by Lewis Loflin
"One of the defining features of religion is that your beliefs are not troubled by facts, because they have nothing to do with facts." – Michael Crichton
In 1992, Al Gore published Earth in the Balance, a book that has since become a cornerstone for a movement that fuses environmentalism with religious undertones—specifically, a curious blend of New Age mysticism and reinterpreted Christian doctrine, stripped of traditional salvation through Christ. Gore’s vision isn’t just a call to save the planet; it’s a manifesto that elevates environmentalism to a spiritual crusade, complete with its own moral imperatives and existential stakes. For millions of adherents, this book serves as a kind of ecological Bible, guiding a worldview where nature itself becomes sacred, and humanity’s relationship with it is framed in terms of sin, redemption, and stewardship—albeit without the cross.
Gore’s rhetoric in Earth in the Balance is saturated with spiritual language. He speaks of an "inner ecology" that governs how we perceive the world, a balance he claims has been disrupted by the scientific and technological revolutions of the modern era. These advancements, he argues, have alienated us from our sense of purpose and identity, leaving us spiritually adrift. To remedy this, he proposes a "new environmentalism of the spirit"—a framework that doesn’t just address carbon emissions or deforestation but seeks to heal what he sees as a deeper, metaphysical wound in humanity’s soul.
Consider this passage from the book: "The way we experience the world is governed by a kind of inner ecology that relates perception, thinking and forces outside ourselves... But this ecology now threatens to fall badly out of balance because the cumulative impact of the changes brought by the scientific and technological revolution are potentially devastating to our sense of who we are and what our purpose in life might be." Here, Gore isn’t merely critiquing industrialization; he’s diagnosing a spiritual malaise, one that requires not just policy solutions but a reorientation of human consciousness.
He goes further, asking rhetorical questions that sound more like a sermon than a scientific treatise: "How do we conserve hope and minimize the quantity of corrosive fear we spill into our lives? How do we recycle the sense of wonder we felt as children, when the world was new?" These aren’t practical proposals—they’re meditations on the human condition, steeped in a romanticized nostalgia and a rejection of modernity’s cold rationality. Gore’s environmentalism isn’t about data or measurable outcomes; it’s about feelings, faith, and a return to some imagined pre-industrial Eden.
Gore doesn’t stop at New Age platitudes. He explicitly weaves Christian theology into his narrative, reinterpreting biblical concepts to suit his agenda. Take his discussion of "dominion" from Genesis: "In the Judeo-Christian tradition, the biblical concept of dominion is quite different from the concept of domination, and the difference is crucial. Specifically, followers of this tradition are charged with the duty of stewardship, because the same biblical passage that grants them 'dominion' also requires them to 'care for' the earth even as they 'work' it." (Ref. Earth in the Balance, pp. 242-3)
This is a clever sleight of hand. Gore takes a traditional Christian idea—stewardship—and bends it into a justification for his environmentalist ideology, conveniently sidestepping the parts of the tradition that don’t fit, like salvation through Christ or the eschatological promise of a new heaven and earth. It’s a selective theology, cherry-picked to align with his secular gospel of ecological salvation. Meanwhile, others in the movement—like Pope Francis—go a step further, blending this eco-spirituality with Marxist undertones, framing environmental degradation as a symptom of capitalist exploitation and calling for systemic upheaval under the guise of moral duty.
Gore’s critique of science and technology often takes on a moralistic tone: "The engines of distraction are gradually destroying the inner ecology of the human experience." He doesn’t just see technology as a practical problem—it’s a spiritual adversary, a force that turns us into "machines, lost in the levers and cogs, lonesome for the love of life."
Gore himself acknowledges the ethical dimension of his crusade: "To some, the global environmental crisis is primarily a crisis of values. In this view, the basic cause of the problem is that we as a civilization base our decisions about how to relate to the environment on premises that are fundamentally unethical." He’s not wrong that values shape behavior—but his solution isn’t a return to traditional ethics or empirical reasoning. Instead, he doubles down on religion as the answer, arguing that the "major religious systems" must be reexamined and, implicitly, reformed to serve his ecological vision.
This is where the danger lies. When environmentalism becomes a religion—complete with its own dogma, priests (like Gore), and moral absolutes—it ceases to be a matter of science or policy and becomes a faith-based ideology. And when that ideology is codified into law or public policy, it crosses a constitutional line. The First Amendment demands a separation of church and state, yet here we have a movement that dresses up spiritual beliefs as secular imperatives, pushing them into the public square with the fervor of a revival meeting.
I’d argue these eco-fanatics pose a greater threat than even fundamentalist Islam. At least the latter is upfront about its religious nature; Gore and his ilk cloak their zealotry in the language of science and progress, making it harder to challenge without being labeled a heretic—or, worse, a "denier." It’s a stealth theocracy, and it’s time we called it what it is.
If environmentalism is to remain a legitimate part of public discourse, it must be stripped of its religious trappings. Science, not spirituality, should guide our approach to climate and conservation. Policies should be judged on data—emissions reductions, cost-benefit analyses, measurable outcomes—not on how well they align with some mystical "inner ecology." Alternatively, if Gore’s followers insist on preaching this gospel, they should admit it’s a religion and keep it out of government entirely. The law is clear: the state has no business endorsing faith-based doctrines, whether they come from a cathedral or a recycling bin.
Until then, we’re stuck with Preacher Gore, sermonizing from his pulpit of privilege, urging us to repent for the sin of modernity while offering no salvation beyond a vague promise of "sustainability." It’s a faith as blind as any other—and, as Michael Crichton warned, just as untroubled by facts.
For more on Al Gore’s environmentalist ideology, see my earlier analysis: Al Gore’s Green Guilt.
Acknowledgment: I’d like to thank Grok, an AI by xAI, for helping me draft and refine this article. The final edits and perspective are my own.
