The Bible is, among many things, a story of devotion. Bound by covenant to their God, the Israelites weather physical and psychological assaults alike by holding onto—and, when they let go, reaching out again for—their faith. God, in turn, chooses his people again and again. Thousands of years removed from this Biblical timeline, humanity maintains an equally celebratory and equally yet devastating connection: that which binds us to the natural world. Old Testament metaphors and New Testament parables offer unexpected, poignant parallels to our current attempts to curb ecological damage without contributing to decades of environmentally racist policy. By tying descriptions of God and his divine power to natural imagery, the Bible invites a second reading of the covenant between God and Abraham; it can be viewed, on a larger scale, as a covenant between nature and humanity. In all the ways God proved he could grow and change, so can humanity renew its strained contract with ourselves and our climate.

Throughout the Bible, God is realized through natural imagery. Having told Elijah to witness him as he passes by, God conjures “a great wind” which tore apart mountains, “an earthquake,” “a fire,” followed by the “sound of sheer silence” (HarperCollins Study Bible, 1Ki 19:11-12). The text clarifies that, although these powerful phenomena function as evidence of God, “the Lord was not in the wind ... not in the earthquake ... not in the fire.” Each individual display alone cannot fully encapsulate divinity—they are facets of God, particularly fierce facets. God’s presence is also described with far gentler imagery. Soon before his betrayal by Judas, Jesus admires the “tender” branches of blooming fig trees: “when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates” (Mark 13:28-29). Even this sweet description carries an undertone of sadness; the same tree that grows fresh leaves and fruit must eventually drop them. In kind, Jesus’ duty to humanity requires his sacrifice in their stead. Such is the nature of divinity; chaotic and contradictory, it resists human comprehension. Hence Sallie McFague’s observation that metaphor “is the dominant language of the New Testament”—and, I would argue, abundant in the Old Testament in the form of natural representations of God (McFague 268). As a connective device, metaphor allows one to understand the unknown by linking it to the familiar. Nature is, for both the characters within and the author(s) of the Bible, the closest experience to divinity that human minds can pinpoint.

Historical literary and arts movements support this connection. Chronicling the shifting relationship between humans and their environment, Nash highlights the way American Romanticism rebranded colonist’s previously antagonistic views of their harsh landscape. Mountains that they once viewed as “blisters” upon “cursed and ungodly” land became “wise” sources of divine design that study of astronomy and physics could uncover (Nash 44-45). What began as fear of nature’s vastness—the “pious” sense of “terrible awe” writers like Henry David Thoreau experienced—shifts towards a “much more comfortable, almost sentimental demeanor,” as William Cronon points out (Cronon). The majesty of wilderness—both its terrifying might and its nostalgic beauty—is a conduit through which these early Americans felt they experienced closeness with divinity. God may not be nature, but nature is his oldest and most visceral signifier. Within the limits of human perception, these two forces overlap to such an extent that they operate as one and the same. God knows how powerful association and symbolism is to his human creations; it is why he chooses impossible natural wonders as proof of his meeting with Moses: a staff that turns into a snake, leprosy that turns Moses’ hand “as white as snow” before it is undone, and Nile water that turns to blood when poured upon the ground (Ex: 4:3-9). Faced with these miraculous signs, “the people believed” Moses’ message that God was going to free them from Egyptian enslavement (Ex 4:31). The kind of nature manipulation only God could perform—manipulation that the Pharaoh's magicians try and fail to replicate—stands in as suitable proof of God.

It is thus no surprise that natural imagery shapes the covenant God creates with Abraham. Promising Abraham numerous descendents and land on which they will thrive, God describes these descendants as “like the dust of the earth” and akin to the stars in heaven (Gen 13:16, Gen 15:5). He then instructs Abraham to recreate an old West Semitic rite for sealing oaths of this nature; Abraham slices several animals in half, creating a path each party of the newly formed covenant can walk through (Gen 15.9-12, 17n). Notably, God walks this path in the form of “a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch”—Abraham does not have to walk (Gen 15:17). Unlike a traditional covenant where both parties are familiar with the proceedings, this covenant is the first Abraham has ever completed. Here, God is modeling what devotion to him looks like. God clearly explains what he is willing to offer and what Abraham and his descendents must offer in return, followed by this sacrificial rite, completing the bond formed between both parties. Covenants are an incredibly complex kind of agreement, one that is imbued with love and devotion that transcends a pure business deal. MacKenzie describes how the Hebrew concept of hesed, the expected input of a covenant partner, is difficult to accurately translate because it “combines the ideas of love, loyalty, and ready action” that entering into a covenant implies (MacKenzie 38). What Abraham receives from this covenant—caring from God in the form of a homeland for his fruitful future generations—is matched by his and his people’s promise to study and uphold God’s legacy. God is definitively in a superior position to Abraham, in the way that a ruler governs their people or a parent cares for their child, but the give and take within this covenant is equal. Rather than an unbalanced provider and receiver setup, this covenant puts God into an ongoing, loving conversation with the people of Israel.

God may be an all-knowing entity, but he is also, in a sense, a first-time parent. Watching over humanity stokes his searing wrath as often as it charms and disarms him. A clear example of this is the story of Noah’s arc. God is determined to sweep away the sinful majority of humans because he is disgusted with their collective “wickedness”; yet, finding favor with the “blameless” Noah, he decides to let Noah and his family escape destruction along with selections of animals (Gen 6:5-9). The arc he instructs Noah to build is like a resilient seed that, after weathering the storm, can finally rest and bloom into a fresh start for God’s people. This undoubtedly cruel action is encased in parental framing: God intervened with his people’s lives to deliver what was, in his eyes, a punishment that would ultimately serve humanity well in the long run. Even so, in the Flood’s aftermath, God promises never to bring about such overwhelming calamity again: “As long as the earth endures,/seedtime and harvest, cold and heat,/summer and winter, day and night,/shall not cease.” This showcases God’s willingness to learn from his children. If Noah was able to persevere through the Flood, then God is willing to likewise endure the frustrations of human folly, addressing them as needed rather than giving up on humanity as a whole. While the covenant with Abraham is yet to come, this moment serves as a precursor to it; God acknowledges that he has overstepped his power and agrees to renegotiate his relationship to what will become his chosen people. Water is the perfect visual, metaphorical tool for this story. All living creatures, human and animal and plant alike, need water to survive, but an excess of water leads to death and destruction. The need for a balance between too little and too much water—or, a balance between divine guidance and human agency—leads God to concede that the Flood, however well-intentioned, was wrong. He shifts his parenting style accordingly.

This is not to say God never deploys divine destruction upon his creations again; Sodom and Gomorrah, the Plagues of Egypt, and many more wrathful displays of power follow the Flood narrative. What changes is that God much more carefully weighs the value of human life. Abram reminds God of their covenant when he humbly says “I who am but dust and ashes” as he bargains for the lives of the righteous residents within Sodom and Gomorrah (Ex 18:27). Even though God ultimately decides to bury the cities in sulfur and fire, he “remember[s] Abraham'' through the angels who remove Lot, Abraham’s nephew, and Lot’s wife before the destruction begins (Ex 19:29). Likewise, the carnage of the then plagues of Egypt is made twofold; mirroring the tenth and final plague—the killing of Egypt’s firstborn sons and livestock—so too does God demand the consecration of the Israelite’s firstborn sons and livestock to “serve as a sign ... that by strength of hand the Lord brought us out of Egypt'' (Ex 13:16). Although God encourages the Israelites to “celebrate [Passover] as a festival the the Lord,” this celebration goes hand in hand with painful sacrifice (Ex 12:14). Closeness with divinity means engaging with a complex, give and take relationship with God. One must accept both the nurturing life-force and cleansing death-force that God, with all his natural imagery, represents.

God’s power is described via natural means in his teaching moments towards humanity as well. Blinded by jealousy, Cain murders his brother Abel after Abel’s offering to God was met with more regard than his own. In his admonishment of this murderous act, God bids Cain to “listen; your brother’s blood is crying out to me from the ground!” God declares that, having absorbed the evidence of Cain’s crime, the ground now “curse[s]” him: “When you till the ground, it will no longer yield to you its strength; you will be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth” (Gen 4:10-12). This is another potent image of natural give and take; land which would have borne nourishment will now reject Cain’s attempts to grow new life, as he has just willfully taken it from Abel. Now rendered a wanderer and fugitive, Cain is also cut off from connections with other humans; parallel to Abel’s physical death, Cain now undergoes a social one. As Cain laments the weight of these consequences, God comforts—or perhaps curses—him by marking him such that anyone who kills him will suffer seven times the amount Cain does (Gen 4: 15). This addition can be read as added insult to injury—God is forcing Cain to remain alive so that he will wander miserably for the rest of his days, thinking of how he wronged his brother. On the other hand, this can also be read as a heartening, merciful addition—God believes Cain deserves to keep his life even after he’s stolen Abel’s, that even this fugitive life is still worth living. Both readings dovetail neatly into the idea that God continually invests himself in the lives of his chosen people, even as they repeatedly stray from his guidance. Even in the moments where God’s commitment to engaging with humanity falters, such as when he sends the Flood, he can never quite disentangle himself from humanity in its entirety. There is always a Noah, a kernal of curiosity—if one takes the merciful reading of Cain’s punishment, one might say a kernal of hope—in regards to humanity’s ability to change for the better.

This concept of renewed faith in the human half of the covenant partnership resonates, now more than ever, with the looming threat of climate change. Hopelessness regarding humanity’s role in causing environmental damage has led to the belief that, “if nature dies because we enter it, then the only way to save nature is to kill ourselves.” Directly after summarizing this nihilistic view, Cronon counters it. The idea of nature as an untouched wilderness is, he points out, an insidiously colonialist idea. These awe-inspiring American landscapes Thoreau and his contemporaries romanticized were far from untouched works of God that “flourish by” their own “pristine devices”—Indigenous people have lived in tandem with this land long before colonists set foot on it (Cronon). Jacoby supplies a key example: proscriptive fires. On their annual migratory movements, Native tribes set small, purposeful fires to clear away buildup of forest underbrush; these turned dead plant material and invasive species back into nutrient-rich soil, preventing them from building up and sparking huge, uncontrollable blazes that would cause more destruction than necessary (Jacoby 86-87). This is the lesson God learns post-Flood: complete annihilation is cruel and wasteful, case-by-case retribution is a far preferable alternative. This is a lesson the US army members assigned to Yellowstone National Park completely fail to learn. Disregarding the knowledge of the Indigenous people from whom they stole this land, these army park rangers created the very problems they sought to avoid: invasive plant takeovers, accumulation of dead matter, and devastating fires (Jacoby 118).

Herein lies the value of reading the God-Abraham covenant through the lens of God’s inextricable ties to natural imagery: this connection is bidirectional. In the Biblical text, God is the force that crafts as it guides, learning how to deliver punishments and advice to his creations. Today, it is humans who possess the power to craft and guide the natural world to which we, too, belong. Having learned covenant hesed from God—from nature—we ourselves have become a regenerative and destructive force in relation to it. Taking this spiritual approach to environmental justice, humanity can reflect on God’s first-time parenthood successes and struggles. We can use these narrative beats to correct, refine, and strengthen the human-nature relationship.

MacKenzie reminds us that “the commitment to future good” is inherent to a covenant relationship. In Biblical terms, this refers to God’s “full control of history” and “ability to mold and guide the destinies of men” (MacKenzie 33). In the covenant-like connection humanity shares with nature, this can be recontextualized as a commitment to creating a sustainable future for humankind and nature alike. In order to build a sustainable, inclusive future, the missteps of the past and present must be recognized. The ground is soaked with far more than Abel’s blood. In particular, communities of color have been and continue to be the most impacted by environmental degradation. Conversations about this disproportionate impact use the term “environmental racism,” defined as “any policy, practice, or directive that differentially affects or disadvantages,” intended or otherwise, “individuals, groups, or communities based on race or color” (Bullard 451). America’s painful history of redlining and housing discrimination against Black people has resulted in damage to the environments in which many Black people live. The “flight” of vital services such as fresh produce from “food stores” to richer, often whiter areas, leaves communities of color with fast food and other nutrient-poor options from convenience stores (Bullard 447). This occurs in combination with the movement of families and local businesses who are forced to leave, as they can no longer afford to live in their gentrifying neighborhoods. Communities of color who shoulder the effects of environmental racism report that the “erosion of cultural anchors like community centers, culturally relevant businesses, faith institutions and service providers” impacts their emotional health as much as their physical health (An Unfair Share).

The effects of environmental racism on marginalized people also harm flora and fauna at the same time, emphasizing just how interconnected humanity and nature are. Bullard points out how unjust it is that Native reservations, being “quasi-sovereign” lands that are not subject to federal or state laws and protections, have become “prime targets for waste trading” (Bullard 454). This is aptly termed “radioactive colonialism”—the disastrous effects this toxic waste has on reservation soil will continue to poison Indigenous people, as well as their local animal populations and plant life, for decades. Habitat fragmentation in urban areas tells a similar story. Since “Black and brown and low-income neighborhoods” have been “devalued by the government because of redlining,” these areas are where urban planners are most likely to place disruptive projects (Weinberger). This is the case with the placement of Interstate 5. Scientist Christopher Schell explains how highways like these “[restrict] movement of animals,” resulting in “inbreeding and eventual extinction.” Loss of animal and plant species in already historically devalued areas leads to these primarily Black and brown neighborhoods being further and further devalued: a spiral of neglect and mistreatment.

These examples underscore how crucial it is for environmentalist movements to engage with racial justice. The covenant that binds humans to nature also binds us to one another—improving our relationship to nature implies repairing the relationship between the descendants of colonizers and the people who were and continue to be harmed by that hateful legacy. This is a lofty project—hence Cronon’s insistent reminder that nihilistic “solutions” such as ending all of humanity will not solve the climate crisis. So-called environmentalists who preach the prioritization of flora and fauna over human life are unintentionally—or, in the case of eco fascists, incredibly intentionally—feeding into the racist idea that eco-friendly ideology matters more than the lives of the people most vulnerable to ecological damage.

How, then, can humanity implement hesed, covenant love, in environmental activism from this point forwards? There is a growing push in Environmental Policy and Decision Making (EPDM) research to increase inclusivity and self-awareness by decentering western-centric study criteria. Bergold and Thomas explain the goals of one such method called Participatory Research. It seeks to establish a “democratic political framework” by centering input from “under-privileged demographic groups” and encouraging researchers to make “social commitment[s]” to the people and places they study (Bergold and Thomas 196). Forming genuine relationships with participants, finding material ways to compensate them and/or support their community overall, will build a foundation of trust, which is crucial to properly understand the environmental issues at hand. This trust will help participants and researchers create confidential “safe spaces” where disagreement and conflict can occur productively (Bergold and Thomas 196). Breaking down the separation between scientist and subject is also important to the Participatory Research method, which wants to reframe studies as joint projects between researchers and the people and environments of interest. Dismantling preconceived notions of what counts as useful data and who holds it allows “hegemonial knowledge” to be challenged and supplemented by other kinds of knowledge, such as the lived experiences and cultural knowledge of study participants (Bergold and Thomas 198). This allows for the final tenet of Participatory Research: sharing agency with participants. “Unless people,” meaning researchers as well as participant “(co-)researchers,” “are involved in decisions ... it is not participatory research” (Bergold and Thomas 200).

This emphasis on inclusion of marginalized input is modeled excellently by Jesus’s parables. A controversial figure in his time, Jesus—a human embodiment of God’s word—constantly pushes the boundaries of what devotion to God looks like and who is welcome to participate. McFague argues that the New Testament parables are “aesthetic object[s]” whose emphasis “on confrontation and decision” defy their audience’s interpretations; instead, it is the parables that perform readings of their audience, presenting them with controversial propositions intended to challenge their ideas of who and what can connect with God (McFague 266, 267). Jesus does this when he asks for a drink from the Samaritan woman at the well. This elicits surprise from both the woman and his disciples, as amicable interaction with someone from a group of people towards whom the Jews hold a reciprocal “hostility”—especially a woman from said group—is highly “unusual” (John 4.9n). Jesus goes on to welcome the Samaritan woman to his religious teaching: “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,” you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water” (John 4.10). Jesus asks the Samaritan woman for water because he would have happily offered nourishment to her had she approached him first. Water imagery can be traced back to many points throughout the Bible: the Flood narrative, the Nile river which Moses floated down, and so on. It is nourishment in literal and metaphorical terms. This interaction can thus be read as Jesus opening the covenant between God and Abraham—a connection built on love, loyalty, and ready action—to anyone outside the Jewish faith who is willing to contribute their part. This is what the Samaritan woman does next: she reenters the city and calls out “come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!” (John 4:29). She spreads the message—the legacy—of the care Jesus showed her.

Jesus offers acceptance both to outsiders and to those who have strayed from the path of faith in God. In fact, Jesus makes an effort to highlight the value that those who have sinned bring with them upon their return. At Simon’s house, a weeping woman kisses and anoints Jesus’s feet; Simon questions Jesus’s prophet status, thinking that had Jesus “known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner,” then Jesus would not be so willing to receive her ministrations. Jesus promptly forgives the woman for her sins, pointing out that this woman Simon looks down upon has shown far more kindness to Jesus than Simon himself did: “the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little” (Luke 7:47). This exchange makes the argument that those who have fallen out of favor with God develop a greater appreciation for him. Meanwhile, those with spotless records—rather, those who think themselves spotless—possess but a surface-level devotion to God. Compare this logic to the goals of Participatory Research and the parallel becomes apparent. Environmental racism is the product of Simon-adjacent thinking that considers people of color to be other and therefore expendable. Placing pollution-generating, habitat-disrupting highways through Black and brown neighborhoods makes sense, as this land is already low-value anyway—nevermind the decades of targeted, purposeful housing discrimation that relegated Black people to low-value areas in the first place (Weinberger). Breaking up these bigoted thought patterns is exactly what Participatory Research seeks to do by including researched communities in the study processes themselves; likewise, by valuing forms of data that are anecdotal, experiential, and otherwise outside the bounds of white Westerner’s ideas about what counts as science. Through this broadening the God-Abraham covenant, through this radically open, self-reflective perspective, Jesus taps into the regenerative potential of faith.

This regenerative potential resonates beyond the Biblical text, through Bullard’s rallying cry against systemic and environmental racism, through Cronon’s emphasis on the need for wilderness-humanity balance, right to the hesed core of any well-worn covenant. Within the pages of the Bible, the faithful find strength in reaching out towards a God who guides, admonishes, and learns from them as well. This narrative of deep reflection, of valuing storytelling, of radically broadening barriers to forgiveness and insight, is one environmentalism can draw strength from. The path to successful, inclusive, antiracist ecological healing is paved not with perfection or pessimism but with reparations, reckoning, and hope.

Bergold, Jarg, and Stefan Thomas. “Participatory Research Methods: A Methodological Approach in Motion.” Historical Social Research / Historische Sozialforschung 37.4 (2012). 191-222. Web. 2 May 2021.

Bullard, R. D. “The Legacy of American Apartheid and Environmental Racism.” Journal of Civil Rights and Economic Development 9.2 (1994). 445-474. Web. 2 May 2021.

Cronon, William. “The Trouble With Wilderness.” Uncommon Ground: Rethinking the Human Place in Nature. Ed. William Cronon. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1995. Web. 30 April 2021.

HarperCollins Study Bible. Edited by Harold W. Attridge and Wayne A. Meeks, HarperOne, 2006. Print.

Jacoby, Karl. Crimes Against Nature. Los Angeles: University of California, 2003. Print.

MacKenzie, R.A.F. Faith and History in the Old Testament. University of Minnesota Press, 1963. Print.

McFague, Sallie. Speaking in Parables: A Study in Metaphor and Theology. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975. Print.

Nash, Roderick. Wilderness and the American Mind. New Haven: Yale University, 2001. Print.

UW Climate Impacts Group, UW Department of Environmental and Occupational Health Sciences, Front and Centered and Urban@UW. An Unfair Share: Exploring the disproportionate risks from climate change facing Washington state communities. Seattle Foundation, 2018. Web. 2 May 2021.

Weinberger, Hannah. “UW research shows racism and redlining hurt local wildlife, too.” Crosscut. Aug 2020. Web. 2 May 2021.