Should we take these passages to mean that humanity is entitled to everything that exists? Do these verses give God's stamp of approval to a rape-and-pillage, exploitative approach to nature? Or do they mean that humans are being charged with an enlightened stewardship of the earth's resources? We'll return to this controversy later because it carries very important consequences. But for now let it suffice to say that the more exploitative interpretation won the popularity contest for much of history.
This view has pushed Western religions to embrace the most extreme forms of anthropocentrism. Think of the earth as a giant, divinely created mall, with plants, animals, and natural resources made exclusively for the use of humans. All other creatures are not living in the same way humans are. They have no consciousness and no special purpose other than being consumed by us. They are just commodities to be used, no different than the items lined along the
supermarket shelves. As master of the earth, mankind can do as it pleases.
James G. Watt, a conservative Christian who served as US Secretary of the Interior for Ronald Reagan in the early 1980s, spells out this view with chilling clarity. In his writings, he made it clear his faith pushed him to see the earth as “merely a temporary way station on the road to eternal life . . . The earth was put here by the Lord for His people to subdue and to use for profitable purposes on their way to the hereafter.”
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Mmhmm. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy to know this man was placed in charge of managing national parks and public lands . . .
Exploiting the earth is a symptom of a general uneasiness about everything that's natural. The wilderness has been viewed by these guys as the playground for heathens, demons, and dangerous animals; and followers of “civilized” religions better stay clear of it. When they do venture out there, they should do so with an axe in order to make more land suitable for the dwellings of “God-fearing people.” Cut down forests, set up farms, surround yourself with man-made stuff—and only then will you be safe.
But nature is not just a physical place out there. Its dangers also hide in our very bodies. Particularly in Christianity, the fear of nature is intimately tied to the war waged by good Christians against wild, uncontrolled instincts. In the same way we should be taming and “civilizing” the wilderness, we should also be taming and civilizing ourselves. For if our physical instincts are left unrepressed, they open the door to sin. The same mentality responsible for the largely negative image of nature itself is also pushing Western religions toward a very strict view of sex and the body. It's the same issue; only the examples change. This is a war between body and soul, nature and culture, earthly pleasures and an otherworldly afterlife.
However we define it, in fact, nature is seen as something to be improved upon and ultimately transcended. If we fail to act accordingly, we sink to the level of animals, whose instincts are unconstrained—a heinous crime in the eyes of an anthropocentric worldview. Repress natural instincts instead, and you rise above all other forms of life and become worthy of God's approval.
Part of the horror of seeing ourselves as animals goes back to the very human fear of death. As far as the eyes can see, everything that lives in a body is destined to die. The more one is tied to the physical world—as animals very obviously are—the more the inevitability of death becomes real. The idea that we are different from animals, driven as they are by their natural instincts, offers some hope to defeat death. If we are unlike any other creature, if we alone have a soul, if we are able to transcend nature and the physical world, then we'll be able to escape Death's fangs, for we'll go on living as disembodied spirits long after Death has devoured our bodies. Rising above what's physical and earthy, then, is the pathway to keep alive our hopes of outrunning death. God will take care of us because we are His favorite creatures, goes the cry. He won't let us die along with our bodies.
Unfortunately, the illusion of being disconnected from the natural world and immune to the laws governing other living creatures has gone to our heads. This belief has convinced us that we can manipulate natural forces to our liking without ever having to pay a price for it. At some point, much of humanity began to believe its own propaganda, and think that the effects of exploiting the planet will not reach beyond the safety of our homes. However, as the evidence of a polluted planet all around us indicates, this illusion—born out of a desire to escape death—can paradoxically end up causing our collective extinction.
This religious separation between the earthy, organic aspect of existence and the idea that humanity is destined for higher purposes has sometimes infected scientists as well. Influenced by this prejudice, some scientists have operated from the same assumption that human beings are somewhat unlike all other animals. Descartes, for example, justified vivisection on the grounds that animals—unlike humans—are incapable of feelings, and are insensible to pain. In his view, “animals were clocks . . . the cries they emitted when struck were only the noise of a little spring that had been touched, but . . . the whole body was without feeling.”
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Can you think of a better example of anthropocentrism at work?
Other times, however, scientific discoveries have seriously challenged the anthropocentrism found in Western religions. A classic anthropocentric idea once held that the earth is at the center of the universe and all other planets rotate around it. If human beings were indeed creation's crowning jewel, it only made sense that their planet would be located in the position of honor. The astronomical discoveries made by Copernicus and Galileo, however, knocked a big hole in this inflated sense of human self-importance.
Humanity's bruised ego had to undergo further downsizing at the hands of Darwin, who showed how humans are very much related to other animals. It's difficult to maintain too many illusions of being separate and different from animals when science demonstrates you share 98.5 percent of your DNA with chimps.
Not all cultures, however, have embraced anthropocentric worldviews. Whereas some Western religions consider natural instincts
something to tame or overcome, Taoism invites us to shed artificial behaviors and rediscover harmony with nature. Rather than “subduing the earth,” Lao Tzu asks, “Does anyone want to take the world and do what he wants with it? I do not see how he can succeed. The world is a sacred vessel, which must not be tampered with or grabbed after. To tamper with it is to spoil it, and to grasp it is to lose it.”
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Much like Taoism, Animistic religions emphasize a deep level of interconnectedness among all forms of life. Lakota Sioux ceremonies often end with the prayer
Mitakuye Oyasin
, which can be translated as “We are related to all things.” In this view, plants and animals are not separate from human beings, but are their relatives. “Mitakuye Oyasin” is literally a prayer acknowledging kinship with everything that lives and breathes.
While the anthropocentric world is a lonely one, where only human beings are believed to have souls and everything else is just dead matter, the Animistic universe is filled with spirits. The very word “Animism” refers to the belief that animals, plants, rivers, mountains, and all other natural forces are spiritually alive no more and no less than human beings. Rather than promoting a hierarchical view of life that gives humanity the right to exert its dominance, Animistic ideas demand people to strike a balance with all other beings. If anthropocentrism sees life as a pyramid of power, Animistic religions see it as a circle of relationships, a complex web connecting different forms of life to each other.
This does not mean that Animists refrain from taking anything from nature. Everything that lives derives nourishment from something else; this is the cannibalistic truth of life. If we are to eat, it means someone else—animal or plant—has to be our lunch. But accepting this fact doesn't mean we should be callous about it. In theory—if not always in practice—a cultural ideal in many Animistic
societies requires a good hunter to be respectful to the animals he is going after. He should pray to them, explaining his family's needs, and ask for permission to hunt. He should then do his best to avoid cruelty and not insult the animals by wasting any part of them.
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At the end of a successful hunt, ceremonies are in order to give thanks to the spirit of the animal and to pray for its welfare in the afterlife.
Besides encouraging a respectful attitude toward the environment, these worldviews consider nature as something to be studied in order to learn the secrets of life. Whereas anthropocentric religions require us to tame nature, Taoism, along with many Animistic traditions, invites us to harmonize ourselves with nature.
In a classic example of anthropocentric thinking, Plato wrote that trees and open country have nothing to teach us.
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In his mind, the only knowledge we can gain comes from other human beings. This is the exact opposite of what Lao Tzu, Heraclitus, Thomas Paine, and many other Animists feel. For example, Ikkyū, the most radical thinker in the history of Zen, wrote, “Every day, priests minutely examine the Dharma and endlessly chant profound sutras. Before this, though, they should first read the love letters sent by the wind and rain; the snow and moon.”
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Inspired by a flash of Zen that must have gotten lost in the English countryside, even a Western poet such as William Blake wrote of seeing “the world in a grain of sand” and “heaven in a wild flower.”
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It's not that these guys believe in a Disney, tree-hugging version of nature, where furry animals of the forest are our best friends, and everything is benign. They are fully aware of how scary nature can be at times. In their view, nature is the foundation of everything that exists. Rather than drawing wisdom from man-made abstractions, they believe all the essential principles of life can be discovered by observing the natural world.
Similar sentiments are echoed among Zen Buddhists, American Indian tribes, Shinto priests, and Western Deists. Tribal elder Matthew King, for example, said, “He [the white man] has his Bible, but to us the hills and the sky and the water make our Bible. That is what the Creator told us, to watch the natural things; that is where we will learn how God wants us to live.”
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Along the same lines, Zen Buddhists declare, “The Universe itself is the scripture of Zen.”
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The point that all of them are trying to drive home is that in order to be attuned to life, a religion needs to be in tune with nature. And for those religions that believe in a creator God, there is no better place to learn about a creator than in creation itself.
Not surprisingly, the diametrically opposite attitudes existing between this worldview and anthropocentric religions are reflected in what they consider sacred places. In most Western religions sacred places are temples, churches, and synagogues. Apparently, the Western God doesn't like to get wet; for you won't find too many open-air places of worship. Nature is typically not deemed a suitable place to hang out with God—a fact that prompted Alan Watts to write, “I can feel like a Christian only when I am indoors. As soon as I get into the open air, I feel entirely out of relation with everything that goes on in a church—including both the worship and the theology.”
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In addition to worshipping in man-made buildings, Western religions also value places where events historically relevant to their beliefs have taken place (e.g., the site of Jesus' crucifixion, or the place where Muhammad received his first revelation). In either case, no place is sacred in and of itself.
The opposite is true in Animistic cultures. Tribal sacred places are usually part of the wilderness. They may come in the shape of rivers, springs, lakes, woods, and mountains. Roman writers, including Julius Caesar, were often puzzled by Celtic rituals, which always
took place in the woods rather than in temples.
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The sacredness of a place in Animistic eyes has nothing to do with human activity or historical events. It's inherent in the place itself. Some locations are simply charged with energy unlike anything you can find anywhere else. You won't find any sign hanging at the door telling you “You are entering sacred grounds” because (
a
) there is no door (since there is no building), and (
b
) if you need a sign to tell you, it's because you wouldn't recognize sacredness if it hit you on the head. It's something you feel in your guts, when you walk onto such a stretch of land. Sacred places induce a sense of reverence; these are places where you can almost smell an invisible power lurking in the air; places where the boundaries between different dimensions seem to be thinner. The first time I visited the Black Hills, for example, I felt as if I had stepped into the center of the world. The mountains were beautiful, sure, but they didn't look all that different from other beautiful mountains I had seen. And yet, they possessed a type of energy that was richer, deeper, and more powerful than anything I had ever known.
It's for the sake of tapping into this natural power that Animistic people gather at these locations to perform their ceremonies. The power to be found in groves of trees, rivers, and mountaintops is more raw and vibrant than what exists among tiles and bricks. Rather than keeping nature at bay, Animistic cultures include it as an integral part of their sacred life.
In the origin stories of anthropocentric and Animistic religions, the differences between them are clear. Western religions speak of nature as a very beautiful, benign place. . . for about five minutes. But everything changes once the first human couple is unceremoniously kicked out of the Garden of Eden for their transgressions. From then on, nature will no longer be their friend. Food will no
longer come easily, but only through great labors. As God declares, “Cursed is the ground for thy sake . . . Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.”
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The earth turns into a place of trial and suffering—a stepping-stone before making it to a better place in the afterlife. Plenty of Animistic origin stories, on the other hand, describe nature as a Garden of Eden, but don't feature any divinely sanctioned expulsion.