Mark 8:27-38 and Climate Justice

I delivered this sermon (my first!) today, at St. John's Episcopal Church in Great Bend, Kansas. For reference, the day's lectionary reading can be found here.

 Good morning. Since this is my first time in this pulpit I suppose I should start with a little introduction. I work for the Dominican Sisters of Peace as the organic farm manager out at Heartland Farm, and I am not a Catholic nor even an Episcopalian but rather a Jewish Unitarian Universalist. But I am discerning a call to ministry and was invited to preach here. A week after receiving that invitation, I was at a climate justice organizers training where I was asked to go out and preach on the topic of climate justice. And so, here I am, which is kind of crazy in so many ways. A few months ago I would have avoided a conversation about climate change. The statistics, the fire and brimstone, the end of the world narrative turn me off, and I’m sure it turns most of you off. No one wants to think we’re doomed. And so I didn’t really think about climate change. I just thought about caring for the earth, and ways of living on this planet that were good for me and good for the environment. I rode my bike and grew my own food and tried to opt out of destructive systems as much as possible. But the systems continued.

I lived and farmed for four years in Arkansas, and my community there was passionate and dedicated, but among those of us wanting to farm and to care for the earth in a meaningful way, I felt a creeping spiritual malaise. In part that discomfort led me back to religion, and in a desire to connect with my fellow Unitarian Universalists engaged in a struggle for a better way of living, I found my way, a month ago, to that climate justice organizers training. I expected to be a voice saying, enough of the fire and brimstone, we’re not going to move people, reach people, if we scare them. But I found, among that group, that I did not need to be that person because everyone understood, everybody understood that this is about more than polar bears, this is about environmental justice, about the fact that poor people and people of color are more likely to feel the negative consequences of climate change as they have negatively felt the consequences of our continuous methods of exploiting people and the environment. We build trash incinerators in poor neighborhoods, we let our pollution float downstream, we extract resources from the parts of the country that don’t have the wealth and power to say otherwise. And it’s frustrating and depressing. And I don’t want to stand up here frustrating and depressing you all this morning. That’s not my point. My point is to provide hope, and another way, a way forward. And at this organizers training I found hope, hope that there’s a future for us on this planet, and it may not look like what life looks like now, and in some ways it can’t look like the world looks like now, but there are enough people who care enough that we can make a difference. And maybe I’m just naïve. But I’ve studied enough of social movements to know that change is possible. It is possible for us as a culture to break free from our habits of excessive consumption, to break free of a way of life that is destructive towards other people and the environment, that there are a growing number of people who care about the earth and how we relate to it in our lives. Every few weeks another young person comes to stay on our farm for a little while, wanting to learn more about growing vegetables and caring for animals and totally willing to work hard and get dirty in exchange for room and board. Most of these folks won’t go on to become farmers, but I’m confident that after the experiences they are having they won’t stop caring. And hopefully they’ll have seen enough alternatives to build better lives for themselves. I’m fully aware that I am speaking to you in an oil town, but the price of oil isn’t reliable and thus neither are the jobs. Climate justice doesn’t just mean preserving nature and organic farms. It also means providing reliable and meaningful jobs for all of us. It means supporting farmers so that they don’t feel compelled to drill on their land in order to make any money off of it. It means identifying ways in which we can support each other, and the environments in which we find each other, at the same time.

I was back in Arkansas this past weekend visiting farmer friends in the Ozarks and I stood there, talking to them while they worked, and I remembered that there’s something that these farmers get that most people don’t seem to get, there’s an understanding and an urgency that governs their lives and how they face the world, how they interact with the world, why they do what they do, despite the fact that they don’t have any retirement saved up, despite the fact that they have no idea how they are going to put their kids through college. And I think what it is, is that they realize, on a deep and intuitive level, that land care is a life or death matter. That, not caring for the earth might not necessarily kill them, as individuals, but to do otherwise is to destroy the future and to devalue and depreciate our present. There are things besides money worth valuing. I think the fact that the hardest working people I know are struggling isn’t justified by the fact that their lifestyle has priceless benefits, because they do still have to put their kids through college, and they do still have to worry about their health, and they do still have to be able to pay their employees. So there are bigger systemic problems that need to be fixed. But in their struggle to survive and provide quality food for their community they are embodying an ideal that I think we all ought to move closer to. That of creating a better, meaningful life for one’s self in such a way that enriches the life of the environment and the people around you. And I think the response to climate change has to do that, has to enrich our lives and enrich the earth. And I know it’s possible. I’ve seen it and experienced it in small places, and I think it’s one of the biggest miracles on this planet, that we don’t have to choose between one and the other, that the earth gives forth richness when we put into it, and when we have faith.

So what does today’s gospel reading have to do with any of this? A lot, I think. This is the first time when Jesus really explains what’s going to happen to him and what it means for him to be the Messiah. And Peter rebukes what Jesus says because Peter has a very specific idea of what Messiah means. He’s coming from a traditional Judaic understanding of what the Messiah is, someone who is going to lead the nation of Israel to greatness and redemption as a political and military leader. And Peter also thinks that following Jesus, who will be this great leader, will be easy, it will be a life of miracles and glory, and he can be alongside that. But the truth is that salvation isn’t easy, it’s not just about following the leader who is going to get you there. What Jesus tells us is that salvation comes at a price, that his future will be one of suffering and persecution. But then there will be resurrection, there is hope, there is redemption. But we need to first turn our minds away from human things to divine ones. Which means the solution probably won’t come where we expect it. It probably won’t be some simple cure-all technological innovation. It certainly won’t be as simple as just switching from oil to solar power. It’s going to be something that takes sacrifice, that takes change on our behalf in the way that we live now. But then, there’s hope on the other side of that.

Which is what Jesus is telling us when he explains what is required to be his disciple. Mitigating climate change is going to take sacrifice on our part, as individuals. We need to adjust our living habits and ways of thinking to move away from materialism and consumerism, away from a way of life that demands energy and fossil fuels. For what will it profit us to gain the whole world and forfeit our lives? There are lots of lists of green living out there so I’m not going to go into it and I don’t want to tell you what to do because there is no one right thing, but if we want to save our lives, to have a future for humanity, we need to be willing to change. And allow ourselves to be transformed as we learn to listen to the world around us. In the transformation, of individuals and of culture, lies salvation.

Tonight is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New year, which commemorates creation, which God has asked us to care for. As a new year, it may be an opportunity to make a resolution for a change in your own life, such as recycling or using cloth napkins or drinking fair trade coffee or buying local food. It is also the first of the High Holy Days. Ten nights from now is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. The interim days are for individuals to ask forgiveness from those they may have hurt in the past year. And on the eighth day the Jewish community gathers together and collectively ask for forgiveness from God. Because sins against God are a collective responsibility, and I think responding to climate change is a collective responsibility. Individual actions matter and I don’t want to disempower anyone, but it matters more when it’s an organized effort. Boycotting Taco Bell to raise how much the tomato growers get paid makes a much bigger difference than the fact that I just don’t go to Taco Bell. Monsanto doesn’t care that I don’t spray Round-Up. And so, while our personal actions matter and I think they are totally transformative to our lives, collective actions matter too. As a group we have the power to sway policy and create institutions. And I think we all agree with that or we wouldn’t be here today, gathered together in a group for worship of God.

I don’t know the solution. And I do know that it won’t be easy. This morning’s reading from James asks, “Does a spring pour forth from the same opening both fresh and brackish water?” No. And similarly, a solution that seems to helps humans at the expense of the planet in reality helps neither, and vice versa. But a solution that truly does help one helps all. Everything is connected. This natural order gives me hope. And I have hope because I see a lot of people with a strong desire for work that has meaning we can feel in our bones. And I see a lot of examples of people like my farmer friends doing such work, and living lives of beauty and generosity and abundance where others might see only scarcity. If we learn to change our perspective, if we set our minds on divine things and recognize the abundance before us, we will see, perhaps, what the future truly might offer.

On Marriage

I was never really into marriage. Oh, I think weddings are a blast and it would be fun to have a big party with all my friends and family to celebrate and honor my love for another person. But I've never fantasized about what I would wear, or what it would be like, or what it meant. And I don't have a fully articulated opinion of the institution of marriage. A boyfriend once asked what I thought about marriage, and all I could say was, "Well, Wendell Berry says some interesting things about it in this book I recently read…" And he does, about marriage being a social institution, about it being not just between two people but between them and their community. Berry writes from the perspective of a heterosexual marriage, but what he says applies to all marriages. Today's Supreme Court decision is all the more powerful understanding marriage in this context - that communities must recognize homosexual relationships as social institutions that can serve to strengthen society. (Berry recognizes the destructiveness of his white, heterosexual, male, Christian privilege, on himself, others, and the world, but he has been silent on homosexuality, something that has frustrated me. But anyway, that's a side note.) I never really thought seriously enough about marriage, and its relevancy to my own life, to decide what I thought about it.

When this gay marriage fight began, I took a moderate stance. If the church wanted to claim providence over marriage, then I figured we could compromise and let "marriage," in whatever form, be the domain of the church, while limiting the state to issuing civil unions, to heterosexual and homosexual couples alike. If states went for gay marriage, that was great and I thought highly of their people and their politics, but I wasn't an advocate for it. The Defense of Marriage Act irked me, and made me dislike Bill Clinton, not just because I thought it was a piece of intolerant legislation but because I thought it violated the full faith and credit clause of the Constitution. As for states that responded to the "threat" of gay marriage by explicitly limiting marriage to between a man and a woman, that made me livid, but I eventually realized they were digging their own graves on that issue.

But still, was marriage for me? I didn't know, and didn't think I cared. An older gay friend of mine once said, "I thought being gay meant you didn't have to get married!" Not that many months ago, a co-worker casually asked if I thought I would marry the girl I was dating. "I couldn't here, if I wanted to," I responded, not so much angry with the questionable legal status of gay marriage in Arkansas at the time as I was relieved that I didn't have to actually answer the question. In general, I think my generation sees marriage a little differently than those before us. Although my parents are still married, as are the parents of very many of my close friends, we live in a world where half of all marriages fail. At 29, a surprising number of my friends are already divorced!  Marriage certainly has its benefits, but that doesn't mean that it is the right choice for a relationship. Long-lasting gay relationships are a perfect example of making things work without marriage. But just because marriage isn't necessary, per se, doesn't mean that it isn't a right, and I'm crying tears of joy in celebration of this day.

If I was born ten years later than I was, I would have explored and come to know my sexuality in a whole different world, one in which I imagine I would have been able to see myself more clearly, simply because the extension of marriage makes homosexual relationships more visible. Sure there was Will & Grace, and The L Word, but none of those stories resonated with my story. While something will be lost in moving away from the margins, the mainstreaming of homosexuality is a good thing for America. For those out there concerned about the "gay agenda," here it is: We want your children to grow up in a world where they can be their true honest selves, where they can love who they want to love without having to worry about sacrificing the rest of their lives to do so, and where they don't suffer the psychological repercussions of denial, shame, and ostracism.

I remember when gay marriage became legal in New Hampshire. At the time, the only person I could imagine marrying, if I had one of those pacts where if you are both still single when you're 35 you get married, was my closest female friend. And suddenly that was an actual possibility. We never made such a pact - it was a pretty gay idea, in retrospect - but that such a thing was possible! Doors were opening. Liberation was coming. The world was changing.

And now, here we are, a blink of the eye later, and the Supreme Court has declared gay marriage the law of the land! I shared an article on Facebook that reminds us that the struggle continues, that we must remember the margins. The margins are constantly changing, and we must keep learning from and leading from them. To quote my haggadah, which I seem to like to do here:

The struggle for freedom is a continuous struggle,

For never does man reach total liberty and opportunity.

In every age, some new freedom is won and established,

Adding to the advancement of human happiness and security.

Yet, each age uncovers a formerly unrecognized servitude,

Requiring new liberation to set man's soul free.

In every age, the concept of freedom grows broader,

Widening the horizons for finer and nobler living.

Each generation is duty-bound to contribute to this growth,

Else mankind's ideals become stagnant and stationary.

There are days when I struggle to believe that "the arc of the universe…bends towards justice," but on days like today, I have hope. The legalization of gay marriage in no way means that homophobia is dead and equality is the law of the land. The legalization of interracial marriage didn't mean the end of racism, nor did the election of a black president. But these are still victories. Victories that allow us to advance to the next and greater battle. Victories that need to be celebrated to sustain us for the continued fight.  I celebrated by putting a rainbow bow tie on my puppy, cuddling with him in the hammock, and then coming inside to eat ice cream and write this essay and feel brave enough to share it with the world. We had three inches of rain last night, and today I'm seeing rainbows everywhere.

The Ten Plagues, Change, and Creative Adaptation

One thing I have come to love about Passover is the creative variety. Although the celebration is liturgical and involves telling a particular story that is observed through specific rituals, no two seders are alike. There are countless haggadahs available and many, many families have adapted their haggadah of choice over the years. I fondly remember the Aaronson family's wine-stained haggadahs, in which many of the masculine pronouns and nouns had been whited-out and changed to make the service more inclusive. Occasionally new material was inserted as well. Every year, we debate if we have accidentally skipped one of the glasses of wine, and argue over whether we read through all of this part or that.  The stains and the changes and the conversation are, to me, as much a part of the holiday as the matzo and the horseradish.

I am a lover of tradition, which is part of why I love Passover, but since I started hosting my own seders I have come to see the seder as an opportunity for change, to take the haggadah my family has traditionally used and continue the tradition of editing and adding to it. Not only is there a glass of water for Miriam, and an orange for inclusivity, but now there is liturgy and ritual to incorporate these modern feminist elements into the seder. In doing so, I make the seder more my own, while keeping with family tradition.

At some point in my youth someone introduced the modern plagues to our seder. In addition to spilling wine for the blood and the boils and the slaying of the first-born, we now add:

Each drop of wine we pour is hope and prayer
that people will cast out the plagues that threaten everyone
everywhere they are found, beginning in our own hearts:
    The making of war,
    the teaching of hate and violence,
    despoliation of the earth,
    perversion of justice and government,
    fomenting of vice and crime,
    neglect of human needs,
    oppression of nations and peoples,
    corruption of culture,
    subjugation of science, learning, and human discourse,
    the erosion of freedoms.

I have encountered this at other seders. At one, the recitation was followed by an opportunity for anyone present to share, and pour out a drop of wine for, any other plagues they recognize in our society.

It is good to name these things, and to have the opportunity to sanctify our opposition in ritual. But how many plagues will it take for change to occur?

I write out of sympathy for Pharaoh. We pour out wine for each plague because, to quote the haggadah, "our triumph is diminished by the slaughter of the foe." Nevertheless, Pharaoh is the bad guy. But for one moment, let us imagine ourselves in his shoes.

You have, in Egypt, an economy and social order built on slavery. Pharaoh, the guy in charge, did not create this system, though he certainly benefits from its privileges. Still, it is not his fault that he inherited such a system, and even less so that certain overseers are needlessly cruel to slaves, right? So when some dude, even if it's an adopted son, comes in and says, "Hey, you should free these people, and oh, if you don't, our God is going to make bad things happen to you," he's not really in a position to agree. Granted, he's the only person in a position to make that decision carte blanche, but it would be political suicide. The situation is so much bigger than him. He, and his entire society, would have to change their essential nature. That is not an easy decision or change to make. No wonder it took ten plagues. Egyptian society was better equipped to deal with frogs and flies than total economic upheaval. It took the slaying of the first-born, a loss that caused direct injury to the patriarchal economy and must have torn many hearts to pieces in the process, for the Pharaoh to make the otherwise politically catastrophic decision to free the Hebrew slaves.

The experience of the Egyptians, in suffering the plagues, reveals something of how systems of oppression hurt everyone, even those privileged by it. It was not just Pharaoh's heart that was hard, but a whole culture, numbed by the fact that their whole economy was built on slavery, because how else can you live with that knowledge? They felt their culture was threatened by a growing minority population, and turned to violence to subdue it. I cannot help but be reminded of modern parallels in American history - I'm not just talking about the Civil War and emancipation, but also the way we deal with racism and immigration in 2015. And rather than allowing our culture to be enriched by diversity, as the orange brings refreshing new flavor to the seder, we suppress it and exploit it. Like the Egyptians, we accept devastation again and again, whether it be in the form of murrain killing our cattle or the making of war, in order to maintain our position. But one cannot be stable standing on the backs of others who do not want to be stood on.

Which leads me to the question I've been thinking about for months. How many plagues does it take for us to make changes in our own lives? How much will we put up with before we say, enough is enough? Be it a frustrating job, an unhealthy relationship, a pursuit that is going nowhere, even acknowledging a truth about ourselves. Certainly there is value in resiliency, and in facing the challenges life throws at us. If we can stick through it, we will hopefully be stronger on the other side. But at a certain point, do we start inviting adversity upon ourselves, as Pharaoh did when he refused to free the Jews?

Pharaoh, like many of us, having finally made the decision to change is immediately plagued by doubt. He tries to take it back, to stop what he has put in motion, but it is too late. In his attempt to hold back the currents of change, he perishes. Who cannot relate to this doubt, which in its tragedy reveals the Pharaoh's humanity? In resisting change sometimes we, too, kill pieces of ourselves.

Change is hard. Sometimes every ounce of our being seems to resist it, if only because we don't know who we are on the other side. Liberating slaves brought down the entire system they supported, and liberating ourselves can have the same effect. It is easy to fall into similar patterns, as our American history illustrates in the shift from slavery to sharecropping, much easier and more palatable than building a truly egalitarian society. In our own lives, at least, it is only ourselves that we destroy and try to rebuild, and there, perhaps, true liberation might be possible.

Exodus is ultimately a very human story. It is commanded: "In every generation, each Jew must look upon himself as though he, personally, was among those who went forth from Egypt." We tell this story year after year to remember the suffering and the liberation. But we are not just the Jews, the victims-turned-heroes. In every character there is something we can relate to. May that be a warning, that in our liberation, let us take care not to become despots, over others or over our own souls.

Which brings us back to the modern plagues quoted above, and the question of what it will take for us, as a society, to finally say, "Enough is enough." Words alone do not bring about liberation and an end to environmental and human exploitation. Can we change our own lives for the better? Are we willing to pay the price to change the world?

I approach Pesach with these heavy questions on my mind. In some ways, perhaps the haggadah can serve as a guide, not so much for being a history lesson but rather as an example of creative adaptation. The evolution of the seder reveals a path to liberation at a lower price, less violent and more celebratory. The recipe for my seder is one part ancient Hebrew prayer, one part Midrashic commentary, one part modern feminist adaptation, one part family tradition, one part wine, one part food, and one part the gathered community.  Combine and simmer, and in consuming, perhaps come to know God.

Why I Cry Over the Buffalo

Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam

Where the deer and the antelope play

Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

And the skies are not cloudy all day

I spent my first week in Kansas crying, about many things, but among them the slaughter of the buffalo. I was struggling to adjust to this new and open landscape, so flat and dry, and this time of year mostly brown and gray - straight out of the beginning of The Wizard of Oz. I couldn't understand why people would live in such a place, land that used to be free and open prairie, now subdivided into monocropped acreage dotted with oil wells. "We weren't meant to settle here," I thought, through images of dust bowl farmers and folks who didn't have whatever it took to make it further along the Santa Fe Trail. Then, at the top of Pawnee Rock, looking out for miles in all directions, I read a quote on a plaque describing the view of buffalo, so thick the prairie was black with them as far as the eye could see.

And where are they now?

I cry over the buffalo because they are a symbol, to me, of all the violence we have done to this vast and magnificent prairie, to the regenerative biodiversity, to the people who made their homes here, moving across the land, migrating like the birds, and the buffalo. I could cry about the people, but that pain is too great for my struggling, aching, heavy heart. So instead I cry about the buffalo.

The buffalo are an apt symbol of my sorrow for more reasons, too. Because I know why we killed the buffalo. I've played more than my fair share of Oregon Trail. A large, slow-moving, easy target, when you're hungry, and stressed for time. If you can shoot a buffalo, you do it, even if you can only carry 200 lbs back to the wagon and the rest goes to waste. (And is it really waste if the vultures and bugs get to east, and eventually it all goes back to the soil? It is only that we humans are not maximizing the benefit of the buffalo to ourselves...) So there's that perspective. But then there's a scene in Lonesome Dove, where a character on horseback spots a herd of buffalo and goes charging into it, because he can, because it's fun. A few months ago, out on Lake DeGray, we spotted a bald eagle flying ahead of our boat and chased after it, because we could, and because it was beautiful, and endangered, and we may never get another experience like that again. It was thrilling, and exhilarating, and I could understand why one might shoot a buffalo, even once they were endangered, even if you knew better.

So in truth, my tears are guilty tears, for I would have been complicit if not an active party in the slaughter of the buffalo, and I am currently complicit in more destruction than I can even imagine. But we keep living and so we keep killing and I am feeling that guilt on my heart.

But I know why people live here, too. The beauties the Native Americans saw on their migrations, and that can still be found in pockets, and in the sky. The sunrises, and the sunsets, and the stars. And because children love playing in the prairie. They always have. They always will.

And so we chase after joy, and take what money we can to survive and allow those simple pleasures to perpetuate, in whatever form the current age dictates. And we grieve the cost, but there is always some cost. And we learn to live with ourselves.

Gaia Made A Farmer...

Everyone's been talking about the Dodge Ram Super Bowl commercial, but no one's been saying what I'm thinking. The commercial actually aired during one of the few moments I was actually watching the TV, rather than hanging out in the kitchen talking to farmers. Although I couldn't hear all the words over the talking in the room, the imagery and soundtrack very much caught my attention.  Having just driven through Missouri, where an idealized "American farmer" billboard advertised Monsanto,  my first guess what that it was a Monsanto commercial. Realistically, though, Monsanto wouldn't advertise at the Super Bowl; it was obviously for a truck.

What I did hear of the commercial moved me, because it does represent the hardships of an agrarian lifestyle, and that there are people who choose to live that way, despite, if not because of, the struggles, and I recognized the commercial as a tribute to those people, amongst whose ranks I hope to join. I know some of my fellow farmers have been similarly moved. But among most urban/suburban liberals, the response has been criticism. The racial critique I agree with. "God made Mexican farm workers," I might say, tongue-in-cheek. And, as someone who initially linked the ad with Monsanto, I certainly see the validity of the factory farm critique. But none of the criticism that I have read resonates with me as much as the ad did, because it is too busy critiquing the system (as though the critic is not a contributor) to honor the individuals, who even in a conventional system dedicate their days and lives to feeding the rest of us.

My critique of the response to this ad is essentially the same as my critique of the response to the Chipotle ad at last year's Super Bowl: the consumers (myself included) need to take responsibility for their part in the system, rather than just criticizing it. At the same time, these two ads give me hope because they reveal national attention to the causes that move me, even if that attention comes in the form of dreaded greenwashing. These companies chose to advertize through tributes to farmers because they think it will sell, because they think the people care about these issues. And that's a good sign.

In Defense of Beauty

I just rediscovered this post that I had started writing but never finished last June. I'm not sure what else exactly I had been meaning to say, but rather than trying to flesh everything out, I deleted some unfinished sentences and am posting it now.



The entire maternal side of my family gathered together last weekend in celebration of my grandparent's 70th wedding anniversary. I hadn't seen most of them since February 2010, and a lot has changed since then. One of my aunts expressed how surprised she was by my current life path, considering that as a child I was such a picky eater and I was always very academic. I'll save my thoughts on how my sensitive palette relates to my current occupation; for now, I wanted to start this post by discussing the academic grounding to my gardening.

As a college student I deeply pursued questions of oppression and evil, from both a religious and historical perspective. I was fascinated by the civil rights movement, and liked to imagine that I would have been one of the northern white volunteers who went down to volunteer during Freedom Summer. But realistically, would I have been? Most likely I would have gone about my daily life like pretty much everyone else, looking down on the "backward South" but being totally complicit in the ongoing oppressions. Moving south definitely helped me realize this, and it helped me realize that I didn't want to be just another Northern liberal who votes for progressive change but isn't willing to change her lifestyle. The more I learn of history and of the world today, the more I realize just how much we are still so dependent upon the oppression of others to maintain our current system. And I don't like being a part of that.

This feeling is not unique, this desire to break free from the oppressive system and live more in tune with the natural world. I recently watched "Into the Wild" and saw it strongly in the hero. I also see it amongst many of the friends I have made in the last two years. But the problem with much of this thinking is the foundation in the negative, the escape from complicity in oppression and exploitation, the not wasting over the reclamation, etc...

The modern American society is so wasteful that when one realizes the magic and beauty of multiple uses, of composting, of mending clothes, it's eye-opening. I had that experience. But in the battle against waste there is a focus on use - how might this object be amended to continue its current use or to serve another, how might the value of this thing be reused. Ah, to realize that waste isn't waste, that shit isn't something gross to get rid of but rather a valuable resource. But the focus is still negative, on not wasting.

But somehow or another, there will always be waste.

What drove me to farming was freedom from complicity in oppression and exploitation of the earth and its people, and freedom from the wastefulness that characterizes most people's lives today. What keeps me in farming is the quality of life, one important aspect of which is beauty.

A bouquet of flowers does not necessarily have any practical use, besides perhaps to woo a cute girl, unlike a bunch of kale. And some might scowl at making a table at a dinner party look nicer by placing a fresh bouquet of flowers. Some might scowl at using flowers instead of kale to woo that mate! But not I, at least not anymore. Because what the flowers provide is beauty, simply for its own sake. And that, I think, is useful and valuable in its own way. A bouquet of flowers would probably say this more eloquently and powerfully than I can. Beauty brings joy.

Please Pay for your Pork

In the past week there's been a lot of attention to fast food companies adopting more "ethical" stances towards how the animals that provide their meat are raised. There was Chipotle's commercial that idealized the small, diversified farm over the agribusiness machine. And on the heels of Chipotle was McDonald's recent announcement that they are moving to stop buying pork with origins in gestation crates. I was hesitant to get excited about either of these things, which should seem like good news, but it took me a few days to understand why.

The movement of fast food restaurants towards more humanely-raised meat is good news in one respect. As it is clearly a PR move, it reflects a change in consumer demands, as people are becoming more aware of and caring more about where their food comes from and how it was raised. This, I believe, is a crucial cultural transformation. Of course, McDonald's change is like saying "I'm still going to beat you up, just not while you're pregnant," but that's not even why I find it problematic.

This op-ed article in the New York Times presents one conventional farmer's criticism these recent events. Now, I have a thing for happy, free-range pigs. But I respect this guy too. And I think he's correct when he suggests that these kinds of moves will force some small-scale producers out of the business for the benefit of larger corporate farms. McDonald's (and the consumers that influenced them) didn't say, "We're going to pay more for meat that was produced in a way we like better." Instead, this is one of the unfunded mandates of the corporatocracy. The desire for cheap meat was instrumental in the development of Confined Animal Feeding Operations. If McDonald's and other fast food chains are leading the move away from such practices, who's going to pay for it? I don't think McDonald's is willing to cut into its profits in the interest of doing the right thing, and I don't think the fast food consumer is willing to pay much more either. So the burden will fall on the farmers and unless they are big enough that they can afford to make the demanded changes, many will suffer or go under. If conscientious consumers want to be able to change the way animals are raised for meat (and eggs, and dairy), they ought to first try to respect the farmers and understand why they do things how they do. And then the consumers need to be willing to change themselves, and not just demand change of others. Everyone who eats in implicated in how our food is produced, and thus shares in the responsibility (financial and otherwise) in ensuring it corresponds with their values.