Fine Young Criminals

My sister's coin purse bulged mockingly.  "You stole my money!"I shouted.
"No, I didn't."
I pointed to the empty piggy bank lying on the floor.  "It was right there when I left and now it's gone!"
"No it wasn't. I don't know what you are talking about." 
I fumed with impotent fury. I had no witnesses. She was two years older and stronger than I.  I knew she had taken my carefully saved pennies, but I had no way to prove it.  I stalked off in frustration, thinking "When I get to heaven, I'll ask God and he'll show me how you stole my money. Then I'll know!"


And then... I framed her. I drew the nastiest, most terrible picture my five-year-old mind could conjure, forged her signature on the bottom, complete with hint of Dyslexia: Ytak, and immediately brought it to my mother.


For a while, things were going swimmingly. My mother was sufficiently horrified by the drawing, and Katy's pleas of innocence were unavailing...


And then... Mom looked a little more closely at the drawing, collapsing my house of cards. I have always been a good artist, better at drawing than any of my siblings. My mom knew Katy couldn't draw well enough to make this picture. I was found out.


And then... In her horror at what my mind could manufacture, she invited our pastor over to the house and showed him my terrible drawing, deeply concerned for my mortal soul.


In the end, I was broke and completely embarrassed. Revenge never gets you what you want.


An interesting twist on this saga is that I forgot about the frame up. I remember the stolen money and my vow for heavenly truth. I remember the drawing and the embarrassment of the pastoral disclosure, but Kate was the one who remembered the defaming forgery. And she had completely forgotten about those lifted pennies.


Isn't it funny how a mind works? It's really easy for me to remember the times that people have been unjust to me. I have a long memory for the mean words spoken on the playground, poor parental advice, personal slights. But my memory is short for the ways I have hurt others. I have some cringe-worthy remembrances of my misdeeds, but a lot of it is vague and glossy.  By contrast, the wrongs done to me are often in high relief.


Lately, when I'm praying, God will bring me some of those glossed over follies. It's not for the sake of shame or guilt, but for sober reflection on the state of my heart.  Sometimes I forget that I am desperately in need of forgiveness.  When one of these old sins is brought to mind I am rightly humbled again.  It's a necessary slap in the face. I need to be forgiven. I have hurt others. I am at their mercy. I am at God's mercy.


These reminders also undermine my carefully stored injustices.  I don't know if this is true for anyone else, but replaying those past hurts can actually make me angry all over again. I can even get upset about those stolen pennies if I think about it long enough.  


And then the words from Jesus' sermon on Mount Olivet pierce right to my heart: "For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." (Matthew 6:14-15 ESV)
Jesus takes our sin away as far as the east is from the west. He no longer remembers it.  Corrie Ten Boom says that he takes our sin and flings it into the ocean, and puts up a "no fishing" sign so that it will never be brought to the surface again.


But in the case of wrongs committed against me, I fish them out and examine them again and again. This is not forgiveness.  The sins against me still have power in my heart. Yet if I refuse to forgive them, than how can I be forgiven?


Someone always ends up footing the bill of injustice. It's either shouldered by the victim or paid off by the criminal. In our case, Jesus paid it all. He hasn't held our sins against us. If we are truly crucified with Christ (Galatians 2:20), it means that we are going to pay too. We are going to have to swallow pain and injustice and forgive. It is a very difficult thing to do.

I am learning, too, that forgiveness is never a one time thing.  Every time a bitter thought comes to mind about someone, I need to forgive that person afresh. I have to turn my thoughts away from remembering the sin, because it has been forgiven.  This is not easy, but it is like Jesus.

What does forgiveness mean? No more bringing it up.  No more fueling of anger. No more trying to make the other uncomfortable. No more manipulative guilt trips. Sometimes we think we've forgiven and then we see the person succeed and get angry. This is a sign that there is more work to do.


Forgiveness takes full stock of the wrong committed and says: "I will no longer hold this over your head. I will not harbor it in my heart. The slate is clean." And it may be that the recipient of forgiveness doesn't appreciate it at all. It doesn't matter. We still have to forgive.


The stakes are pretty high with this. I can't be forgiven if I refuse to forgive.  God is so gracious, but I can exclude myself from his grace.  


Lord help me to be a forgiver.  Erase my ledger of offenders. Erase my ledger of offenses.


Set us free from the tangle of sin.

Running away

I've always enjoyed a good run. When I was little, I felt that my new, periwinkle blue, velcro 'Kmart Specials' made me lightning fast. I spent that first afternoon running up and down the sidewalk in them, wondering if passersby were impressed by my great speed.

As an adult, running has been a source of release and stress relief. I plug in earphones and take off, leaving behind the trouble... at least for thirty minutes. I've always viewed it as a necessity, and even felt that moving to a developing country would be too difficult because I wouldn't have the same freedom to run. (Nonsense, of course. I could run anywhere if I really wanted to).

But I've realized that my running has exceeded those thirty minutes on asphalt. I have done a lot of running away, and even when I haven't physically left, my mind has entertained the notion.  Every time I've faced a trial, the suggestion to leave has undoubtedly shown up.

A friendship hit a rough patch and I retreated inward. A romance fizzled and immediately a new state, a new city, a new anywhere-but-here felt like a good idea. Wasn't it about time for a new job? I was sure of it in the midst of a hard stretch.   Discontent or difficult relationships always triggered the itch to run away.  I haven't always acted on the flight instinct, but the option always appeals.

Running can also be preemptive. Fearing loss or pain, the first thought is to retreat before it has a chance to catch me.  A relative of mine gave her dogs away in order to avoid their eventual deaths. I always thought her behavior off and a bit cruel, but now I see the same avoiding instinct in myself. It is a battle to stay engaged with life.

I don't go for runs nearly as often as I once did. The discs in my lower back have started to deteriorate, and the pounding of a run always threatens me with a back spasm or sciatica.  It totally sucks.  But I see that if running can no longer be my coping skill, perhaps God is wanting to teach me another way to deal with life.

I went on a run last night. At one point, I ran past a house where a yippy chihuahua was off leash. It started chasing me down the street, so I ran faster. The little imp had no trouble keeping up,  growling and nipping at my heal. This had to be a funny sight. What a guard dog. Obviously running wasn't working, so I stopped abruptly, turned and yelled "Hey, you go away!" and he immediately retreated,  barking in umbrage.

So funny. As long as I was running from it, that little thing was empowered to chase and bite. But my turning and standing thoroughly cowed it into submission. I had size on my side, after all.

Isn't this the same thing that God asks me to do? Turn and stand in the face of adversity? Running away never solves anything. Ignoring the problem only allows it to grow. Retreating from hardship only ensures that I won't mature.

The problems in life will undoubtedly be more intimidating than a little chihuahua nipping at my heals.  But if God is with me as he has promised, then I will always have size on my side.  I need to put on His armor: truth, peace, righteousness, faith, saving grace, and the Word, and stand up.

Alone I am easily shaken.  Alone I run away, but  if God is for me, who or what can truly stand against me?

He's promised that nothing can separate me from his love.  I just need to remember the one who is standing with me...


Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. Eph. 6:13


(P.S.- Of course, I do think there are appropriate times to retreat. Healing, assessing situations, obvious physical danger, having healthy boundaries in hard relationships, etc. all require some form of retreat. I am talking more of habitual avoidance...)

The Best, Hardest Thing to Do...

Submission is a damnable word in our modern, American world. The weaker dog rolling over in the presence of the dominant one. Out-dated views of women's roles come to mind. To submit has come to mean giving in, losing, weakness, denigration, and inequality.

(This is not a thesis on marriage. Just a disclaimer. Apply where needed.)


Of the many prayers sprinkled throughout the Bible, one that hits me powerfully is, "Not my will, but yours be done."

It's uttered by Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane on the night of his betrayal. On the morrow he will face the cross. He knows exactly what the Father is asking of him, is familiar with the words of Isaiah: "Yet it was the Lord's will to crush him and cause him to suffer." He knows that the cup he must drink is that of God's wrath. He will face the judgment in our place.

Jesus' sojourn on earth is one of entire submission. In Philippians, it says that he emptied himself,  hollowing out his glory, power and beauty, and subjecting himself to the limits of humanity.  While walking on earth,  he did only the Father's will, unified in purpose and understanding. He allowed his Father to direct him; trusting him, loving him, believing that the will of the Father was the best possible way. The way of the Father has lead him to this terrible night.

When Jesus says, "Not my will, but yours be done," in dark Gethsemane, perhaps he is recalling another ancient garden, where the phrase was, "Not your will, but mine be done," and the fruit was plucked from the tree.

Refusal to submit to God's authority is at the root of our brokenness.  "You will be like God... " It is still our biggest problem. I see it in myself all the time. I don't believe that God will do what is best. I don't believe he can. I trust my own judgments over the ones written in his Word.  I hold up my feelings, thoughts, circumstances, and desires as the absolute and determine for myself what is good and evil.


Imbedded in this insubordination is a lie. It's a lie about God's nature. The serpent said to Eve, "God knows that if you eat this fruit you will be like him," and he didn't tell you because he wants to dominate you. He's power hungry. He likes to hold back blessing from your life. He doesn't want you to be happy. He really is powerless, and doesn't want you to know. He is not good. He does not love you. He's really out to make you miserable, setting up rules to watch you break them.


The lie was spoken, the trust of God wavered and caved, and centuries later, the second Adam stands in the garden, submitting to death so that we can be set free from the evil we brought on ourselves.

"Not my will, but yours be done." Jesus is trusting his Father. In the face of a terrible torture and death, knowing that all the weight of a broken world will fall on him in a short while, he is trusting that his Father will make it good. And through that submission, Jesus saves the world from sin.

I want his prayer to be my prayer. I want to submit to his authority in my life. I may not fully understand why he puts the boundaries up. He might lead me through some strange or sad places, but I believe that he does it for my good, and he will bring good from it.
I know he is good.
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths." Proverbs 3:5-6

It creeps up and bites you...

My husband and I are embarking on the confusing journey of infertility. I think I always took this creation gift for granted. I come from a big family and have prolific sisters, and yet here we are...

We both have some pretty sad days, laden with longing and loss.  Yet hope is alive in us. After all, if God can give a child to a woman in her nineties, he can make things work in our bodies.

But there is a very ugly side to all of this.  Blame for a start. Is it me? Is it him? Which one of us is broken? If we had married sooner maybe this wouldn't be happening. If you married someone else perhaps you'd have children, but now your stuck with me...
These thoughts flit through the mind, but at least they don't stay long.  I know we are a team. The two have become one for better or for worse.

But where blame leaves off, shame steps in. The neighbor woman who shares our alley is carrying her third child.  I often wonder what she thinks of this couple with a roomy house, the wife refinishing furniture on the back porch. Perhaps I look too selfish to want children. I think of all the mothers around me, imagine pity and judgment in their expressions. Here I am, a failure at the most basic of womanly roles.

This leads to self recrimination. What did we do wrong to be punished this way? My husband reaches into his past and pulls out his mistakes.  This is the reason, he thinks. Because of this thing I did, now we both are suffering.  And then I counter, No, my sin is the reason. If I had only done this better...

All lies. The enemy of our souls mixes them thick. He feeds us the lines and we play them out.  Graciously, God always intervenes. He's taught me the truth so I can fight back.

He will use all things for the good of those who love him. There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. The old has gone the new has come.  Nothing is impossible for God. Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart....

But this leads to the ugliest of revelations within me. This is the one that creeps up and bites me. I turn on God and point the finger. "Lord! I did it right. WE did it right. We have been in ministry. We've preached the gospel, tried to live good lives. We were chaste, virgins when we married. We followed the rules... and this is what we get!"

And there it is. So ugly. I'm reenacting the role of the older brother in the old parable. That parable about love for prodigals. Love without conditions.

Did I just live that way, do those things so that I'd get rewarded?

I believe this ugliness creeps into a lot of Christians lives.  A friend of mine wanted to be married by a certain age, and gave God an ultimatum. He didn't meet the demand and she rejected his way. Another served in Christian missions for years. In her burnt-out aftermath, the phrase was, "I did so much for you, when do I get mine?" 

I point the finger and join the team of the accuser. I turn the love affair with God into a bartering system. I trade love for manipulation.  And worst of all, I start making demands as if God owes me something.

He came for me while I was still hating him. He wooed me while I was stubborn and stupid. His love makes me lovable. In all things I am receiving: every breath, every perfect gift, every taste of freedom. Any good thing I have ever done is because God has made it good in me... so how can I possibly stand on the claim of fairness and rights?

God help me to love you because you are worthy and holy and true. Purify my jaded heart.  I reject these lies. I reject the barter.  No, my life choices were not to garner favors. I loved you then and love you now. You never promised it would be easy. I want you to be the deepest desire of my heart.  I refuse to leave you because life takes these unexpected, unwanted turns.

 Whom have I in heaven but you?
   And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
   but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. 
Psalm 73:25-26

Make it true.

God in my Closet

I heard a THUMP, a yelp, and muffled, "Help me!"
Bounding upstairs to the bedroom I shared with my little sister, I found her awkwardly wedged behind the double-decker shoe rack in our closet.

She was obviously stuck, feet in the air, one arm beneath her, accompanied by a jelly shoe, dirty laundry, and all manner of little girl minutiae.

Upon extrication, she shamefacedly explained that she had been reading C.S. Lewis's The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and had noticed a shoe at an odd angle in our closet. It seemed to disappear into the wall, so she thought there might be a door into another world, right in our very room!  When she attempted to get into the fantasy land, she fell over the shoe rack and got stuck.

I laughed and teased her, and told everyone else in our family about the silly thing she did. Her eight-year-old imagination had managed to transfer the mystical land of Lewis's wardrobe to our dry-walled, suburban closet. It was so funny and ridiculous!

I was forgetting that just that week, maybe even the night before, I had cowered in that same closet, praying for God to protect me. I was so afraid evil spirits would get me, that I would be possessed if I let my guard down, or say the wrong thing and be condemned to hell. Fear crushed me into panic attacks in that closet. I would hide in its light, crying and praying, wanting to see a guardian angel, wanting proof that I was safe, wanting to escape the darkness in the dark of our room.

With twenty two years of hindsight, I can see that she and I were after the same thing. We both wanted another world to infiltrate our own, and with the faith of children, we thought it was possible. I wistfully realize now that we had better understanding then.  What was her longing, but for heaven? What was my longing, but to take refuge in a real, true God?

Jesus exhorted us to have faith like a child. I think that includes knowing there is no 'impossible' with God.  He can do anything we ask or imagine.  As we age, it seems like we don't out-grow child faith as much as diminish from it. Nowadays, even though I claim him as my God and Savior, I find that I don't  ask because I don't trust. I don't ask for fear that He won't show up.

Jesus also said that the Kingdom of God is at hand! It is coming! It is here, now!
But most of the time we don't have seeing eyes. We don't see that the heavenly kingdom is in constant motion, infiltrating this world all the time.  Perhaps if we could peel back our curtain of blindness,  rid ourselves of the dark glass, we would realize that heaven is at work among us and God is always, always our very present help in trouble. Always, and now.

There have only been a few times in my adult life that God has broken through to me, shown me a glimpse of this reality.  They are always startling, dreadful, awe-filled moments. 

One time I was sitting under a tree in the mountains and looked up to see an insect suspended in the air. I was suddenly aware of the space all around and beyond it. I looked past it into the blue sky and knew that beyond the blue was endless blackness scattered with stars. I knew it went on forever and ever, that it was immense, infinite. And I felt the Lord saying, "It all fits in the palm of my hand."  I was aware of His bigness beyond the universe, and my heart pounded with awe-full fear. I wanted to hide under a rock. I wanted to jump in the bushes like Eve in the garden. So exposed and small. 

But mixed in with that fear was longing. I couldn't stand it, but I didn't ever want it to stop.  God's greatness threatened to crush me, but all I wanted was to stay and be crushed. I was wholly known, crushingly known, but wholly loved regardless. This revelation was just a moment, a few seconds and it was over, but I still long for it. Heaven was at hand. 

I am thankful that he showed me some truth. In the midst of miseries and uncertainties, in the face of decisions and unknowns and brokenness, I can remember that our world is cradled in a mighty big hand. Only a God so great, only the only God, could condescend to care for each soul and still hold all the universe together. It is what makes him God.

It is daunting to know that God is so great, intimidating even. Who are we that he is mindful of us? And yet, that is also the sweetness of childlike faith. I know that God was in our closet, comforting me to sleep, awakening a thirst in my sister. His heaven invading our small world. No matter how important the Daddy, he will always be attentive to his children.  

Always, and now.

Jump for Jehoshaphat!

I was wondering what to write about this morning and did a random flip-open of the Bible.
WA-POW! "He summons the heavens above, and the earth, that he may judge his people."

Nope, I don't really want to broach that subject. So I flipped again... "Rise up, O Judge of the earth; pay back to the proud what they deserve."
And again, "He will judge the world in righteousness..."
And again, "But the court will sit, and his power will be taken away..."
Flip, "You are the ones who justify yourselves in the eyes of men, but God know your hearts."
Flip, "Instead He entrusted Himself to Him who judges justly."

I'm not kidding.  Each random Bible-opening found yet another verse on judgement. The final straw came in with: "I will gather all nations and bring down to the Valley of Jehoshaphat. There I will enter in judgment against them concerning my inheritance,  my people Israel..." (Joel 3:2).

So I gave in. I'm writing about Jehoshaphat.  It's an unpopular baby name these days, but it means 'the Lord judges'.

The concept of the Lord's judgment is not popular with most Americans (and perhaps too popular with a small minority). Biblically, the Lord's judgment is the end of the world, the final judgment of earth. The imagery isn't very appealing. The sun turns black; the moon turns to blood. There is blood and fire and billows of smoke. Destruction. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. The grapes of wrath are trampled. "The day of the Lord will come like a thief. The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything in it will be laid bare." (2 Peter 3:10)
Ouch. Now you see why I wanted to avoid this altogether.

But in the midst of devastation, there's something seemingly out of place.

Praise. Thanksgiving. Joy.

Revelation has the heavens rejoicing, and in 19:1-2 goes on to say, "Hallelujah! Salvation and glory and power belong to our God, for true and just are his judgments."

True and just are his judgments. 

Our perfect God made a perfect world, and gave it to us. We proceeded to destroy it for personal gain. He made us in his image, his highest creation. We proceeded to kill, exploit, ignore, scorn, and abuse each other. He gave us the words of absolute Truth, and we proceeded to discredit and judge them based on our desires.  Is it not right that He justly looks at our conduct and finds us wanting? 

So often we don't take our own misconduct very seriously... a little white lie, a moment of temper, minor gossip with a friend, improper change collected, harmless piracy of movies or music, a moral slip, a bad habit, it just happened once, just looking out for myself...
When we compare ours to the obvious sins of others, we can't possibly be judged as evil.  And even if we know we've screwed up, nothing we do now can undo our pasts. A true judge will see us clearly. Our hearts will betray us. Shouldn't we praise him for being a true judge?

Then also, there are all these unsatisfied debts, all these wrongs committed that have never been righted. "Will not God bring justice about for his chosen ones, who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off? I tell you He will see that they get justice, and quickly." (Luke 18:7-8) The Lord will avenge the helpless, the victims. Again, isn't this just judge worthy of praise?

I think this is the point where the gleeful minority shout out, "That's right! Stick it to 'em! Give them what they deserve. Bring it on!"

But lest we be hasty in wanting fire to rain down, remember that the Lord waits patiently to make his final judgment, "not wanting anyone to perish, but all to come to repentance" (2 Peter 3:9). God himself says, "Do I take pleasure in the death of the wicked? Rather am I not pleased when they turn from their ways (a.k.a. repent) and live? "(Ezekiel 18:23).  Delight over the destruction of the this world is not aligned with the heart of God.  He clearly isn't of a mind to rush things, and gives us all kinds of opportunity to come back to Him. Talk about unconditional love.

Praise and lament seem to go together in the case of final judgment, but praise ultimately wins the day. Included in the Revelation revelry is salvation: "For Christ died for sins, once for all, the just for the unjust, to bring you to God." (1 Peter 3:18). His sacrifice opens the door to repentance, so that if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The debt of death is paid. We're given Grace and mercy we cannot earn. We can be reconciled to God.  We can escape judgment and live. At the final judgment and destruction of this world, God will bring forth a new heaven and a new earth: beautiful, glorious, free of pain and sorrow. Hallelujah indeed! 

The Final Judgment will fill us all with dread and awe. The Lord will judge in perfect fairness and understanding. He will be praised for his rightful justice in response to the corrupt. He will be praised for His mercy towards repentant hearts. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Silence in Heaven

"When he opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. And I saw the seven angels who stand before God, and to them were given seven trumpets.

Another angel, who had a golden censer, came and stood at the altar. He was given much incense to offer, with the prayers of the saints, on the golden altar before the throne.  The smoke of the incense with the prayers of the saints went up before God, out of the angel's hand. Then the angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the altar, and hurled it on the earth; and there were voices, thunder, flashes of lightening and an earthquake." 

Revelation 8:1-5

Silence in heaven. That's a crazy thought. Heaven is filled with songs and worship of the Lord Jesus... and then suddenly, this silence.
Why is it there? Some say it's a dramatic pause before the final show down between good and evil. Maybe so, but look at what the eighth angel is doing.

In the silence, this angel carries a golden bowl, filled with the prayers of Christ followers, and places it on the altar fire. The smoke and the prayers rise before the Lord.

This may sound cryptic, but it's a beautiful example of God's love for his people. This insight into heaven gives me hope and comfort.

The altar. When God first instructed Moses to build altars, He said they must be set apart, holy, and "whatever touches it will be holy"(Exodus 29:37, 30:10). Anything placed on the altar is made clean, holy, pure.

This passage is full of rich theology, and I don't want to belabor it. Just ponder that the altar was a place of sacrifice for sin; an animal was substituted for the guilty person and died in his place.  Then Jesus came, the perfect Lamb of God, and substituted Himself for us, satisfying sin's death penalty once and for all (and conquering death!). He is the last sacrifice on this altar. The prayers are bathed in the fire of His sacrifice.

That still sounds foreign, but when I think about my prayers: ugly motives mixed with sincere petitions, the desire to sound eloquent underlying spoken prayers, imperfect pleas for my will instead of His will be done, it's no wonder that my prayers need a bath. All my corrupted thoughts and motives burn away in this purifying fire, and my prayers are presented to God as holy and blameless.

I wonder if the silence in heaven is for the purpose of listening to these rising prayers. I know God can listen regardless, but He calls for silence.  Perhaps the silent solemnity of the moment is for the benefit of all who witness it.  When we speak to Him, He wants us to know He is listening and that our prayers are important to Him, so important that He would silence the worship He so rightfully deserves, to allow our puny prayers to be heard.

Not only does He listen, He answers. After the smoke of these prayers rises up before Jesus, the angel takes the fire of these purified entreaties from the altar, and hurls them back down to the earth with power. Thunder, lightening, voices, earthquake...

He takes our helpless pleadings, and by His almighty sacrifice, our prayers are given power to change the world. He condescends to lift us up, to let us be a part of His plan for this earth.

Prayer. We often go to it as a last resort. We think we are just talking to the air, that it is a waste of time, and wouldn't it be better to do something?  We have all kinds of excuses why we don't pray: no time, don't know how, there are too many needs, it's a personal thing-- secondary to caring for people...

Revelation 8 tells me something different,  something reiterated throughout the Bible. Look to Jesus, Paul, James, Daniel, Nehemiah, David all praying;  not in meditation or contemplation (not saying these things are bad), but in direct conversation with God. The prayer examples of the Bible are simple, direct, humble, and for the most part, they are petitions. We must ask God to meet all needs: to pray for ourselves and on behalf of others, on behalf of the world. When we don't know what to pray for, the Holy Spirit intercedes for us, pleading on our behalf (Romans 8:26).

Be comforted, and pray, pray, pray. Pray alone and with others. Pray even when it feels foolish or hopeless.  Our prayers are so important that God silences heaven to hear them. He cleans them, listens to them, and infuses them with power from the conquering cross. Then he hurls them back to the earth and changes the world.