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| "Six Days of Creation" by Hildegard von Bingen |
There are many reasons to honor Saint Francis of
Assisi. When explaining to journalists
why he chose the name “Francis,” the newly elected Bishop of Rome said it was
because he was a man of poverty, a man of peace, and a man who loved and
protected creation. Pope Francis
added, “These days, we do not have a very good relationship with creation, do
we?”
The relevance of Saint Francis today is, in part, the way in
which he understood the relationship between God and creation. Although Christianity has frequently been
interpreted as preoccupied with “getting to heaven” and therefore as, at
best, indifferent to and, at worst, exploitative of the earth and its
creatures, this point of view doesn’t comport very well with the biblical
witness that shaped Francis’ life.
Here, we do well to pay attention to the foundational
premise upon which the whole biblical narrative is based: God wills and will
have a faithful relationship with the earth.[1] God will be faithful to his promise to bring
the whole creation to its fulfillment.
The creation story in Genesis presents an image of God as deeply related to, and concerned with, the well
being of the world.
It is important to be clear that what we have in the
creation story is not a scientific history of how the world was made. This is the error of biblical
literalists. Neither is it simply a
myth, like other Near Eastern myths, describing the ordered structure of the
cosmos. This is the error of biblical
rationalists.
The creation story is neither science, nor mythology. It is doxology, a hymn of praise, a
proclamation of the creative Word of God that invites the response of the
creation in freedom, trust, and gratitude.
Its purpose is not to tell us how the world was made, as if it were
preoccupied with method or technique. Its
purpose is not to tell us how the world is, as if it were a fixed, closed
system. Its purpose is to give poetic
expression to the relationship between the Creator and the creation; to
proclaim the enduring, life-giving quality of that relationship in the face of
all that is chaotic, death dealing, and unpredictable in our experience.
The creation story is an affirmation of God’s faithfulness
and graciousness, an affirmation that this graciousness is revealed precisely
in the goodness and blessedness of the earth; not in some escape from the
earth. And it is a reminder that this
creation is a unity: profoundly diverse, yet also one it its harmonious
dynamism and complex relationships.
While the creation story includes the images of creating and
making, the dominant metaphor is that of speaking. “God said” is the characteristic image for
the relationship between God and creation:
it implies a dialogical relationship, speaking and responding. The creation story itself, as a hymn-poem, is
a response of the worshipping community to God’s creative Word, a response of
praise and thanksgiving.
In this regard, the creation story is much more akin to the Psalms
than to a scientific or mythic description.
The Psalms speak of God’s
graciousness manifest in creation, and the grateful response of all the members
of the earth community. “Praise him, sun
and moon; praise him all you shining stars!
Praise him, you highest heavens, and you waters above the heavens! Let them praise the name of the Lord, for he
commanded and they were created. He
established them forever; he fixed their bounds, which cannot be passed.” (Psalm 149:3-6, cf. Psalms 65, 66.)
This psalm expresses the grateful response of all the earth,
not only its creatures, but the mountains and deeps, the fire and hail, all
manner of trees; the entire earth community hymns God’s praise in what Derrick
Jensen has described as “a language older than words.”[2] St. Francis understood this language. Nikos Kazantzakis tells the story of St.
Francis
standing in front of an almond tree in
mid-winter. Francis called to the tree, “Speak to me of
God.” Suddenly, the tree burst into
bloom, covered with beautiful blossoms.
It is the response of the creature to the creative Word of God that
brings life out of death. It is a
language we have forgotten, and desperately need to remember.
This metaphor of the relationship between God and
creation as dialogical, as word and response, gives a very different texture to
our usual way of thinking about divine power.
God, who speaks and invites our response, is intimately near: close
enough to be heard. But this same God is
also distant, leaving space for our response.
The biblical image of God is one of closeness, but not an authoritarian
or smothering control. It is one of
distance, but just enough to allow for our freedom.
Thus, the creative Word of God is not “must be,” but
rather, “let be.” “Let there be
light.” It is not a word of command, but
of permission. Our Jewish brothers and
sisters have retained a much better sense of this dialogical relationship. God speaks a word to his people, but by way
of invitation, such that we may respond with praise, or cajoling, or rage, or
silence. There is, then, a tension
between God’s promise and our response, between God’s desire to bring the whole
creation to its fulfillment, and our willingness to share that desire and the
responsibility it entails.
St. Francis, conversant as he was in this language
that is older than words, extended the dialogical relationship between the
human creature and God to include a dialogical relationship between the human
creature and the rest of creation. Sun,
moon, stars, earth, wind, and water – even death – were his brothers and
sisters, members of an intimate family.
He spoke lovingly of them, and to them, all.
He did so because, like the Psalmist, he perceived
the graciousness of creation as a sign that “God’s steadfast love endures
forever.” (Psalm 136) Like the authors of the creation story, he
believed that God’s creation, in all its parts and as a whole, was “good” –
indeed, “very good.” This
characterization as “good” has more of an aesthetic than a moral quality, and
might better be translated as “lovely, pleasing, or beautiful.” God blesses the creation and so pronounces
the world itself as the vehicle of divine blessing. We need go nowhere else to receive this
blessing. It is always, already,
available.
There are many stories of St. Francis speaking with
animals: with birds, fish, and, of course, the famous wolf of Gubbio: striking a deal between the wolf and the
villagers so that they could live in harmony.
He once admonished a rabbit that he freed from a trap to be more careful
next time! Mostly, he preached the good
news of God’s generosity in providing them with everything they need, urging
them to hymn God’s praise in their own language. His speaking to them also implied a deep
listening.
This is a clue, I think, to the way in which St.
Francis serves for us as an icon of what it means to be created in the image of
God. To be so created is to participate
in the ongoing dialogue of the whole earth community with God, and with each
other. To realize our humanity in the
image of God is to enter into this life giving dialogue, not speaking a word of
command, but a word of permission, of “let there be.” Like Francis, we need to see our humanity as
coming to fulfillment ultimately and only as a part of a much larger and inclusive
earth community.
The dominion of the human in relationship to other
creatures, then, must model the dominion of God over all things. In the words of Walter Brueggemann, “The
image of God in the human person is a mandate of power and responsibility. But it is power exercised as God exercises
power. The image images the creative use
of power which invites, evokes, and permits.
There is nothing here of coercive or tyrannical power, either for God or
for humankind . . . Thus the task of ‘dominion’ does not have to do with
exploitation and abuse. It has to do
with securing the well-being of every other creature and bringing the promise
of each to full fruition.”[3]
Saint Francis is an icon of divine power as
servanthood, after the example of Jesus.
This is what is so difficult for the powerful and wise of this world to
grasp. It is the exercise of power as
domination, as control, as oppression that creates such a difficult yoke, such
heavy burdens, for the poor, the victims of violence, and the earth
itself.
The Cross is the sign of God’s power, God’s
outpouring in self-giving love that evokes a new creation. This new creation is not a repudiation of the
initial creation, but a bringing it to its fulfillment: for God’s steadfast
love endures forever. God has spoken the
creative Word. This Word has been made
flesh in Jesus, reverberating through the language older than words spoken by
Saint Francis and all of the members of the earth community. God is still speaking. How will we respond?
