Befriending our more-than-human siblings
- Pastor Maggie
- Oct 5
- 6 min read
Pastor Maggie's homily for the Feast of St. Francis 2025.
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How many of you are familiar with the stories of James Herriot? For those of you who aren’t, they’re the stories of a young, Scottish vet who gets his first job out of school as the junior vet at a veterinary practice in the north of England in Yorkshire. The local folks don’t trust him much, and his boss—a scatterbrained blowhard with a heart of gold—is difficult to work for. The books really are about the development of relationships in this tight-knit community as much as they are about the relationships the people of the community have with their animals. If you need a feel-good watch, PBS and Masterpiece Theater have recently produced a TV series based on these books, which I heartily recommend to you. (The BBC produced its version of the series in the 1970s, which is much grittier and very much a product of its time.)
What stands out to me in the reading we did a few minutes ago is that Blossom isn’t a thing to the farmer. She’s more than a cog in some economic enterprise. She’s a part of the farm—she knows everything about it. She doesn’t owe the farmer anything. She’s family. She belongs. For me, this story highlights something I’ve been working on for the last 6 months or so—really learning to see the more-than-human world as my sibling. Greeting the flowers and the weeds and the rabbits that keep trying to build nests in my yard and the feral tomato growing by the driveway as though they were long-lost family come to visit. It’s an endeavor I think St. Francis of “Brother Sun” and “Sister Moon” fame would appreciate.
Like most of us, I’ve always loved the world around me. Trees and clouds especially. I could happily spend the rest of my life sitting under a tree staring at the sky. Have you ever actually hugged a tree? Sounds silly, but there’s something that feels so good about feeling your chest—the place where your heart beats—right up against the bark. If you’ve never hugged a tree, you should really try it.
When I was in first or second grade we did a school project about the trees that were on the grounds. We each chose a tree and named it and did as much science about it as 7 year olds can do. I named my tree, a big sugar maple, Diane. Diane was on the path between the building and the school bus, so I got to see a lot of her, and we became friends. I still go and say hi to her whenever I’m able. Like my human friends, Diane is part of me.
Diane isn’t the only named tree in my life. In the yard of the house I grew up in there was a huge Elm—an elm so big it would take at least three people to wrap their arms all the way around it. My mom called it Grandpa Tree. A few years ago Grandpa Tree got so sick he had to be cut down. Mom and I cried as though we were losing a friend, and we still talk about Grandpa Tree. Grandpa Tree was part of us.
I think maybe that’s what Jesus is trying to get at in the first section of today’s gospel reading. For context, earlier in Luke, the disciples have been sent out in pairs to heal and perform miracles. Now they’ve come back and are reporting in to Jesus—"It was amazing! We had all this power! We said ‘jump’ and demons asked ‘how high?’ It was great!”
And Jesus responds and says, “Yes, you have power, but if you thought that the power was the point…you didn’t really understand what was going on. The point is that you belong. Your name is written in heaven; you are part of God’s family.” Your power was not really to cast out, but to invite in. Then Jesus goes on to give thanks that this is the sort of thing folks who think they’re wise overlook. But those who are childlike—those without power—they understand.
It’s easy to forget that belonging is the whole point. It’s easy to think that power is the be-all, end-all. Especially when those with power seem hell-bent on naming enemies and casting them out or punishing them. It’s scary, and it makes us want to scramble after power to protect ourselves—to abandon belonging and seek power for ourselves so we can be the ones naming enemies.
But every so often we get little reminders that we were made for more than lording power over one another. A little over a decade ago, the city of Melbourne assigned each of its trees an email address so that citizens could report issues with the trees.[i] Some Melburnians used the email addresses for exactly that—reporting maintenance needs, downed limbs, etc. But most of the messages that came via email were messages sent directly to the trees: general greetings, love notes, and existential questions.
One message read:
To: Golden Elm, Tree ID 1037148
I'm so sorry you're going to die soon. It makes me sad when trucks damage your low hanging branches. Are you as tired of all this construction work as we are?
Another read:
To: Algerian Oak, Tree ID 1032705
Dear Algerian oak,
Thank you for giving us oxygen. Thank you for being so pretty. I don't know where I'd be without you to extract my carbon dioxide. (I would probably be in heaven) Stay strong, stand tall amongst the crowd. You are the gift that keeps on giving.
We were going to speak about wildlife but don't have enough time and have other priorities unfortunately. Hopefully one day our environment will be our priority.
And my favorite reads:
Dear [Tree #] 1037148, You deserve to be known by more than a number. I love you. Always and forever.
We weren’t made to lord power over one another. We were made for wonder and connection. We exist to ask questions of trees. To let cows show us the secret way home. To use whatever power we have to invite people and the more-than-human world in and care for them as family. When Francis was out preaching to birds, he wasn’t out there informing them Jesus died for their sins. How silly would it be to talk to birds of sin? He was recognizing and rejoicing in the fact that he had found more family. That God had invited them all into this wonderful existence. That they all belonged together.
We can do that too. We can practice belonging. We can engage in practices of belonging. How do we do this? Well, you could befriend a tree. I heartily recommend it. You could learn what helps it or hurts it, and get to know it in all its seasons. You could give it a nickname. You could even hug it. The same goes for any other plant or animal in your life (maybe don’t hug the poisonous plants or animals).
Talk to the world around you; greet it as sibling. It might feel weird at first—it did to me, anyway—but it also has made me feel more connected. It makes me happy to greet the things living in my yard and ask them about their day, even if I don’t understand their response.
We can also practice belonging among the human family. This is easy to do when it’s people we love, or when its people we have compassion for—we want to feed the hungry; we want to take care of children; we want to make sure the sick get good care and that folks who live outside have warm places to go and enough clothing when it’s cold.
The harder work I think we’re being invited in to is to continue to practice belonging for people we dislike. People who call us enemies. We don’t have to like them or what they do, but we cannot treat them as enemies. They, like us, need to be held accountable for the harm they cause, but they are not enemies. They are our siblings.
May we, in our proclaiming of belonging, in our insistence on greeting those who call us enemy as beloved sibling, overcome the fear that keeps us separated. May we experience the wonder and joy of being part of the family of God in its human and more-than-human forms. May we be as devoted to love and kinship as St. Francis. May it be so. Amen.
