Refugia
we went through fire and through water;
yet you have brought us out to a spacious place.
-Psalm 66:12
When I was five years old, Mount St Helens erupted. It was May of 1980. I have vague memories of the event being on the nightly news and in the discussions of the grown-ups around me, but beyond that, I don’t remember or even ever knew many of the details.
Now, years later I know mountain lost 1,300 ft of elevation and gained a mile-and-a-half wide crater. Debris and ashfall from the volcanic blast devastated the mountain and its surroundings for miles, covering everything in hot, destructive ash. Apparently, everyone at the time assumed that it would take generations for life to return to this “apocalyptic death zone.”
But now, 40 years later, Mount St. Helens is bursting with life, green grass, happy critters, and new growth. It is once again a spacious place for wildlife of all kinds to bloom and take root, to expand and play, to create and thrive.
No, there isn’t any old-growth forest – yet. But there is life. There is growth. There is beauty. There is a new way of being that is filled with hope and new beginnings.
Kathleen Dean Moore explains how this happened in her book Great Tide Rising, “What the scientists know now, but didn’t understand then, is that when the mountain blasted ash and rock across the landscape, the devastation passed over some small places hidden in the lee of rocks and trees. Here, a bed of moss and deer fern hid under a log. There, under a boulder, a patch of pearly everlasting and the tunnel to a voles musty nest.”
These little pockets of safety that Moore is describing are called refugia.
Refugia, I have learned, are small protected shelters where living things can hide from destruction.
In other words, refugia are places of refuge. They are places where new life begins. Places where, as Debra Rienstra says in her book Refugia Faith, “the tender and often harrowing work, reconstruction and renewal take root.”
No matter where you are, you – like me -are living in an era where it seems that societal, weather, financial, and political “volcanos” are erupting in rapid succession at every corner of the globe – including in our backyards.
Currently, here in the US, volcanos are erupting daily as the dignity and safety of millions of the most vulnerable people in this country- including my emerging adult children – are threatened by our current government, which is causing volcanic ash and debris, composed of fear, hate, and despair to spread over our collective experience, eroding trust, friendships and hope.
And.
What Debra Rienstra points out is that what we know now, that we didn’t in 1980 when Mount Saint Helens erupted, is that the eruption is not the end of the story.
Reinstra says that “in human terms, refugia operates as microcountercultures where we endure disaster and trauma and prepare for new ways of living and growing together.”
Reguia are not always the places we stay permanently- but they are places where new life and liberation can begin. They are places that provide a place for new growth. They are the places where we begin again.
A few weeks ago, I preached on refugia, and what it means to be the Body of Christ – the embodied presence of Jesus on the earth – in a time of great eruption. During that sermon, I wondered aloud what it might mean for the Church to be refugia -to be one of those microcountercultures for our communities – spiritually and materially. I wondered what it might mean for the camp that Nathan and I shepherd to also be a location of refugia – for kids and families, for our staff and our guests. What it will take for us to embody and teach refugia practices through the farm, our programming, and our hospitality.
And I am also thinking about this little online space. About the ways in which I can create a microcounterculture through words and images, stories and prayers. About how I can add to the collection of refugia that writers, musicians, artists, and shepherds of all kinds are creating right now.
To that end, my plan is to practice posting a free weekly newsletter here (always for free, because writing is not how I make my living, and I would rather you support those who do) that focuses on the places I am finding and creating refugia – which could include occasional musings on things like being a Benedictine associate, living a liturgical life, and what my emerging adult children are teaching me to the text of my sermons, rants against injustices, recipes or craft tutorials, and images – from the digital collages I create to stay grounded, to snapshots of our home and life here on camp.
My prayer is that by offering these small gifts, you might find or be inspired to create refugia as well and that together, we grow something new, something restorative, something liberating.
