Written by: Rev. Matthew Webber
I looked across the pastures on a frosty morning, just on the outskirts of town, and watched the steam rising off of the cattle as they grazed in an attempt to keep warm. I had no claim to these creatures as they were someone else’s herd, but they were familiar to me, having driven past them every day. Just minutes prior, I had kissed my dog on the head, telling him “Goodbye,” for the morning as I headed off to the church where I pastored and would go about my Monday tasks, preparing for the upcoming Sunday’s sermon. It would turn out, however, that the particularly chilly drive into the office that day would alter my entire outlook on life, as well as my vocational trajectory.
For several weeks, while sitting at my desk, I pondered the juxtaposition of my beloved Golden Retriever and the cattle I drove by every morning. Always wrestling with theological and ethical theories and how best to put them into practice, I struggled to find a means by which I could justify my behavior as a believer, as an espoused animal lover, and (at the time) a meat eater. Moreover, I was left asking myself, “What does it mean for me, as a part of the Church-at-large, to be in ministry centering the welfare of animals farmed for food?” Before long, I found myself back in graduate school, having stepped away from active pastoral ministry in the local church, in the hope of answering this question.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, a lesson that impacted me greatly came from Bernard Rollin who was a champion for the ethical treatment of nonhuman animals for most of his life. As a professor, Rollin worked extensively with ranchers worldwide and would repeatedly claim that he never taught the ranchers anything. Instead, he would ask the ranchers questions about nonhuman animals and their proper treatment, which allowed the ranchers to say what they knew. For many, this exercise helped overcome any cognitive dissonance that arose over time. The lesson for me was that individuals don’t need to be taught how to treat nonhuman animals; they simply need to remember something they have long since forgotten.
Suddenly, I was whisked back in my memory to the time on my grandpa’s farm when I was helping paint the barn. I say, “helping,” but surely the fact that I could only reach a few feet above the ground and that more paint ended up on me than on the barn conveys a very liberal sense of the term. Still, what I remember most is that I was terrified of these massive creatures who were curious about people near their barn. My grandfather told me that the cattle were more afraid of me than I was of them—although, I’m not sure that was actually true given my size compared to theirs. I kept an eye on them, and they kept a keen eye focused on me.
I, of course, survived the ordeal. And while this was not my first face-to-face encounter with cattle, it was the first time without a fence or something between us. It made me think, though, what it meant for these creatures to be more afraid of me than I was of them. What had I done to them to make them so fearful? As an adult, recalling this farmyard chore, the memory elicited thoughts of what it means to be fearful and the similarities between human and nonhuman emotions. These thoughts, combined with the memories of cattle on a cold Colorado morning, raised the question of why we might see cattle differently than we see a beloved dog. Is it due to species differences? Is it due to society? Perhaps it is due to proximity? Seeing the cattle through the windshield of my pickup was different from seeing the dog with whom I shared a home. Moreover, I came to understand that I still bear a responsibility for those around me, no matter who they are and regardless of their species.
For several weeks, while sitting at my desk, I pondered the juxtaposition of my beloved Golden Retriever and the cattle I drove by every morning. Always wrestling with theological and ethical theories and how best to put them into practice, I struggled to find a means by which I could justify my behavior as a believer, as an espoused animal lover, and (at the time) a meat eater. Moreover, I was left asking myself, “What does it mean for me, as a part of the Church-at-large, to be in ministry centering the welfare of animals farmed for food?” Before long, I found myself back in graduate school, having stepped away from active pastoral ministry in the local church, in the hope of answering this question.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, a lesson that impacted me greatly came from Bernard Rollin who was a champion for the ethical treatment of nonhuman animals for most of his life. As a professor, Rollin worked extensively with ranchers worldwide and would repeatedly claim that he never taught the ranchers anything. Instead, he would ask the ranchers questions about nonhuman animals and their proper treatment, which allowed the ranchers to say what they knew. For many, this exercise helped overcome any cognitive dissonance that arose over time. The lesson for me was that individuals don’t need to be taught how to treat nonhuman animals; they simply need to remember something they have long since forgotten.
Suddenly, I was whisked back in my memory to the time on my grandpa’s farm when I was helping paint the barn. I say, “helping,” but surely the fact that I could only reach a few feet above the ground and that more paint ended up on me than on the barn conveys a very liberal sense of the term. Still, what I remember most is that I was terrified of these massive creatures who were curious about people near their barn. My grandfather told me that the cattle were more afraid of me than I was of them—although, I’m not sure that was actually true given my size compared to theirs. I kept an eye on them, and they kept a keen eye focused on me.
I, of course, survived the ordeal. And while this was not my first face-to-face encounter with cattle, it was the first time without a fence or something between us. It made me think, though, what it meant for these creatures to be more afraid of me than I was of them. What had I done to them to make them so fearful? As an adult, recalling this farmyard chore, the memory elicited thoughts of what it means to be fearful and the similarities between human and nonhuman emotions. These thoughts, combined with the memories of cattle on a cold Colorado morning, raised the question of why we might see cattle differently than we see a beloved dog. Is it due to species differences? Is it due to society? Perhaps it is due to proximity? Seeing the cattle through the windshield of my pickup was different from seeing the dog with whom I shared a home. Moreover, I came to understand that I still bear a responsibility for those around me, no matter who they are and regardless of their species.
I was introduced to Emanuel Levinas, a Jewish philosopher born in Lithuania, via a footnote in an article about Dietrich Bonhoeffer and ethics. With my interest piqued, I sought to wrap my mind around the concept of “the other” and what is humanity’s responsibility for or toward the “other” in one’s midst.1 Levinas’s use of the term “other” is not meant in a derogatory way, but rather designates any and every person who is not oneself. Thus, the “other” is every person who is “other than oneself.” Emphasizing the “other” rather than oneself is a stark contrast to the idea that we each have an “individual right” to be treated a certain way, saying instead that we each have a responsibility to the “other” in the world. And while there is some discussion about whether or not Levinas intended for his ethical theories to be applied to humans alone, the theory can teach us—or perhaps even remind us—that the “others” in our world do include nonhuman animals as well as our fellow humans. It may even be said that when individuals are responsible for and to those who are “other than” themselves, such behavior inevitably includes both human and nonhuman elements.
Briefly, and by no means exhaustively, the one who is “other than” me is not lesser than me, nor do I have any power to control or force my will on anyone. What I am called to witness is that, by simply existing, the “other” calls me to recognize the life that is within them and, as such, obey the commandment to preserve that individual’s life—i.e., “do not kill.” Rather than merely refrain from killing, though, I am called to ensure that this individual can live out their life, which means I am responsible for ensuring that the lives of “others” around me—which is everyone and anyone who is not me—continue being lived. Thus, I am responsible for ensuring the “other” does not starve, freeze, or be killed by anyone else, nor should they be exploited, abused, or oppressed.
Where Levinas says “other,” we can substitute the word “neighbor,” and consider the answers offered in the Gospels to the question, “Who is my neighbor?”2 Jesus—who was apt to remind individuals what they already knew about how to treat one another (Matthew 22:36-40; Mark 12:28-34; and Luke 10:25-28)—used the example of someone considered “other” in his example of how to act appropriately toward one’s “neighbor.” The term “neighbor” need not impose limits by connoting a sense of proximity. Included in the answer are some who remain unseen or marginalized by many in the world today. Hidden away behind giant walls or within hospital rooms while the world outside continues to unfold day after day. Who is the unseen in our world? Perhaps included in the unseen are workers who are integral in the continued lives of countless millions, yet they are seldom acknowledged by those who depend on the unseen “other.” Take, for instance, those who work on the floors of abattoirs. Are not these individuals our neighbors for whom we are called to care and ensure they can live healthy lives?
Briefly, and by no means exhaustively, the one who is “other than” me is not lesser than me, nor do I have any power to control or force my will on anyone. What I am called to witness is that, by simply existing, the “other” calls me to recognize the life that is within them and, as such, obey the commandment to preserve that individual’s life—i.e., “do not kill.” Rather than merely refrain from killing, though, I am called to ensure that this individual can live out their life, which means I am responsible for ensuring that the lives of “others” around me—which is everyone and anyone who is not me—continue being lived. Thus, I am responsible for ensuring the “other” does not starve, freeze, or be killed by anyone else, nor should they be exploited, abused, or oppressed.
Where Levinas says “other,” we can substitute the word “neighbor,” and consider the answers offered in the Gospels to the question, “Who is my neighbor?”2 Jesus—who was apt to remind individuals what they already knew about how to treat one another (Matthew 22:36-40; Mark 12:28-34; and Luke 10:25-28)—used the example of someone considered “other” in his example of how to act appropriately toward one’s “neighbor.” The term “neighbor” need not impose limits by connoting a sense of proximity. Included in the answer are some who remain unseen or marginalized by many in the world today. Hidden away behind giant walls or within hospital rooms while the world outside continues to unfold day after day. Who is the unseen in our world? Perhaps included in the unseen are workers who are integral in the continued lives of countless millions, yet they are seldom acknowledged by those who depend on the unseen “other.” Take, for instance, those who work on the floors of abattoirs. Are not these individuals our neighbors for whom we are called to care and ensure they can live healthy lives?
One of the most striking aspects of Levinas’s ethic of the “other” is that we are not only responsible for those in close proximity to ourselves but also to and for those we never encountered in person or even in thought. Despite referring to “the face” of the “other,” Levinas’s ethic describes one’s obligation to every “other” in the world, no matter who or where they might be. Moreover, it is the “other” who, regardless of who or where they might be, plays a significant role in defining the individual. In other words, the “others” in our world, whether seen or unseen, make me who I am. These “others” instruct me, without ever saying a word, by their very existence. What do they instruct me to do? They instruct me to ensure that they live and continue to live their lives. This claim is important, but I would also add that we must ensure that the “others” continue to live their lives humanely and without oppression. This is our obligation to the seen and unseen “other.” This is our responsibility to and for the seen and unseen neighbor.
Within this responsibility for the seen and unseen “other,” one can extend the call to ensure humane lives continue for the unseen nonhuman animals with whom we share the world. Surely these are unseen neighbors, whether they are unseen because humans turn away from the oppressive confines of industrial agriculture or because the closest many come to nonhuman animals is in the supermarket where labels add to the distance via the absent referent of calling porcine bodies “pork” or “bacon.” Reading Levinas next to the Gospels (Matthew 5:44; Mark 12:31-33; and Luke 10:27-29), I see much room for continued discussion of how we are to treat those in our midst but also those far away or hidden away, regardless of species.
This is a long answer to my question regarding ministry and farmed animals. My memories of cattle, as well as the fact that they feel fear and have eyes that convey much to even the smallest and most paint-covered observer, serve to remind me further that these “others” in bovine bodies call out to me, asking me to ensure their lives continue and may bear fruit. Rooted in the Gospels and with a little help from Levinas, I hope to further develop and extend this ethical responsibility for the “other” to include all of Creation.
In closing, I am grateful for the insights offered by Levinas. His was a voice I had not heard before 2019. Additionally, through CreatureKind, I am discovering new epistemologies and sources to better understand what it means to care for and take responsibility for one’s “neighbor” who is “other” than oneself. While I am still in the very early stages of discovery, wise minds have pointed me to the teachings of Indigenous peoples in the US North American context, who, rather than holding a view that people are entitled to certain aspects of life, we are instead called to be responsible for and to the others and for the world we share.
Within this responsibility for the seen and unseen “other,” one can extend the call to ensure humane lives continue for the unseen nonhuman animals with whom we share the world. Surely these are unseen neighbors, whether they are unseen because humans turn away from the oppressive confines of industrial agriculture or because the closest many come to nonhuman animals is in the supermarket where labels add to the distance via the absent referent of calling porcine bodies “pork” or “bacon.” Reading Levinas next to the Gospels (Matthew 5:44; Mark 12:31-33; and Luke 10:27-29), I see much room for continued discussion of how we are to treat those in our midst but also those far away or hidden away, regardless of species.
This is a long answer to my question regarding ministry and farmed animals. My memories of cattle, as well as the fact that they feel fear and have eyes that convey much to even the smallest and most paint-covered observer, serve to remind me further that these “others” in bovine bodies call out to me, asking me to ensure their lives continue and may bear fruit. Rooted in the Gospels and with a little help from Levinas, I hope to further develop and extend this ethical responsibility for the “other” to include all of Creation.
In closing, I am grateful for the insights offered by Levinas. His was a voice I had not heard before 2019. Additionally, through CreatureKind, I am discovering new epistemologies and sources to better understand what it means to care for and take responsibility for one’s “neighbor” who is “other” than oneself. While I am still in the very early stages of discovery, wise minds have pointed me to the teachings of Indigenous peoples in the US North American context, who, rather than holding a view that people are entitled to certain aspects of life, we are instead called to be responsible for and to the others and for the world we share.
1. For further reading on Emmanuel Levinas and his ethical theory, see his works Emanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity and Otherwise than Being: An Essay on Exteriority, (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press). ↩
2. Michael Fagenblat, Covenant of Creatures: Levinas’s Philosophy of Judaism, (Stanford: Stanford University Press), pg. 2.↩
2. Michael Fagenblat, Covenant of Creatures: Levinas’s Philosophy of Judaism, (Stanford: Stanford University Press), pg. 2.↩