Imago Dei and the Population Debate

Trinity Journal, Fall 1997 by Beisner, E Calvin

E. CALVIN BEISNER*

Sometime early in the nineteenth century sC,2 the Hebrew patriarch Abram and his nephew Lot dwelt as semi-nomadic shepherds in the region of Bethel and Ai in Palestine. "Abram had become very wealthy in livestock and in silver and gold" (Gen 13:23), and Lot

also had flocks and herds and tents. But the land could not support them while they stayed together, for their possessions were so great that they were not able to stay together. And quarreling arose between Abram's herdsmen and the herdsmen of Lot. . .. So Abram said to Lot, "Let's not have any quarreling between you and me, or between your herdsmen and mine, for we are brothers. Is not the whole land before you? Let's part company. If you go to the left, I'll go to the right; if you go to the right, I'll go to the left."

Lot looked up and saw that the whole plain of the Jordan was well watered, like the garden of the Lord, like the land of Egypt, toward Zoar.... So Lot chose for himself the whole plain of the Jordan and set out toward the east. The two men parted company: Abram lived in the land of Canaan, while Lot lived among the cities of the plain and pitched his tents near Sodom. (Gen 13:5-12)

This is the earliest instance recorded in the Bible4 of the impression that a local human population had outstripped the ability of the land to support it.

Tucked away in this passage is a fascinating lesson for those who will see it: Lot chose for himself what appeared to be the most fertile land. In contrast, Abram, father of the faithful and of many nations (Rom 4:11, 16-17), accepted whatever land God, in his providence, gave him through Lot's choice. Lot's eyes focused on material circumstances, Abram's on the ability of God to bless his servant regardless of circumstances. Lot's decision was driven by his thoughts about the capacity of the land; Abram's by his faith in God.

After Lot had chosen the richer, more fertile land, Yahweh said to Abram,

Lift up your eyes from where you are and look north and south, east and west. All the land that you see I will give to you and your offspring forever. I will make your offspring like the dust of the earth, so that if anyone could count the dust, then your offspring could be counted. Go, walk through the length and breadth of the land, for I am giving it to you. (Gen 13:14-17)

Now, there is something ironic in this promise. Abram and Lot had separated precisely because they thought the land could not support their households and livestock. From their perspective, the last thing either would consider a blessing would be a new expansion of population. But that is precisely what God promised Abram: "I will make your offspring like the dust of the earth." Would not the fulfillment of that promise mean repeating the very dilemma that had caused strife between Abram and his nephew in the first place? Yet before long God repeated the promise as a blessing of the covenant, and "Abram believed the Lord, and he credited it to him as righteousness" (Gen 15:6). And then God did indeed multiply Abram's offspring, so much that by the time of the Exodus some four hundred years later they numbered some six hundred thousand adult males, plus women and children, i.e., probably between two and five million.5

What most saddens me about the propensity among many today-including many devout and honest Christians-to fear population growth and its impact on resources and the environment is that they think more like Lot than like Abram. They focus on the material world rather than on the infinite faithfulness and goodness of God, and their choices-like Lot's-reflect their belief that the present state of the world sets the boundaries of human expectations. In this fear they do not, like Abram, focus on the promises of God and his perfect faithfulness and power to fulfill them. To them I would say with Paul-recognizing that he used the language in a different context-"Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things" (Col 3:2).

This fear, as we have just seen, has ancient roots, and it has persisted through the millennia. Some twenty-one hundred years after Abram and Lot separated lest they overburden the land of Palestine, the church father Tertullian wrote with alarm: Everything has been visited, everything known, everything exploited. Now pleasant estates obliterate the famous wilderness areas of the past. Plowed fields have replaced forests, domesticated animals have dispersed wild life. Beaches are plowed, mountains smoothed and swamps drained. There are as many cities as, in former years, there were dwellings. Islands do not frighten, nor cliffs deter. Everywhere there are buildings, everywhere people, everywhere communities, everywhere life. . . Proof [of this crowding] is the density of human beings. We weigh upon the world; its resources hardly suffice to support its. As our needs grow larger, so do our protests, that already nature does not sustain its. In truth, plague, famine, wars and earthquakes must be regarded as a blessing to civilization, since they prune away the luxuriant growth of the human race.6