I need to start this post with a confession: I’m a registered Republican, I drive a Jeep Gladiator, and I once took my son to a Trump rally. I’m deeply skeptical of anything that expands government or smells like propaganda. So what I’m about to propose surprises even me. But desperate times call for unconventional thinking, and I’ve come to believe that what we’re facing really is desperate—even if we’ve all learned to look away.

You know what I’m talking about. Global warming. Climate change. Whatever you want to call it.

I know—even typing those words feels strange for someone like me. For years, I told myself it was overblown, or that God would sort it out, or that it wasn’t my problem. But I can’t maintain that anymore. Take a cruise to Alaska and watch glaciers collapse before your eyes. Try skiing all season in southern Vermont. Look at what any credible climate scientist is saying. Even Pope Francis has called for urgent action (Laudato Si’).

So why doesn’t the media—even the liberal media—cover it more aggressively? I think the answer is simple and uncomfortable: we’re tired of hearing about it. The media covers what we want to see. We’ve developed a collective ability to look away from slow-motion catastrophe, to focus on what we can have and experience right now.

As an upper-middle-class American, how can I blame anyone for this? I was taught in church that God would renew the Earth one day soon. If that’s true, who cares if we ruin it? Anyway, doesn’t God instruct us to subdue the Earth? Isn’t that what we’re doing?

That’s exactly how I thought for many years.

A couple of years ago, doctors told me one of my organs was starting to fail. Not a death sentence, but serious enough to be a wake-up call. I turned to God and the Bible more earnestly than I had before. At first, I just prayed more intensely. Then I started watching Bible Project videos and listening to their podcasts. I read books from both conservative and liberal scholars. I took Yale’s free online course on the Hebrew Bible. My wife and I watched The Chosen over and over again.

And gradually, something shifted. I started seeing things differently—not just about my health, but about what it means to be a Christian and a steward of this Earth.

What I found in Scripture wasn’t what I expected.

Yes, there’s that bit about subduing the Earth in Genesis. But if you focus only on that verse, you’re missing a much larger picture.

The Hebrew word Adam—which actually means “human,” not just a guy’s name—contains dām, which represents blood, life, and humanity’s intimate connection to the ground itself (see “Dām” Meaning in Hebrew: Blood, Life, and Humanity). We aren’t separate from the Earth. We’re woven into it.

And nowhere in Scripture does God suggest it’s okay to ruin the planet. The Bible speaks of a renewed Earth—an Earth united with Heaven—not a discarded one. Remember when the risen Jesus showed Thomas his wounds? Jesus was resurrected, but the wounds remained. Why would we assume a renewed Earth would be any different? Maybe our wounds to the Earth will persist too.

But here’s what really challenged me: the parable of the sheep and goats in Matthew 25. Jesus makes our responsibility explicit—whatever we do or fail to do for “the least of these,” we do to him. And I started wondering: who are the least powerful people in the world?

It’s not just the poor in distant countries, though they matter too. The truly powerless are those not yet born. They have no voice. They cannot vote, protest, or fight back. They are completely at our mercy. They must live with whatever mess we leave them.

They are the least of us.

And Jesus has called us to care for them.

Even knowing all this, acting on it is hard. Human psychology works against us.

The story of Eden—whether you read it as history or myth—captures something true about our nature: we have significant trouble curbing our desires. We’re driven to continually improve our lives, even when those improvements damage the world around us.

One of the most consistent findings in psychology is that rewards and punishments lose their power when they’re delayed. The immediate pleasure of consumption will always feel more real than climate consequences decades away. And our expectations keep rising—each improvement becomes the new baseline, and we need more just to maintain the same level of satisfaction. This is baked into our nature.

Add to this what I’ve started calling our faith in the free market. I use that word deliberately—faith. There’s a trust in capitalism’s invisible hand that resembles religious devotion. Jesus warned that we cannot serve both God and money. I wonder if some of us have been trying.

I recently read This Changes Everything by Naomi Klein. Even as a Republican, I found her argument compelling: capitalism, left unchecked, is fundamentally at odds with environmental sustainability. Companies exploit resources, use wealth to influence opinion and policy, and governments tread lightly to protect GDP growth.

Is capitalism bad? I’d answer that the way I’d answer “are guns bad?” Guns are tools that can accomplish things like hunting and protection. In the wrong hands, they become instruments of destruction or evil. Capitalism is similar. In theory, it promotes innovation and efficiency. Without sufficient checks, it becomes an instrument of exploitation.

And here’s a thought I haven’t been able to shake: capitalism is very much like the runaway artificial intelligence that people fear. Think about it—a system that adapts almost magically and organically, designed to grow indefinitely, given significant independence, with no inherent regard for long-term consequences to humanity.

If we think AI needs safeguards, maybe capitalism does too.

This is where artificial intelligence might actually help us—not as a threat, but as a tool.

Yes, I’m concerned about AI’s risks. The energy consumption alone is troubling. But I keep coming back to this question: our democracies give voice to people who live now. What about those who will live a hundred years from now? Shouldn’t they have some formal representation in decisions that will shape their world?

What if we created a Future Generations Advisory Council—a set of independent AI systems, powered entirely by renewable energy, designed solely to represent the interests of people not yet born?

This wouldn’t be a legislative body with power to block laws or budgets. It would simply research, cross-validate its findings, achieve consensus through iterative dialogue, and make presentations to the public. Its only power would be influence through transparency.

I know this sounds radical. But consider: governments everywhere are already using AI behind the scenes—to deliver services, inform legislators, craft speeches. AI is becoming a silent partner in governance whether we like it or not.

What I’m suggesting is that for one specific purpose—representing future generations—AI could be a transparent partner. We could see its reasoning, trace its sources, and hold it accountable in ways we can’t with the silent AI influence that’s already shaping policy.

I should be clear about my limitations. I’m not a biblical scholar, climate scientist, economist, or AI expert. I’m an IT manager who used to study psychology and still thinks about these things. You should weigh my ideas accordingly.

But here’s what I believe: by receiving Scripture with an open heart, praying earnestly, and talking honestly with others who believe in Jesus’ message, we can overcome the parts of our nature that keep demanding more. We can establish a new norm for consumption that aligns with what Jesus actually expects of us.

And I believe technology, used wisely and transparently, might help us hear voices that otherwise go unheard—the voices of those not yet born, who will inherit whatever world we leave them.

So I invite you:

• Open your mind to new ways of understanding your responsibility as a steward of this Earth—even perspectives that feel uncomfortable at first.
• Open your heart to the powerless who cannot yet speak for themselves, the generations who will inherit whatever world we leave them.
• Open your arms to embrace the work this requires—consuming less, advocating for change, supporting those who speak for the voiceless, and holding our leaders accountable for decisions that reach beyond our own lifetimes.

This isn’t just something to think about.  It’s something we are called upon to do right now.