Viriditas and the Ecology of the Cross: Hildegard’s Greening Vision Meets a Kenotic Cosmos

Greening Ancient Wisdom for Today’s Crisis

On many mornings, I find myself sitting beneath the black walnut tree in my backyard, contemplating how an ancient abbess’s wisdom speaks to our ecological crisis. Hildegard of Bingen, 12th-century mystic, healer, and visionary, loved to talk about viriditas, the “greening” life-force of God in creation. She lived in a world where forests were alive with divine Light, and every medicinal herb carried a spark of God’s vitality. As a PhD student in Ecology, Spirituality, and Religion, I’m continually amazed by how Hildegard’s medieval insights resonate with what I call the Ecology of the Cross, or a theological framework that challenges our modern extractive paradigms with a vision of kenosis, interdependence, and sacred entanglement. In this post, I want to weave together Hildegard’s greening spirituality with the Ecology of the Cross, exploring how her ancient ontology can inform a Christian ecological lens today.

Hildegard’s Viriditas: Greening Power and Divine Immanence

Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179) was a Benedictine abbess who saw the natural world lit up from within by God’s presence. Surrounded by the lush Rhineland forests, she perceived God’s “living power of light” energizing all creation, a verdant force she famously named viriditas, or greenness or greening power. In Hildegard’s theology, viriditas is the Holy Spirit’s life flowing through plants, animals, and elements, infusing them with vitality and growth.

“The greening power of the earth is the viriditas, which is the living light of the Holy Spirit… It is the love of God that flows through all creation, bringing forth new life and growth,” Hildegard wrote.

This was no poetic flourish for her; it was a literal cosmological principle. In her mystical visions, the entire universe even appeared as a tree, “verdant with God’s wisdom” and pulsing with divine life. For Hildegard, God was not a distant clockmaker but immanent in nature – present in the sap of trees, the humors of the human body, the cycles of the cosmos. All creation, she believed, is “alive with God’s presence” and thus sings a song of praise back to its Creator.

Crucially, Hildegard’s spirituality was deeply non-dualistic. She did not split spirit from matter. One commentator notes that she held a “theandrocosmic” ecology of life – a holistic view of reality as a dialogue between God (theos), humanity (anthropos), and the cosmos. This means Hildegard saw everything as interconnected as the health of the soul, the health of the body, and the health of the Earth were all of a piece. Indeed, Hildegard was a renowned healer in her time as a botanist and physician who composed texts on herbal medicine and the human body. She left behind volumes of wisdom on topics ranging from healthcare and natural remedies to music, ethics, and theology.

Her medical work (such as Physica and Causae et Curae) catalogued plants, stones, and animals, not just for their physical properties but for their spiritual virtues. In Hildegard’s eyes, studying nature was a way to understand God’s ongoing creative work. Healing a body with herbs and prayer was part of healing the ruptured relationship between humanity and creation. Divine immanence for Hildegard meant that the Creator’s power “flows through all creation,” so caring for creation was nothing less than an act of love for God. She warned that when we harm the earth, we harm ourselves, because we are inextricably part of this sacred web: “When we destroy the earth, we destroy ourselves,” she wrote bluntly. It’s hard to imagine a more ontologically rich affirmation of interdependence from the Middle Ages.

The Cross as Tree of Life: A Paradigm of Kenosis

Centuries before terms like “ecotheology” existed, Hildegard and her fellow medieval mystics were already linking the Cross with creation. In Christian symbolism, the cross of Christ has long been understood as a kind of Tree of Life. The New Testament itself refers to the cross as a “tree” (xylon in Greek which also refers to “clubs” throughout the Gospels interestingly enough) on which Christ was crucified (Acts 5:30; 1 Pet. 2:24). Early Christians couldn’t miss the irony of a wooden instrument of execution becoming the cosmic tree of redemption. Hildegard expands this imagery with her vision of the verdant universe. We might say her viriditas concept lets us imagine the cross not as dead wood, but as a tree greening with new life by God’s power. In one of my favorite poetic images, “even the cross, that ruined tree, bears sap enough to green the nations”… in other words, through the cross’s wood flows the viriditas of God, bringing renewal out of death.

This brings us to what I call the Ecology of the Cross. At its heart, this framework re-imagines the cross as more than a ticket to individual salvation; it is a paradigm of kenosis, interconnection, and humble participation in the wider community of creation. The Greek word kenosis refers to Christ’s “self-emptying” love (Phil. 2:5–8). On the cross, according to Christian faith, God-in-Christ empties Himself by pouring out divine love in utter vulnerability, even to the point of death. Traditionally, Christians see this as the path to resurrection and new life. But what if we also view it through an ecological lens? Ecology of the Cross suggests that the cross is “an ecological gesture of descent: a humble participation in the mutual vulnerability of the world”. In Jesus’ self-emptying sacrifice we see a model for how we humans should relate to the more-than-human world with radical humility instead of domination, willing to relinquish our privilege and power for the sake of healing relationships.

Such a kenotic ecology directly critiques modern extractive paradigms. Our industrial-technocratic society has often approached nature with an attitude of grasping and exploitation, the very opposite of self-emptying. Forests are logged and burned for profit, rivers are dammed and polluted for convenience, animals are driven to extinction for consumption or farmed for extracting nutrients in non-sustainable and ethically horrible ways. Creation bears the wounds of these extractive systems. In fact, we can literally see it in the trees: “forests today stand as cruciform realities: logged, burned, cut down, yet also central to the healing of the planet”. The cross, in an ecological sense, is present wherever life is suffering under unjust exploitation and wherever sacrificial love is bringing forth healing. The Ecology of the Cross invites us to recognize that the pattern of Christ’s cross, death and resurrection, is woven into Earth’s own rhythms. As I’ve written elsewhere, “the cross is ecological: a revelation of life’s pattern as death-and-renewal, as sacrifice-and-gift”. Every fallen forest that sprouts green shoots from its stump, every species brought back from the brink by compassionate conservation, every community that sacrifices for environmental justice… these are cruciform moments, little enactments of resurrection life.

Sacred Entanglement: Communion Beyond the Human

One of Hildegard’s gifts to us is a vision of sacred entanglement in a cosmos where everything is enfolded in everything else through God’s love. She spoke of the elemental interconnectedness of the four elements, the celestial bodies, and the human being (microcosm mirroring macrocosm). Modern science, with its talk of ecosystems and quantum entanglement, is catching up to this ancient intuition that “all beings are entangled in webs of relation”. Hildegard would agree wholeheartedly. And Christian theology adds: all those relations are grounded in God. Nothing exists outside the divine dance of communion. Significantly, Hildegard’s cosmology didn’t isolate humanity from nature; instead, she saw humans as integrated participants in the community of creation, “a world – everything is hidden in you,” she imagines God saying to each person, for the whole cosmos lives inside of us as we live inside it. This has profound ethical implications… if we and the earth are truly part of one living network sustained by God’s viriditas, then our calling is to nurture that network, to tend and befriend it, not to dominate or ignore it.

The Ecology of the Cross builds on this kind of sacred interconnectedness. It emphasizes that redemption is not apart from creation, but through itthrough roots and branches, through crucifixion and renewal. In Jesus’ crucifixion, God doesn’t pluck souls out of creation; God enters into creation’s deepest pains to transform them from within. The Cross is God with us, with all of us, including the sparrows, the soil, and the stars. This is a profoundly metaphysical statement as it suggests that at the heart of reality (the metaphysical core of existence) there is a cruciform love that ties all things together in a bond of shared being. As theologian Catherine Keller might put it, there is an apophatic entanglement at work – a holy interweaving we only dimly perceive but are nevertheless a part of. Or as philosopher William Desmond would say, standing before a living tree draws us into “the between,” that threshold where mystery breathes through being. Such moments can feel sacramental. Indeed, in a sacramental worldview the material world mediates God’s presence. A forest can be a temple, a river can whisper divine truth. Hildegard, composing her ethereal chants to the viriditas of the Spirit, understood this well. The whole world was her monastery’s cloister garden, alive with God.

For those of us drawn to Christian ecotheology, to speak of sacred entanglement is to affirm what the Gospel has hinted all along: that Christ’s reconciliation “extends to all things” (Col. 1:20) and that creation itself eagerly awaits liberation (Rom. 8:19-21). We find ourselves, then, in a spiritual lineage that runs from saints like Hildegard straight to the present. “From the prophets to Jesus’ parables to Hildegard of Bingen’s viriditas… our tradition is rich with ecological wisdom,” as I’ve noted before on Thinking Religion. The task now is to live into that wisdom.

Kenosis, Viriditas, and Living in Communion

Bringing Hildegard’s mysticism into conversation with the Ecology of the Cross enriches both. Hildegard gives us the vibrant language of greening and the assurance that caring for the earth is an act of love for God. The Ecology of the Cross, for its part, gives us the challenging ethic of kenosis and the call to empty ourselves of pride, greed, and the will-to-dominate so that we can truly serve and commune with our neighbors, human and non-human. Together, these threads form a kind of cruciform ecology of grace as an approach to the environmental crisis that is both deeply spiritual and vigorously practical. It asks us to reimagine what sacrifice means. Instead of the destructive sacrifices demanded by extractive capitalism (where we sacrifice forests and futures on the altar of consumerism or chauvanism), we are invited into the life-giving sacrifice modeled by Christ and celebrated by Hildegard and a sacrifice that gives up self for the sake of renewed life for others. This could look like deliberate simplicity and restraint (a kenotic lifestyle that “lets go” of excess consumption), or like actively bearing the cross of ecological work in its many forms, whether that is replanting a clear-cut area, advocating for environmental justice in our communities, or tending a backyard garden as if it were an altar.

My own theological perspective is rooted in this integration of ancient wisdom and new vision. I’m convinced, as are many others, that our spiritual narratives and our ecological actions are inseparable. When Hildegard urges us to “participate in the love of God” by caring for creation, she is echoing the kenotic love poured out on the cross – a love that holds nothing back, not even life itself, for the sake of beloved creation. This perspective reframes Christian mission: it’s no longer only about saving souls, but about healing relationships across the web of life. It also reframes metaphysical and ontological questions. We begin to ask: What is the nature of being, if not being-with? What kind of world is this, if the Creator chose to wear its flesh and suffer its pains? Such questions lead us into what theologian Thomas Berry called The Great Work of our times and to rediscover ourselves as part of a sacred Earth community and to act accordingly.

In the end, Hildegard’s viriditas and the Ecology of the Cross converge on a message of hopeful, humble participation. Even in a time of climate upheaval, mass extinction, and social fragmentation, we’re invited to see the world with new eyes “to help people see differently and to recover the rooted wisdom of scripture and tradition,” as I often remind churches. We are invited to step into what the Benedictine tradition would call ora et labora, or prayer and work, on behalf of creation, joining our hands and hearts to the greening, healing work God is doing. The Tree of Life stands not as a mere symbol, but as an ongoing reality with the cross planted in the earth, drawing all things into divine communion. Hildegard’s lush visions and the Cross’s stark call both beckon us toward a future where humans live with reverence among our fellow creatures, where we embrace our creaturely limits and gift, and where, by God’s grace, the desert places of our world can bloom again.

As the farmer-poet Wendell Berry has said (in a line that often echoes in my mind when I gaze at a thriving green tree stump): “Practice resurrection.” A tree knows how. By the greening power of God and the self-emptying love of Christ, may we learn how as well.

Resting Heart Rates

August and Everything After

I made some changes in my life back in May as my semester ended in my PhD studies and my dissertation began to take shape ahead of my 47th birthday.

We did lots of traveling as a family in June and July, I signed some new consulting clients, built a few websites, and had a wonderful summer of adventure. Those changes I made stuck and became routines and rituals. I slept well even in crowded hotel rooms and AirBNB’s in new cities with our children. I noticed my resting heart rate had dropped pretty dramatically.

Then August arrived and brought with it the annual torrent of new teachers and routines and meetings and after school activities and pick ups and drop offs and all things associated with having three young children. I noticed my heart rate had increased again. Things done and things left undone as the Book of Common Prayer reminds us to consider.

Talking with the Black Walnut this week, I’ve been pondering our own human conceptions of time and rhythm as I watch its leaves begin to silently fall here in late September.

I like to tell people that my dissertation (Ecology of the Cross) is my life’s work and that’s what I’m working on… contributing to Thomas Berry’s incantation of The Great Work of our time. Phenomenology has provided the structure for most of my research and thoughts as a part of all that work. Deep down, I realize (thanks to the Black Walnut and resting heart rates) that my life’s work is… my five children.

Maybe that dissertation will play some part in that in the future as they continue to explore, learn, and perceive the phenomena of consciousness and being in new ways. Planting sequoias for them and others who might be interested in what I have to say based on my aging heart and aging skin’s experience.

Ask the questions that have no answers.

Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.

Say that your main crop is the forest

that you did not plant,

that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested

when they have rotted into the mold.

Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

I think of my aging heart and skin and my aging children and my aging theologies and philosophies. I turn back to Aristotle and Augustine and Hildegard and Edith Stein for answers while trying to look forward in a world of unease brought on by a spiritual crisis of being. And the Black Walnut reminds me in all of that consternation about time and aging that the cosmic dance goes on, ever turning and circling… not linear.

Not about monthly or quarterly trends or resting heart rates… but part of a much larger dance that we are somehow privileged to enjoy for a brief “time” as Humans. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep. This insubstantial pageant of modernity goes on, and we’ll return to the dust from which we were lovingly made. But heart rates and life (as we consider we know it) itself is a part of the cycle that spins forever and concrescing in little moments of magic that become us.

So, don’t worry about your resting heart rate too much, Sam. The Circle won’t be unbroken:

I danced on a Friday
When the sky turned black 
It’s hard to dance
With the devil on your back.
They buried my body
And they thought I’d gone,
But I am the Dance,
And I still go on.

Dance, then, wherever you may be,
I am the Lord of the Dance, said he,
And I’ll lead you all, wherever you may be,
And I’ll lead you all in the Dance, said he

Appeal from the Department of Religious Studies at University of Oregon

As someone whose life’s work blends the spiritual and the ecological, I find this deeply concerning. Departments of religious studies are not just academic units… they’re vital spaces for nurturing intercultural literacy, deep critical consciousness, and ethical imagination. They help cultivate citizens who can engage thoughtfully with global and local complexities, not just through specialized knowledge, but through a broader, humanistic lens.

Given my own background from Wofford, Yale Divinity, Gardner-Webb Divinity, and now the California Institute for Integral Studies through my writing and teaching, I feel a genuine kinship with those in Oregon facing this upheaval. It strikes at the core of what it means to study religion… not as a marginal discipline, but as a way to grapple with meaning, belonging, and our shared ecological and spiritual fate.

An Appeal from the Department of Religious Studies at University of Oregon – AAR:

We are writing to notify you of a looming threat to religious studies, the humanities, and tenure protections at the University of Oregon (UO). We are members of UO’s Department of Religious Studies, which is home to seven associate and full professors. Our department has served a critical role within humanities education here at UO since 1939, and in recent years has been thriving, with new faculty hires, robust course enrollments, and a steady stream of research grants, awards, and publications.

We have just learned that UO leadership plans to eliminate our department and terminate most or all of our department’s faculty. In addition, they plan to eliminate and terminate tenured faculty in at least three other humanities departments.

Trees as Symbols of Life and Spirit Across Religions

Meeting Our Old Teachers

Trees are older than us (though not as old as you might think), longer-lived than empires, and deeply woven into the stories we tell about wisdom and spirit. They are teachers of patience and endurance, bearing witness to countless centuries of human seeking. Our ancient and modern columns of brick, stone, marble, or concrete still pale in comparison to our ancient tree kin.

Across traditions, trees have anchored human imagination. They serve as symbols of wisdom, life, and connection. However, more than symbols, they are living presences, mediators of the sacred. From Genesis to the Bodhi Tree, from Yggdrasil to the cottonwood of the Lakota Sun Dance, trees appear where human beings grapple with the mysteries of being alive.

The philosopher Owen Barfield once suggested that human consciousness itself has a history, that the way we experience the world evolves over time. He pointed to the so-called Axial Age, when religious and philosophical traditions in Israel, Greece, India, and China reimagined humanity’s relationship to the cosmos. Trees appear in those traditions as if marking the shift: not just as backdrops, but as active participants in our emerging sense of meaning. They carry forward the memory of the older ways of knowing, when spirit and matter were inseparable, and they gesture toward futures in which we might relearn that intimacy.

To pay attention to the trees is to pay attention to our own evolving consciousness. It is also to listen to what Donna Haraway calls “tentacular thinking,” the recognition that all beings are entangled in webs of relation, that meaning itself stretches across roots and fungi and soil and sky. Trees remind us that life is not linear but branching, not heroic but networked. They embody what Ursula Le Guin called the “carrier bag” story of humanity: not a single plot driven by conquest, but a gathering of seeds, fruits, and stories carried in community.

TraditionWisdomLifeSpiritual Connection
Hebrew Bible / JudaismTree of Knowledge of Good and Evil (Genesis); Etz Chaim (“Tree of Life”) as Torah/Wisdom (Proverbs 3:18)Tree of Life in Eden and eschatology (Revived in apocalyptic visions)Olive tree as Israel’s covenantal identity; sacred groves as contested spaces
ChristianityCross as Tree of Life (Acts 5:30; 1 Peter 2:24); Hildegard’s viriditas (greening wisdom)Tree of Life in Revelation (22:2) offers healing to nationsThe Cross links heaven and earth; saints/monks often dwell in tree imagery of rootedness
IslamSidrat al-Muntaha (Lote Tree) marks the limit of knowledge (Qur’an 53)Tree of Immortality in Eden (Q 2:35); olive tree as “blessed tree” (Q 24:35)Trees as signs of God’s creation; paradise described as filled with shade-giving trees
HinduismAshvattha (cosmic fig tree) in Bhagavad Gita represents eternal samsaraBanyan, neem, tulsi as living presences of the divineSacred groves; Bodhi tree as meditation site; cosmic tree with roots in heaven, branches on earth
BuddhismBodhi Tree: site of enlightenment, source of awakened wisdomKalpavriksha (wish-fulfilling tree) symbolizes abundanceTrees as natural meditation sites; Bodhi tree as axis between ignorance and awakening
Indigenous Traditions (Americas, Africa, Celtic)Oaks and yews in Celtic Druidic tradition as sources of sacred knowledgeTrees like baobab as “roots of life”; cottonwood in Lakota Sun DanceWorld Tree as axis mundi (linking underworld, earth, heavens); trees as homes of ancestors/spirits
Norse MythologyYggdrasil’s roots drink from the Well of Mimir (wisdom)Yggdrasil sustains nine realms of existenceYggdrasil as cosmic axis, linking worlds; ravens, serpents, and gods interact with it
Chinese TraditionsFusang tree marks sun’s rising, cosmic orderPeach tree of immortality (fruit of eternal life)Sacred peach tree of Queen Mother of the West links heaven’s gifts with human fate

The Tree of Life in the Ancient Near East

The Hebrew Bible begins with a garden, and at its heart, two trees: the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and the Tree of Life (Gen. 2:9). To eat of the first was to awaken to wisdom — to the awareness of moral boundaries and human limitation. The story is often told as a fall, but it can also be read as the story of consciousness coming into its own, with trees as the threshold between innocence and maturity.

Proverbs later describes wisdom herself as “a tree of life to those who lay hold of her” (Prov. 3:18). Here the metaphor is clear: to live wisely is to be rooted, nourished, fruitful. In Jewish tradition, the Torah itself becomes the Etz Chaim, the Tree of Life, literally embodied in the wooden rollers of the scrolls used in worship.

But trees could also lead astray. The prophets railed against “sacred groves” where Canaanite deities were honored (Deut. 16:21). Yet, even this reveals the deep human instinct to find the divine among trees. And the symbol endures: the Book of Revelation imagines the Tree of Life restored in the New Jerusalem, its leaves “for the healing of the nations” (Rev. 22:2).


Christianity: The Cross as Tree

Christianity radicalizes the symbol by naming the cross itself a tree. The Apostle Peter writes that Christ “bore our sins in his body on the tree” (1 Pet. 2:24). A Roman instrument of execution becomes the world tree of redemption. The symmetry was irresistible to early theologians: where Adam and Eve grasped at fruit, Christ is lifted up on the wood, reversing the fall.

Medieval mystics expanded this imagery. Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179) described divine life as viriditas, “the greening power,” pulsing through creation. In her visions, the universe itself was a tree, verdant with God’s wisdom. Monks, too, saw trees as ascetic companions: silent, patient, enduring through storms.

For Christians, then, the tree is paradox. It bears death and life, judgment and mercy, sorrow and redemption. Like Yggdrasil, gnawed by serpents but still sustaining the worlds, the cross stands at the center of human story… fragile yet cosmic.


Islam: The Blessed Tree

In the Qur’an, trees shape both warning and blessing. Adam and Eve are commanded not to eat from the Tree of Immortality (Q 2:35). Yet another tree, the Lote Tree of the Utmost Boundary (Sidrat al-Muntaha), appears in the Prophet Muhammad’s night journey. It marks the furthest boundary of created knowledge: beyond it lies only God (Q 53:14–16).

The olive tree carries special significance. The famous Light Verse declares: “God is the Light of the heavens and the earth… lit from a blessed olive tree, neither of the east nor of the west” (Q 24:35). Here, tree and light merge: the olive, ancient source of fuel, becomes metaphor for divine illumination.

Paradise itself is pictured as a garden of abundant, shade-giving trees — a vision profoundly embodied for people whose daily lives knew desert heat. The tree is not abstract; it is rest, sustenance, and divine nearness.


Hinduism: The Cosmic Ashvattha

In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna describes the universe as a cosmic fig tree, the Ashvattha: “With roots above and branches below, whose leaves are the Vedas; he who knows this tree is the knower of the Veda” (Gita 15:1). Unlike earthly trees, this one grows downward, its nourishment flowing from the eternal into the temporal. To attain liberation, one must cut it down with the “axe of detachment” and seek the source beyond appearances.

But trees are not only metaphors. Living trees are venerated: the banyan, with its aerial roots; the neem, with healing powers; the tulsi plant, tended in courtyards as a goddess in her own right. Sacred groves still shelter temples, holding ecological as well as spiritual memory.

The cosmic tree gathers together time, scripture, and existence. Like Barfield’s insight into symbolic consciousness, it points to a way of seeing in which reality itself is read as text, and trees as living letters of the divine alphabet.


Buddhism: Under the Bodhi Tree

Perhaps no tree is more famous than the Bodhi Tree under which Siddhartha Gautama attained enlightenment. Sitting through the night, he confronted desire, fear, and illusion until he awoke into Buddhahood. Ever since, the Bodhi tree has stood as the site of awakening: wisdom that arises not from conquest but from stillness, from simply being present beneath a tree.

Buddhism also speaks of the Kalpavriksha, the wish-fulfilling tree, symbolizing abundance. Yet the Bodhi dominates the tradition’s imagination, embodying the dharma itself: impermanence in its falling leaves, interdependence in its roots, patient endurance in its trunk.

Like Le Guin’s “carrier bag” theory of narrative, the Bodhi tree is not a hero’s monument but a gathering site. Pilgrims circle it, meditate beneath it, collect its fallen leaves. It is not conquered; it shelters. It contains, carries, holds the story of awakening.


Indigenous Traditions: The World Tree

In Native American cosmologies, the World Tree or Sacred Tree connects earth, underworld, and sky. For the Lakota, the cottonwood chosen for the Sun Dance becomes the axis around which the world is renewed. Dancers tether themselves to it in prayer, embodying the life-giving bond between human and cosmos.

In Africa, great trees such as the baobab and iroko are revered as ancestors themselves, places of gathering, storytelling, and ritual. The tree is not a metaphor for community; it is the community’s center.

Celtic Druids likewise revered oaks and yews, holding ceremonies in groves. Mistletoe growing on oaks was especially sacred, believed to embody divine vitality. These groves were what Haraway might call “tentacular nodes,” entangled sites of relation where human, animal, plant, and divine life braided together.


Norse Mythology: Yggdrasil

Norse mythology centers its cosmos upon Yggdrasil, the great ash tree. Its branches span the heavens; its roots drink from wells of wisdom and fate. Odin, in search of knowledge, sacrifices his eye at the Well of Mimir. Later, he hangs himself upon Yggdrasil for nine nights to gain the runes. Wisdom here is costly, rooted in suffering and sacrifice.

But Yggdrasil is under threat. Serpents gnaw at its roots, Ragnarok looms, yet the tree sustains all realms. It is fragile and resilient at once, much like our own ecological situation.


Chinese Traditions: Trees of Immortality

In Chinese myth, the fusang tree in the east holds the rising sun, anchoring cosmic order. The peach tree of immortality, tended by the Queen Mother of the West, bears fruit every 3,000 years, granting eternal life. Pines, peaches, and cypresses all became emblems of endurance, long life, and the Dao’s flowing balance.

Here again, trees bridge the human and cosmic, marking time’s rhythm and pointing to the way of harmony.


Wisdom, Life, Connection

Stepping back across cultures, we see three recurring themes:

Wisdom: Trees stand at thresholds of knowledge — Eden’s fruit, Yggdrasil’s well, the Bodhi’s silence, the Sidrat al-Muntaha’s boundary.

Life: Trees embody vitality — food, healing, shade, immortality. Their seasonal cycles mirror death and rebirth.

Connection: Trees serve as axis mundi, mediators of heaven and earth, ancestors and descendants, divine and human.

But with Haraway and Le Guin in mind, we can say more. Trees are not just vertical axes; they are networks. They are “carrier bags” of biodiversity, gathering species in their canopies and roots. They are “tentacular,” stretching mycorrhizal threads through soil, binding together whole communities.

If earlier ages saw the tree primarily as a ladder to the divine, perhaps our age can see tree as a web, and recognize in that web our own entanglement with the more-than-human world.

Religious traditions often use trees to point beyond themselves, such as metaphors for wisdom, life, and connection. But metaphysics reminds us that this pointing is not merely symbolic; it reveals something of reality’s very structure.

For Alfred North Whitehead, reality is not made of inert stuff but of events, relationships, and becoming. A tree is not simply a “thing” but a nexus of processes: roots drawing up water, leaves breathing light, fungi threading connections underground. The tree discloses the metaphysical truth that being is relational, that life is constituted by giving and receiving.

Edith Stein’s On the Problem of Empathy makes a similar point from a phenomenological angle: to encounter a tree is to recognize it as more than an object, but as a living subject with its own interiority, its own trajectory of growth and flourishing. The “tree of life” is not a metaphor we impose; it is a reality we meet.

This is where Owen Barfield’s insight comes in: the symbolic power of trees is not arbitrary but reflects the way human consciousness evolves in dialogue with the living world. We do not invent the tree-as-symbol; rather, the tree discloses meanings that consciousness gradually awakens to.


Conclusion: Listening Again

Religions around the world remind us that trees are more than scenery. They are wisdom keepers, givers of life, and cosmic connectors. They hold our evolving consciousness: from mythic imagination to axial philosophy, from medieval mysticism to today’s ecological science.

In a time of deforestation and climate upheaval, the old teachers still stand. They whisper lessons of rootedness, interconnection, and renewal. Perhaps the most spiritual act we can take is also the most practical: to plant, to tend, to listen.

The Ecology of the Cross: Cruciform Trees

If trees are life-givers, they are also sites of suffering. The cross itself was once a tree that was chosen, chopped down, shaped into an instrument of execution that was reused countless times in the Judean countryside of what we modern people of the inherited West would call the first century anno domini or Common Era. And yet in Christian imagination, it became the cosmic Tree of Life. This paradox lies at the heart of what I have been calling the Ecology of the Cross.

In ecological terms, forests today stand as cruciform realities: logged, burned, cut down, yet also central to the healing of the planet. The crucified tree is not only Christ’s cross but also the Amazon rainforest under chainsaw, the black walnut in my backyard enduring storms, the pines of South Carolina clear-cut for development, or the oak trees that are carefully manicured for aesthetic purposes in countless pieces of “property” surrounding churches here in what we now call the Southeast of the United States.

The Ecology of the Cross invites us to see cruciformity not only in human suffering but in the more-than-human world. Trees bear the wounds of our extractive systems, yet they also continue to gift us life: oxygen, shelter, shade, renewal. In this sense, the cross is ecological: a revelation of life’s pattern as death-and-renewal, as sacrifice-and-gift.

Here the metaphysical vision and the theological converge. To stand before a tree is to be confronted with both beauty and fragility, both gift and wound. It is to be drawn into what William Desmond might call the metaxological, the between, where mystery breathes through being.

So when religions speak of trees, whether as wisdom, life, or cosmic connectors, they are not only projecting human stories onto nature. They are intuiting something real about the metaphysical and theological shape of existence.

And in an age of ecological crisis, these intuitions call us back. To see a tree as a teacher is to see the world as sacramental, alive with wisdom and suffering, calling for care. To embrace the Ecology of the Cross is to recognize that redemption is not apart from creation, but through it… through roots and branches, crucifixion and renewal, leaves for the healing of the nations.

As Wendell Berry once urged, “Practice resurrection.” A tree knows how.


Notes

  1. The Holy Bible, New Revised Standard Version (New York: National Council of Churches, 1989), Gen. 2:9.
  2. The Holy Bible, NRSV, Prov. 3:18.
  3. The Holy Bible, NRSV, Rev. 22:2.
  4. The Holy Bible, NRSV, 1 Pet. 2:24.
  5. Hildegard of Bingen, Scivias, trans. Columba Hart and Jane Bishop (New York: Paulist Press, 1990).
  6. The Qur’an, trans. M.A.S. Abdel Haleem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 2:35; 53:14–16.
  7. The Qur’an, trans. Abdel Haleem, 24:35.
  8. Bhagavad Gita, trans. Eknath Easwaran (Tomales, CA: Nilgiri Press, 2007), 15:1–3.
  9. Owen Barfield, Saving the Appearances: A Study in Idolatry (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1988).
  10. Donna J. Haraway, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016).
  11. Ursula K. Le Guin, The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction (London: Ignota Books, 2019).
  12. Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality: An Essay in Cosmology, corrected ed., ed. David Ray Griffin and Donald W. Sherburne (New York: Free Press, 1978).
  13. Edith Stein, On the Problem of Empathy, trans. Waltraut Stein (Washington, D.C.: ICS Publications, 1989).
  14. William Desmond, Being and the Between (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995).
  15. Wendell Berry, The Mad Farmer Poems (Berkeley, CA: Counterpoint, 2008).
  16. Mircea Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion, trans. Rosemary Sheed (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1996), esp. chs. on sacred trees and the axis mundi.
  17. James Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (New York: Macmillan, 1922), selections on tree cults and sacred groves.
  18. Matthew Hall, Plants as Persons: A Philosophical Botany (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2011).
  19. Thomas Berry, The Great Work: Our Way into the Future (New York: Bell Tower, 1999).
  20. John B. Cobb Jr. and Herman E. Daly, For the Common Good: Redirecting the Economy toward Community, the Environment, and a Sustainable Future (Boston: Beacon Press, 1989).

Defining the Limits of Religious-Services Clauses on Public Lands

Fascinating decision (the Lipan-Apache Native American Church here lost the case in the 5th Circuit this week):

Beyond the Sanctuary: Defining the Limits of Texas’s Religious-Services Clause on Public Lands: 5th Cir. | CaseMine:

Gary Perez and Matilde Torres—leaders in the Lipan-Apache Native American Church—challenged the City’s $7.75 million renovation of Brackenridge Park, alleging the work would destroy the “spiritual ecology” of their sacred riverbend by removing heritage cypress trees and deterring the migratory cormorants central to their creation story…

…Guideposts for Native and minority faith claims: The decision elevates the evidentiary threshold for showing a substantial burden where the state acts on its own land. Litigants must document direct, site-specific prohibitions rather than ecological or aesthetic degradation alone…

…Texas’s pandemic-era Religious-Services Clause, while “absolute and categorical,” is geographically—and now judicially—confined; policy makers retain authority to manage parks, rivers, and historic landmarks even when such management displeases worshippers…

I wonder how the decision would have fallen had this been in a “Christian” (under Texas-understanding) context…

More on the case here from the Baptist Standard.

You can’t have it both ways

I’m afraid the barn door is already flung very open for this sort of Solomon’s Dilemma thinking.

I’m also not sure what the point of this entire opinion piece is beyond making unrealistic statements like this…

Opinion | Allowing Churches to Endorse Politicians Can Be Perfectly Liberal – The New York Times (Gift Article):

For example, a pastor should be able to endorse a political candidate in a sermon, but not if that sermon is posted on a church website. Nor should the pastor’s church be allowed to publicly campaign for a candidate.

Thinking Religion 173: Frankenstein’s AI Monster

I’m back with Matthew Klippenstein this week. Our episode began with a discussion about AI tools and their impact on research and employment, including experiences with different web browsers and their ecosystems. The conversation then evolved to explore the evolving landscape of technology, particularly focusing on AI’s impact on web design and content consumption, while also touching on the resurgence of physical media and its cultural significance. The discussion concluded with an examination of Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” and its relevance to current AI discussions, along with broader themes about creation, consciousness, and the human tendency to view new entities as either threats or allies.

https://open.spotify.com/episode/50pfFhkCFQXpq8UAhYhOlc

Direct Link to Episode

AI Tools in Research Discussion

Matthew and Sam discussed Sam’s paper and the use of AI tools like GPT-5 for research and information synthesis. They explored the potential impact of AI on employment, with Matthew noting that AI could streamline information gathering and synthesis, reducing the time required for tasks that would have previously been more time-consuming. Sam agreed to send Matthew links to additional resources mentioned in the paper, and they planned to discuss further ideas on integrating AI tools into their work.

Browser Preferences and Ecosystems

Sam and Matthew discussed their experiences with different web browsers, with Sam explaining his preference for Brave over Chrome due to its privacy-focused features and historical background as a Firefox fork. Sam noted that he had recently switched back to Safari on iOS due to new OS updates, while continuing to use Chromium-based browsers on Linux. They drew parallels between browser ecosystems and religious denominations, with Chrome representing a dominant unified system and Safari as a smaller but distinct alternative.

AI’s Impact on Web Design

Sam and Matthew discussed the evolving landscape of technology, particularly focusing on AI’s impact on web design, search engine optimization, and content consumption. Sam expressed excitement about the new iteration of web interaction, comparing it to predictions from 10 years ago about the future of platforms like Facebook Messenger and WeChat. They noted that AI agents are increasingly becoming the intermediaries through which users interact with content, leading to a shift from human-centric to AI-centric web design. Sam also shared insights from his personal blog, highlighting an increase in traffic from AI agents and the challenges of balancing accessibility with academic integrity.

Physical Media’s Cultural Resurgence

Sam and Matthew discussed the resurgence of physical media, particularly vinyl records and CDs, as a cultural phenomenon and personal preference. They explored the value of owning physical copies of music and books, contrasting it with streaming services, and considered how this trend might symbolize a return to tangible experiences. Sam also shared his interest in integral ecology, a philosophical approach that examines the interconnectedness of humans and their environment, and how this perspective could influence the development and understanding of artificial intelligence.

AI Development and Environmental Impact

Sam and Matthew discussed the rapid development of AI and its environmental impact, comparing it to biological R/K selection theory where fast-reproducing species are initially successful but are eventually overtaken by more efficient, slower-reproducing species. Sam predicted that future computing interfaces would become more humane and less screen-based, with AI-driven technology likely replacing traditional devices within 10 years, though there would still be specialized uses for mainframes and Excel. They agreed that current AI development was focused on establishing market leadership rather than long-term sustainability, with Sam noting that antitrust actions like those against Microsoft in the 1990s were unlikely in the current regulatory environment.

AI’s Role in Information Consumption

Sam and Matthew discussed the evolving landscape of information consumption and the role of AI in providing insights and advice. They explored how AI tools can assist in synthesizing large amounts of data, such as academic papers, and how this could reduce the risk of misinformation. They also touched on the growing trend of using AI for personal health advice, the challenges of healthcare access, and the shift in news consumption patterns. The conversation highlighted the transition to a more AI-driven information era and the potential implications for society.

AI’s Impact on White-Collar Jobs

Sam and Matthew discussed the impact of AI and automation on employment, particularly how it could affect white-collar jobs more than blue-collar ones. They explored how AI tools might become cheaper than hiring human employees, with Matthew sharing an example from a climate newsletter offering AI subscriptions as a cost-effective alternative to hiring interns. Sam referenced Ursula Le Guin’s book “Always Coming Home” as a speculative fiction work depicting a post-capitalist, post-extractive society where technology serves a background role to human life. The conversation concluded with Matthew mentioning his recent reading of “Frankenstein,” noting its relevance to current AI discussions despite being written in the early 1800s.

Frankenstein’s Themes of Creation and Isolation

Matthew shared his thoughts on Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein,” noting its philosophical depth and rich narrative structure. He described the story as a meditation on creation and the challenges faced by a non-human intelligent creature navigating a world of fear and prejudice. Matthew drew parallels between the monster’s learning of human culture and language to Tarzan’s experiences, highlighting the themes of isolation and the quest for companionship. He also compared the nested storytelling structure of “Frankenstein” to the film “Inception,” emphasizing its complexity and the moral questions it raises about creation and control.

AI, Consciousness, and Human Emotions

Sam and Matthew discussed the historical context of early computing, mentioning Ada Lovelace and Charles Babbage, and explored the theme of artificial intelligence through the lens of Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein.” They examined the implications of teaching AI human-like emotions and empathy, questioning whether such traits should be encouraged or suppressed. The conversation also touched on the nature of consciousness as an emergent phenomenon and the human tendency to view new entities as either threats or potential allies.

Human Creation and Divine Parallels

Sam and Matthew discussed the book “Childhood’s End” by Arthur C. Clark and its connection to the film “2001: A Space Odyssey.” They also talked about the origins of Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” and the historical context of its creation. Sam mentioned parallels between human creation of technology and the concept of gods in mythology, particularly in relation to metalworking and divine beings. The conversation touched on the theme of human creation and its implications for our understanding of divinity and ourselves.

Robustness Over Optimization in Systems

Matthew and Sam discussed the concept of robustness versus optimization in nature and society, drawing on insights from a French biologist, Olivier Hamant, who emphasizes the importance of resilience over efficiency. They explored how this perspective could apply to AI and infrastructure, suggesting a shift towards building systems that are robust and adaptable rather than highly optimized. Sam also shared her work on empathy, inspired by the phenomenology of Edith Stein, and how it relates to building resilient systems.

Efficiency vs. Redundancy in Resilience

Sam and Matthew discussed the importance of efficiency versus redundancy and resilience, particularly in the context of corporate America and decarbonization efforts. Sam referenced recent events involving Elon Musk and Donald Trump, highlighting the potential pitfalls of overly efficient approaches. Matthew used the historical example of polar expeditions to illustrate how redundancy and careful planning can lead to success, even if it means being “wasteful” in terms of resources. They agreed that a cautious and prepared approach, rather than relying solely on efficiency, might be more prudent in facing unexpected challenges.

Frankenstein’s Themes and Modern Parallels

Sam and Matthew discussed Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein,” exploring its themes and cultural impact. They agreed on the story’s timeless appeal due to its exploration of the monster’s struggle and the human fear of the unknown. Sam shared personal experiences teaching the book and how students often misinterpret the monster’s character. They also touched on the concept of efficiency as a modern political issue, drawing parallels to the story’s themes. The conversation concluded with Matthew offering to share anime recommendations, but they decided to save that for a future discussion.

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God-Tier Books: A Personal Library of Holy Scripture ‹ Literary Hub

Fun list here from Pseudo-Dionysis (I’m a fan with my philosophical ecological thinking, btw) to Meister Eckhardt to Kafka DeLillo)… I should make a list like this.

God-Tier Books: A Personal Library of Holy Scripture ‹ Literary Hub:

Meister Eckhardt was a German Catholic monk in the 11th century influenced by Pseudo-Dionysius. His writings were condemned by the church as heresy but found a fan centuries later in Martin Heidegger, which makes sense. Eckhardt’s commentaries on God and scripture are dense and recursive, breaking ideas into component parts, placing them onto higher and lower planes, making hierarchies and triads out of them until eventually becoming something like an investigation into being and nothingness themselves. Occasional gnomic jewels emerge from the tangle: “God is a word, a word unspoken.” “God is a word that speaks itself.” The mobius-thinking at times almost seems like Medieval Zen, what with the emphasis on emptiness and silent meditation, and in fact that was what the Church fathers objected to most: too much quiet, solitary contemplation, not enough pious instruction.

Stare at Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’ Today

Give yourself 10 mins today to stare at Bosch’s work and learn a little about yourself, the world, consciousness, and projection (not a bad use of just 10 mins of your day instead of doomscrolling Reels or TikTok)…

10-Minute Challenge: Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’ – The New York Times (Gift Article):

Today, we bring you another focus challenge, in which we invite you to spend uninterrupted time looking at one piece of art. This one is a 500-year-old, three-paneled triptych by the Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch.