It was hot for September, but then again, when was the last time anything was the way it was supposed to be?

The streets were unfamiliar, and the pavement smelled like city; a cosmopolitan mix of dust and everything else, and maybe a bit of pizza in there, too.

There were so many people! Young people, old people, in-between people. There was a girl reading a book on the ground while her parents stood over her and said things like “This isn’t her first rodeo.” She flipped on, oblivious to the clamor around her. There was a stage with speakers projecting covers of familiar songs, while banners and signs were thrust into the air, drifting and swaying like garlands adorning the great concrete jungle in which we congregated. It was Sunday, Sept. 9, 2023.

I am describing a 75,000-person protest advocating for the banning of fossil fuels. Held in downtown Manhattan, the protest was organized in response to UN meetings that were scheduled for that week. My uncle, a pastor in Boston, forwarded me an email from his church’s “climate jubilee” team inviting me along. In a moment of spontaneity, I went with two other compatriots who bravely put up with me for the bus ride there and back.

I’ve been to protests before, but only so much commotion can be mustered up in Columbus, Ohio. Here, in New York City, things happen, and I was ready to shout and stomp my feet in tandem with the sounds of the First Amendment in action. But there was another facet to our day of public disturbance: We were there, above all else, to worship—the concept of which I didn’t fully grasp at the beginning.

Worship is expansive and all-encompassing of anything and everything we do to glorify God. It is transcendent of time, ignorant of differences in culture or custom, and it doesn’t discriminate between class and money. I originally titled this piece “Redefining worship in the face of the climate crisis.” But “redefining” doesn’t feel like the right word to use when talking about something that is incredibly personal and expands far beyond wooden pews or rock concert halls.

So how can a protest be seen as an act of worship?

We associate protests with a lot of things, most of which are divisive and hostile. And yet, when you subtract the stigma from “protest,” there are many similarities between singing a hymn together and marching side by side for a better world. This is exemplified when we start to view climate change not as a doomsday message, but rather a chance to live out how God has called us to work and love together.

When I first arrived at the protest that Sunday, I felt heavy, like I’d put weights on my ankles and jumped in a pool. Maybe it was the heat or the crowd standing behind me, but for a moment my uncle’s words of “jubilee” rang hollow in my ears.

It felt like that promised feeling of “being a part of something bigger” had walked out and not bothered to close the door. I simply felt dwarfed by the enormity of it all; the masses, the buildings, the burden of the crisis we were drawing attention to yet again. Why should this be the protest to turn the tides? Why should this be the event that finally attracts the change we need? How will we as a species come to a universal reckoning about the very real impact our habits have on the environment?

There was sadness on this day as well, for while we celebrated our commitment to collaboration and hoped beyond measure that our leaders out there would act on their promises, we also had to recognize and acknowledge the sorrows that have and will come to pass because of humanity’s disregard for the integrity of the Earth: Land stolen and abused; displaced families and communities; children who grow up wondering how old they’ll be before the world burns around them; heartbreak in all its forms.

Where in all of this is there room for reconciliation? Where in all of this is there room for rejoicing?

These kinds of questions are exhausting.

It took me until we passed Times Square to come up with an answer. New York City is not known for its kindness, and yet I felt something there, something in the voices and the inorganic sounds, the crush of bodies and the rumble of 75,000 feet marching with urgency on their way to something, anything. Amongst the panic and the alarm bells, I realized there was joyful hope here above all else, and I was a part of it. The sign I was carrying, while still a piece of cardboard, felt a little lighter.

As we reimagine worship, so too must we reimagine the climate crisis itself not as something to make us “feel bad” or worse, to ignore, but as a platform for dialogue and compassion, fueled by the commitment to loving our neighbors as Jesus commands. If we are to love one another, then by default we must care for the Earth, because without a healthy Earth, there is no life. The very fact that we are here, on this planet, armed with the resources able to enact positive change, is a gift.

At last, when the protest was over and the crowds were swallowed up again by the push and pull of the city, I understood what my uncle had meant long ago in the email I first looked at. “Worship in the Streets for Climate Justice” the subject line read, and further down it invited me to join them “as we worship God through prophetic public witness for the healing of our world.” The “jubilee” of this protest does not equate comfort, nor does it negate the sorrow that comes when dealing with environmental issues. But in the coming together of passionate souls who act as a collective embodiment of the justice of Christ, there is something joyous to be held—and it opposes the dangerous current attitude of “accept and move on.”

It is a time of healing and rejoicing, but we should not let that overshadow the critical time in which we live; let us consider it a privilege and an opportunity to be witnesses to God’s restoring power as we fight to maintain justice on all fronts.

“This is the day that the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it,” says Psalm 118 (ESV). Let us rejoice, be glad, and let us not give up the fight.