Learning the names of nature

I was sat on a black metal bench with one of the children at the camp. We were talking. Suddenly, some kind of flying insect crashed into my elbow. This thing had not asked for permission to land. Will it sting me? Will it bite me? Nope. So then…

What is it?

It wasn’t a ladybird, or dragon fly. It wasn’t a moth. It wasn’t a wasp or a bee. I knew I was quickly exhausting my archive of small flying friends. I dont know what this is. I have felt this sinking feeling before; being slightly embarrassed at not being able to name a common animal, or rock, or leaf or shrub, or Aunty. 

We came up with a solution. Google lens will know what this is. Within seconds we had pointed my phone in its direction and discovered it was a Mayfly. We also found out that Mayflys were around before the dinosaurs, that there are more than 3000 types of Mayfly in the world and one of their uses is that it only survives around clean water. If there are no Mayflys near the water by you, then you know it’s polluted!

Just by finding out the name of the Mayfly, we instantly became more curious about what it does, where it might live, how many there are and what its role is in nature. This tiny discovery kind of began to wake us up to a whole new world. The world of Mayfly.

In the first chapter of the first book of the Bible, God is busy talking. He speaks and water divides from land, light divides from darkness and everything in our world is made from scratch. Then he does an amazing thing. He asks Adam, the first human being, to name everything he has made.  

“Now the Lord God had formed out of the ground all the wild animals and all the birds in the sky. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name. So the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds in the sky and all the wild animals.” Genesis 2:19-20 (msg)

In the Hebrew world, names meant more than just labels.

Firstly, a name often signifies the essence or destiny of a person or thing. For instance, the name “Adam” is derived from “adamah,” meaning ground or earth, reflecting his creation from the dust of the ground and his role as the one who tills the earth. Similarly, “Eve” (Chava in Hebrew) means “living” or “life-giver,” reflecting her role as the mother of all living things.

Names also indicate a relationship with God: Many Hebrew names, even those of natural elements, include elements of God’s name or attributes, indicating a relationship with Him. For example, the “cedars of Lebanon” (Erezim) are often associated with strength and majesty, qualities attributed to God. Another example is the “rock badger” (Shafan), mentioned in Proverbs 30:26, illustrating God’s provision and care for even the small and seemingly insignificant creatures. These names are like reminders of God’s presence and intervention in the natural world.

But it gets bigger. 

In the Bible every creature has a unique purpose and song of praise to God, and knowing their names helps us understand and join in this song together. I love reading what one of the Jewish Rabbis say about the book of Ecclesiastes 

“Every single blade of grass has a corresponding angel in Heaven that strikes it and tells it to grow” 

It’s like the stuff of earth is connected to the stuff of heaven. And each name is a chord played in both realms. Could you imagine if every twig, every bird and every cloud were like a chord in a song? Your name is part of that, and so is the Swallow, the Birch and the Great White. A cosmic symphony creating music beyond what we can imagine. So Adams task wasn’t merely about assigning labels; it was about recognising and understanding the intrinsic nature and destiny of each creature, participating in God’s creative work and stewardship of the whole world.

Science and the names of nature

So, who has this job now that we don’t have Adam and Eve to do it? For a long time, it has been science. Science has taken up the mantle of exploring, discovering, and naming the natural world, continuing the task that began with Adam and Eve. The process of scientific naming is also more than just assigning labels. Each name carries with it a wealth of information about the organism’s characteristics, relationships, and evolutionary history. For example, the scientific name for the Mayfly we discovered at camp, Ephemeroptera, hints at its ephemeral nature, as these insects live only for a short time. This naming system helps scientists communicate precisely about species, ensuring that everyone is speaking the same language when discussing biodiversity and conservation.

Also, the act of naming in science often leads to deeper curiosity and further discovery. When we identified the Mayfly, we not only learned its name but also discovered its ecological role and evolutionary history. This mirrors the biblical concept that knowing the name of something opens up a deeper understanding of its purpose and place in the world. Scientists today continue this tradition, using names as keys to unlock the mysteries of nature.

One fascinating aspect of naming things is how it connects us to the past and the future. Ancient scholars like Aristotle and Theophrastus began the work of classifying plants and animals, laying the groundwork for future discoveries. Today, with advanced tools like DNA sequencing, scientists uncover new species and reclassify old ones, constantly refining our understanding of the natural world. This process shows that the task of naming and understanding creation is ongoing, a continuous journey of discovery that we are all part of.

In the digital age, tools like Google Lens have democratized access to this knowledge, allowing anyone with a smartphone to identify and learn about the natural world around them. This technology bridges the gap between ancient wisdom and modern science, making it easier for us to fulfill the biblical mandate to know and care for creation.

Science, in taking up the mantle of naming and understanding nature, continues the sacred task given to Adam and Eve. It connects us to the divine through the intricate details of creation, helping us to see the world with wonder and respect. As we learn the names of clouds, plants, animals, insects, rocks, and sea creatures, we join in a tradition that spans millennia, participating in the stewardship and celebration of the natural world.

Learning the names of nature. Together.

So, how does all of this tie into our community at Ocean Church? The beauty of our faith calls us to be active participants in God’s creation. We aren’t spectators peering and commenting from the cheap seats. We aren’t consumers of it, only wanting to visit if there is something in it for us. The simple act of learning the names of nature is a way to honour that call to participate.

Imagine walking along the shore, the sound of the waves a gentle reminder of God’s majesty. You spot a bird diving into the ocean. Is it just a bird, or do you know it’s a common tern? Recognizing its name deepens your connection. You start to wonder about its journey and its place in God’s creation.

At Ocean Church, we’re blessed with a unique opportunity to be surrounded by the splendour of both land and sea. Learning and teaching the names of the species we encounter can foster a sense of wonder and respect for the natural world.

In our digital age, tools like Google Lens empower us to discover and learn. Encourage your household to use it on their walks, paddles, or even in your back garden. Learning names isn’t just about accumulating knowledge; it’s about fostering a relationship. It’s about seeing the divine fingerprint in the intricate details of a butterfly’s wings, the majestic flight of a hawk, or the steadfastness of an oak tree. It’s about joining in the cosmic symphony where every name is a note, every species a melody, and together we create a harmonious song of praise.

So, learning names isn’t a to-do list. It’s not about knowledge. It’s a sacrament. And a sacrament is what happens when something of earth touches something of heaven.

Imperfect kindness

As I sit here and write this, I am 16 weeks and five days pregnant (apparently). And whilst this is definitely a season of great joy and immense gratitude, it would be insincere of me to say it is all happy days and bathing in the glory of partnering with the Creator to create.

I’m actually really scared.

For those who aren’t aware, I have been pregnant twice before.

My first baby passed to the other side of the veil when I was 13 weeks pregnant, and I look forward to the day where we are reunited with our first fruit, already on the other side of eternity.

And our second, is the beautiful Esme Kai, three years old and full of more life than I thought was possible! But that loss, and the prevailing Covid years, mixed with more loss and even more isolation, led to an immense mental breakdown for me when Ez was born. I was diagnosed with postnatal psychosis, a season of life that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And to spare the gnarly details, I was very very unwell for an extended period of time.

I write about this now, because I met with a mental health practitioner last week. She has been sewn into my pregnancy journey this time by my wonderful midwife team, to assess my risk of having another psychotic episode, and to create a web of care around me, to make sure it doesn’t get that bad again.

Now I am positive we, as a species, have no idea what is actually happening when we suffer any kind of mental breakdown. There are many people, much smarter than me trying to figure it out, but whether it is physical, spiritual, evil or ordained, there are so many people struggling with some kind of internal burn out, that I want to take this moment to explain, what I shared with her, when asked how I survived, and how I got better.

It wasn’t a specific cocktail of drugs, it wasn’t a stint in a psychiatric unit, it didn’t involve extreme CBT or the perfect therapist, and God most definitely did not heal me in an instant. It was very simple, and very free, and very accessible. 

It was the enduring strength of the relationships around me.

I came away from talking to my mental health nurse that day, and I had a sudden guilty worry that I hadn’t told her that God healed me, after I had told her in depth how I had recovered.

And I felt God say, ‘But I didn’t. Not in the way you want to say. I was present in the strength of the unity of the community around you.’

And He was.

That was the modern-day miracle.

That in this individualistic, self-centred, terrified-of-deep-vulnerability, society that we live in, it was an absolute miracle that those closest to me already knew me well enough and trusted the process and path of recovery that God lay before them, to jump into it with me.

Again, I will spare the details of what that looked like on the daily, or else this singular blog post could evolve into a published work, for the length of the word count alone!

But their care was intimate, and kind, and I was torn apart and rebuilt with the depth of the vulnerability I had to share. Yet week by week, they were able to weed out the lies, and whisper back truths to my broken heart, until I started to see light and colour again. Learning in the process, that when everywhere around us we are told to follow our heart, sometimes, we don’t actually know. But the One who made us does.

I am well aware that my story is somewhat unique. To grow up in a God-fearing, deeply loving, (but very much imperfect), household, with a family and husband that are so supportive it cured the seemingly incurable. And I know this, because whenever I have shared my story of that time, I am consistently met with stories of the hurt that people carry from others who didn’t turn up for them, and even worse, kicked them when they were down. It breaks my heart. There is a quote from Bessel Van Der Kolk’s book, ‘The Body Keeps The Score’, where he shares that over the years of his extensive studies, he has come to believe that “our capacity to destroy one another is matched by our capacity to heal one another.” In other words, “Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.” (Proverbs 16:24)

We are completely capable as a people of loving and healing each other through our words, actions and prayers. And they really don’t have to be grand acts. In the very worst of days for me, a random friend dropped by a bag of clementines, just because he was thinking about us. And I think about that pretty frequently, even now, years later. He had no words, no wisdom, no fix, and I don’t even really like clementines, but the simple act of being in his thoughts helped. Really helped.

I have come to understand that while there is such a thing as death by a thousand papercuts, there is also such a thing as resurrection by a thousand acts of imperfect kindness.

Fair weather swimming

Last weekend I got to see an amazing sight: over 1,000 members of a relatively rare species active in their native habitat. I’m talking about serious sea-swimmers in the Bournemouth Pier to Pier swim; an amazing event that raised over a quarter of a million pounds for the British Heart Foundation. How do you spot a serious sea swimmer? Generally, they will be wearing a dry robe (any place, any time of the day), holding a hot water bottle in the colder months and talking about air and sea temperature (did you know that in the UK, the sea is warmest in September? Although my wife disputes this and says it is actually October.) I am married to a card-carrying member of this species and can only admire everyone who took part in the Pier to Pier swim.

Unlike my wife, I didn’t grow up near the sea and don’t have salt in my blood, but a deep love for the sea is growing in me. The sense of endlessness; the feeling of being ‘on the edge’ of things; the forever changing sky at the horizon; the sound and rhythm of the waves and breakers: the list of things to love goes on and on, much like the sea itself.

One thing that is surprising me though is the enjoyment of being in or on the water itself. We’ve borrowed a few different pieces of kit from the Watersports library and had lots of fun with them, but I’ve also enjoyed just swimming in the sea (strictly summer months only). I’m not a natural, the process of entering involves a lot of oohs and aahs and generally takes at least ten minutes- you know the routine: acclimatising in stages- toes, then knees; that challenging midriff area, elbows, then finally shoulders. My wife doesn’t understand the art of this process and goes from zero to 100% submerged in seconds. Doing it that way misses the realisation that it really is ‘alright once you’re in’ though.

Anyway, when you finally are in (and however you get there) and move away from the shore, there is a connection to the water, a stretching out and loosening of muscles, the sensation of being in the unknown (are there sharks down there in the depths?) and that peace as you get further away from the sand and the shouts. Sound is different on the water.

At Ocean Church we explore the idea of water being spiritual. I think there is something about the vastness of the ocean that confronts you with your own smallness and finiteness. The power and the unknown, the mystery and the beauty point to a creator. Being in or on the water is definitely a way of engaging with and experiencing that- even if it is just for the summer months.

People describe the sea as their ‘saviour’ or ‘refuge’ or even ‘heaven’: language often associated with spirituality. How can we engage with this in the water? A link to infinity and eternity; power and mystery. A chance to clear our heads from all the white noise and tune in to our creator. Psalm 42 says “Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.”

It’s lovely when you’re in, who wants to join me? Whether fully emersed and wet suited up; only fair-weather swimming; or even just on the shore, could we meet with the one “who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand” (Isaiah 40:12).

Adventure of the emotions

Normally I enjoy a trip on a train. I’d brought a book with me as usual and was preparing for a relaxing hour or so on a relatively quiet journey. This time, I just couldn’t concentrate. I was hyper-aware of my surroundings, taking in the sights through the windows and the sounds of wheels on tracks. My mind was running through a variety of scenarios. And then it was clear to me – these were nerves, this was anticipation. Despite being a full 24 hours before running a marathon and only being on the journey to pick up my race number, my feelings had taken over my consciousness. During the rest of the journey, I had the space to be more fully aware of those emotions and the effects they were having on my body: the flickering of my pupils, the mild jittering in my stomach, the thumping of my pulse. They were real. At the time they were significant. I was nervous because I had been training (no pun intended) for eight months; there was nothing more I could do to prepare; and it mattered to me.  It may only have been a small act of recognition on my part, but I was able in some way to embrace the nervous energy in my body. 

My experience on a train into London marks out roughly the level I’m at, as I consider what setting out on an adventure of the emotions might involve. For me, feelings were not regularly discussed at great depth in the household I grew up. I often find it difficult to articulate my mood or feelings precisely because I’m not sure how I feel. It can be something I struggle to discuss, not from awkwardness or embarrassment, but because I’m less confident. I regularly process changes and events in my head, attempting to make sense of them, rather than following my heart. If anything, I probably developed a habit from childhood of supressing feelings. As a result, going on an adventure of the emotions is not something I feel well-prepared or practised for. But that’s ok. I suspect that as with map-reading, knowing where you are starting from is probably helpful if you want to make progress towards a desired goal. 

Some of my background in emotions is cultural, echoing the attitude of keeping a stiff upper lip. These were not especially developed by my upbringing in church, where perhaps knowledge was more prioritised than feelings. When I learned stories about Jesus’ emotions as told in stories in the gospels, little was made of his feelings. I knew Jesus wept when his friend Lazarus died but I don’t recall links being fully explored about the impact of grief. I was taught the story of Jesus upturning tables in the temple because he was angry but potential connections between the indignation that we may experience today at corruption and injustice could have been developed more. I was aware Jesus was alone and full of despair after the last supper but wasn’t encouraged to draw on experiences of feeling helpless where no one seems to understand your plight. Perhaps a re-reading of some of these stories may serve as a starting point as we reflect on our own emotions and how to link them to faith.

Adventures of the body

“Lord of all pots and pans and things… Make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.”

Brother Lawrence

From a young age, I have noticed a number of football players and other athletes making the sign of the cross before competing. I used to be sceptical about their actions but maybe those who do it are on to something.

Sometimes our experiences of church create the impression that singing songs is our primary way of worshipping God. We can develop a casual use of the word ‘worship’ where essentially all we mean by the term is a focused time of singing. Comments about ‘not enjoying the worship’ or ‘the worship being less good at one church than another’ can pass across our conversation. This type of worship can certainly form part of an adventure of the body but surely, to quote Tim Hughes, “There must be more than this.”

Romans 12: 1-2 says, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, on the basis of God’s mercy, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your reasonable act of worship. 2 Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of the mind, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” 

When this passage speaks of worship, it is in the context of presenting our bodies as living sacrifices. What does this mean? Many of us have lost, or were never taught, how to make our daily lives an act of worship. We never learned to recognise the presence of God in our activities, work and actions. We find it difficult to express how our lives at school, work or home are part of our lived expression of faith. This quest is one we can continue to explore, whatever stage of life we are at. 

In the exert that begins this reflection, Brother Lawrence’s poem links simple actions to the ongoing process of becoming a saint, a follower of Jesus. It is interesting to note that there is no reference to feeling the presence of God in these actions, no lifting of the spirits or ecstatic encounters. Maybe at times these will come but they will probably not be the norm. It does seem that Brother Lawrence was on this path of attempting to be a living sacrifice, making the more mundane areas of this life an act of worship. Our bodies can be used every day in actions that do this and these may form part of exploring an adventure of our bodies.

There’s a challenge though. How do I mow the lawn or hoover or hang washing in a manner that is consistent with a life lived as worship? How do I do my homework or help with household chores in a way that is a sacrifice? Although these might be helpful at times, it probably doesn’t mean I have to be praying or listening to ‘Christian songs’ whilst doing these things. There is probably a risk of creating a binary distinction between spiritual and non-spiritual actions if we just focus on somehow adding Christian language to them. 

One simple practice that some people follow is the habit of saying grace before a meal. This is an easy way of recognising God in the everyday. But do we pause before preparing the food or when clearing up afterwards? Do we even need to pause? I’m not sure if there are neat, one-size-fits-all answers. Could it be that these could differ depending on the circumstances we face? 

Adventures of our bodies include being responsible for them, seeking to follow advice on good practices for diet, exercise and sleep. Perhaps these are simple places to start on our adventures, a dipping of our toes into the waters that deepen as we pursue what we may encounter. Potentially we can come up with our equivalent of the footballer crossing themselves before playing a match – a symbol, a quiet refrain, a mantra – before we start a task to recognise that what we are about to do is part of our ongoing, everyday worship. Perhaps we could place a visible symbol in places we frequent often such as our desks, the kitchen sink, the laundry basket, to help stimulate the openness to recognising that God’s work is in all work. It would also be interesting to explore and discuss this further with others to find out what they actively do to recognise that all work is God’s work. 

In The Message’s translation of John 1:14 it says, “The Word became flesh and blood,

and moved into the neighbourhood.” When we try to imitate the incarnate God, the God expressed in human form as Jesus, we can try to live out Jesus’ values. As we embark on our adventures in and through our bodies, we can increasingly recognise that all our actions, from changing nappies to checking in on grandparents, from finishing homework without being nagged to playing with our friends, from completing paperwork to making lunches – all of this is the work. It’s all spiritual, it’s all part of it and it’s all God’s work. Embarking deeper on our adventures of the body will enable us to discover this more. 

Adventures of the mind

It seems like it is difficult for politicians in our country to admit that they have changed their minds. When they do, it is often branded a U-turn or flip-flopping or another negative term. Is it any easier for people in church to change their beliefs? If we want to go on an adventure of the mind, perhaps we might need to. 

Many readers of the Bible will be familiar with the word ‘repent,’ especially its use in the New Testament. The Greek word that is translated to give us the word ‘repent’ is metanoia which has the meaning of ‘changing one’s mind’. (It is a compound word from meta meaning ‘beyond’ and noia meaning ‘to think.’) If we are to change our minds, it means we recognise that we have more to learn or potentially we were mistaken. Thinking about something in a new way can be a sign of growth or development. 

However, some of us were brought up with an understanding that repentance is bound up with having done something wrong. It is often a guilt-laden word, whereas metanoia is more focused on having a change of heart. Our adventures of the mind do not need to be guilt-trips, where we carry excess emotional baggage, but they are journeys of exploration and discovery. Maybe we should ask ourselves why God would want us to feel guilty about having the humility to recognise we don’t have all the answers and learning a little bit more from others.

One of the regularly repeated lines from a podcast I listen to is “All theology has an adjective.” (Theology means the study of God.) The point is that we cannot learn about faith and God from an objective perspective, free from our background and experiences.  This is not something that I was taught growing up in church. Teaching from the Bible was delivered as the “truth” and the interpretation that was given was not presented as one of a range of possible meanings. In reality, the teaching about God, Jesus and the Bible that I grew up with was a white, Western and relatively wealthy theology. It just wasn’t presented that way to me. 

This is not to say that it was all wrong or that nothing can be learned from it. I’m grateful for the foundations that I was given. But how often did I hear multiple perspectives or interpretations being mentioned during talks or sermons in church? It can be helpful to recognise there are other ways that stories or teachings from the Bible can be looked at and that these can give us a richer understanding. 

An example of this is that much of what I was taught about the Bible was focused on the impact of Jesus’ death and resurrection for me as an individual. There was an emphasis on how Jesus died for me to save me personally. It was in my early twenties that I was introduced to understanding the Bible from a different perspective, namely Liberation Theology. Its focus on faith being about helping those who are oppressed today made me see stories from the Bible that I was familiar with from a different perspective. Thinking about the Exodus where Moses led Israel’s escape from the slavery under the Egyptians was so different when learning about it in another culture which did not have a history of being a world military power or having controlled an empire. It made me realise I only knew one part of the story.  

Adventures of the mind are unsettling. They can be unnerving. It’s a road that well-meaning people within church may warn you against. If it’s going to be an adventure of the mind, it cannot be expected to be cosy all the time. Reading James H. Cone’s The Cross and the Lynching Tree was not a comfortable experience but it expanded my mind as links between Jesus’ crucifixion and the suffering under racism in America were made. Learning about someone’s lived experience of discrimination meant I was better able to rethink some of what Jesus went through in the Easter story. 

As we seek to go on adventures of the mind, taking perhaps tentative steps, what might this involve? To start, we need to begin from the point that we don’t know all the important information already. It may mean exploring the unknown. Practical ways we may begin might involve reading a book or an article from a perspective we know is likely to differ from what we have already heard. We can listen to podcasts that include people from a range of backgrounds, cultures or viewpoints. When we meet or work or play with people from another background to our own, we can be genuinely curious about their beliefs and practices. We can ask what they find compelling about them and why they have chosen to join or stay within their tradition. Learning someone sees things differently doesn’t mean we have to accept all their views. However, embarking on an adventure of the mind can help us to discover treasures we would otherwise miss.