In Genesis, we are told that God pronounced the earth and all of its creations “good” but it never says what it is good for. Of course, perhaps that’s because Genesis speaks of intrinsic value, something that is inimical to our more comparative, utilitarian, and monetary meanings of “good.” One wonders, then, what to make of the special emphasis placed on the physical world in the LDS account of the creation where we learn that the world was created spiritually before it was created physically and that all plants and animals, including we humans, are described as “living souls.” Is this a call to an even deeper appreciation of the spiritual value of the world? If so, would we not expect to find some difference in the way LDS believers perceive, treat, and use the world in our daily economy of feeding, clothing, and sheltering ourselves? And if we don’t find any difference, why not?
We hear a lot of talk in environmentalist circles about the spiritual value of nature, a fact that receives no end of mockery from those who disparage theirs as concerns of “tree huggers” or “nature worshippers.” But what is meant by this criticism, really, except to say that the only value such critics can accept for the earth is whatever price it can command in the economic marketplace? If there is no countervailing notion of intrinsic or sacred value attributed to the earth, the earth is only as valuable as its latest market price. We all know that there is virtually nothing in the world today that cannot be priced and exchanged for something else—air, water, dirt, fire, fuel, wood, fur, meat, timber, ore, not to mention human beings who negotiate their own value and the value of others according to looks, athleticism, smarts, or other skills. Even things that are worthless are only deemed worthless by a market that for the time being can find no exchange value for them.
It is no wonder then that there is a great clamor surrounding the question of self-worth, the worth of an education, the worth of friendships, and even the worth of such things as clean air, clean water, or a beautiful view. And when we hear the word “good,” we can only imagine that it is a question of something being good for something else. Every day we barter and trade, sell and buy the world. We are, in short, thoroughly saturated by the logic of economics, capitalist economics especially. This seems to be the point of much great literature and of the great Marxist writers in particular. Henrik Ibsen’s “A Doll House” comes to mind.
Marxism called attention to the chief problem of a culture overwhelmed by the logic of capitalism but it offered an inadequate critique of the problem by suggesting that a mere change in the ownership of the means of production would be sufficient to change the hearts and minds of human beings. Marxism pretends that human beings are determined almost by economic circumstance alone, itself one of the most reductionist monetizations of life the world has ever seen. I don’t say this to excuse capitalism’s moral bankruptcy, but to suggest that the only adequate response to the reduction of life to monetary and exchangeable value is an argument for the intrinsic value of the world. My feeling is that we can best cure the ills of capitalism through deeper respect for the inherent worth of life itself. If Mormons cannot find a way to treat or interact with the physical environment in any way distinguishable from the logic of naked economic interest, then we can only assume they aren’t converted to their own creation narrative. If we cannot see the inadequacies of economic value, we cannot begin to comprehend, let alone admit the existence of, inherent value.
Pigs eat in their troughs, but can they thank their Creator for the pleasure of eating? Can they contemplate a vista or conceive of their own nothingness? I don’t mean to disparage pigs, or any non-human life for that matter. Besides, if they are living souls, I suppose I must at least concede the possibility of something more intelligent, sentient, and conscious in the heart of even the most gluttonous animal. Such concessions come easily to those who raise the animal that they then eat. As Wendell Berry has so eloquently argued, this is the highest ethical standard. We can only sacrifice things we love, and we can only love things in their particulars. Preciousness emerges as an argument for immeasurable value precisely because a life becomes known to us intimately in all of its unique givenness, as presenting itself without price, independent of what we might then decide it is good for.
If someone asks what we are good for, we feel diminished. We wince when it is asked of others. But every day we trade in earthly goods and inquire about their economic value, which only suggests that if we truly wished to know what the earth is good for, we would begin by asking about ourselves.