My father was not a church-goer. He may have been as a child, since he attended parochial schools until he left when he was just 15 to support his widowed mother. In the days of his childhood, school and church often went hand-in-hand. Dad recalled visits from the priests at morning assembly, announcing who had died the previous night, and watching the rituals of weddings and funerals taking place just outside the schoolroom windows.

If my father were alive today, he might describe himself as “spiritual but not religious” (SBNR), which is the fastest growing category of religiosity in the U.S. More and more Americans, especially youth and young adults, are unaffiliated with any specific religious tradition, yet are still drawn to meaning-making and seeking a purpose beyond themselves, perhaps even sensing the presence of larger forces at play in their lives. Spirituality for SBNRs is expressed in myriad ways, from prayer and meditation to journaling and reading. And, most commonly, by spending time in nature for reflection.

This would have resonated deeply for my dad. Though he never said it in so many words, my father found who he was by losing himself to the great outdoors. My father’s house of worship and congregation were constituted by the trees, streams, birds, and meandering paths of a New England woodland. His sense of the miraculous came from patiently cultivating a garden from seeds to harvest. And quite honestly, he preferred the company of nature to most humans.

When the global pandemic descended upon us all, faith communities experimented with moving their worship and other activities outside, leaving behind familiar and comfortable indoor spaces. One congregation described their experience in the face of this unexpected adaptation: “In 2020, we were forced to move our summer worship services outdoors... and it was wonderful.” Though the end of pandemic restrictions has many congregations returning to their buildings, often accompanied by a grateful sigh of relief, this particular congregation is trying to stay the course: “We plan to resume our outdoor worship services this summer and to hold more of our church meetings on the church lawn whenever the weather allows... this will allow our worship and planning to be inspired by God’s creation…” Maybe my dad would have attended this church!

There’s no question that religion has its roots in the great outdoors: Moses stopped in his tracks by the burning bush; Jesus prayed alone in the garden and retreated to the wilderness; Buddha sat patiently under the Bodhi tree; Muhammad’s revelation came in a mountain cave. Yet over time, structures designed to both provide shelter and to shape the experience of worshipers spread across the globe.

Sometimes these buildings – and what happens in them – completely cut off any connection between religion and the world of nature. Ralph Waldo Emerson famously noted the “real” snowstorm just outside the church window behind the preacher, who was “merely spectral.”

Lately I have been yearning for a faith community who understands the spirituality of a world unmediated – and unencumbered – by human-made structures. I’m dreaming of a congregation that takes as its text the ways of our more-than-human kin: the stolidity of rock, the effusive energy of brook, the dependable reappearance of spring lady slipper, the regeneration of soil by rotting leaves, the underground helpfulness of rhizomes. I imagine a gathered body who holds silence and hears the breeze and birds as a choral anthem. I picture the message of the day offered by pollinating bee, nesting bluebird, or charred tree. I envision light filtering through the leaves and bouncing off the water as sacred art.

On this Father’s Day weekend, I am remembering my own father’s love of the world of nature as a place of both intimacy and ultimacy, a place to know and to be known. That’s my way, too. I love and long to be immersed in the beauty and bounty of the natural world. But there’s one more thing: for me, to me, it’s better in community, with company, to be one with the kingdom of all our relations, including we curious, loving, searching humans. I like to think my dad would grant me that small amendment.

The Rev. Alison Cornish is a Unitarian Universalist minister living in Shelburne Falls, on land long and faithfully cared for by the Nipmuc and Wabanaki peoples . She serves as a Program Consultant for the BTS Center (thebtscenter.org), an organization committed to preparing spiritual leaders to minister in a climate-changed world.

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