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Jesus and the Cosmos

Most ecological theologies are creation-centered theologies. For instance, Laudato Si has 33 paragraphs dedicated to the whole theology of creation (LS 62-95), while only the last five paragraphs do we find a Christology (“The Gaze of Jesus”) (LS, 96-100).

Following its lead, we can augment some lacuna and ask: “What has Jesus got to do with this? How does God’s incarnation in Jesus, his ministry, his death, and his resurrection be read from the perspective of ecological concerns? Is ecological spirituality only about ethically taking care of creation or is it also intimately connected to the redeeming life and work of Jesus?

Simply put, does Jesus’ death on the cross also include saving the groaning creation? And where is creation in Jesus’ resurrection? It is important to ask these questions because if Jesus came to “save the world”, it also means he came to save the whole creation and not just our “human souls”.



1. Jesus’ Ministry is Earthy, Material, Cosmic

First, the ministry of Jesus is decidedly earthy, worldly, physical, and material. Jesus uses spittle to heal, touches lepers with his hands, and enjoys meals with friends and sinners. Jesus went about healing bodies, liberating the marginalized, and reaching out to the excluded. But we do not stop there: the whole earth, God’s creation, is also the subject of Jesus’ compassion.

In his parables, he includes them all — wildflowers and cornfields, five sparrows and pennies, mustard seeds and big trees, lost sheep and lost coin, salt and light, bread and wine, etc. The Kingdom is about eating and drinking, marrying and feasting, or the coming of the “new heavens and a new earth”.

Jesus’ theology is unlike the Gnostic or dualistic religions popular during his times. The Kingdom he proclaims is not so much about holy souls virtually separated from evil matter but about the spirit of Abba present in the world, the body, the earth.

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2. Deep Incarnation

Second, if we reflect on the incarnation, it is about “God becoming flesh”. The gospel of John we quoted earlier writes: “The Word was made flesh”. It did not say “the Word was made “man” (anthropos) but “flesh” (sarx). If Chalcedon is right that Jesus is truly God and truly human, then like all humans, he is also made of clay, of the earth, as Genesis 2 tells us. In traditional interpretations, to be made of “clay” means to be subject to human weakness, “marupok, namamatay, mahina — tulad ng alabok”.

But from a different perspective, Jesus— the God who became “flesh”— is also part of that long evolutionary history that all humans are. He is not some sort of ghost injected into matter from space or from somewhere else. His DNA is like the rest of creation, like all of us.

Theologians interpret it in different manners. One Danish theologian, Neils Gregersen, talks about “deep incarnation”. He writes:

“Deep incarnation suggests that God not only tolerates material existence but also accepts it and incorporates it in a divine embrace. Incarnation is about a radical divine self-embodiment that reaches into the roots (radices) of biological existence, including processes of growth as well as decay, cooperation as well as competition.”

In short, the “sarx” in John’s gospel is beyond the cells of human beings. “Sarx” is the structure of all God’s created things — from the Big Bang, to the planets, to plants and living things, up to our times. And the Word assumed all “sarx” so that this worldly flesh would be healed.

3. Deep Cross and Resurrection

Third, consequently, in Jesus’ suffering, the whole material creation suffers with him. The evangelists expressed it in dramatic language. Mark says “Darkness came over the whole world” (Mk. 15: 33; Mt. 27: 45). In Christ’s suffering, the whole material creation also dies with him, groans with him as we wait for the redemption of our bodies. Matthew was more descriptive: “And behold, the veil of the sanctuary was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth quaked, rocks were split, tombs were opened, and the bodies of many saints who had fallen asleep were raised” (Mt. 27: 51-52).

There is a very popular verse in ecological discourses from the letter of St. Paul to the Romans about the frail inward groaning of the whole cosmos and its accompanying hope: “We know that the whole creation has been groaning together as it suffers together the pains of labor, and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies” (Rom. 8: 22-23).

Borrowing from Gregersen, the feminist theologian, Elizabeth Johnson introduces the term “deep cross and resurrection”. Let me quote her in full:

“The cross is a mysterious and profound sign that God enters into our darkest trials of human suffering, death, and near despair. In solidarity with the human race, Jesus crucified and risen abides in intimate contact with all people who walk through the valley of the shadow of death… [Yet] the logic of the deep incarnation gives a strong warrant for extending divine solidarity from the cross into the groan of suffering and the silence of death of all creatures.”

But in Christ’s resurrection, the whole cosmos rises with him. He was not only “the firstborn of all creation, for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created” (Col 1: 16). He is also the “firstborn from the dead”. St. Paul continues: “He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead so that he might come to have first place in everything” (Col. 1: 18).

In short, the divine solidarity with all suffering creation brings Godself into all fleshly beings who are perishing in utter pain and darkness—humans and non-humans alike—and share with them a glimmer of the resurrection. Of course, all beings follow the cycle of life, of birth and death. But the cross of Jesus brings God’s solidarity into the depths of all our groaning until all creation will be restored in Christ.

4. The Cross as the Tree of Life and the Cosmos

The tree of the cross, however, is not the last word. Easter in many countries is the season of spring. Flowers blossom, shoots sprout, birds chirp, and light appears on the horizon. The Easter liturgy is a liturgy of bodiliness, cosmological, and creaturely existence.

In the Easter vigil, there is a living eco-drama unfolding in front of our very eyes: the rituals of darkness and light, water and oil, leaves and flowers, wine, and bread. These symbols of God’s creation remind us that Jesus is risen. “In Christ’s resurrection, the earth itself arose,” writes St. Ambrose of Milan.

The lyrics of the Exultet sang at the Easter vigil show this intimate connection between Jesus’ resurrection and the rejoicing of the whole cosmos. Exultet is a hymn to the heavens and the earth telling them to rejoice because Jesus is truly risen.

“Exult, let them exult, the hosts of heaven,

exult, let Angel ministers of God exult,

let the trumpet of salvation

sound aloud our mighty King’s triumph!

Be glad, let the earth be glad, as glory floods her,

ablaze with light from her eternal King,

let all corners of the earth be glad,

knowing an end to gloom and darkness…”

Since my childhood in Oslob, Cebu, I have always followed the Good Friday processions. I have been wondering why the Santo Entierro is the most glorious, most lighted, most beautiful among the carrosas in the Good Friday procession — ironically full of flowers and leaves, of brightness and light, of hope and life — even as all the images are covered with purple and the altars are lonely and bare.

I later saw an answer to my question from faraway Rome. In the apse of the church of San Clemente, there is a 12th-century mosaic that fills the whole space: the cross is a tree of life. On the mosaic is the whole of creation with the cross at its center — with doves and fountain, deer and birds, feeding chicken and cattle, a grapevine, and a monk writing a book. The cross which is the sign of shame and death is truly a tree of life. The death of Jesus and his rising is also the resurrection of the whole creation.

Father Daniel Franklin Pilario, C.M., is the President of Adamson University in Manila. He is a theologian, professor, and pastor of an urban poor community on the outskirts of the Philippine capital. He is also Vincentian Chair for Social Justice at St. John’s University in New York.

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