Student reads sermon at Earth Day celebration

On Friday, April 15, students celebrated Earth Day with an outdoor chapel service and picnic. Chaplain DeSalvo led the congregation in songs celebrating the occasion, and Laura McCready ’09 read a specially prepared and beautifully written Earth Day chapel sermon (see below). In her talk, the V Former drew on her experience in Africa, which prompted profound realizations about the gratuity and injuriousness of the American standard of living. The effect of her speech was palpable; students sitting on the grass nodded in understanding, moved by and in sympathy with her words. The resplendence of the day, the shimmering sunlight on Noxontown pond, the lushness of the grass, all seemed to confirm Laura’s proposal that the average American moves through the natural world rather than basking in it, awakening to it, appreciating it.

The service was followed by a “100-mile diet” picnic lunch.

Laura McCready '09 reads her Earth Day sermon.

Earth Day Sermon by Laura McCready

Last April, my father told me that instead of spending the summer at the beach, we would be traveling to Africa…and I’d better buy myself some safari pants. I thought he was insane, at first, but the idea of seeing lions and zebras and other wild things exited me, as did the prospect of learning about another culture.

When we arrived in Kenya, just how much learning we had to do became blatantly apparent as my mom made a complete fool of herself. Whenever our jeep approached any sleeping creature, she asked if it was dead. “Oh Jacob,” she said to our guide, “is that poor hippo dead?” “No, mama,” he would respond, “just sleeping.” Ten minutes later—“Jacob, do you see that gazelle on the ground? Is it dead?” “No, mama, it’s sleeping.” Sleeping giraffes, elephants, impala—they were all dead in her ignorant eyes. This process went on for a few days of safari, when one morning we came upon a hyena lying on the ground. “Jacob,” my mother said, “Is it dead of bloat?”

At that point our guide told my mother not to ask any more questions until she’d spent sufficient time studying the animals’ breathing patterns.

While my Mom flaunted her poor understanding of nature, I sat back in perfect arrogance of my ecological insight. After all, I knew that the animals were dead. I loved being outside. I had had Mr. McLean for third form biology class. I was an Environmental Steward.

My self-image as a person in touch with nature came crashing down one morning when my family took a very early flight from Northern to Western Kenya. We drove from our camp to the airstrip around six in the morning, and boarded a rickety little plane with one other family. After a few minutes of sitting on the runway waiting to take off, the pilot came into the cabin and told everyone to de-board the plane. “Oh shoot,” I immediately thought. See, my Dad makes itineraries when we travel, and my family follows them religiously. The itinerary said that we were due to land in 75 minutes. As far as I was concerned, this delay was a disaster. I’m sure my behavior comes as a shock to you all, who know me so well, and have never seen me act controlling or impatient. I checked my watch and begrudgingly climbed down from the plane, very frustrated by this glitch in the plan.

The pilot lined the eight of us up to face the east side of the runway. He silently motioned up to the sky, pointing out a brilliant sunrise we had failed to notice in our haste. I often think about the huge orange sun rising into sight above the Savannah. I remember the image not only for its incredible beauty, but more importantly because that moment marked my realization of the shallow way I’d been viewing the world around me. As we stood on the runway, still and silent, looking towards the heavens, I thought about all the sunrises I’d probably missed while scrambling though my life completely unaware of the beauty all around me. We remained there for few magical minutes before re-boarding the plane and flying away. I pressed my nose to the window on that flight, eagerly observing my surroundings with a newfound consciousness of nature. Nobody at our destination, not even the guide we had been rushing to meet, seemed to notice that we were 20 minutes late.

Kenyans and Tanzanians have a sort of serenity, an ease of being, that I’m sure stems from their harmony with the natural world. They spend most of their time outdoors- some with their herds, others in the gardens. They walk when they need to get anywhere, sometimes for many miles. With little electricity, their daily routines are in tune with the rhythms of the sun. They are one with nature, as I observed when I saw some women build a house by hand with warm cow dung, fresh from their herds. The stench did not concern them, nor did the flies that were landing on their faces. Kenyans and Tanzanians appreciate their countries’ natural resources, and they take the time to observe and reflect on the world around them.

These people don’t have it easy. They struggle with disease, poverty, and lack of education and opportunity. But nevertheless, they seem happier than Americans, more fulfilled. They smile and laugh, and give a hearty “jambo” to everyone they pass.

In contrast to these cultures’ intimate relationship with the outdoors, our modern lifestyles insulate us from the natural environment. As we move from home to car to a parking garage to office, a critical part of a healthy lifestyle is missing. The average American, I heard on the radio a few months ago, spends ten minutes outside each day. Ten minutes! And we wonder why we’re so stressed out! We wonder why we’re dependent on material goods! We wonder why many think climate change won’t affect them.

After my trip ended, when I walked out of the London airport into the bustling city, I felt overwhelmed by the noise, the traffic, and the people hurrying by without acknowledging each other’s presence. The smoggy air felt thick in my lungs, which were used to much better, and as I took a breath I vowed that I would not return to my old lifestyle of thoughtlessness and materialism. In Africa I learned what happiness is and what creates fulfillment. I promised myself that my understanding would lead me to a new existence of insightfulness and simplicity.

And things did change, for a while. One afternoon shortly after I returned I sat by a tree in suburban Charlotte, watching squirrels play for an hour and a half. I walked and biked instead of driving, took short showers, and spent as much time outside as possible.

But, with time, my efforts diminished as I gave in to the convenience of driving, the appeal of my favorite Starbuck’s drink, and the hectic atmosphere that tells me squirrel watching is not worth my time. Sometimes I catch a whiff of something that smells like elephant or hear the sound of drums and my mind is back in Africa—back to the simplicity of the Tanzanian and Kenyan lifestyle. I remember the insight I’d gained by the end of my trip: the way I learned to appreciate nature, and how I began to understand the elemental importance of this Earth, and to grasp the delicate ties that link all living things.

In moments like these, I find it difficult not to dwell on all that I’m doing wrong, all that I’ve lost sight of. It’s not only the stress and the discontent of my semi-conscious lifestyle that bothers me. It’s the effect of my lifestyle on people like the Kenyans and Tanzanians.

The voice of a Kenyan woman, standing with a jug of water on her head, rings clear in my mind. “Every year we have to walk farther and farther for water,” she said, “The rivers dry up one by one”. I see the Tanzanian man point up at Kilimanjaro and hear him say that when he was a child, the majestic mountain was covered with more snow all year long.

These people made these reflections not with bitterness or malice, but with sadness and discouragement. You see, they don’t understand that it’s my fault that their rivers are drying up. They don’t know that I went home to America, got in my car, and melted the great glaciers of Kilimanjaro. They have no idea that my thoughtless lifestyle harms them, people who have no part in the climate crisis, people whose families have lived the same way for thousands of years, and who cherish the air and water rather than pollute them.

I don’t mean to stand here, on Earth Day, and make everyone feel guilty. The fact is: it’s not too late to make a change. We can learn to treasure the Earth, to value land and air and life. From sad stories like these, and from the unhealthy state of the planet, we must not be discouraged, but rather we must bring increased devotion to the issue that unites every creature on the Earth. It’s as easy as spending time appreciating the magnificence of our surroundings. It’s as simple as considering the repercussions of the decisions we make every day. The inspiration is all around us - in the pond, the plants and wildlife on this beautiful campus. We see that things must change; we understand the devastating consequences of our thoughtless lifestyles. But it takes more than recognition. It’s time now for us to act on our awareness. In the words of Gandhi: “We must be the change we wish to see in the world.”

Fifth Formers Hannah Darling, Susie Gurzenda and Emily Gowen sing along with a hymn.

Chaplain DeSalvo leads the congregation in a song.

Students watch the service from a nearby perch.