Morning Meditation: Climate Change and Hope

Dear God of all creation, You who spoke the oceans into their boundaries and set the stars wheeling in their courses,

This morning I watched frost form on my window — tiny, intricate crystals that will vanish by noon. And I thought of the glaciers, those ancient cathedrals of ice that have been whispering Your name for ten thousand years, now retreating like a congregation slipping out the back door. Lord, it grieves me. It grieves You.

Yet You tell us in Matthew 5:44 to love even our enemies — and sometimes the enemy is our own indifference, our own appetite for comfort at creation's expense. Teach me to love the farmer in Bangladesh whose rice paddies are drowning in salt water, though I will never learn her name. Teach me to love the child in Tuvalu who draws pictures of an island that may not exist when she is grown. Teach me even to love the parts of myself that reach for convenience over conscience.

The Anglican tradition has always held that prayer and action are two hands folded together. So as I rise from this meditation, let me rise changed. Let me carry reusable bags not as a political statement but as a quiet act of agape — that stubborn, self-giving love that refuses to let the world simply burn. Let me plant one tree, write one letter, make one choice today that says to Your groaning creation: I see you. You are not forgotten.