As I pen these thoughts, an El Niño event swathes the Australian landscape with torrential rains—a stark contrast to the habitual arid prelude to Christmas. This unseasonal deluge stretches over a thousand kilometers, from Queensland to Victoria. Just days prior, the mercury soared to 45 degrees; now it hovers at a cool 17. The earth, it seems, is voicing its volatility.
In the shadow of my home, the relentless drone of progress rings out as more than 1200 trees are sacrificed on the altar of urban expansion to make way for a labyrinth of 4000 units. With the fall of each giant, the displaced cries of flying foxes—misunderstood as bats—resonate through the night, a haunting chorus lamenting the loss of their arboreal sanctuaries. The plight of the Australian Grey Owl echoes this lament, as it, too, confronts the encroachment of development in my area.
This scene mirrors the narrative of 'The Lorax,' where the Once-ler's insatiable drive for profit leads to the decimation of trees, heedless of the Lorax's pleas. The result is a dystopia bereft of wildlife, tainted air, and a populace ensnared in the delusion that progress and consumption are panaceas.
Yet, amidst this, Christmas looms—a time traditionally veiled in consumerism, with its façade of festive joy and grand feasts. Concurrently, the earth endures in silent travail, bearing the consequences of our actions upon its diverse inhabitants and ecosystems. Protestant theologian Sally McFague once posited that we dwell within the 'womb of God'—a metaphor urging us to perceive the world not as a detached entity but as an extension of the divine, deserving of reverence and protection. She advocated for a profound reassessment of our bond with the environment, underscoring our integral place within nature. This perspective fosters a sense of unity with all creation, suggesting that the health of our planet is inherently linked to our own.
In the Christian tradition, Christmas celebrates the moment of divine Incarnation, the infusion of the sacred into the mundane. It's a season that transcends the material—beyond the melodies, the culinary delights, and the unwrapping of gifts. It beckons a collective awakening to the groans of a world yearning for stewardship. The care for our environment is akin to nurturing a child in utero, poised for birth. Recognizing the face of the Christ child in every aspect of creation calls us to a deeper, more sacred communion. Our choices weave the fabric of this profound connection. The true enchantment of Christmas is not found in the tangible exchanges but in the divine gestation within our lives, sanctifying all of creation.
Sally McFague's analogy of the world as the 'womb of God' harmonizes with the essence of the Incarnation, particularly resonant during Christmas. The Incarnation—God's embodiment in Jesus—symbolizes not only a divine foray into human history but also an affirmation of the natural world. This notion implies a consistent, divine cradling of creation, akin to a womb nurturing life, fostering growth and vitality. Advent, the time leading to Christmas, brims with the expectancy of new life that Jesus' birth heralds. If creation is hallowed and the nativity sanctifies creation, it follows that we, as part of this creation, inherit the duty of its guardianship. Thus, environmental stewardship is transformed into an act of divine service, a living continuation of the Incarnation. Just as God honoured the material world through entry, we too are summoned to honour and preserve it.
Our senses are conduits to the divine within creation. They beckon us into the environment—the womb of God. The legacy we leave will not be measured by our edifices or ventures but by our awakening to a profound guardianship over creation. It is a time to see the divine glory reflected in nature—a season of birth and a time to relinquish what hinders the birth of Christ in today's world through our care for the earth.
So, let us not merely exchange holiday pleasantries. Let us proclaim, 'May Christ be born anew through our love for creation. For creation itself is the womb of God, cradling the divine within'.
In the shadow of my home, the relentless drone of progress rings out as more than 1200 trees are sacrificed on the altar of urban expansion to make way for a labyrinth of 4000 units. With the fall of each giant, the displaced cries of flying foxes—misunderstood as bats—resonate through the night, a haunting chorus lamenting the loss of their arboreal sanctuaries. The plight of the Australian Grey Owl echoes this lament, as it, too, confronts the encroachment of development in my area. 
This scene mirrors the narrative of 'The Lorax,' where the Once-ler's insatiable drive for profit leads to the decimation of trees, heedless of the Lorax's pleas. The result is a dystopia bereft of wildlife, tainted air, and a populace ensnared in the delusion that progress and consumption are panaceas.
Our senses are conduits to the divine within creation. They beckon us into the environment—the womb of God. The legacy we leave will not be measured by our edifices or ventures but by our awakening to a profound guardianship over creation. It is a time to see the divine glory reflected in nature—a season of birth and a time to relinquish what hinders the birth of Christ in today's world through our care for the earth.
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