Granolas and LDS Ecotheology
A sticker-encrusted Nalgene, sweat-stained five panel, Synchilla, and Del Dia bag slung over a shoulder. It sounds like another language, but it’s just another BYU granola. Urban Dictionary opines, “Someone who is ‘granola’ tends to enjoy the outdoors, all while staying inside in their nice suburban middle-class white neighborhood.” More nonsense is mentioned: Kavu, Chacos, carabiners. Terms like “Carhartt Mormon,” “gorpcore,” and “crunchy” infiltrate the everyday vocabulary of Utahns. Though this cultural phenomenon might seem surface level only, I believe it reflects our deep, fundamental connection to the outdoors.
In a recent study, 73% of Latter-day Saints said they feel a deep spiritual connection with nature—21% above the national average. This might just explain the collective love of Cotopaxi backpacks.
Yet, even with this offensively vibrant parade of outdoorsiness, when asked if climate change is a crisis, only 10% of Latter-day Saints said yes (PRRI). They had some of the lowest responses for support of policies combating climate change and understanding climate change as caused by humans.
But I’d like to make a claim: as Latter-day Saints, we are uniquely positioned to care for the earth. Though the aforementioned discrepancy between the aesthetic appeal of the outdoors and real action being taken to care for our environment may seem ironic, it gives me great hope for the future of our earth. Latter-day Saint doctrine, Utah outdoors culture, and the current surge in popularity of the outdoors aesthetic are creating an ideal setting for true environmentalism to thrive.
Luckily, this is not an ideology we must now create but one that has been a part of Mormonism since its origin. LDS theology houses surprisingly specific doctrine that encourages our stewardship over the earth—environmentalism baked directly into our most important doctrinal resources. My favorites are the idea that a spirit resides in all of God’s creation (Moses 3:5) and the direct advice to eat less meat found in the Word of Wisdom (D&C 89:12).
This ecotheology is also threaded throughout Church history. Our church once had an ethic of stewardship, revealed through concepts like the Plat of Zion, a walkable city defined by central community spaces, or Brigham Young’s emphasis on sustainable agriculture and living in harmony with the land (Hahne). The marginalization of this environmental ethic is alarming, revealed by the slim 10% of members who feel alarmed about climate change. But it also means that we already have one. We just need a reintroduction.
In his book on sustainability, social justice, and religious creativity, Willis Jenkins proposes that “this Christian social ethics work of critical reflection and social confrontation can never be adequately carried out as a solitary journey but must be waged within and through some form of Christian faith community.” According to Jenkins, shared doctrine, local community, and commitment to serving others make faith communities a force to be reckoned with. I believe we have a distinctly well-positioned faith community in which to wage the war against environmental degradation.
This foundation, if internalized as deeply as something like the admonition to keep the Sabbath holy or avoid coffee, could contribute to a monumental shift in Mormon environmental action. Climate change became tied up with the environmental movement, and conservative and liberal members found themselves divided on an issue that was once a core piece of LDS theology. As scientists continue to confirm the reality of climate change, more and more Americans are accepting the reality that the climate is changing (Yale). The argument is no longer “Is climate change real?” but “What do we do now, and how much do we care?” I argue that if we, as Latter-day Saints, can unite over shared doctrine and our love for the earth, we can use our deep spiritual connection to nature to begin making the changes necessary.
Yet even with this context, it is common for those who want to take action to feel an overall sense of despondency or apathy. If this is you—you are not alone. I used to feel overwhelmed by the intricacies of recycling or carbon footprints, and often found myself stuck. But by making the smallest of changes in my life, possibilities emerged. By trying one new plant-based recipe a week, biking, and attending sustainability club meetings, my life changed, little by little. I now rarely buy new clothes or eat meat, and not because I decided one day I would never do them again but because I incorporated small actions into my daily life. I want to live my life in a way that shows care and respect in a practical, practicable way. I might not ever change the world, but I can ride my bike and eat sweet potato tacos, and that feels like something.
My personal land ethic is simple (and unoriginal): everything is connected. I believe that we, as humans, are not the only important creations on this earth. God made every creeping thing, every plant, and everything else as important, spiritual entities not only so they could serve us but for us to serve them. If we can remember that we are living a life of stewardship, not of dominion, our actions will necessarily change and our values shift.
I care about the fish in Utah Lake, about the penstemon in Little Cottonwood Canyon, and all the things in between. Each of these creatures was created by God to be part of this interconnected family. And when we forget that, we undermine Their artistry. We forget Their love for all creation.
Rather than a stinging reminder of our religion’s current state of environmental apathy, the sighting of a Cotopaxi backpack or a Patagonia puffer has begun to give me hope. By remembering our environmental ethic, “outdoorsy” will soon mean more than a brand.