The Sin We Often Forget

A Curious Pilgrim Reflection

Tomorrow I will stand before the bishop at St. James Episcopal Church in Springfield, Missouri, and be confirmed as a member of the Episcopal Church.

Today, during our confirmation class, we discussed the definition of sin found in the Book of Common Prayer:

“Sin is the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.”

I have spent my entire life in the church.

I have earned two degrees in theology and biblical studies. I have served as a pastor, taught Sunday School classes, preached sermons, and studied Scripture for more than sixty years. Yet this was the first time I had encountered a definition of sin that explicitly included our relationship with all creation.

That phrase stopped me.

Perhaps it resonated so deeply because over the years I have come to understand a simple truth: life is relational.

Years ago, one of my professors, Dr. Leroy Forlines, taught that human beings live within four fundamental relationships: our relationship with God, with others, with ourselves, and with the universe around us. At the time, I understood it intellectually. Today, I understand it differently.

I understand it through experience.

A few months ago, my apartment complex cut down seventeen mature trees. Overnight, the landscape changed. The shade disappeared. The beauty disappeared. The sense of life disappeared.

The trees provided more than shade during Missouri summers. They cleaned the air, sheltered birds, softened the noise of the city, and reminded us that life is larger than ourselves. Their absence left the community feeling barren and strangely empty.

Every day I watch people walking their dogs through the neighborhood. Those scenes remind me of the many dogs who have shared my life over the years. They were more than pets. They were companions, teachers of loyalty, and reminders of unconditional love.

My mind often drifts back to the farm where I grew up in Mississippi. I remember the animals, the gardens, the fields, and the creek that ran near our home. As a child, I took those things for granted. They were simply part of life.

Today, I know they were gifts.

The creek that once flowed with water is now often dry. The forests that covered much of America have largely disappeared. My father worked for lumber companies that harvested virgin timber. I have seen photographs of those enormous trees that once stood where only stumps remain today.

My heart aches when I think about it.

The opening chapters of Genesis tell us that God placed humanity in a garden. We were not created apart from creation but within it. We were given stewardship, not ownership. The earth belongs to God.

Yet somewhere along the way, many of us confused dominion with domination.

Greed often drives us to seek bigger, newer, and more profitable things. We abandon homes that are still useful. We waste resources that could be conserved. We consume without considering the consequences. We forget that future generations will inherit the world we leave behind.

Perhaps that is why the Book of Common Prayer includes “all creation” in its definition of sin.

Sin is not merely breaking a rule.

Sin is damaging relationships.

When we exploit creation, we distort our relationship with God’s earth. When we pollute streams, destroy forests, waste resources, or treat animals cruelly, we damage something God declared to be good.

The proof of our relationship with God is often revealed in how we treat God’s gifts.

Scripture declares, “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it” (Psalm 24:1).

Not ours.

God’s.

The good news is that grace is always greater than our failures. The God who created the world is also the God who seeks to reconcile all things. Grace invites us into a new way of living—one marked by gratitude, stewardship, and care.

Tomorrow, as I stand before the bishop for confirmation, I will carry this insight with me:

Life is relational.

Our relationship with God cannot be separated from our relationships with other people, with ourselves, or with creation itself.

The trees matter.

The animals matter.

The rivers matter.

The forests matter.

The earth matters.

Because all of it belongs to God.

And perhaps one of the deepest acts of discipleship is learning to love what God loves.

May God forgive us for the ways we have wounded creation.

And may God teach us to become better stewards of this beautiful world entrusted to our care.

Amen.