EarthBeat a project of National Catholic Reporter
Free Newsletters
Sign up now
Kat Armas is a Cuban-American editor and speaker. She hosts the podcast “The Protagonistas,” where she highlights the stories of everyday women of color, adding editors, pastors, church leaders, and theologians. She is the representative of Abuelita Faith and Sacred Belonging. (Courtesy of Brazos Press)
Editor’s Note: To start the new year, EarthBeat offers 4 creation-themed devotionals from Kat Armas’ e-book “Sacred Belonging: A 40-Day Devotional on the Liberating Heart of Scripture” (Brazos Press, a department of Baker Publishing Group , September 12, 2023, used with permission).
Subscribe here to the EarthBeat Reflections e-mail list to receive these devotions in your inbox on Jan. 1, 8, 15 and 22, as well as future spirituality content from EarthBeat.
I’m about fifteen thousand feet above sea level, about a week after a hike I wasn’t in a condition to take. My feet have blisters and my body hurts so much from climbing that I go numb. There were about twelve of us. Hours shy of the summit and was lagging behind the group. My Miami-adapted lungs, unaccustomed to the maximum altitude, were uncooperative. With every deep breath I tried to take, my lungs whistled as if begging me, we belong in the tropics. This land was not the land of my ancestors. But my tour advisor and new friend Manco, a local from this country, showed me the way, offering patience and generosity whenever my speed slowed down. He also avoided breathing, taking coca leaves out of his pocket and rubbing them into his palms as if they were a potion, instructing me to inhale. “Breathe,” he said, drawing the word as he exhaled.
Raw coca leaves were sacred to the Incas because of their healing properties, and they are still an integral component of Peruvian national heritage, especially in the remedy for altitude sickness. My eyes lit up every time I inhaled from his worn-out hands. And I felt the oxygen filling the deep crevices of my lungs. Manco laughed, satisfied. The earth heals us,” he reminded me. He seemed to like sharing the wisdom of this position with me. The land, his land, stored me, and I think that made him proud.
About eighty kilometers northwest of Cuzco, Peru, high in the Andes, lies Machu Picchu, the ancient Inca citadel built in the 15th century. This “wonder of the world” is believed to have been the home of Emperor Pachacuti and attracts more than a million tourists visiting its stunning landscapes every year.
Before visiting the site in 2015, I studied the multiple tactics to get to the site, adding the Salkantay trail, which takes you to the foot of the city. I didn’t have much hiking experience, however, I took this direction to enjoy the most productive view of the Andes in all its glory. I deserve to have been a little more prepared.
It took us several days of hiking through rugged terrain, from cloud forests to lush jungles. During the day, we walked tens of kilometers at an ever-increasing altitude, passing waterfalls and grazing sheep. At night, we drank stew from a communal pot and slept on the floor, under the stars.
Accompanied by mountaineers, we learned that Salkantay means “wild mountain” in Quechua, the local language of the Incas. The Incas believed that each mountain had its own spirit. According to their mythology, the apus (mountain spirits) protected the nearby territories and inhabitants. , adding livestock and crops. The most important apus are related to the highest mountains in Peru, with Salkantay being the second largest. Learning this helped me recognize what a wonderful honor it is to be with her. If you’ve ever found yourself in the middle of the mountains, you might have felt this: the rise of a power other than your own that slows your breathing and makes your core skip a few beats.
One morning, as we approached the summit, I began to hear a thud in the air out of place, which seemed improbable. Jet planes? I wondered, confused, what are the planes doing here?When I turned around to look for the source of the increasingly intense roar, instead of an airplane, I saw birds. I learned that what I was hearing was not a jet plane, but the sound of wings tearing through the air: a sound I didn’t know existed. It was supernatural, almost too overwhelming to bear. I sat on the nearest rock and cried. Manco looked at me.
The energy replaced when we finally arrived at Machu Picchu. The ancient architecture is more impressive than the views. The large remodeled blocks in walls, temples and towers (without the use of mortar) have left archaeologists speechless. Their technical prowess earned the Incas the classification of the world’s most complex early civilizations.
Our awe at the site was tempered by the heavy voices of some of our guides as they taught us how Machu Picchu had been abandoned by the Incas some time before the arrival of the European conquistadors, which probably explains why it remained unknown and untouched for so long. This, however, did not prevent the effects of the Spanish conquest, as the Inca population was wiped out through smallpox due to interactions with colonizers.
“Mountains tell their own stories. Sometimes their stories are beautiful and painful,” they told us.
The good looks of Machu Picchu do erase the stench of death that marks the landscape. Maybe even intensify it. Standing in the presence of the mountains, I wondered how the Apus felt about the mistreatment they had suffered from the original population and their guardians. Have they wept over the injustices that the earth itself has suffered?
The area that was once sacred now becomes a resource for consumption. Before the COVID-19 pandemic slowed tourism, ruins and infrastructure were overwhelmed. Machu Picchu continues to suffer from an extractive economy.
I returned to the organization (this time voluntarily) and sat on another rock to cry. This time with emotions of heaviness in the face of death, decadence and exploitation. I regretted the formula that had gotten me there in the first place.
Paul describes creation as groaning throughout humanity in his letter to the Romans, those who live at the epicenter of empire and are frustrated daily by the evils of imperialism. At the core of each and every empire is an insatiable preference for ruling the global planet. and all the creatures that live in it. The Roman Empire, in particular, not only sought to restructure and remake the entire world, but its leaders believed that they had already ushered in the golden age of peace and prosperity.
Paul’s powerful image tells of the shared grief we experience in concert with the planet, but what makes his words subversive is the fact that he uses imperialistic language to construct a worldview that opposes imperial ideology. In doing this, Paul envisions a new world — one remade not by the empire but by God.
Like today’s empires, the Roman Empire set out to devastate military domination and global economic exploitation. It has destroyed entire cities, cleared mountains, depleted fields that were once ripe for harvest, and polluted water that once overflowed with food and drink. In response, The Cosmos cried out in pain. Paul’s personification of the earth tells the story of a “holistic, interdependent formula with life and development of its own. “
For Paul, the earth is our kinsman, groaning with us. This statement inverts the imperial logic that didn’t care – and still doesn’t care – about value creation. According to the Romans e-book, humans and the global percentage of herbs have a preference for new life. This is true throughout history, because the suffering of men and the suffering of the earth have been concomitant. In fact, protecting justice for the Earth and protecting justice for humanity are not separate efforts. When the earth suffers, so do those who count on it. When we protest and fight against the devastation of the earth, we do so for the dignity of the other people who live there.
The Bible affirms this. Leviticus 25:2 commands that the land itself must observe a Sabbath. The idea is that the land is to be maintained so that it remains just as fertile when passed on as it was when received. The intent was that the land would continue to produce for the long haul — for future generations — and support sustainable farming practices, which inevitably helps the poor.
Throughout the Bible, the herbal world joins God and the prophets in bearing witness to the evils and injustices of humanity. Isaiah, Micah, Hosea, and Jeremiah describe the mourning and languor of the land caused by the weight of human exploitation. It has much to regret: the injustice to its inhabitants, the eradication of its loved ones. Not only are we killing others, but we are also killing the very position we call home.
But we are not alone in our lament. God mourns with us: “I will weep and wail for the mountains,” God says in Jeremiah 9:10, “and lament for the grazing lands in the wilderness. They are dried up and deserted; no sound of the flocks is heard; no sign of birds or animals is seen; all have vanished.”
What is our true reaction if we don’t, like God, cry?
Ecophilosopher Joanna Macy explains that grief is a gateway to a deeper understanding of life, identity, and interdependence. “The most we can do for the intelligent of our planet is to hear within us the sounds of the earth’s crying. “echoing the words of Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh: “Until we can mourn our planet, we cannot love it; Pain is a sign of spiritual health. “
Grief may seem pitiful, offensive, or embarrassing to some Christians, because it has nothing to do with a victorious God. For those who have embraced an imperial Christ, pain is a weakness. But that’s exactly what we want to cry about: as resistance and as a religious practice. We need “cleansing tears,” as Macy’s puts it. Our grief “is not a personal burden, but a shared experience on this planet. “
So let us lament. It means we’re listening.