Call them God's Greens. Armed with Scripture and a righteous respect for nature, a host of religious groups have taken up the environmental fight and are waging holy war on behalf of an embattled creation. But, critics ask, is this a truly divine cause—or the devil's work?

By Bruce Barcott

Dale Higgins/Stone

Yea, my brothers and sisters, let us wander into the den of unbelievers and lay the righteous word down like wall-to-wall shag. Let us take the Good Book as our weapon and smash the skeptics and smite the Wise Users and quiet their chainsaws and backhoes and pavers for ever and ever, amen. Let us gather the clear-cutters and dam builders in their place of worship and take the truth of God's green message straight at them. Let us follow Brother Peter, the world's foremost Bible-thumping, chapter- and-versifying, Jesus-praising tree-hugger into battle to save God's glorious domain.

Also, let us not step in the llama poop. For it is squishy and sticky and doth offend us.

"Nnnnngh!" cries the llama.

"C'mon, Oochoo," says Peter Illyn. "We'll go get some water." The shaggy beast steps out of its trailer and onto the sawdust paths of the Skamania County, Washington, fairgrounds. Oochoo's ears flick in the direction of a nearby stage where a thrashcore band is fret-noodling for Jesus as part of Tomfest 2000, an annual Christapalooza that draws 5,000 pierced and tattooed evangelical Christians to the banks of the Columbia River for five days of headbanging fellowship. Illyn, a 42-year-old former Foursquare Gospel preacher from the southwestern Washington town of La Center, is here trolling for environmental converts. Oochoo is bait.

"Hey, llama!"

"Can I ride him?"

Once Oochoo draws a crowd, Illyn goes to work. "We're out here talking to people about the environment and how God's word calls for stewardship of his domain," he tells the llama-entranced kids. "I work with a group called Target Earth—we're all about serving the earth and serving the poor. You've heard of Earth First? We're like Earth Third: We were made to love God, love people, and love creation. Environmental stewardship is part of our calling as Christians, but the church has remained silent for so many years that we've defaulted to New Age pagans and industrialists."

The kids nod vaguely. For many of them, this is the first time anyone's told them that environmentalism mixes with the Lord. Their naïveté is almost touching. "This isn't like Bill Clinton taking land and giving it to the UN, is it?" asks a pastor's daughter from a small town in Oregon. They're not sure what to make of Illyn. A twee pastor he's not—with his husky frame, unruly shock of dark brown hair, full beard, and fire-eater's growl, he could pass for an Aerosmith roadie.

Illyn and Oochoo work the crowd, spreading shaggy-coated charisma and the green gospel, with phrases like "creation care" and "serving the earth." Planting a seed in the mind of a pastor's daughter is well and good, but Illyn's real targets today are the true peer influencers: musicians. "A few words from the stage can really set us up," he confides. He's got an MBA in marketing, so he knows the dynamics of his selling situation. A guy passing out pamphlets— he's a freak. Give him a llama, he's a curiosity. Give him a shout-out from a hot new band, he's the downest dude at Tomfest.

Illyn comps a sticker—your soul needs the wild—to a dreadlocked holy hip-hopper named Dirt, then greets a bare-chested young man wearing wraparound Oakleys and a cross around his neck. "Didn't I see you hiking along the river?" Illyn asks.

"That was me. Nearly made myself sick eating blackberries. Is my tongue still purple?" He sticks it out for inspection: purple as Prince. The berry junkie turns out to be John Paul Peters, 24-year-old guitarist for the Winnipeg punk-pop band The Undecided. "I'm definitely concerned about the wild," he tells Illyn. "We're driving home tomorrow, and I talked the guys into letting me have a couple hours in Yellowstone."

Illyn launches his rap: "What my group is trying to do, we're Christian environmentalists trying to protect the earth. We're working to save the last bits of wild nature as part of our earthly stewardship. You play guitar, right?"

"Yeah."

"So you're tapping into your faith through your art," says the preacher. "Look around you—at those hills, at that river. That's God's art."

"Right, right," says Peters.

"I have people tell me, 'It's all about the human soul; Jesus died just for us,'" Illyn continues, anticipating a rebuttal. "Well, I say, make your heart bigger, dude."

Peters smiles and nods his head. Illyn has found a believer. The two exchange addresses and make tentative plans to go llama hiking at next year's festival. "God bless, Peter," says the guitarist as they part.

At the river Illyn slips off his sneakers and cools his feet. The llama, ornery bastard, refuses to drink and aims a load of poop at the preacher's shoe. The sun refracts off the water into a bushel of stars that tumble across the mile-wide Columbia, forcing Illyn to squint. "You know, God created the world and he called it good," he muses. "Now we've got six different kinds of salmon going extinct right here in this river. You can't tell me that's good. You can't tell me God's pleased."