I just read a great article about the $25 million prize being offered to an inventor who can figure out a way to get the carbon dioxide out of the air. What a terrible idea. Sharon Astyk has a much better solution. (She has a nice template for her blog, too.)
Al Gore really needs a veggie van...
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
can a business be born again?
John Mackey, the CEO and co-founder of Whole Foods Market, writes in his blog about the idea of conscious capitalism. He believes that it's possible--and even necessary--for companies to pursue something in addition to profit. He points out that businesses almost always begin with a purpose in addition to profit. Entreprenuers, after all, don't start businesses only because they want to make money. They start businesses because they want to work for themselves, or because they want to prove something, or because they are idealists and want to improve something in the world, or because they want to do something beautiful or heroic. They are human, and they have ideas that are bigger than dollar signs.
Furthermore, Mackey believes that the most successful businesses continue throughout their existence to pursue ideals in addition to profit. And it's possible for a business to be even more successful by keeping those ideals. Whole Foods, he believes, has done that; so have Google and Starbucks.
I've heard the argument before; I met a woman at a tea shop once who started a company for the purpose of helping corporations do just that. The mission of her company, essentially, is to help corporations find a purpose beyond mere profit. Because, I guess, money can't buy happiness for corporations, either. Even businesses need some kind of meaning in life.
On the other side of the argument, I've been reading Capitalism 3.0 by Peter Barnes, who says that businesses are set up to pursue profits and can't do anything else. He suggests that the solution to the current stand-off between business and the environment is to set the environment up as an economic player in our current economic system, so that its needs will become a financial consideration for businesses. Because, he says, corporations have to pursue profit above everything else. It's in their nature; it's how they're made. If you want them to really care about something, you have to make it expensive for them to not care.
Which leaves the obvious question: who's right? Are corporations capable of pursuing parallel goals? Does a for-profit company have the ability to really care about anything other than its bottom line? Can businesses repent from their selfish, money-grabbing ways and be born again into a better way of life?
Not to be heretical or anything. But it does seem to me that asking corporations to be so, well, spiritual might be asking a bit much. I mean, they have many of the same legal rights as individuals under our political system. But that doesn't mean they have souls.
The heart of Mackey's argument is that "we don't live in a zero sum world." In a zero sum world, gain on one side--say, the environmental side--would mean loss on the other side--the profit side. But Mackey believes that "we live in an interdependent world where the flourishing of the various stakeholders creates mutual benefits for each other." Theoretically, of course, he's absolutely right. We do live in an interdependent world, and the relatedness of everything, though hard to swallow for us American individualists, is one of the truths of Christianity. But is it possible for businesses to intrinsically change their awareness of that interdependence? Is it possible for them to look beyond next quarter's profits into the interdependent needs of the future? Maybe. But based on past experience, I doubt it.
Furthermore, Mackey believes that the most successful businesses continue throughout their existence to pursue ideals in addition to profit. And it's possible for a business to be even more successful by keeping those ideals. Whole Foods, he believes, has done that; so have Google and Starbucks.
I've heard the argument before; I met a woman at a tea shop once who started a company for the purpose of helping corporations do just that. The mission of her company, essentially, is to help corporations find a purpose beyond mere profit. Because, I guess, money can't buy happiness for corporations, either. Even businesses need some kind of meaning in life.
On the other side of the argument, I've been reading Capitalism 3.0 by Peter Barnes, who says that businesses are set up to pursue profits and can't do anything else. He suggests that the solution to the current stand-off between business and the environment is to set the environment up as an economic player in our current economic system, so that its needs will become a financial consideration for businesses. Because, he says, corporations have to pursue profit above everything else. It's in their nature; it's how they're made. If you want them to really care about something, you have to make it expensive for them to not care.
Which leaves the obvious question: who's right? Are corporations capable of pursuing parallel goals? Does a for-profit company have the ability to really care about anything other than its bottom line? Can businesses repent from their selfish, money-grabbing ways and be born again into a better way of life?
Not to be heretical or anything. But it does seem to me that asking corporations to be so, well, spiritual might be asking a bit much. I mean, they have many of the same legal rights as individuals under our political system. But that doesn't mean they have souls.
The heart of Mackey's argument is that "we don't live in a zero sum world." In a zero sum world, gain on one side--say, the environmental side--would mean loss on the other side--the profit side. But Mackey believes that "we live in an interdependent world where the flourishing of the various stakeholders creates mutual benefits for each other." Theoretically, of course, he's absolutely right. We do live in an interdependent world, and the relatedness of everything, though hard to swallow for us American individualists, is one of the truths of Christianity. But is it possible for businesses to intrinsically change their awareness of that interdependence? Is it possible for them to look beyond next quarter's profits into the interdependent needs of the future? Maybe. But based on past experience, I doubt it.
Monday, February 26, 2007
local lent: the third noodle
Here is the recipe I used for the last of the squash on Friday. It was delicious, and I still have some left over. However, I don't think I'm going to be able to stick with local food for all of this week. I went to the farmer's market on Saturday, but I don't think I bought enough to last for a week. Tonight, though, I'm going to try roasted beets, which sounds exciting, and I'll probably make the mashed rutabagas again later in the week. And there's still some miso soup left over, but I have a feeling that wouldn't go very well with beets. So tonight we'll have a salad (I still have plenty of greens) and some of the leftover squash.
But first I have to get some rosemary from my garden...
But first I have to get some rosemary from my garden...
Friday, February 23, 2007
a comment on the oil drum
I just read this very interesting article on The Oil Drum. Before you click, let me make two disclaimers: one, it's very lengthy and a bit dry if you're not into numbers, and two, it's based on human evolution as a basic premise, so if that will offend you, then maybe you shouldn't read it. But what I found especially interesting about it was this: the article talks about how difficult it is for humans to forego any short-term pleasure, and one of the comments suggests that religion is one of the few (if not the only) force in modern society that really does help us do that. This is exactly why I consider being an environmentalist such a Christian activity: so much of what those two commitments ask of us is complentary, or even the same. Give more. Take less. Pay attention to the needs of those around you. And take good care of the things you have power over, knowing that they don't belong to you.
local lent: the second noodle
After nearly a week of trying to eat locally, I have one thing to say: Thank goodness for leftovers.
My biggest fear this week was that I wouldn't have enough food to last through the week. And, well, I'm still not quite sure what we're going to eat tonight. But my second meal lasted quite well: miso soup and stir-fry bok choi. I didn't actually follow the miso soup recipe at all, except for the miso, but I used the Japanese turnip I'd bought at the farmer's market, and of course the carrots as well. I didn't have any dashi, so I used water with a little salt and soy sauce. I didn't use any chicken, of course, or any substitute for it. But--rather to my surprise--the soup turned out excellent.
For the bok choi I used peanut oil, and I mixed taksoi with the bok choi because I was afraid of not having enough. It was incredible; I don't know if I've ever had such a good stir-fry. And it was surprisingly filling. There's a lot more to miso than meets the eye.
My biggest fear this week was that I wouldn't have enough food to last through the week. And, well, I'm still not quite sure what we're going to eat tonight. But my second meal lasted quite well: miso soup and stir-fry bok choi. I didn't actually follow the miso soup recipe at all, except for the miso, but I used the Japanese turnip I'd bought at the farmer's market, and of course the carrots as well. I didn't have any dashi, so I used water with a little salt and soy sauce. I didn't use any chicken, of course, or any substitute for it. But--rather to my surprise--the soup turned out excellent.
For the bok choi I used peanut oil, and I mixed taksoi with the bok choi because I was afraid of not having enough. It was incredible; I don't know if I've ever had such a good stir-fry. And it was surprisingly filling. There's a lot more to miso than meets the eye.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
green lent
Apparently I'm not the only one trying it! Here's an Episcopal priest who has a whole blog about greening Lent, and the evangelical ecologist has some suggestions as well.
compassionate environmentalism
In light of statements like this, I don't understand how anyone who's a Christian--or even a reasonably compassionate person--can not be an environmentalist. While the American press debates whether climate change is really happening or is really influenced by human activities, this Nambian journalist states plainly that not only is it happening, but it's one of the greatest threats to Nambia's future development. This is one of the most terrible truths about climate change: those who are least to blame for it are most vulnerable to it, and those who are most to blame for it are least willing to believe it even exists. Could there be a better example of an opportunity for us to care for our neighbors? But we would rather stand around debating how much of the responsibility is really ours, while our actions continue to destroy them. Tell me again, we say: Who exactly is my neighbor? Can't I find a loophole somewhere in my responsibility toward him?
In our Step It Up Atlanta planning meetings, we've been discussing how to build the connection in people's minds between climate change and social justice. To me, the connection is so obvious as to be self-evident. Even apart from the danger of climate change, environmentalism and social justice ought to always be so closely intertwined as to be inseparable. People find easy excuses for themselves by dividing them: they argue that humans are more important than fish or sea turtles, and so they care more about social issues than environmentalism. But the reality is that they aren't separate at all. You can't distinguish between caring for your human and your nonhuman neighbors, because they are all your neighbors. Real compassion has nothing to do with the one who is receiving compassion; it has to do with the one giving it. A man who is kind to a dog will also be kind to his neighbor, because he understands that compassion and mercy are virtues we must practice all the time, toward everyone and everything around us. Because real compassion has nothing to do with the worthiness of the one receiving it. And practicing carelessness toward sea turtles builds a habit of dispassion that will eventually spill over toward people, too.
In our Step It Up Atlanta planning meetings, we've been discussing how to build the connection in people's minds between climate change and social justice. To me, the connection is so obvious as to be self-evident. Even apart from the danger of climate change, environmentalism and social justice ought to always be so closely intertwined as to be inseparable. People find easy excuses for themselves by dividing them: they argue that humans are more important than fish or sea turtles, and so they care more about social issues than environmentalism. But the reality is that they aren't separate at all. You can't distinguish between caring for your human and your nonhuman neighbors, because they are all your neighbors. Real compassion has nothing to do with the one who is receiving compassion; it has to do with the one giving it. A man who is kind to a dog will also be kind to his neighbor, because he understands that compassion and mercy are virtues we must practice all the time, toward everyone and everything around us. Because real compassion has nothing to do with the worthiness of the one receiving it. And practicing carelessness toward sea turtles builds a habit of dispassion that will eventually spill over toward people, too.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
peak oil in the complacent south
Even the Atlanta Journal and Constitution is expressing sincere concerns about the reality of peak oil. And not about whether it will happen. They're talking about whether it already has.
local lent: the first noodle
Noodles are blog posts which describe the writer's daily activities, such as eating, reading, or watching television. It is generally considered advisable for serious bloggers to avoid noodle posts, as few readers are interested in hearing about the ordinary routines of life. Unless, of course, they have good reason to be curious about someone else's breakfast.
Monday was the first day of Orthodox Lent, and I actually didn't eat breakfast. Nor lunch. I did have tea, which is of course not local, but as that wasn't a meal, it doesn't count.
So my first local meal was Monday night dinner. I decided to start with the southern-themed meal, feeling that a regional theme was appropriate under the circumstances. I used this recipe for the squash, except that it was yellow squash instead of acorn squash, and I substituted local honey for the maple syrup. This recipe made a good side dish of mashed rutabegas, and of course a side salad was easy, with all my winter greens.
The meal was delicious, for a whole host of reasons beyond the obvious. It was my first time eating rutabegas, and I was surprised to discover that I love them (I will definitely try to grow them myself next year). I had never eaten plain baked squash either, but I was amazed by how sweet and filling it was. And I didn't even miss having grains in the meal. But beyond the simple taste, beyond mere hunger, there was something tremendously satisfying about this meal. I ate more thoughtfully, more intentionally. I was more aware. This was more than a meal; it was a story, a story that I became a part of. And in sensing the bigness of the story that began before me and will continue after me, in connecting with the grandeur of creation, I can recognize more fully the grandeur of God. All this can be contained, or at least glimpsed, in a meal that is eaten thoughtfully, with awareness of all that goes into it to make it what it is, and all this I tasted on the first evening of Lent.
Monday was the first day of Orthodox Lent, and I actually didn't eat breakfast. Nor lunch. I did have tea, which is of course not local, but as that wasn't a meal, it doesn't count.
So my first local meal was Monday night dinner. I decided to start with the southern-themed meal, feeling that a regional theme was appropriate under the circumstances. I used this recipe for the squash, except that it was yellow squash instead of acorn squash, and I substituted local honey for the maple syrup. This recipe made a good side dish of mashed rutabegas, and of course a side salad was easy, with all my winter greens.
The meal was delicious, for a whole host of reasons beyond the obvious. It was my first time eating rutabegas, and I was surprised to discover that I love them (I will definitely try to grow them myself next year). I had never eaten plain baked squash either, but I was amazed by how sweet and filling it was. And I didn't even miss having grains in the meal. But beyond the simple taste, beyond mere hunger, there was something tremendously satisfying about this meal. I ate more thoughtfully, more intentionally. I was more aware. This was more than a meal; it was a story, a story that I became a part of. And in sensing the bigness of the story that began before me and will continue after me, in connecting with the grandeur of creation, I can recognize more fully the grandeur of God. All this can be contained, or at least glimpsed, in a meal that is eaten thoughtfully, with awareness of all that goes into it to make it what it is, and all this I tasted on the first evening of Lent.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
local lent: finding food
How hard is it to find local food in Atlanta?
In some ways, it's easier than I expected. Atlanta boasts one of the most car-centric downtowns and the worst suburban sprawl in the nation, but it also enjoys one rare advantage: a year-round farmer's market. In the summertime, Morningside Market is a bursting corner of music, flowers, vegetables, and fruit. In the winter, things are a lot smaller, calmer, and colder. But it's still there, and that's more than you can say for most farmer's markets.
Morningside is only open on Saturday mornings, so we reluctantly got up early. It was freezing cold--probably around 20 degrees--which effectively squelched our original plan to ride bikes. I think if I'd been going by myself, I might have been just dumb enough to still try it, but my husband reminded me that we didn't know how much we'd be carrying back. So we took the car, and since the market is less than two miles from our house, it didn't add too much to our food miles.
There were only about four farms there, but I was pleasantly surprised at how much diversity they had. Lots of greens, of course, and many of them had courteously put salad mixes of winter greens into bags, ready to sell. I bought two: one with kale, chard, and arugula, and the other with collards and cabbage.
But man cannot live on salad alone, and my next (rather more daunting) task was to find something we could use for our main dishes. There was one beef farmer represented, but meat's not included in an Orthodox Lenten diet, so I had to find vegetables that could work for a main course. I prefer to eat vegetarian anyway, so that wasn't a problem. The problem--which I realized as soon as I started looking at the options--is that I'm simply not used to cooking winter vegetables.
I've read that most people only eat a small variety of different foods; I think the average was around 20 or 30 basic types of food, if that much. It's strange, but in a way, the fact that we have so many choices actually means we eat less variety. Because our favorite dishes are available year-round, we just eat the same thing over and over. I don't think I've ever made a vegetarian meal, for example, that didn't use tomatoes. But there were no tomatoes at the farmer's market on Saturday.
What there was at the market was a lot of vegetables I'd never used before, and some I didn't even recognize. I ended up buying mostly vegetables I'd never cooked, and probably never even eaten, before: rutabegas, some obscure variety of turnip, bok choy, and tatsoi. And some carrots and yellow squash.
Once I had my vegetables, I could start to plan what I would cook. I decided I had two basic meal possibilities: the rutabegas and squash could go in a southern meal, while the turnip and greens could make an Asian meal (one of the sellers told me that the turnip went well in miso soup, and a customer said the bok choy and tatsoi would be good in a stir-fry). But when I went online to look up recipes, I realized I was going to have another problem.
I'm not an experienced cook; I try not to experiment too much with recipes. When I do make substitutions, I usually regret it. But the problem was that all recipes take for granted the availability of basic spices. And you generally can't get spices locally. There's a reason why spices have been considered a luxury through most of history: they really can't grow everywhere.
I did, however, have one more trick up my sleeve: Sevenanda. Sevenanda is a locally owned co-op grocery that frequently carries local food. Whether it would offer what I needed to pull together a couple of decent meals was a separate question, but I decided to at least try.
So on Monday I made the most unusual grocery list I have ever made. I looked up three or four different recipes involving squash and rutabegas, giving priority to the recipes requiring as few ingredients as possible. Then I made lists of what I still needed for each recipe, keeping my ideas flexible until I could see what was available. Armed with that, I hopped on my bike and rode to Sevenanda.
But I was disappointed. I did manage to find some locally-prepared vegetarian snacks (thank goodness, because by then I was starving). But there was no way I could find butter, sugar, salt, or pepper that was grown locally. And my own herb garden, with parsley, rosemary, and thyme, wasn't much help either.
By this time, I was getting desperate. I was starting to feel like this idea was a little rash. It was one thing to eat unseasoned food myself--but was it really fair to ask that of my husband?
I finally decided to compromise. Is it cheating if I use seasonings I bought at the locally owned co-op? At least the money is still going back into my community, even if the food didn't come from here. I'm going to attempt to improve my methods as the week goes on. But if you think I'm cheating, don't be too harsh with me; try this yourself first. It's harder than it looks.
In some ways, it's easier than I expected. Atlanta boasts one of the most car-centric downtowns and the worst suburban sprawl in the nation, but it also enjoys one rare advantage: a year-round farmer's market. In the summertime, Morningside Market is a bursting corner of music, flowers, vegetables, and fruit. In the winter, things are a lot smaller, calmer, and colder. But it's still there, and that's more than you can say for most farmer's markets.
Morningside is only open on Saturday mornings, so we reluctantly got up early. It was freezing cold--probably around 20 degrees--which effectively squelched our original plan to ride bikes. I think if I'd been going by myself, I might have been just dumb enough to still try it, but my husband reminded me that we didn't know how much we'd be carrying back. So we took the car, and since the market is less than two miles from our house, it didn't add too much to our food miles.
There were only about four farms there, but I was pleasantly surprised at how much diversity they had. Lots of greens, of course, and many of them had courteously put salad mixes of winter greens into bags, ready to sell. I bought two: one with kale, chard, and arugula, and the other with collards and cabbage.
But man cannot live on salad alone, and my next (rather more daunting) task was to find something we could use for our main dishes. There was one beef farmer represented, but meat's not included in an Orthodox Lenten diet, so I had to find vegetables that could work for a main course. I prefer to eat vegetarian anyway, so that wasn't a problem. The problem--which I realized as soon as I started looking at the options--is that I'm simply not used to cooking winter vegetables.
I've read that most people only eat a small variety of different foods; I think the average was around 20 or 30 basic types of food, if that much. It's strange, but in a way, the fact that we have so many choices actually means we eat less variety. Because our favorite dishes are available year-round, we just eat the same thing over and over. I don't think I've ever made a vegetarian meal, for example, that didn't use tomatoes. But there were no tomatoes at the farmer's market on Saturday.
What there was at the market was a lot of vegetables I'd never used before, and some I didn't even recognize. I ended up buying mostly vegetables I'd never cooked, and probably never even eaten, before: rutabegas, some obscure variety of turnip, bok choy, and tatsoi. And some carrots and yellow squash.
Once I had my vegetables, I could start to plan what I would cook. I decided I had two basic meal possibilities: the rutabegas and squash could go in a southern meal, while the turnip and greens could make an Asian meal (one of the sellers told me that the turnip went well in miso soup, and a customer said the bok choy and tatsoi would be good in a stir-fry). But when I went online to look up recipes, I realized I was going to have another problem.
I'm not an experienced cook; I try not to experiment too much with recipes. When I do make substitutions, I usually regret it. But the problem was that all recipes take for granted the availability of basic spices. And you generally can't get spices locally. There's a reason why spices have been considered a luxury through most of history: they really can't grow everywhere.
I did, however, have one more trick up my sleeve: Sevenanda. Sevenanda is a locally owned co-op grocery that frequently carries local food. Whether it would offer what I needed to pull together a couple of decent meals was a separate question, but I decided to at least try.
So on Monday I made the most unusual grocery list I have ever made. I looked up three or four different recipes involving squash and rutabegas, giving priority to the recipes requiring as few ingredients as possible. Then I made lists of what I still needed for each recipe, keeping my ideas flexible until I could see what was available. Armed with that, I hopped on my bike and rode to Sevenanda.
But I was disappointed. I did manage to find some locally-prepared vegetarian snacks (thank goodness, because by then I was starving). But there was no way I could find butter, sugar, salt, or pepper that was grown locally. And my own herb garden, with parsley, rosemary, and thyme, wasn't much help either.
By this time, I was getting desperate. I was starting to feel like this idea was a little rash. It was one thing to eat unseasoned food myself--but was it really fair to ask that of my husband?
I finally decided to compromise. Is it cheating if I use seasonings I bought at the locally owned co-op? At least the money is still going back into my community, even if the food didn't come from here. I'm going to attempt to improve my methods as the week goes on. But if you think I'm cheating, don't be too harsh with me; try this yourself first. It's harder than it looks.
Monday, February 19, 2007
local lent
I thought this was a perfect introduction to something I'd been planning for a while to write about today. In the Orthodox church calendar, today is the first day of Lent. (Catholics and Protestants, of course, don't start Lent until Ash Wednesday, but since I've been going to an Orthodox church, I thought it was worth starting my series of articles on the season today.) In my old southern Baptist church, Lent wasn't something I grew up with; I don't remember really even hearing of it until after I was adult. The first time I remember celebrating Lent was when I was working as the middle school youth director at a Presbyterian Church. Not being entirely sure what Lent was, I was rather disconcerted on the Sunday before Ash Wednesday when several of the girls in my youth group asked me what I was giving up for Lent. Giving up?!? I thought wildly. For Lent? I racked my brains. What exactly was Lent? I thought it had something to do with Catholics and Mardi Gras. "Um..." I stalled for time. "I don't know yet," I said finally. "What are you giving up?"
"Coke," the girl said promptly. "Chocolate," said another. I stared at both of them. No Coke? No chocolate?!? Were they insane? Exactly how long did Lent last, anyway?
I've progressed at least a little in my understanding of Lent since that rather simplistic introduction. But my general idea of what it's about, and what it means, has changed very little: I have always thought of Lent as a time for giving something up. As a Presbyterian, of course, I was generally allowed to choose something I wanted to give up, and I usually picked something that wasn't too much of a sacrifice: one year, for instance, I gave up listening to the radio in the car, and liked it so much that I've since made a habit of it. But I've never given up anything that I was particularly fond of, and chocolate, of course, has always been immune from consideration.
But this year I've been going to an Orthodox church, and there I've discovered an entirely different perspective on Lent. In my first discussion with someone at church on the subject of fasting, I was startled by his adamant insistence that fasting has nothing to do with giving something up. "It's not about sacrificing or being unhappy," he said; "it's about eating in a way that's appropriate for the season." Lent is a season of repentence, of mourning, and of preparation for the Easter celebration. As an outward sign of inward repentence, it's appropriate that Lent be marked by less food, by greater seriousness, and by fewer frivolous pursuits.
But the traditional concept of Lent, though it touches on everything from the way you work to the way you use your free time, still centers around the question of food. Orthodox Christians regularly undergo strict dietary changes during Lent: they eat no meat or meat products; they eat no dairy; they eat no wine or oil. In effect, they become vegans--and teetolars to boot.
It's done, of course, for spiritual reasons. But I still find it fascinating that this ancient form of Christianity calls for long periods of time on a diet that many environmentalists are now recognizing as one of the simplest and most effective ways to combat climate change and energy waste. Studies have demonstrated many positive environmental impacts of switching to a vegan diet.
And there's another connection between the traditional observance of Lent and a diet that's better for the environment: the concept of seasons. If Lent is about eating what's appropriate for the season, then perhaps there are few better ways to practice that fully than by eating local, seasonal food. There are a litany of reasons why local food is better for the environment: it uses less oil for transporting food over long distances; fewer chemical preservatives are needed to extend the shelf life; and farms that sell locally are frequently smaller farms that use more sustainable practices than the agribusiness farms that sell to grocery stores.
And so, I've decided to being my own celebration of Lent by attempting to eat in a way that is fully appropriate for this season. I'll try to follow the vegan diet that is the traditional observance of Orthodoxy (I say try, because, after all, I never have given up chocolate for Lent before!). But I will also spend the first week of Lent on a more strict diet: all my meals will consist of only local food.
Not being entirely sure just how difficult this might be, I'm only committing to a week right now. The first week of Lent, after all, is traditionally the most strict, and I might find that cooking locally is just too difficult to keep up for fifty-seven days. But then again--who knows? Maybe this will be the beginning of a whole new way of life.
"Coke," the girl said promptly. "Chocolate," said another. I stared at both of them. No Coke? No chocolate?!? Were they insane? Exactly how long did Lent last, anyway?
I've progressed at least a little in my understanding of Lent since that rather simplistic introduction. But my general idea of what it's about, and what it means, has changed very little: I have always thought of Lent as a time for giving something up. As a Presbyterian, of course, I was generally allowed to choose something I wanted to give up, and I usually picked something that wasn't too much of a sacrifice: one year, for instance, I gave up listening to the radio in the car, and liked it so much that I've since made a habit of it. But I've never given up anything that I was particularly fond of, and chocolate, of course, has always been immune from consideration.
But this year I've been going to an Orthodox church, and there I've discovered an entirely different perspective on Lent. In my first discussion with someone at church on the subject of fasting, I was startled by his adamant insistence that fasting has nothing to do with giving something up. "It's not about sacrificing or being unhappy," he said; "it's about eating in a way that's appropriate for the season." Lent is a season of repentence, of mourning, and of preparation for the Easter celebration. As an outward sign of inward repentence, it's appropriate that Lent be marked by less food, by greater seriousness, and by fewer frivolous pursuits.
But the traditional concept of Lent, though it touches on everything from the way you work to the way you use your free time, still centers around the question of food. Orthodox Christians regularly undergo strict dietary changes during Lent: they eat no meat or meat products; they eat no dairy; they eat no wine or oil. In effect, they become vegans--and teetolars to boot.
It's done, of course, for spiritual reasons. But I still find it fascinating that this ancient form of Christianity calls for long periods of time on a diet that many environmentalists are now recognizing as one of the simplest and most effective ways to combat climate change and energy waste. Studies have demonstrated many positive environmental impacts of switching to a vegan diet.
And there's another connection between the traditional observance of Lent and a diet that's better for the environment: the concept of seasons. If Lent is about eating what's appropriate for the season, then perhaps there are few better ways to practice that fully than by eating local, seasonal food. There are a litany of reasons why local food is better for the environment: it uses less oil for transporting food over long distances; fewer chemical preservatives are needed to extend the shelf life; and farms that sell locally are frequently smaller farms that use more sustainable practices than the agribusiness farms that sell to grocery stores.
And so, I've decided to being my own celebration of Lent by attempting to eat in a way that is fully appropriate for this season. I'll try to follow the vegan diet that is the traditional observance of Orthodoxy (I say try, because, after all, I never have given up chocolate for Lent before!). But I will also spend the first week of Lent on a more strict diet: all my meals will consist of only local food.
Not being entirely sure just how difficult this might be, I'm only committing to a week right now. The first week of Lent, after all, is traditionally the most strict, and I might find that cooking locally is just too difficult to keep up for fifty-seven days. But then again--who knows? Maybe this will be the beginning of a whole new way of life.
Friday, February 16, 2007
the real solution to climate change
The real solution to climate change is explained quite eloquently here. Let me summarize: the solution is not clean cars or hybrids or biofuels or carbon emissions caps or geothermal electricity. The solution is mass transit.
No other method would reduce carbon emissions so quickly, efficiently, and elegantly as a massive shift in the popularity of mass transit. Mass transit is effective at reducing traffic, congestion, pollution, carbon emissions, and accident deaths if--and only if--it is used by a large enough percentage of people traveling. Low-use mass transit is worse than solo driving. But mass transit is better than any of the solutions politicians and lobbyist groups are so excited about today for a host of reasons, the most obvious of which is that it requires absolutely no technological breakthroughs in order to be effective. All it requires is a psychological breakthrough--a shift in the way Americans think and what they expect, and therefore a shift in the way they behave.
Would it be un-American for politicians to push for a shift away from the mass use of cars as primary means of transportation? Well, maybe. But here's an idea that's perfectly capitalist and American: what if we put the real cost of using cars back on the consumer, while shifting some of the subsidies currently going to cars back to where they benefit everyone in mass transit solutions? What if we decreased subsidies to highways and increased highway tolls? What if we subsidized mass transit solutions and delegated funds away from new roads and toward new railways instead? What if we taxed gas? If it were more expensive to drive and more convenient to take mass transit, then consumers would willingly choose the more convenient, more healthy, less expensive solution.
And even apart from climate change, traffic, and peak oil, mass transit is good for a whole host of reasons. It forces you to rub shoulders with your neighbors, even if they look different from you. It helps you battle individualism and recognize your interdependence with those around you. It allows you to rely on others outside of yourself. All of these are very Christian disciplines.
Oh, but wait--I think those are exactly the reasons why Americans don't like it.
No other method would reduce carbon emissions so quickly, efficiently, and elegantly as a massive shift in the popularity of mass transit. Mass transit is effective at reducing traffic, congestion, pollution, carbon emissions, and accident deaths if--and only if--it is used by a large enough percentage of people traveling. Low-use mass transit is worse than solo driving. But mass transit is better than any of the solutions politicians and lobbyist groups are so excited about today for a host of reasons, the most obvious of which is that it requires absolutely no technological breakthroughs in order to be effective. All it requires is a psychological breakthrough--a shift in the way Americans think and what they expect, and therefore a shift in the way they behave.
Would it be un-American for politicians to push for a shift away from the mass use of cars as primary means of transportation? Well, maybe. But here's an idea that's perfectly capitalist and American: what if we put the real cost of using cars back on the consumer, while shifting some of the subsidies currently going to cars back to where they benefit everyone in mass transit solutions? What if we decreased subsidies to highways and increased highway tolls? What if we subsidized mass transit solutions and delegated funds away from new roads and toward new railways instead? What if we taxed gas? If it were more expensive to drive and more convenient to take mass transit, then consumers would willingly choose the more convenient, more healthy, less expensive solution.
And even apart from climate change, traffic, and peak oil, mass transit is good for a whole host of reasons. It forces you to rub shoulders with your neighbors, even if they look different from you. It helps you battle individualism and recognize your interdependence with those around you. It allows you to rely on others outside of yourself. All of these are very Christian disciplines.
Oh, but wait--I think those are exactly the reasons why Americans don't like it.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
the idolatry of unlimited growth
I've never read this newsletter before, and I have a feeling I would disagree with a lot of it. But I really liked this article on "Hybrids, Biofuels, and Other False Idols." I find it fascinating that the editor for a Green Party magazine takes such a spiritual approach to his criticism of the car culture.
Perhaps most interesting to me in this article is the contrast that Fritz draws between "deep greens," who want to reform the social and ideological factors that have brought our culture to the place where we are, and "shallow greens," who just want to keep reforming the system. I am definitely a deep green, and I have often felt frustrated with the perspective of shallow greens who can't seem to see where the problems really lie. It seems so wasteful to me to just improve the system--use hybrids, eat industrial organic food--without exploring the underlying mindset that has brought us to a place where such things can even exist.
Fritz mentions, for example, the "moral and political dilemmas of a growth economy." Just hinting at this idea in most circles has freqently gotten me called an anti-American communist--a label to which I particularly object, since I lived in Eastern Europe for a year and have seen the effects of communism firsthand. The ideology--or perhaps I should say the idolotry--of growth has roots deep in American practice, but it has only recently become an explicitly defended American ideal. Early America grew because she could; early colonists were eager to take over the space that was, in their minds, mostly empty and free for the taking. But they did so in a way that was, as far as they were able, careful, thrifty, and economical. Frontier America was notoriously frugal; even today, traditional American communities--farm communities and small towns--are still known for the value of "waste not, want not."
It was only in my generation, the "me" generation of the eighties, that unlimited spending and wasteful extravagance became the ideal of a new culture. It was Generation X that invented the saying that has come to summarize all of American culture: "He who dies with the most toys wins." And this is a good summary of what an unlimited growth economy really is: the insistence that there must always be more inputs coming into the system. Our economy today is founded on that principle; there must always be more spending, more products, more growth. Staying the same is not an option; to stop expanding is to fall into a recession. And that is why the American people have been transformed into consumers rather than citizens. Once we had bought everything we needed, the producers and sellers had to invent more needs for us so that we would continue to buy, continuing to invest into the system so the economy could continue to grow. It's an endless cycle of spending and waste.
An economy of unlimited growth is not an American ideal; it is a recent phenomonon, and it is impossible, in practical terms, that it will last. But never mind that. I am much less concerned with whether it's an American ideal than with whether it's a Christian ideal. And the answer to that, I think, is so obvious as to hardly merit discussion. Placing our worth in the things we own and collect is not at all a Christian attitude; there could hardly be a less Christian way of living. Always thinking we need more--the next best technology, the next best entertainment--drives our attention to the physical world and captures our hearts with earthly things. It is hard, very hard, to pay attention to the spiritual when your mind is so focused on the physical. We have become a caricature of the parable of the man who kept building more and bigger barns, blithely unaware that it was not more money, but his very soul, that he would soon have to pay.
Perhaps most interesting to me in this article is the contrast that Fritz draws between "deep greens," who want to reform the social and ideological factors that have brought our culture to the place where we are, and "shallow greens," who just want to keep reforming the system. I am definitely a deep green, and I have often felt frustrated with the perspective of shallow greens who can't seem to see where the problems really lie. It seems so wasteful to me to just improve the system--use hybrids, eat industrial organic food--without exploring the underlying mindset that has brought us to a place where such things can even exist.
Fritz mentions, for example, the "moral and political dilemmas of a growth economy." Just hinting at this idea in most circles has freqently gotten me called an anti-American communist--a label to which I particularly object, since I lived in Eastern Europe for a year and have seen the effects of communism firsthand. The ideology--or perhaps I should say the idolotry--of growth has roots deep in American practice, but it has only recently become an explicitly defended American ideal. Early America grew because she could; early colonists were eager to take over the space that was, in their minds, mostly empty and free for the taking. But they did so in a way that was, as far as they were able, careful, thrifty, and economical. Frontier America was notoriously frugal; even today, traditional American communities--farm communities and small towns--are still known for the value of "waste not, want not."
It was only in my generation, the "me" generation of the eighties, that unlimited spending and wasteful extravagance became the ideal of a new culture. It was Generation X that invented the saying that has come to summarize all of American culture: "He who dies with the most toys wins." And this is a good summary of what an unlimited growth economy really is: the insistence that there must always be more inputs coming into the system. Our economy today is founded on that principle; there must always be more spending, more products, more growth. Staying the same is not an option; to stop expanding is to fall into a recession. And that is why the American people have been transformed into consumers rather than citizens. Once we had bought everything we needed, the producers and sellers had to invent more needs for us so that we would continue to buy, continuing to invest into the system so the economy could continue to grow. It's an endless cycle of spending and waste.
An economy of unlimited growth is not an American ideal; it is a recent phenomonon, and it is impossible, in practical terms, that it will last. But never mind that. I am much less concerned with whether it's an American ideal than with whether it's a Christian ideal. And the answer to that, I think, is so obvious as to hardly merit discussion. Placing our worth in the things we own and collect is not at all a Christian attitude; there could hardly be a less Christian way of living. Always thinking we need more--the next best technology, the next best entertainment--drives our attention to the physical world and captures our hearts with earthly things. It is hard, very hard, to pay attention to the spiritual when your mind is so focused on the physical. We have become a caricature of the parable of the man who kept building more and bigger barns, blithely unaware that it was not more money, but his very soul, that he would soon have to pay.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
more powerful than we know
At our Atlanta Beyond Oil meeting last night, the first of the arguments against Christian environmentalism that I listed in my last post was brought up: the argument that God wouldn't allow humans to become powerful enough to destroy the earth. I didn't bother refuting this in my last post, simply because it has always struck me as too absurd to be worth denying. But according to the speaker we heard last night from Georgia Interfaith Power and Light, it's an argument that is still often cited, so I'll attempt to address it.
The most obvious Christian response to this argument is the passage so often used as an excuse to destroy the earth: Genesis 1:28, which speaks of man's "rule" or "stewardship" over the earth. This has often been misunderstood as permission for us to use the earth however we want. But the inevitable other side of the coin is the understanding that we do have power over the earth--power to destroy as well as to care for. If we really are stewards, then we have the power to waste as well as to nurture.
And even apart from the implication of that verse, there are numerous passages that speak specifically of the influence of man's actions--and especially man's evil--on the earth. Take Romans 8:
And perhaps it's that, more than anything else, that makes me an environmentalist. The idea of individual responsibility is one I prefer not to emphasize in comparison to corporate responsibility, because I think personal choice and responsibility has become overly important in our individualistic American culture. But the dichotomy I feel between the two is strangely ironic, because, although Christian theology is far more communal and corporate than American society, it was Christianity that first brought the individual and his importance to reality in the ancient world. Individuals were nothing until Christ came along. And so I think the power of even an individual over his environment and the world--the influence that each of us has--is still a very Christian understanding.
Last night at our ABO meeting, one of the scientists present brought up the IPCC reports on climate change. He pointed out the fact that the IPCC has to run numerous varieties of "adaptation scenarios," because we can't predict what the results of climate change will be just by looking at the data. We can't predict the results with any kind of scientific certainty for one simple reason: one of the most important factors in predicting the future is the human element. The human response, and the changes we make or don't make, will have a huge impact on the end result. What we do does make a difference. What you and I do, individually, makes a bigger difference than we know.
The most obvious Christian response to this argument is the passage so often used as an excuse to destroy the earth: Genesis 1:28, which speaks of man's "rule" or "stewardship" over the earth. This has often been misunderstood as permission for us to use the earth however we want. But the inevitable other side of the coin is the understanding that we do have power over the earth--power to destroy as well as to care for. If we really are stewards, then we have the power to waste as well as to nurture.
And even apart from the implication of that verse, there are numerous passages that speak specifically of the influence of man's actions--and especially man's evil--on the earth. Take Romans 8:
For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. (Rom. 8:20-22)Or go further back to the story of the Fall, when God tells Adam:
Cursed is the ground because of you. (Gen. 3:17)The implication is unavoidable: what people do has an effect on the earth. We have more power than we want to admit.
And perhaps it's that, more than anything else, that makes me an environmentalist. The idea of individual responsibility is one I prefer not to emphasize in comparison to corporate responsibility, because I think personal choice and responsibility has become overly important in our individualistic American culture. But the dichotomy I feel between the two is strangely ironic, because, although Christian theology is far more communal and corporate than American society, it was Christianity that first brought the individual and his importance to reality in the ancient world. Individuals were nothing until Christ came along. And so I think the power of even an individual over his environment and the world--the influence that each of us has--is still a very Christian understanding.
Last night at our ABO meeting, one of the scientists present brought up the IPCC reports on climate change. He pointed out the fact that the IPCC has to run numerous varieties of "adaptation scenarios," because we can't predict what the results of climate change will be just by looking at the data. We can't predict the results with any kind of scientific certainty for one simple reason: one of the most important factors in predicting the future is the human element. The human response, and the changes we make or don't make, will have a huge impact on the end result. What we do does make a difference. What you and I do, individually, makes a bigger difference than we know.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
a new earth
About a month ago, the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists (BAS) moved the Doomsday Clock two minutes closer to doomsday, putting the time at five minutes to midnight. The thousands of ready-to-launch nuclear weapons in the world today were one of the reasons for the time change--but only one. For the first time in history, the BAS listed a second factor in their measure of problems that have the ability to destroy humanity: climate change. As Sir Michael Rees put it, "Nuclear weapons still pose the most immediate and catastrophic threat to humanity, but climate change...also [has] the the potential to end civilization as we know it."
It's a frightening thought. But even more frightening to me is the reality that many Christians don't feel the shudder of fear that ought to accompany such a prediction. I've heard plenty of arguments why we shouldn't be worried about (or do anything to prevent) the end of the world: God wouldn't allow us to become powerful enough to destroy the planet; there's no scientific consensus on global warming; we know the world is going to end anyway, one way or another. This last argument is perhaps one of the most-cited in evangelical circles, but it's also, ironically, the argument that is most easily refuted theologically.
Evangelical Christianity, with its tendency to think of the Bible as a book that dropped complete and ready-made from heaven (rather like the Koran, or the Book of Mormon), generally prefers to overlook the controversy and discussion involved in the formation of the Biblical canon. But it is this very process of debate, and the belief that God leads through conversation and community (more often than through direct and immediate revelation) that lies at the foundation of a truly Christian understanding of Scripture. I bring this up, not to debate the authority of Scripture, but simply to point out the historical fact that the book of Revelation was one of the most hotly debated and controversial books of the Bible, both before and after its canonization. It was debated for the simple reason that we don't entirely understand it. The fathers of the church never claimed to fully understand it, which is why many of them argued that it wasn't really profitable to read. They didn't consider it a useful book for teaching Christians how they ought to live. And yet today, there are many who freely waste their children's future based on a mistaken understanding of the prophecies of Revelation.
I say mistaken because, even assuming a literal interpretation of everything in Revelation (which is a stretch for me as an English major, since so much of it is clearly symbolic), there's simply no basis in the Bible for a belief that we can waste the earth. There's no support in Revelation for the idea that the earth is unimportant or destined for destruction. For the climax of Revelation speaks not of the destruction of the earth but of its renewal:
Yes, it's a new earth: a renewable earth, if you will. But at the end of all things, in the climax of this story, it's on earth and not in heaven where God chooses to live. The end of the story is not about people getting into heaven, but about God coming to earth. Yes, the old order passes away, but the new order comes in the same place, and is even, in some mysterious way, the same creation. Revelation, like all the Scriptures, places a high value on the world. It doesn't tell us everything about the future; it doesn't reveal to us clearly what will happen at the end of all things. But it does tell us very clearly what God's dream is for the world, and that dream is of a renewed earth, a restored Eden, a place not that humans can escape from to go somewhere better, but a place where he can come and live in the midst of humanity.
And so, I can't consider it Christian to look forward to the destruction of the world. As a Christian, I can't resist a shudder when I think about the doomsday clock. For the Judgment Day of God is not truly a doomsday. It's a day of renewal and not destruction, a day of restoration and re-creation. It is restoration, not judgment, that God looks forward to. Should we be any different?
It's a frightening thought. But even more frightening to me is the reality that many Christians don't feel the shudder of fear that ought to accompany such a prediction. I've heard plenty of arguments why we shouldn't be worried about (or do anything to prevent) the end of the world: God wouldn't allow us to become powerful enough to destroy the planet; there's no scientific consensus on global warming; we know the world is going to end anyway, one way or another. This last argument is perhaps one of the most-cited in evangelical circles, but it's also, ironically, the argument that is most easily refuted theologically.
Evangelical Christianity, with its tendency to think of the Bible as a book that dropped complete and ready-made from heaven (rather like the Koran, or the Book of Mormon), generally prefers to overlook the controversy and discussion involved in the formation of the Biblical canon. But it is this very process of debate, and the belief that God leads through conversation and community (more often than through direct and immediate revelation) that lies at the foundation of a truly Christian understanding of Scripture. I bring this up, not to debate the authority of Scripture, but simply to point out the historical fact that the book of Revelation was one of the most hotly debated and controversial books of the Bible, both before and after its canonization. It was debated for the simple reason that we don't entirely understand it. The fathers of the church never claimed to fully understand it, which is why many of them argued that it wasn't really profitable to read. They didn't consider it a useful book for teaching Christians how they ought to live. And yet today, there are many who freely waste their children's future based on a mistaken understanding of the prophecies of Revelation.
I say mistaken because, even assuming a literal interpretation of everything in Revelation (which is a stretch for me as an English major, since so much of it is clearly symbolic), there's simply no basis in the Bible for a belief that we can waste the earth. There's no support in Revelation for the idea that the earth is unimportant or destined for destruction. For the climax of Revelation speaks not of the destruction of the earth but of its renewal:
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth...I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God...and I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Look! God's dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them." - Rev. 21:1-4
Yes, it's a new earth: a renewable earth, if you will. But at the end of all things, in the climax of this story, it's on earth and not in heaven where God chooses to live. The end of the story is not about people getting into heaven, but about God coming to earth. Yes, the old order passes away, but the new order comes in the same place, and is even, in some mysterious way, the same creation. Revelation, like all the Scriptures, places a high value on the world. It doesn't tell us everything about the future; it doesn't reveal to us clearly what will happen at the end of all things. But it does tell us very clearly what God's dream is for the world, and that dream is of a renewed earth, a restored Eden, a place not that humans can escape from to go somewhere better, but a place where he can come and live in the midst of humanity.
And so, I can't consider it Christian to look forward to the destruction of the world. As a Christian, I can't resist a shudder when I think about the doomsday clock. For the Judgment Day of God is not truly a doomsday. It's a day of renewal and not destruction, a day of restoration and re-creation. It is restoration, not judgment, that God looks forward to. Should we be any different?
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
the intrinsic chickenness of a chicken
Last week's outbreak of avian flu in the U.K. revived concerns that bird flu could eventually become a human epidemic. It also brought up a still-unresolved debate on whether the intensive farming methods used in both the U.S. and the U.K. are the best way to prevent and contain diseases in food animals. In other words, are large-scale farms really the most healthy way to produce food animals?--or would small-scale, free-range farms be better?
I was converted in my thinking on this topic a long time ago, around the same time that I read Michael Pollan's brilliant book The Omnivore's Dilemma. Pollan not only introduced me to the issue of free-range vs. industrial food; he also introduced me to the personalities of the issue, small-scale sustainable farmers such as Joel Salatin. After reading the book, I sought out the opportunity to visit Salatin's Polyface Farms and see for myself what he's accomplishing there, but the ideas and philosophy behind the farm were already integrated into my worldview. It was Pollan, through his descriptions of Polyface Farms, that led me to fall in love with the beauty of small, local, diversified agriculture:
We modern westerners are obsessed with our own purpose. We make The Purpose-Driven Life a bestseller; we dedicate our lives to searching for "meaning" and "calling." We never stop to consider that through most of history, just surviving has been sufficient meaning for the majority of humanity. For most of human history, the purpose of a human has been simply to be human--to live, to eat, to have a family, to die. "A man can do nothing better," says the writer of Ecclesiastes, "than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in his work" (2:24). Is it so terribly absurd to think that a chicken or a cow might want to do the same?
It's probably over-anthromorphizing to think that a chicken can care about its purpose in life. But a chicken certainly has instincts and tendencies--what Salatin calls the "innate distinctive desires of a chicken." And I think there is something significant in the fact that we humans are the only creatures on earth that have so much power to either imitate or destroy God's natural designs. We are the only ones who can so utterly prevent a chicken from fully living out its instincts during its life. And maybe there's more in that than we think. Maybe that's part of what it means to be stewards, and there's a real reason, beyond self-absorbtion, for our fascination with purpose and calling. Maybe our ability to either help or hinder other species in living according to their purposes is part of the calling of humankind, and our ability to help a chicken be a chicken is one of the innate distinctive desires of a human being.
I was converted in my thinking on this topic a long time ago, around the same time that I read Michael Pollan's brilliant book The Omnivore's Dilemma. Pollan not only introduced me to the issue of free-range vs. industrial food; he also introduced me to the personalities of the issue, small-scale sustainable farmers such as Joel Salatin. After reading the book, I sought out the opportunity to visit Salatin's Polyface Farms and see for myself what he's accomplishing there, but the ideas and philosophy behind the farm were already integrated into my worldview. It was Pollan, through his descriptions of Polyface Farms, that led me to fall in love with the beauty of small, local, diversified agriculture:
The truth is that I didn't really need Pollan to convince me of the health benefits of small-scale, free-range farming. I had suspected for a long time that there was something inherently wrong with the western industrial system of food production; Pollan just gave me a more scientific basis for the argument. And Salatin gave me even more: he gave me a spiritual foundation for what was previously just a vague feeling. For Salatin, small-scale farming is about more than health or efficiency; it's about following the model God laid down for us. More than that, it's about enabling each plant and animal on the farm to follow its intrinsic nature. In a way, you could say it's about helping each animal and plant to be everything it was meant to be: helping them to fulfil their purpose in life.Polyface Farm is built on the efficiencies that come from mimicking relationships found in nature, and layering one farm enterprise over another on the same base of land. In effect, Joel is farming in time as well as in space--in four dimensions rather than three. He calls his intricate layering "stacking" and points out that "it is exactly the model God used in building nature." The idea is not to slavishly imitate nature, but to model a natural ecosystem in all its diversity and interdependence, one where all the species "fully express their physiological distinctiveness." He takes advantage of each species' natural proclivities in a way that not only benefits that animal but other species as well. So instead of treating a chicken as a simple egg or protein machine, Polyface honors--and exploits--"the innate distinctive desires of a chicken," which include pecking in the grass and cleaning up after herbivores. The chickens get to do, and eat, what they evolved to do and eat, and in the process the farmer and his cattle both profit. What is the opposite of zero-sum? I'm not sure, but this is it (Pollan 215).
We modern westerners are obsessed with our own purpose. We make The Purpose-Driven Life a bestseller; we dedicate our lives to searching for "meaning" and "calling." We never stop to consider that through most of history, just surviving has been sufficient meaning for the majority of humanity. For most of human history, the purpose of a human has been simply to be human--to live, to eat, to have a family, to die. "A man can do nothing better," says the writer of Ecclesiastes, "than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in his work" (2:24). Is it so terribly absurd to think that a chicken or a cow might want to do the same?
It's probably over-anthromorphizing to think that a chicken can care about its purpose in life. But a chicken certainly has instincts and tendencies--what Salatin calls the "innate distinctive desires of a chicken." And I think there is something significant in the fact that we humans are the only creatures on earth that have so much power to either imitate or destroy God's natural designs. We are the only ones who can so utterly prevent a chicken from fully living out its instincts during its life. And maybe there's more in that than we think. Maybe that's part of what it means to be stewards, and there's a real reason, beyond self-absorbtion, for our fascination with purpose and calling. Maybe our ability to either help or hinder other species in living according to their purposes is part of the calling of humankind, and our ability to help a chicken be a chicken is one of the innate distinctive desires of a human being.
Monday, February 5, 2007
has oil peaked?
Matthew Simmons, one of the leading experts on energy topics, believes that oil production has already peaked. The sky is falling...
Watch the interview:
Watch the interview:
Friday, February 2, 2007
selfish motivations
This morning I went to the Sustainable Atlanta Roundtable, where we got to hear several Georgia Senators and Representatives talk about environmental issues. My new hero in the Georgia Legislature is Brian Thomas, who's only in his second year in the legislature, but had a slew of good ideas to share.
My favorite idea on his list is, unfortunately, probably not going to turn into a bill this year. But I'm glad that it's at least being talked about. He's been meeting with various people connected with energy companies in an effort to figure out the best way to restructure the energy rate system. The problem is that right now, energy companies have no motivation to encourage customers to become more energy-efficient, because the companies make money based on how many kilowatts a customer uses. So it's in their best interest to keep customers using as many kilowatts as possible. Brian Thomas is talking about different ways that the rate structure could be changed so that energy companies can make more money when a customer is more energy efficient. The part that makes this complicated, of course, is the fact that if it cost more to the customer to use less energy, then of course the customer's incentive to become more energy-efficient would be destroyed. Is there any way to provide economic incentives on both sides for energy efficiency? If both sides are saving money, then where would the money come from?
I don't envy Brian Thomas's efforts to figure out this problem, although, as I said, I do admire it. But at the same time, I can't help but think that it's as much a flaw in our economic system as an impossible riddle that needs to be solved. And it leads me to the problem that I've always had with completely unregulated markets: they can only be driven by selfish motivations.
I've often heard the argument that this flaw is also the greatest strength of capitalism: it depends on human nature, and that's what makes it so successful. Because it bases its functioning on the fact of sinfulness and greed, it's a reliable system. But I can't bring myself to see this as something to be proud of. Do I really want to succeed in a system that basis its success on selfishness and greed?
And is it really Christian to do so? I've heard it argued that Christianity teaches that we are sinners, and so it's good that we have a system that acknowledges--and even depends on--our sinfulness. But Christianity also teaches that we should not sin--Christ taught, in fact, that we should be perfect. And even if that's impossible, is that any reason to base our entire economic system around the expectation that everyone will always be as selfish and greedy as possible?
I'm sure I'll be accused of criticizing a system without having any positive alternative solutions, and that accusation will be well-founded. I don't have any solutions. But sometimes pointing out the problem can be the beginning of a solution. And I do think--I have for a long time thought--that our system of relying on greed as a sole motivating factor is intrinsically a problem. I believe there is a way that we could encourage individuals, and companies, and even countries, to be motivated not just by what is most selfishly beneficially for them, but also by what is right.
My favorite idea on his list is, unfortunately, probably not going to turn into a bill this year. But I'm glad that it's at least being talked about. He's been meeting with various people connected with energy companies in an effort to figure out the best way to restructure the energy rate system. The problem is that right now, energy companies have no motivation to encourage customers to become more energy-efficient, because the companies make money based on how many kilowatts a customer uses. So it's in their best interest to keep customers using as many kilowatts as possible. Brian Thomas is talking about different ways that the rate structure could be changed so that energy companies can make more money when a customer is more energy efficient. The part that makes this complicated, of course, is the fact that if it cost more to the customer to use less energy, then of course the customer's incentive to become more energy-efficient would be destroyed. Is there any way to provide economic incentives on both sides for energy efficiency? If both sides are saving money, then where would the money come from?
I don't envy Brian Thomas's efforts to figure out this problem, although, as I said, I do admire it. But at the same time, I can't help but think that it's as much a flaw in our economic system as an impossible riddle that needs to be solved. And it leads me to the problem that I've always had with completely unregulated markets: they can only be driven by selfish motivations.
I've often heard the argument that this flaw is also the greatest strength of capitalism: it depends on human nature, and that's what makes it so successful. Because it bases its functioning on the fact of sinfulness and greed, it's a reliable system. But I can't bring myself to see this as something to be proud of. Do I really want to succeed in a system that basis its success on selfishness and greed?
And is it really Christian to do so? I've heard it argued that Christianity teaches that we are sinners, and so it's good that we have a system that acknowledges--and even depends on--our sinfulness. But Christianity also teaches that we should not sin--Christ taught, in fact, that we should be perfect. And even if that's impossible, is that any reason to base our entire economic system around the expectation that everyone will always be as selfish and greedy as possible?
I'm sure I'll be accused of criticizing a system without having any positive alternative solutions, and that accusation will be well-founded. I don't have any solutions. But sometimes pointing out the problem can be the beginning of a solution. And I do think--I have for a long time thought--that our system of relying on greed as a sole motivating factor is intrinsically a problem. I believe there is a way that we could encourage individuals, and companies, and even countries, to be motivated not just by what is most selfishly beneficially for them, but also by what is right.
step it up atlanta
I went to a planning meeting for this today. I am excited about the team that's organizing this for Atlanta! I'm looking forward to this spring...
Thursday, February 1, 2007
a problem with ethanol
Here's a moral dilemma. We've got to stop using gasoline, because it's made from oil, and you know all the problems with that: global warming, peak oil, Middle Eastern sources. But if we try to switch to ethanol, then our increased demand raises the price of corn, which has now gotten so high that Mexicans are having a hard time affording tortillas--a staple of the national diet, and a major source of protein for many poor Mexicans. And what on earth will we concerned Americans do now? Is there any ethical solution? I mean, we hate to be taking food out of the mouths of the poor, but we've got to have something to power our SUVs.
he renews the face of the earth
In a January 29 NPR interview, in what must have been an embarrassing slip-up, Bush described nuclear energy as "renewable." Fortunately, he was quickly corrected by a group of environmental and business organizations who sent him a letter informing him that nuclear is, in fact, not a renewable resource.
However, this wasn't the first time that Bush made this mistake. In fact, there have been a few times when he's described nuclear as a renewable form of energy. While I'm inclined to feel a bit embarrassed on his behalf--does he understand anything about how nuclear energy is generated?--I'm also somewhat bemused by how often the press has let this one slip. I mean, if I were interviewing Bush and he said something like that, I'm not sure I could find it in my heart not to correct him. It's such an obvious mistake. But apparently a lot of people hardly even notice it. And even the letter written to correct him didn't explain why nuclear isn't renewable. Which is something I think worth mentioning, since apparently a lot of people are a little confused.
So, just to make sure things are clear: nuclear energy is generated by inducing nuclear fission in a specific type of uranium (U-235). Uranium is found in mines, not grown on trees, and therefore it's not renewable. We can't manufacture it or grow it, and so the supply of it is limited.
On the other hand, a single nuclear plant can generate a huge amount of power from a small amount of uranium. The input of materials required is very small compared to the output, which is why so many people--like President Bush--are excited about nuclear. And perhaps that's why there's a tendency to think about nuclear as though it were renewable, even though it's not: there's still so much of it left that it might as well be renewable, because we won't be running out for thousands of years. Or hundreds. Or whatever.
But for me, that argument is simply intolerable. I've been thinking about why it bothers me so much, because entirely apart from the problem of radioactive nuclear waste, it seems to me that nuclear is an absolutely unacceptable option for a significant energy solution, simply because it's not renewable. It might help for a transition, but it's not a sustainable solution. It's just another energy source that will eventually run out. The fact that it could take thousands of years to run out doesn't strike me as that important. The postponing of an energy crisis to the next generation--even if it's five or six generations in the future---is not just unwise; it's wrong.
I was reflecting on why it seems so wrong to me to postpone this problem. After all, wouldn't there at least be "peace in my lifetime"? But that has always struck me as a terribly ungenerous and selfish thought. And I think this goes deeper than a concern about the most efficient or clean ways of supplying ourselves with power. Our acceptance, or our refusal to accept, an energy source that is not renewable depends on more than our concern about how it will affect us and our environment; it depends on how we see the world.
The Christian view of the world is sacramental. Everything has meaning; everything is sacred. Material things--earth, stars, trees, rocks--are all, in some mysterious way, windows and pictures into the nature of God and the truth of eternal things. They have a calling and a purpose; the trees clap their hands, and the rocks cry out in praise. The earth is the Lord's and not ours; if it is ours to steward, the
However, this wasn't the first time that Bush made this mistake. In fact, there have been a few times when he's described nuclear as a renewable form of energy. While I'm inclined to feel a bit embarrassed on his behalf--does he understand anything about how nuclear energy is generated?--I'm also somewhat bemused by how often the press has let this one slip. I mean, if I were interviewing Bush and he said something like that, I'm not sure I could find it in my heart not to correct him. It's such an obvious mistake. But apparently a lot of people hardly even notice it. And even the letter written to correct him didn't explain why nuclear isn't renewable. Which is something I think worth mentioning, since apparently a lot of people are a little confused.
So, just to make sure things are clear: nuclear energy is generated by inducing nuclear fission in a specific type of uranium (U-235). Uranium is found in mines, not grown on trees, and therefore it's not renewable. We can't manufacture it or grow it, and so the supply of it is limited.
On the other hand, a single nuclear plant can generate a huge amount of power from a small amount of uranium. The input of materials required is very small compared to the output, which is why so many people--like President Bush--are excited about nuclear. And perhaps that's why there's a tendency to think about nuclear as though it were renewable, even though it's not: there's still so much of it left that it might as well be renewable, because we won't be running out for thousands of years. Or hundreds. Or whatever.
But for me, that argument is simply intolerable. I've been thinking about why it bothers me so much, because entirely apart from the problem of radioactive nuclear waste, it seems to me that nuclear is an absolutely unacceptable option for a significant energy solution, simply because it's not renewable. It might help for a transition, but it's not a sustainable solution. It's just another energy source that will eventually run out. The fact that it could take thousands of years to run out doesn't strike me as that important. The postponing of an energy crisis to the next generation--even if it's five or six generations in the future---is not just unwise; it's wrong.
I was reflecting on why it seems so wrong to me to postpone this problem. After all, wouldn't there at least be "peace in my lifetime"? But that has always struck me as a terribly ungenerous and selfish thought. And I think this goes deeper than a concern about the most efficient or clean ways of supplying ourselves with power. Our acceptance, or our refusal to accept, an energy source that is not renewable depends on more than our concern about how it will affect us and our environment; it depends on how we see the world.
The Christian view of the world is sacramental. Everything has meaning; everything is sacred. Material things--earth, stars, trees, rocks--are all, in some mysterious way, windows and pictures into the nature of God and the truth of eternal things. They have a calling and a purpose; the trees clap their hands, and the rocks cry out in praise. The earth is the Lord's and not ours; if it is ours to steward, the