God put the human race in charge of managing the resources of the

Host: The church stood at the edge of the forest, where stone met soil and silence met prayer. The sunset spilled through stained glass, painting the worn pews in crimson, amber, and emerald — the colors of both divinity and decay. The air carried a faint fragrance of wood, dust, and old hymns.

Beyond the open doors, the trees swayed under the evening light — living sermons written in bark and breath. Inside, Jack sat near the altar, his hands clasped loosely, his eyes fixed not on the cross above him, but on the window beyond — where the fading day still lingered.

Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps soft against the marble floor. She carried no Bible, only a small notebook filled with sketches of leaves, rivers, and constellations — her version of scripture.

Host: It was the hour between reflection and revelation — when faith and reason shared the same trembling breath.

Jeeny: “Hugh Ross once said, ‘God put the human race in charge of managing the resources of the entire planet for the benefit of all life. Therefore, we, of all people on this planet, should be concerned about environmental issues and doing what we can to enhance the beauty and productivity of the natural realm.’”
Her voice was soft, reverent. “Isn’t that extraordinary, Jack? The idea that stewardship is sacred — that caring for the world isn’t science or policy, but worship.”

Jack: “You really believe that?” he said, his voice low, echoing faintly through the empty church. “That God handed us the planet like a responsibility instead of a test?”

Jeeny: “Responsibility is a test.”

Jack: “Or a punishment. We’ve done nothing but misuse what we were given — forests turned to deserts, rivers poisoned, skies suffocating. If this was divine trust, we’ve failed spectacularly.”

Jeeny: “Maybe failure isn’t the end of the covenant. Maybe repentance still counts.”

Host: The light shifted as the sun dipped lower, the stained glass transforming the air into living color. The red pane washed across Jack’s face — like the ghost of old guilt, or the warmth of grace trying to reach him.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher,” he muttered. “But I don’t see much holiness in pollution cleanup and carbon policy.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you’re still thinking of holiness as ritual. Stewardship is a ritual — tending the Earth, restoring what’s broken, healing what’s hurt. That’s prayer with your hands instead of your mouth.”

Jack: “Then what do you call the centuries of destruction that came in the name of dominion?”

Jeeny: “Misreading the text. Dominion never meant domination. It meant guardianship. We were meant to tend, not take.”

Jack: “Funny how every generation reinterprets God to fit its own mistakes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because every generation discovers new ways to break the same promise.”

Host: The wind moved through the open doorway, stirring the candle flames. The smoke curled upward, fragile and persistent — like faith itself, always reaching for something unseen.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a pause, “I’ve never understood people who think caring for the Earth is some divine duty. I mean, even if you believe in God, why would He need us to manage His creation? Wouldn’t an omnipotent being do a better job without human interference?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point,” she replied. “It’s not about what God needs. It’s about what we need to become. Stewardship teaches humility — that creation is bigger than us, yet dependent on our conscience.”

Jack: “You think conscience is enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s where all sacred things begin.”

Jack: “And yet, conscience didn’t stop industry. It didn’t stop greed.”

Jeeny: “Because we keep treating conscience as a feeling instead of a practice.”

Host: The bells outside began to toll, low and solemn, marking the hour. The sound rippled through the forest beyond, startling a flock of birds into the crimson sky — brief, beautiful chaos rising into order again.

Jeeny: “When Ross talks about enhancing beauty,” she said, “I don’t think he means landscaping or planting flowers. I think he means restoring harmony — the kind that makes everything sing together again.”

Jack: “Harmony doesn’t exist anymore. The balance broke a long time ago.”

Jeeny: “Balance isn’t a state, Jack. It’s a pursuit. You don’t find it once — you live it, every day, through every choice.”

Jack: “You talk like faith is an act of ecology.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? The word ‘religion’ comes from re-ligare — to bind back together. Isn’t that what the Earth needs? To be bound back to the hearts that forgot it?”

Jack: “You’re poetic, Jeeny. But the world runs on economy, not etymology.”

Jeeny: “And look where that’s gotten us.”

Host: The light faded to blue, and the stained glass lost its glow. What remained was the raw beauty of the world in twilight — quiet, unornamented, alive. The two of them sat in the dimness, surrounded by the smell of candle wax and old wood.

Jack: “You ever think maybe the Earth’s better off without us?”

Jeeny: “No. Because love doesn’t abandon what’s wounded. It heals it. The Earth is asking for care, not departure.”

Jack: “And what if it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “Then we love harder. Until it isn’t.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s the hardest thing in the world. That’s why it’s holy.”

Host: Outside, the wind moved through the trees, rustling leaves like turning pages. Somewhere in the distance, a stream murmured softly — the Earth’s own psalm, ancient and forgiving.

Jack: “You really believe we can redeem what we’ve done?”

Jeeny: “I believe redemption isn’t about perfection. It’s about returning. Like the prodigal son, we come back to the soil, the sea, the sky — and hope they still recognize us.”

Jack: “And if they don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep returning until they do.”

Host: The final light of day slipped through the window, settling across the cross on the altar — half in shadow, half in gold. It glowed like a paradox, as if heaven itself couldn’t decide whether to forgive or warn.

Jeeny: “Ross’s words aren’t about belief, Jack. They’re about belonging. Whether you call it God or nature or reason — the message is the same: We were entrusted with something divine, and the divine is dying of neglect.”

Jack: “And you think tending to the Earth will save the soul?”

Jeeny: “I think tending to the Earth is the soul.”

Jack: “And if no one listens?”

Jeeny: “Then we speak to the trees. They’ve been listening longer than we have.”

Host: The candles burned lower, small halos of light in the darkening church. Beyond the door, the forest swayed in rhythm with the wind — alive, forgiving, infinite.

Jack rose, his face softened by the quiet. He looked once more at the fading glass, then at Jeeny, her expression calm and fierce all at once.

Jack: “You know,” he said slowly, “maybe the divine isn’t in the heavens after all. Maybe it’s in the soil — waiting for us to remember we were made from it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she whispered. “And every act of care is a prayer of return.”

Host: They stepped outside, and the evening air greeted them — cool, clean, laced with the scent of pine and rain. The sky above them was dark but scattered with stars, each one a small flicker of grace in the vastness of responsibility.

Host: And as they stood together, listening to the world breathe, the truth of Hugh Ross’s words found its living echo:

That faith is not escape,
but engagement —
that stewardship is not servitude,
but sanctity —
and that humanity’s oldest prayer
was never written in stone or scripture,
but whispered in the wind and the green,
every time a soul remembered
the Earth is both gift and guardian,
and to love it
is to finally honor the Creator who trusted us with it.