Recently I was reading the transcript of an interview that Krista Tippett had with Colette Pichon Battle, who is a climate activist and founder of the Gulf Coast Center for Law and Policy. As they were discussing the impact of Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and the ways in which that giant storm forever changed communities of the Gulf Coast, Tippett commented, “Climate is just this tiny piece of it, right? But it’s a human story. It’s a story about home. It’s a story about belonging. It’s about what we know and love and hold dear. Starts with love — with what we love and who we love, and culture. It doesn’t start with an abstraction.”

I thought of that quote last night. A book group that I facilitate in our church is discussing “Climate Church, Climate World,” by Jim Antal. We began last evening’s conversation by sharing stories about things that we value - things that we love - and how that treasure is in jeopardy or vanishing as a result of climate change. One member of the group spoke of the temperate climate of Bellingham and how last summer’s heat wave made the town seem like an entirely different place. Without air conditioning, that person’s home was not a comfortable place for guests, something that had never before happened. Another member of the group spoke of the vanishing glaciers in the high country and how the snow and ice on Mount Baker and other high points of the Cascades is now melting each summer. Yet another member spoke of the forests turning brown from British Columbia to California - how the intense heat has left the tops of the fir trees burned and scarred. One couple spoke of their love of scuba diving and the death of coral reefs.

I thought of the high country of the Beartooths and Absaroka Mountains north of Yellowstone National Park and the disappearance of grasshopper glacier and the land of the pink snow, iconic places of my childhood that are now very different than the days when the snow did not melt during the summer in those places.

The story of climate change is a human story. It is a story about home, about belonging, about what we know and love and hold dear.

I’ve been reading about the flooding in Australia. Nearly 3,000 homes in New South Wales are uninhabitable because of flood damage. Streets have turned into rivers. The Prime Minister has declared a national emergency. Nearly a half a million people have been told to be ready for evacuation in Queensland and New South Wales. It is easy to simply think of the numbers and statistics, but each one of those uninhabitable homes is someone’s dream. It is a place of family dinners and birthday celebrations. It is where children have grow up and learned about life. It is someone’s place in this world. And that place has been taken away.

At the point of such intense loss, it is no longer a theoretical concept. It is no longer a political argument. Climate change is a stark life-altering reality. The grief that was expressed as members of our book group spoke of what one was and what now is, is multiplied over and over again until the tears of loss are nearly overwhelming.

Scientists have been telling us for decades that the human impact on the environment is devastating and that we need to change our ways in order to survive on this planet. May of us have become aware of some of the things that individuals can do. We reduce, reuse, and recycle. We try to cut down on what we consume and what we throw away. We volunteer for cleanups in our community. We conserve water. We try to shop wisely. We have switched the kind of light bulbs we use. We have planted trees. We use reusable grocery bags.

But most of us also carry a bit of environmental guilt over some of the things we do. I sometimes drive when I should be walking. We have not installed solar panels on our home and we use too much electricity. Our cars are not the most fuel efficient available. It is pretty easy to make a list of the ways we as individuals are a part of the cause of the global environmental crisis.

Beyond that, there are times when the crisis seems so big and so overwhelming that we feel insignificant and unable to have any impact at all.

I’ve forgotten which leader said it but the story is that someone once asked, “What is the most important thing that an individual can do about the climate crisis?” The answer was, “Stop being an individual.” As is true of all of the truly big challenges that humanity has faced, this crisis is beyond any individual. The changes we need to make are systemic. We need to act together to bring about the change that is required. That doesn’t mean that we abandon individual responsibility or that we stop doing the things we are able to do. It just means that we need to find ways to work together to solve environmental problems.

I have personally witnessed not only environmental destruction, but also the amazing recovery of ecosystems. When I was growing up we rarely spotted a bald eagle. The great raptors were endangered because of the use of chemical pesticides. The chemicals aimed at eliminating insects were working their way up the food chain to the apex predators who were dying as a result. But we humans learned. We worked together to stop the use of some of the most dangerous chemicals. We protected surviving raptors. We developed captive breeding programs and reintroduction into the wild. And it is not only the eagles that have returned to Yellowstone. The wolves and beavers have come back. The elk population is becoming more balanced. And, after the fires of 1988 and 1989, Yellowstone is growing a new forest that is more diverse and healthier than what was there when I was growing up.

The energy of our grief can be channeled into collective constructive change. Perhaps sharing that grief is a first step, but there are many other steps that must be taken. The challenges of our generation are huge. Our legacy will be in how we respond as a community.