Recently I was combing through my old essays from last year, adding tags and photos to them, when I came across this one from last July.
Inspired by the images from the James Webb telescope which at the time had recently been released, I found myself thinking deeply about what stewardship means to Christians, and why we so often fall short of where we should be.
Why do we ignore the cry of our common home?
Why do we shrug our shoulders and avoid responsibility?
In the year since, I’ve realized that the message of this essay has sunk deep, deep into my heart: I fear no apocalypse, because in messages of despair I see only an invitation to tend to what I have been given. There is nothing more to do, and peace in letting go of what I cannot control.
Being a Christian means seeking the heart of God. And God’s heart beats powerfully in love with the world He crafted with His own hands. When we care for what He made, we join that incarnational dance, and we come away changed.
I hope you enjoy this essay, shared again one year later. May we all accept the invitation that we have been given, and turn our faces toward hope.
There are no passengers on spaceship earth. We are all crew.
Marshall McLuhan (philosopher)
Sometimes, on my worst days, I catch myself wondering if the things we do for this world will matter, in the end.
As a Christian, I grew up with the idea that the phrase “the world” was a placeholder for “the fallen place where sin resides”, and I was meant to resist the draw of worldly things. I was meant to be in the world, not of it and set apart, seeking something greater.
But in my experience of walking the Christian life, and seeking the Incarnational God, I’ve discovered something altogether opposite. God did not send me here to mourn a broken place, but to do what little I can to fix my tiny corner of it.
Stewardship, I think, is a concept too often misunderstood or neglected by a Christian faith that seems preoccupied with the idea that this world will eventually end, and it will have nothing to do with us.
But here’s what I wonder: will the God who built this world—this beautiful, strange, stricken world—ask us to answer for the ways we treated His Creation?
Like a host who allows the guests to use His house while He is away, will He ask about the sagging sofa, the peeling wallpaper, the holes in the floor, and the empty cupboards upon His return?
Christians, most of all! If you claim Christian faith, are you prepared for such a question?
I’m not certain that I am.
But this is not an apocalyptic message, or a warning. To me, this is an invitation.
I feel invited to lean even further into the green arms of this God-breathed world, this place where He Still Walks. To feel Him in these places, these beautiful places. The vast galaxies, revealed to us by the recent James Webb telescope’s stunning images. The tiniest worlds, hidden beneath our feet as we walk through our daily lives.
This is not the apocalypse, my friends. The end implies there is nothing more to learn.
This is a new day, and every new day is an invitation to dance ever closer to our Creator and His Creation.
Thank you for reading!
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Thank you for re-sharing. Something to consider, for sure--"the world" as God's Creation instead of something pitted against Him. So good.
Such a lovely (and, I believe, vital) perspective! I often feel so overwhelmed by everything that needs to be "fixed" in this world. It seems like everywhere I turn, healing is drastically needed, and there just isn't anything I can do that will make any difference. Except, as you so beautifully put it, in my tiny corner. I feel this way about the world itself, but also the people in it. I can't do anything to heal the people. Except in my little corner, and especially in my home. This informs the way I treat my children, and the things I choose to teach them. There is only one of me, but there are five of them. If I can teach them to show love and respect, to go about doing good and standing up to wrong, well, that's five times more than I could do alone. "I fear no apocalypse, because in messages of despair I see only an invitation to tend to what I have been given. There is nothing more to do, and peace in letting go of what I cannot control." It's interesting to imagine what would happen if everyone let go of things out of their reach and instead tended to their own corner. If our energy was directed towards that which we can affect, and not launched at things that are beyond our realm of influence.