On Monday, it was 60 degrees and sunny, and my wife Shay and I took our dog Gus for a romp at a dog park. Yesterday, it snowed, and Gus came in from the back yard shivering.

The weather this winter has confirmed what we already know: climate change is real, and the impact is happening now, not only to future generations but to us.

Countless people, including me, have said recently something along the lines of, “I’m sad about climate change, but enjoying the nice weather.” Others aren’t able to enjoy it because of what is now often called “climate grief.” Neither is right or wrong; they are just two of the possible reactions to our current reality.

I think one of the keys to being a thriving human in this historical moment is the ability to hold joy and sorrow side by side, to allow ourselves the full range of emotions, and to both celebrate and mourn. Our world is still beautiful—and we humans have irreparably damaged it. Both are true. Sunshine and warm breezes feel good—and this weather is not what we expect in winter in Minnesota. Both are true.

I suspect this may be one of the primary tasks of faith communities like ours now and in the years ahead: being a place that can hold climate grief without letting go of beauty and joy as well. We can be a place where we help deepen connections between humans and the planet even as we experience the effects of generations of disconnection, of perceiving nature as a resource to be used rather than the sacred life it is. We can allow room for the emotions involved, while also taking action to minimize the harm and to adapt to what cannot be avoided.

I’ve been reading a lot of ecology books recently, and this is where I am right now. As Earth Day approaches in a little under two months, I’ll be diving more deeply into this (and then preaching about it).

In the meantime, I am grateful for communities like this one, where we hold the complexities together.

In gratitude,
Rev. Diana