This Earth Day, Remember We Have Dominion Over the Earth

Here’s a scene to behold. A sun-scorched riverbank in Zambia. A toddler, barefoot and giggling, wanders no more than five feet from her mother—and vanishes into a swirl of muddy water, snatched by a reptilian death machine that’s been lurking there since Pharaoh’s time.

Flash forward to Mozambique, a canoe tipped by something unseen, then blood. Villagers rush to recover what’s left. Somewhere off the coast of Cape Town, a tourist-turned-meatball gets shredded by a great white while a drone captures it all in glorious 4K. Another story, another viral tragedy.

And then—like clockwork—the tree-huggers arrive.

Earth Day is right around the corner, and with all the solemnity of self-appointed shamans, enviro-weirdos bow before the altar of apex predators and remind us—no, scold us—that we are the intruders. That the sharks own the sea, the crocs the rivers, and the mambas the grasslands. That we should tread lightly, preferably barefoot, and thank the fang when it finds us. Because, after all, we’re on their land. Their turf. Their sacred, untouchable realm of bite marks and body bags.

This is the theology of the ecologically enlightened. It’s part animism, part woke pantheism, and all upside-down. And the saddest part? Christians—yes, Christians—are parroting this nonsense with the enthusiasm of a newly baptized disciple of NatGeo.

Somewhere between the Garden of Eden and Greta Thunberg, they’ve forgotten Genesis. Forgotten dominion. Forgotten that God didn’t fashion the ocean so it could be ruled by cartilage and teeth. He gave it to man.

The river? Man’s.

The fields? Man’s.

Even the beasts? Man’s.

And yet, we’re supposed to play the role of squatters while reptiles reclaim the land in the name of evolution.