’s needed is a way of reconciling a due respect and care for God’s creation with a proper commitment to human flourishing.

    However, given that a lot of what seems to drive our abuse of creation is our relentless pursuit of material wealth, and that this pursuit may actually at some point hinder human happiness rather than promote it, the reconciliation may not be as difficult as it first appears.

    For Christians in particular, human well-being isn’t measured by increases in material well-being. It’s important, of course, and we’re called to make sure that those in need have adequate material sustenance. But the energy and resources we devote to what earlier generations of Christians would’ve contemptously referred to as “luxury” may indicate that we’ve strayed considerable from a Christian vision of the good life.

    In a liberal society wealth-creation offers a convenient lowest common denominator-type goal that everyone can agree on despite differences over religious values, the meaning of life, etc. But if we’re pushing against the limits of what is sustainable, this won’t be a viable option must longer.

    What we need to learn, and what any public philosophy founded essentially on self-interest seems incapable of fostering, is self-limitation. What Christians may need to recover is the practice of asceticism, not understood as a form of joyless self-denial, but as a way of orienting the self to love of God and neighbor, the contemplation of truth and beauty and the pursuit of genuine human flourishing.

    In this interview, Linzey points out that there are aspects of the world that our practices of reducing creation to mere “resources” blind us to:

    [Our mistreatment of animals is] an impediment to spiritual pleasure. That’s why I think vegetarianism is implicitly a theological act. It’s not about saying “No” but about saying “Yes.” About enjoying the lives of other creatures on this earth so much that even the thought of killing them is abhorrent. I think God rejoices in Her creatures, takes pleasure in their lives, and wants us to do so too. So much of our exploitation of animals stems from a kind of spiritual blindness: if we sensed and really felt the beauty and magnificence of the world, we would not exploit it as we do today.

    From this point of view, something like vegetarianism may serve as a spiritual practice that actual allows us to see the world differently. Of course, there are other ways of doing this. The novelist and philosophy Iris Murdoch wrote that the necessary precondition for moral growth is learning to perceive reality as existing in itself and not as something for us. She thought art was particularly suited to this since it’s goal is to make reality present to us. By learning to attend to something for its own sake, which often involves hard work, we go out of ourselves and gradually inhabit a less self-centered, and therefore more accurate, perspective on reality. This is the key to human flourishing.

    Obviously human beings need, as Wendell Berry reminds us, to use the world. But spiritual disciplines that teach us to look at the world as something more than mere material for our use may lead us to redefine what our needs are, and to distinguish genuine needs from spurious ones. And, somewhat paradoxically, genuine human flourishing can only occur when we stop seeing ourselves as the center of the world. But Christians of all people should be ok with this, since we have it on good authority that self-seeking is the surest path to self-destruction and that only by losing our lives to we truly find them.

  • Notes on a theocentric ethic of creation, 2

    In addition to theocentricity and what I’ve called a “qualified” anthropocentrism, any Christian ethic of creation needs to address the issue of the “fallenness” of creation. This is a controversial topic since, while most theologians have no problem with the idea of human fallenness (in some sense), the idea that the non-human creation is somehow not what it should be seems to smack of pre-modern mythological thinking. Given what we know about the scientific laws of the universe, do we need to posit some pre-historic cosmic cataclysm to explain the existence of suffering, predation, death, natural disasters and the like? The view sometimes put forth that all these things are somehow the result of human (or maybe angelic) sin seems incredible to many Christians.

    However, I don’t think we can dismiss the idea of a cosmic Fall so easily. If we take nature as it is, how do we reconcile the presence of so much suffering and death with the existence of a Creator of unlimited love and power? Certain modernist theologians have contended that a universe structured the way ours is, with all its attendant pain and suffering, is necessary to bring into existence rational, personal creatures who can respond to and enter into a relationship with the Divine. This line of thought is supported by the oft-noted “anthropic” features of the cosmos that make it appear to be “fine-tuned” for the emergence of life. But this is unsatisfactory for a couple of reasons. First, it seems to relegate the entire non-human creation to a mere ancillary role in God’s plan. Second, as it stands it doesn’t address the moral issue raised by the suffering of so many sentient creatures, who, on this telling, are mere means to the creation of rational beings like ourselves.

    If I can wax Anselmian for a minute, it strikes me as “unfitting” that God would create solely to bring into existence human beings (and perhaps other rational creatures elsewhere) but have no additional purposes for creation. The Bible, for one, seems to envision a redeemed creation, not simply a redeemed humanity.

    Another attempt to have Christian theology without the Fall is found in the “creation spirituality” of Matthew Fox. Fox posits an “original blessing” (as opposed to original sin) and thinks that we should embrace the ethos of nature as unambiguously good and not in need of redemption. Unfortunately, this and similar views border on pantheism and nature worship and overlook the fact that deriving our ethics from the natural world can yield cruelty as much as compassion. Nature is God’s good creation, but it’s also “red in tooth and claw” and can’t set the standard for our ethics or theology in any straightforward way.

    But does this mean that there was some pre-historical state of perfection from which the created world fell, as the result of human or angelic sin? David B. Hart has defended such an idea in his book The Doors of the Sea. But, as I argued previously, I think Hart comes dangerously close to gnosticism in his positing of a perfect eternal creation that somehow “preceded” the world as it exists now. It’s hard, on Hart’s account, to identify the empirical world we see around us with God’s good creation. Just as our doctrince of original sin shouldn’t efface the basic goodness of human nature, any doctrince of cosmic fall and redemption shouldn’t obscure the goodness of the world as we actually experience it.

    The view I lean toward is that creation is good, but incomplete and in need of redemption, or deliverance from evil. God’s world will not ultimately contain the evils of suffering and death, but this is because it will be transformed, not annihilated. This view doesn’t require the existence of a pre-historic cosmic fall, but it does see the story of the Fall as containing the important truth that creation is unfinished and not what it should be. This prevents us from treating death and suffering as “natural” in the deepest sense (and therefore good), but it also avoids Hartian quasi-gnosticism about the natural world.

    This implies, at a minimum, that we not take the “struggle for survival” as the template for our thinking about the natural world, much less mimic it in our relationships with one another. But it should also caution us against utopian attempts to remake nature in a way that is free from the inherent limitations of a fallen creation. Nature is neither perfect as it is, but nor is it “fixable” by us. This side of the eschaton it would be pointless and cruel to try and make the lion lie down with the lamb.

    But what I think it does point to is that we shouldn’t exacerbate the violence of nature with our own violence. Whatever we think about the story of the Fall, it’s clear that we now have the power to “corrupt” nature with our sinfulness in a very straightforward way. Our ability to change natural processes, to pollute, to deforest, and to manipulate the natures of living creatures far outstips anything our ancestors had, and in all likelihood outstrips our wisdom. But another part of our uniqueness as human beings is our ability to look toward, and in some degree anticipate, that redeemed state that we hope for.

    In part three I’ll try to tie some of these threads together…

  • Notes on a theocentric ethic of creation, 1

    As a kind of follow up to yesterday’s post, I’ve been thinking a bit more about what a Christian environmental (or better “creation”) ethic might look like that steers between anthropomorphism and misanthropy.

    I think a key concept here is theocentricity. A theocentric ethic would recognize that human beings, while perhaps the most valuable creature we know of, are not the center of the universe. Many theologians have been de facto anthropocentrists in claiming that all other creatures are essentially here for our use, but this isn’t quite what the Bible says and it’s in conflict with what I regard as some of the best insights of the Christian tradition.

    What a theocentric view of the world would emphasize, I think, is that creation ultimately exists for God’s sake. As philosopher Stephen R.L. Clark puts it:

    Some modernist theologians explain the apparent failings of our present world as God’s chosen way of creating rational individuals. Everything, by their account, exists for us to use. The God of orthodoxy has no need of secondary causes of this sort. Whatever He creates, He creates for its own sake, because He chooses to. Some have held that He created every possible creature; others that He actualizes only some real possibilities; others again that even God the Omniscient cannot inspect all possible, so-far non-existent, beings (because there can be no criteria for their identity beyond what God makes real in creating some `of them’). Whatever the truth of this, we can be confident that He creates exactly what He wants, for its own sake or `for His glory’. Nor does the God of orthodoxy need to make particular creatures co-existent: as far as we can see He may have randomized creation, since His chosen must, in any case, relate to anyone at all who is their neighbour, irrespective of their nature or their merits. Nor does He select for special treatment just those creatures that a finite observer might expect: nothing in the long ago determined Him to raise up mammals, hominids, or Abram. So orthodox theocentrism is far less committed to the notion of a Visible Plan than atheistic critics have supposed.

    Creatures exist first and foremost because God wants them to. They are pronounced by him as “good”; they have value in their own right. And they have lives to live, or forms of existence, that aren’t reducible to how they may be of use to us.

    Arguably one of the main sources of our mistreatment of the natural world and the creatures that dwell therein is the view that all of nature is one vast “resource” for our use. Once our fellow-creatures are reduced to the value they have as resources, it’s virtually impossible for us to see them as existing in their own right and for their own sake. A theocentric perspective would view them as existing for God, as having their own lives to live that aren’t automatically forfeit to human whim or even need.

    Still, the Bible tells us that human beings are created in the image of God, and that they are given “dominion” of the earth. For many environmental thinkers this is the “original sin” of western civilization. This dominion has led ineluctably to the exploitation of nature (and, perhaps, the exploitation of women, children, and non-white races who have all too often been identified with “nature” over against the “male” principle of rationality that has frequently been taken to be the meaning of God’s image in us).

    Recent theologians, however, have questioned whether this is an accurate understanding of what the Bible means by dominion and the imago Dei. In their essay “The Chief End of All Flesh,” Stanley Hauerwas and John Berkman write:

    [T]he only significant theological difference between humans and animals lies in God’s giving humans a unique purpose. Herein lies what it means for God to create humans in God’s image. A part of this unique purpose is God’s charge to humans to tell animals who they are, and humans continue to do this by the very way they relate to other animals. We think there is an analogous relationship here; animals need humans to tell them their story, just as gentiles need Jews to tell them their story.

    This idea of humans telling animals their story seems not unlike the notion sometimes expressed by theologians that human beings are the “priests” of creation. We give voice to the praise of God that is properly given by all creatures.

    Another rethinking of the imago Dei and “dominion” is offered by Andrew Linzey who reconceptualizes the role of humans as the “servant species.” For Linzey this is essentially a Christological clam: Jesus, who came to serve and not to be served, is the true image of God and, as such, this stance of service is normative not only for our relations with each other, but for our relationship with creation. “Dominion” means that we are deputized as it were to rule over creation in accordance with God’s will; but the nature and character of that will is expressed in the life of Jesus, a life of self-giving love.

    Even with these qualifications of traditional ideas of human uniqueness in mind, I think most of us still want to affirm some kind fo qualified anthropocentrism. Human beings, we feel and think, simply are more valuable than other creatures, and it would be morally abhorrent to suggest sacrificing a human life to save the life of an elephant, or a redwood, or what have you. And this hierarchy does seem grounded in the kinds of characteristics that different creatures display: the human capacities for rational judgment, moral action, self-giving love, and spiritual awareness do seem to set us apart from animals, even if the line isn’t quite as bright and distinct as we used to think.

    Another fact that has to be considered is what I would call the particularity of our loves. There’s a tension in ethics between the duties we owe to other people as such and the duties we owe to those who are especially close to us, even though that closeness may seem to be the result of morally irrelevant characteristics such as accident of birth. Nevertheless, rare is the ethicist, much less normal person, who would claim that our duties to all are identical. I have a greater duty to care for my own children or parents than I do for strangers in some distant country. Similarly, we might suggest that we have greater duties to our “kin” who are our conspecifics. I owe more to a fellow human than to a non-human animal not just because she ranks higher in some objective hierarchy of being, but because we are more closely related. If the strength of our duties of care radiates outward from kith and kin to more distant relations, I don’t see why the same might not be said with respect to other species.

    So, it seems to me we have two principles that need to find a place in any satisfying ethic of “creation care.” The first is a theocentrism that puts our claims in perspective. We are one kind of creature among many, and all other creatures don’t exist merely for our sake. The other is a qualified anthropocentrism which recognizes the greater value of human beings, both in an objective sense and as a consequence of our greater solidarity with those to whom we are more closely related.

    More to come…

  • Beyond antrhopocentrism and misanthropy

    I’ve been reading a short collection of essays by Wendell Berry called Another Turn of the Crank. I’m not ready to sign on to Berry’s agrarian vision, but I do think he makes some important observations. In an essay called “The Conservation of Nature and the Preservation of Humanity,” he points out that much of the environmental movement sets up a dichotomy between pristine “wilderness” and land that has been exploited and abused by human beings. But what we really need, Berry says, are models for good fruitful use of the land by humans, not an idealized human-free landscape:

    That there have been and are well-used landscapes we know, and to leave these landscapes out of account is to leave out humanity at its best. It is certainly necessary to keep in mind the image of the human being as parasite and wrecker–what e.e. cummings called “this busy monster manunkind”–for it is dangerous not to know this possibility in ourselves. And ceratinly we must preserve some places unchanged; there should be places, and times too, in which we do nothing. But we must also include ourselves as makers, as economic creatures with livings to make, who have the ability, if we will use it, to work in ways that are stewardly and kind toward all that we must use. That is, we must include ourselves as human beings in the fullest sense of the term, understanding ourselves in the fullness of our cultural inheritance and our legitimate hopes. (p. 72)

    Berry’s point is simple: “as we cannot exempt ourselves from living in this world, then if we wish to live, we cannot exempt ourselves from using the world.”

    Even the most scrupulous vegetarians must use the world–that is, they must kill creatures, substitute one species for another, and eat food that otherwise would be eaten by other creatures. And so by the standard of absolute harmlessness, the two available parties are not vegetarians and meat eaters but rather eaters and noneaters. Us eaters have got ’em greatly outnumbered. (p. 73)

    The trick is to combine use with care. And to treat our fellow-creatures with care requires us to dig into the roots of our ethical and religious traditions. Contrary to a scientism that would reduce living creatures to an assemblage of mechanical parts care “allows creatures to escape our explanations into their actual presence and their essential mystery”

    In taking care of fellow creatures, we acknowledge that they are not ours; we acknowledge that they belong to an order and a harmony of which we ourselves are parts. To answer to the perpetual crisis of our presence in this abounding and dangerous world, we have only the perpetual obligation of care. (p. 77)

    But, as they say, charity begins at home. “Misanthropy is not the remedy for ‘anthropocentrism.’ Finally we must see that we cannot be kind toward our fellow creatures except by the same qualities that make us kind toward our fellow humans.” Interestingly, Berry takes abortion as a chief exemplar of the ways in which we have cheapened human life. And this is of a piece with the rest of our violence. “If we cannot justify violence to unborn human beings, then how can we justify violence to those who are born, or to the world they are born into?”

    Obviously the guiding principle of “care” needs to be fleshed out in ways that take into account conflicts of interests. Berry concedes as much himself when he concedes that, though he believes abortion to be wrong, he can imagine situations where choosing it would be the lesser evil. One problem is that it’s so easy for us to privilege the claims of the relatively strong over the weak and voiceless. This is one of the limits of a rights-based ethic: rights-bearers are often identified by their ability to make claims on their own behalf. Thus those who are unable to claim their rights, at least in our approved language of public philosophy, are held to have none.

    But his main point, which strikes me as sound, is that, in general, any policy of sustainability has to be rooted in the possibility of thriving human communities. A sustainable human way of life has to also be a sustainable human way of life.

  • Bread for the world

    Interesting primer on feeding everybody, and sustainably to boot.

  • Our farm policy: bad for animals, bad for the environment, bad for the poor, bad for our waistlines…

    Michael Pollan writes about how US farm policy keeps the prices of fattening and unhealthy foods artificially low, while allowing prices on things like fruits and vegetables to rise. Why, he asks, would we want to encourage such a situation, especially if we face an “epidemic” of obesity?

    He also points out how this connects to a variety of social and environmental ill: subsidized grain helps make industrial meat production possible (by substituting corn-based feed for more natual grass), artificially low prices provide unfair competition to impoverished foreign growers, it affects the health of the soil by promoting “chemical and feedlot agriculture,” and so on.

    His contention is that farm policy needs to be reworked with the interests of eaters in mind, not just the interests of big producers from a handful of agricultural states. “[M]ost of us assume that, true to its name, the farm bill is about “farming,” an increasingly quaint activity that involves no one we know and in which few of us think we have a stake. This leaves our own representatives free to ignore the farm bill, to treat it as a parochial piece of legislation affecting a handful of their Midwestern colleagues.”

    Since the status quo is far from being the inevitable outworkings of a free market, Pollan suggests that food policy be reworked to “encourage farmers to focus on taking care of the land rather than all-out production, on growing real food for eaters rather than industrial raw materials for food processors and on rebuilding local food economies” and “to promote the quality of our food (and farming) over and above its quantity.”

  • The least of these

    From Stephen Cottrell’s ‘I Thirst’:

    A further interpretation of this story [Jesus’ parable of the final judgment in Matthew 25] touches powerfully upon the way we treat the whole created order, particularly our fellow-creatures. ‘The least of these’ can refer to animals abused and exploited in so many atrocious ways. The food scares that have rocked our world in recent years have invariably arisen directly from the appalling ill treatment of animals in our gluttonous desire to have cheap meat on our tables every day. Then there are the unnecessary cruelties of much animal experimentation. ‘The least of these’ can be the species facing extinction because of the destruction of their natural habitats. ‘The least of these’ can be the fauna and flora themselves disappearing as land turns to desert, as rainforests are plundered and polluted. (p. 152)

    If part of the meaning of the Incarnation is that God identifies with suffering humanity is it too much of a stretch to suggest that God identifies with the “groaning” of all creation, which is waiting to be redeemed, particularly from human cruelty and misuse? Is it proper to see the face of Jesus in a battery hen or a veal calf? Is the new covenant a covenant with humans only, or with all flesh, as the Noahide covenant was?

    If it is a covenant with all flesh, or even all creation, then we might see it as God’s “yes” to his creation. God affirms the worth of all that is. This doesn’t necessarily imply that there are grades of worth among different kinds of beings, but that each kind is valued by God and has a place in creation. However, if Christian ethics call for special attention to “the least of these,” those who are downtrodden, weak, and vulnerable, then animals, who so often are completely vulnerable to human use, and even the ecosystems that are frequently subject to human intervention, would seem to merit special consideration.

  • More from McKibbon

    A while back I blogged a couple of items on the argument Bill McKibbon makes in his new book Deep Economy for rethinking our commitment to growth uber alles.

    Interested readers may want to check out this article at Mother Jones where McKibbon develops his argument at greater length. In short, the argument is that we’ve gotten to the point where continued fossil fuel-driven economic growth that we’re used to both threatens the environment and doesn’t make us any happier (“we” here refers mainly to the prosperous West). The solution, he thinks, is a shift toward more local economies and reconnecting with the sorts of things that, beyond a certain level of income, actually increase happiness, such as companionship.

    I’m still unsatisfied that a withdrawal for the global economy is really feasible here. McKibbon concedes that there are still many people in the world who live well below a decent level of material well-being. Given that, it seems that places like China and India (not to mention other even more impoverished nations) don’t yet have the luxury of putting the breaks on economic growth. But this has consequences for the West too. After all, suppose that the U.S. were to slap tariffs on products from abroad as a way of encouraging local economies. Doesn’t this effectively close or at least reduce the market available for Chinese goods? And don’t the Chinese depend on the U.S. market for their continued growth? I have to say that shutting the door on the world’s poorest producers doesn’t sit too well with me. I almost certainly don’t understand all the variables here, but I wonder if a reformed global economy isn’t a more realistic option.

    But I still think this is good stuff to be grappling with. And McKibbon is certainly right to challenge the equation of increased wealth with happiness, which goes as an unspoken assumption in a lot of our public debate about economic policy. You don’t need the latest “happiness research” to realize this either; it’s also the virtually unanimous wisdom of our philosophical and religious traditions. And this raises another interesting question: if consuming less is better for our happiness and our souls, but consuming more is better for keeping the economy humming along, doesn’t public virtue become private vice? I guess this is just an exaggerated version of Adam Smith’s paradox that the pursuit of rational self-interest creates broaded public benefits, which is pretty clearly true to some extent. But McKibbon’s warning is that taken to its logical conclusion this attitude becomes disastrous.

  • Look for the label

    The last couple of posts got a bit bogged down in philosophical abstraction (not that there’s anything wrong with that!), so I thought I’d offer an example of what I see as a good concrete proposal for changing our treatment of animals.

    The “Certified Humane” label is a program of Humane Farm Animal Care, a non-profit “created to offer a certification and labeling program for meat, eggs, dairy and poultry products from animals raised according to Humane Farm Animal Care’s Animal Care Standards.” Go here for a more deatiled description of what the Certified Humane label means. Go here for a list of participating producers. I’m a fan of Nellie’s Nest Eggs, produced in nearby New Hampshire (giving you a animal-friendly and localist twofer if you live round these parts). See the “Eco-Labels” report card for Certified Humane here.

    Part of the idea with something like this is that given enough demand for humanely-raised animal products, producers will respond with more options like this. This won’t please hard-core animal liberationists who argue that any use of animals, particularly for food, is immoral – and I’m not going to deny that I have some sympathy for that argument – but I think that the widespread adoption of these kinds of humane practices would be a vast improvement over industrial farming. And I think just about anybody can be brought to agree that humane treatment of farm animals is a worthy goal even if they hadn’t previously given much thought to the matter. It’s also impeccably free-market if you’re worried about the heavy hand of state intrusion.