Christianity and environmental stewardship

 

Growing up, I often heard the phrase “dominion over the earth” tossed around like a badge of entitlement—an excuse to take, use, and discard the earth’s resources as we saw fit. It was something I never questioned in my early years. But as I matured in my faith and sought deeper understanding, something shifted in me. I began to sense that “dominion” didn’t mean domination—it meant stewardship. It meant being responsible, not reckless. It meant love, not greed.

The more I studied scripture, the more I realized how sacred this planet is. From the very beginning, the creation of the earth was intentional. Every mountain, every ocean, every creature, every breeze—none of it was accidental. And after it was all made, God looked upon it and called it “very good.” That phrase stuck with me. Not just good—very good. That told me that the earth wasn’t just functional—it was beautiful, balanced, and harmonious. It had value before humans ever stepped foot on it.

When Adam and Eve were placed in the Garden of Eden, they were given a commandment that shaped how I now view my own relationship with the earth: they were told to “dress it and keep it.” Those two words—dress and keep—carry weight. To dress the earth is to tend, cultivate, and care for it. To keep it is to protect and preserve. That was their charge, and I believe it’s ours too.

For a long time, I didn’t make that connection. I thought spiritual life was separate from environmental concerns. I thought faith was about heaven, not soil and water. But the more I’ve prayed and reflected, the more I’ve seen that the two are intertwined. This earth is a divine gift, and how we treat it is a reflection of how seriously we take that gift.

I remember reading a passage in modern scripture that opened my eyes even further. It spoke of how all things that come from the earth were made for our benefit—not just for survival, but to please the eye and gladden the heart. That hit me. God didn’t just create resources for use; He created beauty for joy. He wants us to find peace in the colors of a sunset, in the rustling of leaves, in the sight of birds in flight. But He also gave us a condition: to use these things with judgment, not to excess, and never by extortion.

That phrase—“with judgment, not to excess”—became a quiet echo in my mind every time I filled up my cart with things I didn’t need, every time I left the lights on unnecessarily, every time I threw something away without a second thought. I began to feel a spiritual nudge, telling me that how I use resources is not just a matter of efficiency—it’s a matter of discipleship.

Throughout history, the pattern is clear: when people live in righteousness, the land flourishes. When they abandon divine principles, the land suffers. That message repeats again and again. I’ve seen it in ancient texts, in prophetic warnings, and in the stories of people long gone. There’s a connection between our spiritual health and the health of the land we live on.

In sacred writings from ancient American prophets, I found a sobering pattern. When the people were humble and faithful, the land was fruitful. But when they became prideful and destructive, they were warned that the land would no longer support them. The land, in a way, was covenantal. It responded to righteousness and to wickedness alike.

I think often about the Savior and how He interacted with the natural world. He didn’t separate His ministry from nature. He taught on hillsides, calmed storms, multiplied loaves and fishes, and used the lilies of the field and the birds of the air to teach profound spiritual truths. He prayed in a garden. He wept in one, too. He didn’t avoid nature—He embraced it.

His parables were full of agricultural imagery: seeds, soil, harvests, vineyards. He saw something eternal in the patterns of the earth. He respected the rhythms of nature because He created them. And when He visited His people after His resurrection, the earth responded. Darkness had covered the land when He died, but when He appeared again, light returned. The land knew its Lord.

Today, our situation is different, but also the same. The challenges have names like climate change, pollution, and deforestation. But the root issue is still spiritual. It’s still about how we see ourselves in relation to the earth. Are we owners—or stewards?

For me, stewardship means action. It means recycling, walking more, driving less, using less plastic, planting trees, and being mindful about what I consume. It means being deliberate about how I use water, electricity, and food. It also means teaching my children to love nature—not just because it’s fun, but because it’s holy.

One of the things that brings me closest to God’s creation is something I do often—I drive up into the mountains. There’s something sacred about being surrounded by towering pines, breathing crisp, thin air, and hearing nothing but the sound of wind and birds. When I’m up there, away from the noise of the world, I feel more connected to the Creator. It’s as if the mountains themselves whisper peace to my soul. I’ve taken my children with me many times. We hike, we sit quietly by streams, we look at the stars. Those moments have taught them more about reverence than a hundred lectures ever could.

There’s a principle I’ve come to cherish—consecration. The idea that all I have, all I am, belongs to God. My time, my talents, my energy—and yes, even my stewardship over this earth. When I plant a tree, when I clean up a stream, when I reduce my waste, I’m not just being “green.” I’m making an offering. I’m making something sacred.

I’ve noticed something else, too. As I care for creation, creation seems to care for me. I breathe better. I feel calmer. I notice beauty more easily. There’s a rhythm to it, like a divine exchange. God honors our efforts, even the small ones.

I know there are dark warnings in scripture about the future of the earth—about fire and destruction and the melting of elements. Those verses used to terrify me. But now I see them as invitations. They are not fixed outcomes. They are warnings meant to spark repentance and action. We still have time. The story is not over.

One verse in particular haunts me. It says that God will destroy those who destroy the earth. That’s heavy. That tells me this isn’t just a physical issue—it’s a moral one. A spiritual one. But there’s also a promise: of a new heaven and a new earth. Not because the old one is tossed away, but because it is renewed. And I believe that renewal begins with me. With us.

I’m still learning. I mess up. I use too much. I forget. But I’m trying. I walk more. I waste less. I pray more intentionally. I vote with the earth in mind. I thank God not just for blessings like food and shelter, but for the land beneath my feet and the air in my lungs.

This world is His. And He has trusted me with a part of it. I want to be a faithful steward—not just of my money, or my testimony, or my time—but of the very ground I walk on. Because I believe that caring for the earth is not just a good idea. It’s a holy one.