But the earth came to the help of the woman; it opened its mouth and swallowed the river that the dragon had poured from his mouth. —Revelation 12:16
The earth rises up to protect. At this point in John of Patmos’s inspiring and yet undoubtedly macabre vision-scape, a dragon—that ancient monster of evil incarnate—has attempted a coup in heaven and failed. It has been cast down to earth along with rebellious angels. The woman clothed with the sun, having previously fled to the wilderness for refuge, is no longer safe. The dragon, doubling as Eden’s deceitful serpent, finds her again. Or at least a destructive flood spews forth from his mouth, hell-bent on locating her, wherever she is, and sweeping her and the child away. Just as the woman faces her watery end, however, something astonishing happens: the earth rises up. The earth “comes to the help of the woman” (12:16), opens its mouth, and receives the water the dragon had spewed forth.
It’s possible that I would have skipped right over this verse for its sheer weirdness had theologian Catherine Keller not pointed it out in her Facing Apocalypse. But now I’m convinced that this verse itself rises out from the biblical text. After all, it heralds the aliveness and solidarity of the earth. Revelation is nothing close to science, is not intended to be read anywhere near literally, and its genre parallels are fantasy and horror. All the same, the ancient book tells truths through visions. One of those truths is that the earth is protective, sentient being. Like Tolkien’s aged and wise trees called Ents providing hobbits Merry and Pippin protective cover from orcs, the earth—imaged here as female—intervenes to shield the woman and son.
I’ve only recently realized that the earth is alive, not only something for me to steward and protect, but something that also stewards and protects me. We take care of the earth because the earth, it turns out, takes care of us. But most of my life, I’ve viewed nature as little more than a spacious object for my enjoyment and contemplation, with mountains to summit, gorgeous views to see, and trails to walk with my dog.
There’s nothing wrong with hikes and scenic views, of course, but I still have viewed nature in relation to what it is for me. There’s an uncomfortable, if importantly distant, spiritual link between those who drill and mine the earth and those who enjoy it as their recreational, requisite green space: Earth remains an object that exists for people to use. Surely, our appreciation of nature’s grandeur and beauty can usher us toward mutual ecological belonging—but with the wrong consciousness, it also can leave us humancentric, privileged, and selfish. But if nature is really alive, then it doesn’t exist for me. I exist with Her.
Native peoples have always known this. Patty Krawec, an Anishinaabe and Ukrainian writer, points to Indigenous affirmations of rocks as animate beings, carrying memory and even spirit. The Hebrew Bible tells that the land grieves and even communicates with us. The prophet Hosea says that “the land mourns and all who live on it languish” (4:3), as if to suggest that the land itself carries ecological grief. The land weeps because of what humans have done to Her—and brings forth extreme weather accordingly. Krawec envisions land carrying both the trauma and the healing possibility amongst those who were enslaved and displaced:
The land is alive, and perhaps the lands that exist in the place we call Africa carried stories of ancestors to its western shore. Maybe the stories traveled on mycelium networks that stretch for miles underground. Maybe the trees whispered to each other. Maybe memories and knowledge were carried on the dust that blows from the Sahara across the Atlantic. Perhaps the sea, a primeval creature of long memory, accepted the burden of these stories and bore them on waves, gathering them along with the heartbeats and tears of those who did not complete the crossing. In this way, stories wash up on the shore of the land we call North America and are carried inland. The stories are shared in low murmurings, in the whispers of wind on trees and grassland, so that the beings who live here and listen carefully to such stories are able to offer medicine and belonging to those in diaspora.
Native people will tell you: look for the medicine that shows up.
The more I read the Bible, the more alive that the Earth seems to be. The earth demonstrates solidarity with victims, points out German theologian Brigitte Kohl, remembering the moment that earth received Abel’s blood from brother Cain’s murder and cried out against him (Genesis 4:10-11; see Keller, 76-77). In the Exodus story, the water takes sides with the Israelite enslaved, and swallows Egyptian armies (Exodus 15:12). And there’s a shocking story in Numbers about the earth opening up to swallow two rebels in the ancient Israelite ranks (Dathan and Abiram, Numbers 16:30-34).
If the earth mourns with victims today, then we can be sure that She continues to offer ancestral murmurings of grief, hope, and protection for those who most need it and for those who will still listen. Earth rises up.
P.S. I love hearing from you. Free to write to me by replying to this email or by leaving a comment. As a reminder, Revelations posts are now monthly; the holy ordinary posts on the other weeks. Have a great weekend.
It really is good to be able to see things in a new way. I’m reminded that Christianity is about the raising the dead and seeing anew.
I am hoping you do not mind me quoting from a self-published book by Dr Patrick Oliver’” How True this is!: A soul approach to savouring the Scriptures” , which I feel fits in with what you are saying….
“You may recall that in the Garden of Eden, God searches for Adam and Eve after they’ve hidden themselves: ‘Where are you?’ (Genesis 3: 9). God asks the same question of Cain here in this story: ‘Where is your brother Abel’ (4:9) Ratherthan hearing this as a question from a stern deity who grows more livid by the minute, we can discern it as a question that comes from the divine heart which feels the pain of disconnection….
God asks the question as to Abel’s whereabouts because the inter-connecting web of communion has been damaged. Distancing and isolation have taken the place of real presence. Something’s missing….
When we’re in the grip of our shadow fears, we become defensive. Cain is no exception, for when God asks “Where’s your brother?’ he tersely retorts with the now-famous line, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ (Genesis 4: 9). God now has become Cain’s latest adversary! Denial and crushing of our shadow side doesn’t rid us of this troublesome shadow. We become haunted by it, for it continues to manifest in this person and that person, in this situation and that group. Try as we might, we can’t be rid of what we’ve disowned of ourselves, for it pleads to be reincorporated into our awareness and to be given a rightful home. The Abel-like quality ties which Cain has spurned in himself will, in God’s words, ‘cry out to him to remind of the broken web of connection between him, Abel and God.
Is this a punishment from God? In no way! When we’ve broken the interconnecting web of relationships and communion, then we experience the flow-on of what this entails. Perhaps a way of putting this might be that we are punished by the effects of our sin, not because of our sin. We know this from our own experience when we’ve gone against our true natures: we feel alienated from others, and alienated from ourselves. Existentially we’re no longer ‘at home’.
Cain, though, again projects his own feelings of self-rejection. This time though, the projection is onto God rather than onto Abel. Again he feels crushed by his sense of worthlessness, and it becomes more than he can bear. Self-rejection causes us to look through eyes of trepidation upon whatever seems to threaten. So in projecting his fear of being rejectable onto God, he fully expects God will reject him. He cries, ‘Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth…’ (Genesis 4: 14). It seems that God has become a canvas for Cain to paint his worst fears about himself.
When we break this web of connectedness, we suddenly become homeless. We are refugees with nowhere to belong, and we lose connection with our inner joy, freedom and innocence. We become, like Cain, wanderers in the land of Nod where nothing grows and nothing blooms. We are strangers to ourselves. Cain is a ‘marginal’ person - yet the scriptures are rich in the references to God being on the side of those who are marginalised. So too it is true for ourselves.
The Good Shepherd, who himself is marginalised and rejected, never forgets the one lost sheep ; in fact he ‘lays down his life for them’ (John 10: 11). ‘The mark of Cain’ (Genesis 4: 15) is revealed as a wonderful blessing. The signature of God will remain indelibly upon him. Cain will never be forgotten, for he’s forever carved upon God’s palm (ref. Isaiah 42: 16).
The surprises of God! Cain now has a choice as he goes into his future: to remain fixated upon his shame, or to remember the divine Companionship that out-loves any disruption we can cause to the web of love. The prophet Baruch echoes this later in the scriptures when he encourages us to ‘rejoice that you yourself are remembered by God’ (Baruch 5: 5). This remembrance is the ‘Big Memory’ that can receive, hold, heal and transfigure all of our smaller and pettier memories.
We’re not sure what this ‘mark of Cain’ actually is. It’s purpose though is to deter anyone from killing him (Genesis 4: 15). Hear this verse of a soul-level: when we know we live deep in God’s heart, then nothing can kills us. Nothing can eradicate our bond with the eternal.
The vice of God in the scriptures can often be confused with our own inner violence, our own anger, and our own wish to punish. Remember what we;re like when we’ve lost connection with the Tree of Life, of the Tree of Communion? We become a potpourri of anxiety, resentment, recrimination and self-0recrimination, and we look for someone to punish and vanquish - even it it’s merely by a word or a glare. “ p. 21-22
May your work continue to be a blessing ….
Telling the stories of the stories told......this is wonderful, thank you.