giving thanks for that which sustains life
By Regina Banks
This post was first featured in fellow State Public Policy Office Texas Impact’s newsletter.
I’ve been thinking a lot about water lately.
I’m in Belém, Brazil for COP30, the UN’s annual climate summit, where the world has gathered in the Amazon rainforest to push for climate adaptation, renewed Nationally Determined Contributions (NDCs), and plans to unlock $1.3 trillion in climate finance. Being that Belém is in the Amazonian region, it rains nearly every day. Sometimes inside the venue! Water drips through the temporary structures, runs down makeshift walls, and settles into every corner of the halls where we’re trying to talk about the future of the planet.
The rain is annoying. It’s loud falling against the metal roof. Truly. It’s making for 90% humidity, the kind that pulls the starch out of your clothes. My hair is presently… unimpressive.
And yet, every day at COP30 I’m surrounded by an ecumenical delegation from the United States and around the world. Churches and religious organizations have come to COP with a shared commitment to creation care. We advocate together inside the venue, and we worship together outside. On Thursday evening we held an interfaith vigil at Praça Batista Campos. It was a thanksgiving for water. Muslims, Christians, Hindus, Jews, Indigenous leaders from across the Amazon basin, all praying with and for one another in Portuguese and local indigenous languages. All giving thanks for the waters that sustain life.
Even the waters that inconvenience us.
Even the waters that interrupt us.
Even the waters that get in the way of our carefully-planned schedules and turn our hair into something we’d rather not photograph.
During the vigil, my colleague Tracey from Pennsylvania was chosen to be a waterbearer. She was handed a glass pitcher filled with water drawn from the Guamá River and the Guajará Bay—waters that flow into the greater Pará and Amazon River systems, the same waters the torrential rains of Belém ultimately return to. She carried that pitcher from the crowd with reverence, a quiet reminder that water is never just water. It is story, history, prayer, memory, and future. In her hands, the rivers became liturgy.
At the same time I am here in Belém surrounded by more water than I know what to do with, I’m in contact with my family back home in Sacramento, California. They are presently under a flood watch. It’s been raining there for the past several days. It is reportedly a steady rain that’s threatening the gutters, pooling in the streets, and stressing the levee systems that protect our neighborhood.
Two places. Two very different contexts. And still: water everywhere.
Water as abundance.
Water as danger.
Water as blessing.
Water as burden.
Nevertheless, I give thanks for the waters, especially the waters of baptism.
For me, baptismal water is not tidy water. It is not safe water. It is not the kind of water we control. It is the kind of water that shows up in wrong places, at wrong times, insisting that new life is possible whether we are ready or not. It is the kind of water that interrupts, disrupts, and dislodges. The kind of water that gets under the door and won’t be shut out.
So here, at the midpoint of COP30, the pace is shifting. Negotiators are preparing for the long nights and high-pressure sessions that mark the final push toward a decision by the scheduled end of the conference. Delegations are refining language, trading proposals, and navigating the delicate balance between ambition and political reality. The stakes grow sharper each day. I’m especially concerned about loss and damage funding that hangs in the balance. Faith communities are discerning how best to show up. We are discerning where to pray, where to pressure, where to simply be present. And through it all, the rain keeps falling, a constant reminder of why we are here and what is at risk if we fail.
I give thanks for water.
