2026.09.13 | Sacred Rest: Where the Wild Things Praise

Sacred Rest: Where the Wild Things Praise
Descanso Sagrado: Dónde Alaba Toda la Creación
Ps 104:10–24

Preached by 
Rev. Dr. Marvin Lance Wiser

Eden United Church of Christ  
Cherryland, CA 
13 Sept 2026

Church, this month, Christians around the world observe the Season of Creation, remembering God as Creator and Sustainer of all life. And as part of our Sacred Rest series we have ventured into Meditation, Camping, a Taizé worship service, participated in rituals, had a Nature Walk, and just yesterday morning, we had 24 church and community members as part of a Spanish language Emotional Wellness Healing Circle Workshop with Pastor Rhina Ramos from Ministerio Latino. And as Pastora Rhina is Salvadoreña, of course there were pupusas. We also had wonderful guitar music from the illustrious Peruvian singer, Rosa Los Santos. 

Speaking of food and Perú, there is a restaurant in Lima, Peru, called Central. The idea behind the meal at Central is that you do not simply sit down and eat—you travel. Course by course, the restaurant takes you on a vertical journey through Peru: from the depths of the Pacific, through coastal valleys and the Amazon, up into cloud forests and the high Andes. Each plate represents a different ecosystem, a different altitude, a different expression of life from arguably the most geographically diverse country on earth. 

Today, on this final Sunday in our Sacred Rest series, I want to invite us on a journey something like that.

Not a gastronomical journey, unfortunately, although that would have been tasty, but a journey through creation—from the depths of the earth to the mountains, through forests and rivers, and finally up toward the stars. All photos are my own, except a few of the early camping ones–thanks Pat. 

Como parte de nuestra serie Descanso Sagrado, hemos explorado distintas maneras de descansar y reconectarnos con Dios: meditación, campamento, adoración, caminatas en la naturaleza y, ayer, un taller de sanación emocional en español con la Pastora Rhina Ramos. También compartimos pupusas y hermosa música de guitarra de Rosa Los Santos. Hoy, este último domingo de Descanso Sagrado, viajaremos por la creación: desde las profundidades de la tierra, pasando por montañas, bosques y ríos, hasta llegar a las estrellas.

As we travel, from the sea to the stars, I want us to notice something the Bible has been telling us from the beginning: We are not separate from nature. We are nature. Genesis 1 does not describe God making “nature” and then, somewhere outside of it, making human beings. We emerge within the same great unfolding creation: light and darkness, waters and land, plants, sun and moon, creatures of sea and sky and earth, and us.

We arrive late in the story. We are creatures among creatures. We breathe air we did not make. We drink water that has been cycling through this planet long before we arrived. The ground produces our food, the trees exchange breath with us, and eventually our bodies return to the earth.

And yet modern life trains us to forget this interdependence and connectivity. We say we are going “out into nature,” as though nature is somewhere else. As though we leave the human world and enter the natural one. But there is no human world apart from the natural one. There is only creation. And we belong to it.

Maybe that is one reason spending time outdoors can feel so restorative. In Japan there is a practice called shinrin-yoku—forest bathing. It is not about conquering a trail or counting steps. It means slowing down and taking in the atmosphere of the forest through the senses: the scent of trees, the movement of light, the sound of leaves, the feeling of air on skin.

Researchers have found that time in forest environments can reduce physiological signs of stress, lowering cortisol, our pulse, and blood pressure in forest settings compared with urban ones. But perhaps our bodies already knew: Sometimes we need to return to the trees.

Mientras viajamos simbólicamente del mar hasta las estrellas, recordamos una verdad bíblica fundamental: no estamos separados de la naturaleza; somos parte de ella. Génesis nos presenta como criaturas dentro de la misma creación de Dios, dependientes del aire, el agua, la tierra, los árboles y unos de otros.

Sin embargo, la vida moderna puede hacernos olvidar esta conexión. Por eso estar en la naturaleza puede ser tan restaurador. En Japón existe la práctica de shinrin-yoku, o “baño de bosque”: para recibir el bosque con todos los sentidos. Incluso la investigación muestra que pasar tiempo entre los árboles puede reducir el estrés. Tal vez nuestros cuerpos ya lo saben: a veces necesitamos volver a los árboles.

One of the gifts from my sabbatical experience, now more than two years ago when many of these photos were taken, has been wonder. There is something about standing before an ocean, sleeping beneath trees, watching clouds move across a mountain, or looking into a night sky far from city lights that rearranges your sense of scale.

You remember: I am here. But I am not the center.

And strangely, that can be a relief.

Psalm 104 takes us on exactly this kind of journey.

The springs gush through the valleys.
Wild animals come to drink.
Birds nest beside the waters and sing among the branches.
Grass grows.
Trees are watered abundantly.
The high mountains belong to the wild goats.
The moon marks the seasons.
The sea stretches out, vast and teeming with life.

And then the psalmist simply stops in wonder:

“O LORD, how manifold are your works!”

Notice how little of this creation exists for us.

The springs are for wild animals.
The trees are homes for birds.
The mountains belong to goats.
The sea swarms with things we may never see.

Creation has value beyond its usefulness to humanity.

And the book of Job takes that idea even further.

When God finally answers Job from the whirlwind, God takes him on another tour of creation. God points to rain falling on land where no human being lives. God celebrates the wild donkey who refuses the city. God asks Job whether the wild ox will submit to his plow.

No.

It will not work for you.
It will not organize itself around you.
It will not become useful simply because you would like it to be.

And God seems delighted by that.

The wild things belong to God before they ever belong to us. There is an old rabbinic play on the Hebrew word מדבר midbar, wilderness, and dibbur, speech. The wilderness, the rabbis suggest, is a place of speaking. And perhaps that makes sense: the God who spoke creation into being still speaks through creation. The question is whether we can become quiet enough to hear it.

In the Psalms, creation even has its own worship life.

The seas roar.
The rivers clap their hands.
The mountains sing.
The trees rejoice.
The heavens declare the glory of God.

Psalm 148, from which our call to worship was taken this morning, calls all of the wild and wondrous creation to praise God. Which means that when we walk into a forest, we are not bringing God into some empty place. We are entering a sanctuary where worship has already begun.

The birds did not wait for us to arrive before singing.
The redwoods did not need us to teach them reverence.
The stars have been proclaiming glory long before us.

Maybe this is where sacred rest leads us in the end.

Over these weeks we have talked about rest as resistance to a culture that measures our worth by productivity. We have talked about Sabbath as rhythm rather than reward, and about spiritual practices and rituals that interrupt our striving and return us to ourselves, one another, and God.

Creation adds one more lesson: You do not have to be useful every moment in order to be beloved, nor do you have to be in control.

The wildflower does not justify its existence.
The whale does not submit a productivity report.
The redwood does not hurry.

They receive the life God has given them. And praise God by being fully what they were created to be.

Uno de los regalos de mi sabático fue volver a experimentar el asombro: recordar que formamos parte de la creación, pero no somos el centro de ella. El Salmo 104 y el libro de Job nos muestran un mundo lleno de vida que no existe solamente para nuestro beneficio, sino que pertenece a Dios y, a su manera, también alaba a Dios.

La tradición rabínica relaciona la palabra en Hebrew para el desierto, midbar, con dibbur, la palabra: el desierto no está vacío ni en silencio; puede ser un lugar donde Dios ya está hablando. Tal vez esta sea una de las últimas lecciones de nuestro Descanso Sagrado: no tenemos que estar produciendo, controlando o demostrando algo todo el tiempo para ser amados. Podemos simplemente recibir la vida que Dios nos da y vivirla con gratitud.

Just a couple of weeks ago, the poet, farmer, and writer Wendell Berry died at his home in Kentucky at the age of 92. For decades, Berry invited us to resist the illusion that human life can be separated from the land, the creatures, and the communities to which we belong. And perhaps no poem captures that invitation to sacred rest more beautifully than The Peace of Wild Things.

Berry describes what he does when the despair of the world grows too heavy: he goes out among the wild things. He lies down near still water, beneath the presence of creatures who do not spend their lives anticipating tomorrow’s grief. And there, for a time, he finds rest. I think many of us know something about that longing.

So before we end this series, I want us not simply to talk about it. I want us to practice it.

Take a breath. Respira profundo. Let your shoulders fall. Deja caer los hombros. Observa las imágenes que tienes delante: Look at the images before you: Water. Agua. Stone. Piedra. Trees. Árboles. Sky. Cielo.

Imagínate no observando la creación desde fuera, sino formando parte de ella. Imagine yourself not observing creation from outside, but belonging within it. Feel the breath entering your body. That breath is a gift.

Imagina las raíces bajo la tierra. Imagine the roots beneath the soil.
The rivers moving toward the sea. Los ríos que se dirigen hacia el mar, las criaturas de Dios y las estrellas.
The creatures hidden beyond our sight.
The stars burning above us so bright.

None of them need your supervision.

For this moment, nothing needs to be accomplished. Para este momento, no hay nada que lograr. Eres una criatura de Dios entre varias. 

You are a creature of God,
among the creatures of God,
held within the creation of God.

Breathe again. Respira de nuevo. 

Escuche siempre las alabanzas de la creación, del agua, los pájaros, el viento, tu propia respiración. Listen for the praise that was here before us and will continue after us.

The praise of water flowing.
The praise of birds calling.
The praise of wind moving through branches.
The praise of mountains simply standing.

And perhaps your own breath can join their song.

Tal vez esta sea la invitación con la que termina nuestra serie de Descanso Sagrado: salgamos afuera. No para conquistar, contar pasos o mejorarnos a nosotros mismos. Simplemente para estar. Párate bajo un árbol, siéntate junto al agua, mira el cielo de noche y recuerda que no estamos separados de la creación; pertenecemos a ella y a Dios.

So perhaps this is the invitation with which our Sacred Rest series should end: Go outside. Not to conquer a mountain. Not to count your steps. Not to improve yourself. Just go. Stand beneath a tree. Sit beside water. Look upward after dark. Let yourself be small again.

Remember that you are not separate from creation. You belong to it. And when the world tells you that you must keep producing, proving, striving, and controlling, listen instead for the older song: The river clapping. The mountains singing. The trees rejoicing. The wild things praising. And then, beloved of God, rest. And join them. Amen.