THE TRAGEDY OF THE COMMONS

Genesis 1:26-31

We must love one another or die.

That's a line from a poem by W. H. Auden, entitled September 1, 1939--and as I read it this week, it struck me that it could just as easily have been entitled September 11, 2001. It's a poem about how, if we are to survive, we must not only learn to love one another, but find a meaning beyond consumption, beyond existing to make money off of each other, beyond a culture that teaches, "Eat, drink for tomorrow we die." If we are to survive, we must learn also to love the earth.

As I was preparing for this Sunday--Earth Day Sunday--I was thinking of an article I read recently about a phenomenon called the tragedy of the commons. It's about what happens when individuals have access to a commons--to some good to which everyone has free access. And the phenomenon has to do with the fact that individuals, who may take freely from the commons, have incentive to exploit the commons (and their neighbors), and gives little incentive to look toward the long-term sustainability of the commons. Make sense?

Well, maybe it will if I tell a story; that's usually the way I get out of such trouble. The best story to illustrate the tragedy of the commons is the story of what happened on St. Matthew's Island, a small island on the Bering Sea, from 1944 - 1966. In 1944, the U.S. Coast Guard released 29 Reindeer, 24 females and 5 males. The Island had a few foxes and rodents, but the reindeer had no natural predators on the Island, which featured a rich display of flora and fauna for them to eat. And they soon became fat (and happy, we presume), the average weight being significantly greater than those in herds found on the mainland. And by 1965, the herd had swelled from 29 to 6,000. But, by the winter of 1966, the flock had dropped to 40--a mass die-off caused by starvation was due to the fact that the commons had disappeared; all that flora and fauna on which they had fed was finally eaten up. Nobody was paying attention to the commons. It is a somewhat literal parable of the culture of "eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die."

I think of that story as I also reflect on this story from Genesis 1, and I worry that this story of creation is becoming a tragedy of the commons. It's as if God plopped 29 of us on St. Matthew's Island, and said: "Here you are--my gift. It's good. It's very good. I will give you dominion over it." Now, I should hasten to say here that many a sermon and Sunday School lesson has been preached and taught about this one word, the word for "to have dominion"--RADAH in Hebrew, if you want to know--and I hope we've learned by now that it does not connote exploitative domination--using the earth like a Styrofoam wrapper--but rather implies stewardship. A careful tending of the earth. It recognizes that the fate of the earth IS in our hands, and we are called to be loving stewards of it, as God's good gift.

I think about the tragedy of the commons whenever I'm sitting in a window seat on a flight, you know how when you're about to land and you look out the window, and you can see the brown bathtub ring around our cities--I think about that air we're all breathing as I look down. I think of the tragedy of the commons at Christmas with all the wrappers and Styrofoam and packaging; when I think of all the stuff we buy, I buy--the computer stuff, the plastic toys, all that packaging going into our landfills. And I wonder how long we can sustain it all. I think of how hard it will be to wean ourselves from these addictions of consumption. I have to say that found the President's remarks so helpful in that regard--when he made the obvious admission in his State of the Union that we are addicted to fossil fuel. He called it I think--we are addicted. We need a 12-step program as a nation, to kick the habit of our energy consumption....

But I read the reports about global warming, about how we're abusing the earth, and I wonder if we're entering 1965 on St. Matthew's Island.

Perhaps I worry too because I hear all this bad news, the dire consequences in store for us, and I think: Someone should do something about it! Do you find yourself thinking that way? You know: Why doesn't someone do something? Meanwhile, I'm too busy to carpool. Let someone else buy a Prius.

But, I'm not saying this to be depressing this morning. Because the trajectory of our preaching, the trajectory of the gospel is always hope, especially in this season when we celebrate our ultimate hope, which is known in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. And if we are to live sustainably on this planet, then we all need to connect with that kind of hope; the hope of the earth depends, I think, upon our practicing this kind of Easter hope.

So there is hope. And I think, for today, as we think about the prospect of St. Matthew's Island, this is where our hope begins....Are you ready? Listen closely. Here it is: We are not reindeer.

There's a critical difference between the story of St. Matthew's Island, and Genesis 1: we are not reindeer. We are human beings, created in the image of God, with brains in our heads and feet in our shoes, to quote Dr. Seuss. Calvin would say that we find God both through the creation God has given us--as well as through the gift of reason God has given us. We're not reindeer! We are indeed the only species able to take a meta-perspective, have a "big picture" view, over "the commons" and understand that our very existence depends on our careful stewardship of it.

According to the writer of Deuteronomy 30, "Behold, I set before you life and blessing, death and curse; therefore, choose life, that you and your children may live." And it's not too hard for us--we can choose life. It's not too hard, that someone has to go climb a mountain, or go under the sea--it's right here inside of you, a moral compass that tells you what's right, and that doing right is what you can and should do.

There is hope. One thing that gives me cause for hope is a project named "Sustainable Lawrence." Some of our town leaders have gotten together to reflect on how we can--right here, beginning with us--live sustainably on the land, this land, of this township. Some of the members of our congregation have been participating in that--and we'll learn more about that next week after Adult Study. This is a very tangible way for us to choose life!

So--as you get that next microwave meal, just remember: we are not reindeer. As you make your next vehicle purchase, just remember: we are not reindeer. As you vote in the next election, just remember: we are not reindeer. God has given us the gift of this creation, and has also endowed us with the ability to take care of it.

We must love one another or die.

And, being too much of a Calvinist to just leave it there, I guess I have to add one more thing: we can love one another--and the only way we can--is because we've been loved. In fact, we know we've been loved, when we look at this cross, the suffering love God has shown for us. If we only could know how fully and deeply and intimately God wants to be known in us, in you; if you only know how fully God loves you. If we only could know Christ is risen, because he is risen in me, in my heart--in that is our hope--a hope for a new heaven and a new earth.

May it be so. Amen.

 

April 23, 2006

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