Spirit of Nature

Wild Church: Part 5 (The Way)

Hastings Wild Church started life in Sept 2025. Since then we’ve met monthly, outdoors, without fail, unhindered by the British weather!

Our latest gathering, though, was on a lovely summer’s day on 27th June, on a piece of land near Heathfield belonging to Dan, a friend of Danny, one of our group.

I say ‘belonging’, but Dan sees himself as custodian rather than owner of the land (which is affectionately named ‘Creatureland’).

All photos taken at Creatureland, 27/6/26

He and the Friends of Creatureland aim to increase biodiversity through habitat creation and sensitive management. They also provide a space for the community to gather and volunteer in nature.

When we visited, we saw a number of individuals and small groups including children engaged in a variety of activities. That afternoon there was going to be a charcoal burning workshop.

It felt like a real cooperative, making a positive difference to the Earth and one another. A taste of heaven.

Bracken, an important member of the community at Creatureland, enjoying a bit of shade

For Danny, “it’s about creating a ‘sacred space’ where people feel free to come together and where the Spirit can work, unbridled by dogma or religious/racial/social divisions.”

As an expression of these values, Danny, Dan and a few others have a small group they’ve called Wayfinders, reflecting their common desire to follow The Way that Jesus referred to (as opposed to the Christian religion). As Danny put it, “A group with no particular religious or doctrinal basis, but more about looking for ways to navigate through turbulent times and live more sustainable and holistic lives”.

So, for our June gathering, Danny led us in some reflections and discussion about what Jesus meant by being ‘The Way’ (John 14:6) and about taking the way that leads to life (Matthew 7:13-14).

A personal reflection of mine relates to my first days after finding faith in my early 20s.

Jesus’ assertion that he is “the way, the truth and the life – no one comes to the Father but through me” was a significant influence in my transition from atheism to Christianity; and yet at the same time, I’d encountered people that left me with a pluralistic view of religion.

In hindsight, it took me many years to understand how I could have held these two views simultaneously in my early days of faith: Jesus being the only way, and yet the validity of other religions. Now, in my later years, paradoxes like this sit easy, whether I can make sense of them logically or not. Age and experience teach us that two seemingly contradictory things are often true at the same time.

In this case, the paradox is ‘resolved’ in my mind, as I sense that many people find The Way of Christ by following the Spirit that’s been made available to all – not restricted to those who follow Christianity or who name it ‘Jesus’ – a sentiment generally shared, I think, by the group.

Not everything called Christian is Christian and many things not called Christian are Christian. The Spirit of Christ transcends labels.

I suggested naming The Tree. There was no final decision, but I thought ‘Mary’ would suit this ancient, maternal beauty. What do you think?

We didn’t really define what we meant by The Way, but then I don’t think Jesus did either. I’d suggest it’s something that’s experienced and observed rather than being nailed down in words – although it seems clear to me that Love is a key characteristic.

And for me and many others, that means Love for Earth as well as for the Divine and Humanity.

Our meditative exercise hinted at this experiential Way. As we walked around the land, we each picked up something that caught our attention: a leaf, a flower, a seed pod, etc…

We then each described our find in small groups, in terms of its colours, textures, shape, etc; its history and destiny.

A good mindful exercise on its own – discovering things we’d never noticed before about some common wildlife – but we also reflected on anything that these observations could teach us.

An unusual specimen – it seems to be a Five-Spot Burnet but the spots aren’t in the normal places

It struck me that the spiritual path is a path – a way, a journey. Not a static place, not an arrival.

So we have the joy, the childlike wonder, of discovering things along the way, or even finding fresh inspiration from something familiar, like a flower, a loved one, a scripture, or an aspect of our faith, that we’d previously taken for granted.

We have permission to grow and evolve in our faith along this path.

It also means imperfection is just fine.

Wisdom tells us that it’s best to follow the Way with others. And for me, Wild Church means having other people to walk this path of discovery with.

Comma Chameleon

Not sure how I spotted it, really. This Comma caterpillar was nestled on the underside of a nettle leaf, as Comma caterpillars do.

These fancy-pants-gorgeous larvae seem to have developed lots of ways of avoiding predators – hiding under leaves being one of them.

It’s also said that their striking pattern has evolved to imitate a bird dropping, in order to put off potential predators.

If that’s true, I find it utterly mind-boggling. Evolution, for me, is a source of unfathomable wonder and keeps my faith in Intelligent Design firmly aflame. No conflict between science and faith in this corner! In fact, quite the opposite.

Then there are those ‘eyes’ along the flank – surely intended, especially in this curled position, to ward off any creatures thinking of turning the caterpillar into a tasty snack.

Within 36 hours of taking the caterpillar home to a special butterfly-rearing cage and making sure it had fresh nettles, it had undergone the next stage of the miracle we call metamorphosis.

A golden chrysalis had appeared at the top of the cage. In the wild, this would blend in well with dead leaves.

The adult Comma is equally adept at camouflage, with its incredibly striking resemblance to a dried leaf.

Adult Comma, in Combe Valley, 2/4/26, demonstrating both its remarkable camouflage skills and the reason for the name ‘Comma’ (the small, white marking on the hindwing)

Then also, a flash of bright orange as it suddenly opens its wings might act as a warning sign to predators.

Like the chameleon, the Comma is a master of disguise.

At the age of about 9 (in the mid-’70s), when I saw my first ever Comma on a neighbour’s buddleia, I was aware that my Observer book of butterflies described the species as ‘rare’. I was so excited, I rang the neighbour’s doorbell to tell him. A very well-to-do, elderly man known to us as Colonel Prince, I have no idea what he must have thought of me. The good thing is: my enthusiasm for nature hasn’t changed!

The Comma is now one of the butterflies I see most often. In 2017, its population was reported to have surged by over 138% in the past 40 years[1]. I suspect it’s even higher now.

One of the reasons for its success is its adaptability. It was previously reliant on hops as its larval foodplant. As mass hop farming diminished in the 19^th Century, so did Comma numbers to the point of scarcity.

However, in the 20^th Century, the species gradually turned its attention to the ubiquitous nettle as its foodplant, leading to a massive upturn in its population over the last few decades.

While butterfly numbers overall in the UK have declined in truly worrying proportions, the Comma is one of the successes bucking the trend.

Back at home…I’d put the cage out on the patio with the lid open and had been watching the chrysalis for signs of hatching – but evidently not watching closely enough, as this morning (14/6/26) I found the husk of the former pupa. The butterfly had emerged and escaped when I wasn’t looking!

Somehow, though, I don’t feel particularly disappointed. The butterfly had survived and returned to the wild, where it’s meant to be – the very reason I’d left the cage outside.

I wonder what I or we – as individuals, communities, or even species – can learn from the Comma with its knack for blending into its surroundings, its ability to adapt to change, and its resilience?

And I wonder if we, like my adopted Comma, can find our own silent awakening from dormancy?

Like the emerged butterfly, and like many spiritual teachers and prophets, I take every opportunity I can to retreat quietly back into the wild to find freedom and fullness of identity.

Like Jesus, there in the wilderness I gather strength to face life.

[1] ‘Extraordinary’ comma butterfly colonises Scotland – BBC News

Wild Church: Part 4 (Spring Time)

The highlight of our latest Wild Church session (18^th April) was probably the location.

We gathered at St Helen’s Spring, one of Hastings’ hidden treasures – a local delight that Janine and I only discovered a couple of years ago, after living here for 20 years. Other local people in our group were seeing and experiencing this holy, ancient site in St Helen’s Woods for the first time, and were, I think, all in awe of the place.

For our customary, introductory time of contemplative prayer (or silent meditation), I suggested that we keep returning to the sound of the spring, as a reassuring reminder that the Divine (Love) flows like a subterranean stream through the Universe, even in the most difficult of situations; or, as we listened to the water’s flow, to sit with our own spiritual thirst before God.

I wrote in Ancient Springs – Spirit of Nature at the beginning of 2025 about how, in times when water-borne disease was prevalent, sources of clean water were understandably seen as holy and healing.

There’s another reason why we might think of springs and streams as holy:

Numerous studies have shown that being near moving water has a calming effect on the body’s nervous system. It can significantly reduce stress levels, improve mood, and have a restorative effect on mental fatigue[1].

I think I’m beginning to understand why the Bible speaks of “Peace like a river”. Flowing streams, rivers and seas stimulate the parasympathetic nervous system, bringing a sense of relaxation.

Any reduction in stress (and therefore cortisol levels) is likely to have a healing effect on both mental and physical health.

I’m sure this is one of the reasons for the long tradition of moving to the seaside for health.

Our friend, Julian, downstream from the spring

The promotion of both blue and green spaces continues to grow, as instinctively, intuitively, and now increasingly research-based, natural alternatives to medication for mental wellbeing.

The founder of one project delivering GP-prescribed connection with nature for those with mental health issues, the appropriately named Alison Greenwood, explains:

“The idea that nature is good for our mental health and wellbeing has been around for millennia. We evolved outside, under the sky, [and so] we are animals that are caged most of our time, in schools or cars or offices or homes. As soon as we get outside, we’re free.”[2]

As someone whose long-held passion for holism sits at the core of my vocation and career, an issue that’s been niggling away at me for some time is this:

There’s no scarcity of articles and research reinforcing the benefits of nature for health. And at the same time there’s a wealth of thinking and practice around connecting with God / the Divine through Nature, as expressed through our local Wild Church and Forest Church in general, drawing on ancient Celtic, Franciscan and other traditions before us.

What I feel tends to be missing in these conversations is a joining up of the dots. A merging of the two dialogues.

Mind / Body / Soul / Spirit.

Or: Faith / Nature / Mind / Body.

How can we bring together these two streams of thoughts into one, whether in our own spaces and communities, or in the wider, public context?

This is one of the questions I brought to our April Wild Church gathering. Our discussion took a slightly different turn, but it’s something I’m keeping on at least my own life agenda (watch this space) and will no doubt return to in the group.

Related to this, and with a retrospective eye to Easter, we also explored what we mean by ‘salvation’. If salvation means healing, wholeness, recovery, reconnection and reconciliation, as I believe it does, and if Nature is a healer, then can Nature ‘save’ us? Or can only Jesus ‘save’ us? And if the Biblical idea of salvation has connotations of ‘rescue’ (as it seems to have), does this mean that we all in fact need rescuing? Is the need to be rescued part of the human condition? And what do we need rescuing from?

I think I would do the group a disservice to try and summarise the thoughts we shared on this, but there was a consensus that the presence and manifestation of Christ’s healing, saving nature, through His life, death and resurrection, is not limited to the people, places and belief systems that bear His name.

The discussion was a little more theological than usual. My vision for Wild Church is to keep it as a reflective, contemplative space, avoiding too much academic talk. However, I also welcome the opportunity for ‘faith-shifting’ discussion – a safe space for people with questions and expressions that may not fit so well into mainstream churches. It felt right to do this and to continue to have room for this.

St Helen’s Spring, as a location, was such a hit, we’re planning to go back there next month. St Helen is, amongst other things, the patron saint of new discoveries. Perhaps meeting at the spring will inspire new insight, healing and wholeness!

I’ll end here with this from St John of the Cross, famous for his Dark Night of the Soul, that I was going to read out at the gathering, but forgot at the time…

Well I know the fountain that runs and flows,

Though it is night!

This eternal fountain is hidden deep.

Well I know where it has its spring,

Though it is night!

May our faith in the Eternal Fountain continue to heal, restore, and reconnect us with ourselves, our neighbours, our world, and the Divine.

[1] ‘Massive boost of serotonin!’: How a dose of nature is treating mental illness | Mental health | The Guardian

[2] The Scientific Benefits of Moving Water on mental well-being

(All photos mine)

Wild Church: Part 3 (I Am… I Said)

For our March gathering (on 21^st), woven with themes of Spring, Equinox and Lent, we returned to our regular haunt: the ruins of the Old St Helen’s Church, a location that not only combines “Temple” and “Wilderness” but also has a blue plaque at its gates dedicated to priest, mystic and scientist, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, who lived and studied in a Jesuit seminary that stood next to the church.

Everything about the site is perfect for Hastings Wild Church.

This month several new people came along, including our first wild church baby!

Although I’ve been writing publicly about this initiative through Facebook and this blog, I haven’t advertised meeting details. People have to actively get in touch to find out more. I’ve chosen that way partly so I know who’s coming and partly to prevent faster growth that we can handle!

I’ve been intrigued to see the level of interest in the group – it seems to be meeting a local need. It’s been lovely having a regular, slow stream of new faces – all of whom have been friends or friends of friends, even those who’ve got in touch through the national Facebook group, Forest Church.

Spring blossom against a yew tree, Old St Helen’s Church grounds, 21/3/26

At this gathering we started by reflecting on the idea that not only is the Divine Presence (or God) “I Am”, but we also are little “I Ams”.

Jesus, replying to those who challenged his claim to be one with God, quoted Psalm 82, where God says, “You are gods; you are all sons of the Most High.”

In other words, humans are like little gods, little “I Ams”, with incredible, god-like power and potential, for good or for harm.

The point of the verse in Psalm 82 is that we humans have a responsibility for how we use that god-like power.

I’m hopeful that a reminder of this aspect of humanity can help to inspire in us a sense of agency, an assurance that we can be effective in contributing towards the positive change we long for in this world.

Moss thriving on a gravestone, Old St Helen’s Church, 21/3/26

And so, we used our time of contemplative prayer in those beautiful, Nature/Spirit-soaked surroundings, as a statement of silent, spiritual resistance, from peace-seeking “I Ams”, against the current hubris of political leaders and the abuses of god-like power suffered by people across the world and by the Earth herself.

At a time of Equinox, seeking to redress the balance of power in this world.

And then, having had a time of stillness and silence, we explored whether stillness really exists![1]

Nature teaches us that everything is in motion, whether on an organic, cellular, molecular or quantum level. Without movement, it seems that life would not exist and, in fact, there would be no existence at all.

Most of our bodies’ cells are replaced every 7-10 years. Who you are now, physically, is a completely different person from who you were 10 years ago! That blows my mind.

And yet there is a continuity of consciousness, so we are in a sense still the same person, but in constant flow or change. And not only our bodies but our identities, views and personalities are also in flux.

Some theologians, like Fr Richard Rohr in The Divine Dance, would say that God is not so much a static being but more of a dynamic flow of love, the energy between the persons of the Trinity.

Nature is in constant movement, and in this time of Spring we see accelerated growth, with more and more species of plants, flowers and insects emerging week by week.

My first Red Admiral of the year, 21/3/26

Similarly, Lent reminds us that we’re approaching a time of death and resurrection, of transformation – a movement from one state to another.

And so, I wonder if peace is found not so much in stillness but in entering the divine flow, where movement, growth and change are accepted as a wave to be ridden.

“Peace like a river” (not a like a millpond)

One of the group members also shared some thoughts on the cyclical nature of life – that we find the end of a process is often back at the beginning.

This quality seems to be written into the fabric of Nature – observed in the life cycle of every organism.

It’s not uncommon for individuals to find, in their spiritual journey or search for self, that what they were looking for was right back at the start. And yet perhaps they needed to go through the cyclical process, and undergo certain personal changes formed by that cycle, in order to find what was there all along.

Butterflies: the archetypal examples of Nature’s cycles

Midway through the morning, as we have done at every gathering so far, we had a contemplative walk – some time to stroll individually, to observe and meditate on the things around us, and reflect on the themes we’d been discussing.

Cuckoo Flower, Old St Helen’s Church, 21/3/26

I was delighted to spot a pair of Treecreepers climbing up a birch tree, to hear a Nuthatch, and to find a small patch of Cuckoo Flower (one of my favourite Spring flowers and the food plant of the Orange-tip butterfly).

Nuthatch taken two days later in Summerfields Wood

In keeping with the location and the theme of change, we finished with these words from Pierre Teilhard De Chardin[2]:

Above all, trust in the slow work of God,

We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay,

We should like to skip the intermediate stages,

We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new.

And yet it is the law of all progress,

that it is made by passing through some stages of instability,

and that it may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you;

your ideas mature gradually—let them grow,

let them shape themselves, without undue haste.

Don’t try to force them on

as though you could be today what time

(that is to say, grace and circumstances acting on your own good will)

will make of you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit,

gradually forming within you will be.

Give Our Lord the benefit of believing

that his hand is leading you

and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself

in suspense and incomplete.

(All photos mine)

If you’re local and want to find out more with a view to maybe joining us, please feel free to contact me, Roger Nuttall.

[1] I first explored this in Peace Like a…River? – Spirit of Nature in 2019.

[2] Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, French Jesuit, Catholic priest, scientist, palaeontologist, philosopher, mystic, and teacher. Excerpted from Hearts on Fire.

The title, “I Am… I Said”, for those who don’t know, is a reference to a Neil Diamond song.

Wild Church: Part 2 (Inbetween Days)

(For Part 1, see here: Wild Church: Part 1 (Into the Peace of Wild Things)

Our latest Wild Church gathering here in Hastings was focused (about 3 weeks late, on 21^st Feb) on Imbolc, that ancient Celtic marking of the threshold between Winter and Spring – and on what thresholds might mean in our own lives and world.

In Celtic thinking, thresholds were seen as liminal spaces, associated with life, fertility, the potential or promise of life to come. These thresholds include the shoreline, that meeting of land and sea.

Hence the decision to meet at Bulverhythe beach this month, to reflect on the incoming tide.

Bulverhythe is one of my favourite places – a nature-rich beach with a decent footpath and at low tide a large expanse of sand, separated from the busy A259 by a railway, making it an ideal stretch of quiet seaside for runners, walkers, dogwalkers and cyclists.

Oystercatchers on Bulverhythe beach on a nicer day, almost exactly a year earlier (16/2/25)

This particular day was pretty typical for February – not icy or wet but with a cold wind chill. We must be a hardy bunch, managing to sit around for nearly 1.5 hours at this time of year!

We set up our camping chairs by a beach hut for a bit of shelter from the wind. And we always break things up with a walk, to keep warm as much as to contemplate!

Some of the group, beachcombing for natural treasures

We gathered stones and shells and other beach treasures that caught our attention, including this Mermaid’s Purse, the egg-case of a skate, ray or shark. I’ve never seen as many there as we did that day.

A theme emerged in our discussion around stones being shaped and reshaped or even broken by the power of the sea and yet their beauty, far from being diminished by these onslaughts, is simply changed or even enhanced – something we often observe in the lives of those who suffer.

The power of the sea: Storm Eunice, Hastings seafront, February 2022

And perhaps, with eyes of self-compassion, we can even recognise this in ourselves.

One friend commented that the tide can be destructive – that thresholds can be scary – but also that by accepting incoming change, we can perhaps anticipate its positive potential.

These crocuses continue to display their early Spring colours from a tree base, despite the tree having been felled by Storm Eunice. Alexandra Park, Hastings, March 2022.

I reflected on my own personal threshold – a space between church and not-church. I’ve often described my faith journey as one of evolution (not deconstruction). On this occasion I related how my faith hasn’t moved away from Christianity but expanded to something bigger yet still inclusive of Christ.

I’m rarely in church these days, but Wild Church is something akin to church, sharing and shaping and reshaping some common ground with a few other people. Maybe it’s church.

It feels like a liminal space, a place of promise.

We’ve found ourselves discussing the interrelatedness of all people and all things repeatedly these last few months, and I thought maybe we’d overemphasised this theme. But I’ve become increasingly convinced of its central and prophetic place in gatherings like ours, so we again returned to the subject.

In Wild Church: Part 1 (Into the Peace of Wild Things) I referred to the idea of ‘entanglement’ (i.e. interconnectedness) in the areas of both mycelium and quantum physics, and how these two very different sciences point to something that many spiritual traditions have taught for thousands of years.

I’ve been brought back to this theme again and again, e.g, by the Franciscan sister and scientist, Ilia Delio, in a recent article about the solidarity of suffering[1], and by John Philip Newell in his book The Great Search.

Although both Jesus and the wider Biblical scriptures do speak of oneness, it’s not a subject generally emphasised by Christian theologies – again, one of the reasons some of us have moved towards a broader vision for the world than that offered by most churches.

Newell writes that “We are living in the midst of a growing Earth consciousness…”

…and that: “nearly every great discipline of thought is pointing us to the interrelatedness of all things and to humanity’s need to live sustainably with Earth and all its life-forms. From the study of ecology and economy to that of psychology and spirituality, the message is clear, Earth’s well-being and our well-being are inseparably related.”

Fittingly for our Wild Church gathering, Delio and Newell both seem to recognise this paradigm shift of global consciousness as a hope-filled threshold moment in human history, with Delio expressing it this way:

“In choosing love, especially amid hatred; in pursuing justice, especially when justice seems impossible; in maintaining hope, especially when despair appears rational—we participate in God’s very becoming. We add our essential verse to the cosmic poem still being written. We become strange attractors around which new patterns of meaning and community can emerge.”

Also in the last week, U2 marked Ash Wednesday by releasing a 6-track EP, Days of Ash, a powerful expression of Christian solidarity with those suffering around the world. The Tears of Things[2], my favourite song on the EP, includes the line: “Now there is no us if there is no them” and finishes with the words: “Everybody is my people – let my people go.” There is hope for the world and for Christianity.

I feel sure that our Wild Church gatherings will return again and again to the theme of interconnectedness / oneness / solidarity, and will no doubt consider what this means for us in practice, in our relationship with the Earth and with humanity.

To be continued…

[1] The Great Work of Love: Chaos, Justice, and Divine Evolution | Center for Christogenesis.

In the wake of Renee Good’s murder by ICE and the subsequent protests, Delio speaks of the solidarity of suffering:

“The chaos unleashed by governmental lawlessness paradoxically illuminates our deepest reality—we are fundamentally interconnected, our collective strength surpasses what any individual might muster alone. In this perverse alchemy, the current political administration has inadvertently catalyzed our finest impulses toward solidarity and justice.” (emphasis in bold mine)

[2] U2 – The Tears Of Things (Lyric Video) – YouTube

The song’s video finishes with a tribute to another Franciscan: Fr Richard Rohr – a nod to his book, The Tears of Things: Prophetic Wisdom for an Age of Outrage.

Wild Church: Part 1 (Into the Peace of Wild Things)

I’m not alone in finding my faith evolving and metamorphosing as the years go on. In my case, it seems to be continually re-shaped by my experiences of life, work, church, society, and perhaps most of all…my personality.

A Cleopatra butterfly (taken last year in Corfu), illustrating the majesty of metamorphosis

Some people are very good at settling into a pattern, a routine, a belief system, a worldview, especially by the time they get to my grand old age of 60. Me – not so much. My therapist insightfully pointed out that, as my Christian conversion was the result of a spiritual and literal journey, it’s not that surprising that I find myself still on a pilgrimage nearly 40 years later.

Like Bono, expressing the ‘now and the not yet’ of the Christian faith in I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, there’s always a sense of reaching out for something beyond.

Now and not yet: The winter brightness of Snowdrops, with the promise of Spring ahead

And so for the last few years I’ve longed for a different way of doing ‘church’ – one that’s contemplative and connects with God (or the Divine) through Nature. In other words, a wide open, expansive way of worship inspired by Celtic and Franciscan spirituality.

As has happened at other times in my life, having waited and watched for someone or something else to join and not found it / them, I did something about it myself.

So in September 2025, Wild Church was born, initially with the working name of Peace of Wild Things (from the Wendell Berry poem).

Old St Helen’s Church ruins, Hastings: one of the first places Wild Church met. Maybe a ‘thin place’.

Since then, we’ve met monthly, on a Saturday – a small group of friends, invited through word of mouth – in a variety of green spaces around Hastings, to reflect, pray (silently), and draw inspiration from Nature, recognising creation as the first ‘Bible’, written approx. 13.8 billion years before the OT and NT scriptures.

“Every ray of light…is a psalm with no punctuation, no pretense, no filter”
(Psalm 19 paraphrase by Virgin Monk Boy)

The group’s values include:

“Community over institution.
Informal and organic.
Inclusive and expansive.
Trying to stay small.
Dogs and children welcome.
Tree-hugging allowed – and even encouraged!”

Trying to stay small at the same time as inclusive is a tricky balance. When we reached the dizzy heights of 7 and then 9 people attending, I joked that we were practically a mega-church. There’s been quite a bit of interest – I think the group will grow, and if it does, we’ll do our best to retain a sense of intimacy.

For our first gathering we started with a short walk in which all were encouraged to notice, collect or photograph something that caught their attention, and then comment on this in the group, by way of an ice-breaker and introduction.

Conkers in Newgate Woods, the first venue we met at

One friend commented on the ancientness of the woodland around us and a sense of our connection with ancient practices, ancient faith and with those who have gone before us, and their interaction with the same land and Spirit.

I like that.

After the welcome, we tend to have a time of contemplative prayer (which you could also call meditation), introduced with some slowed breathing to help us become present. I usually remind the group that when we become present, we encounter God because God is Yahweh (I Am); in other words Presence itself.

At our last session I led us in a body scan as a mindfulness exercise, which I shamelessly Christianised using words from Psalm 139, to meditate on how wonderfully we’re made as we focused on each part of our body, and on how we are one with the Earth and Nature (see Psalm 139:15).

We’ve reflected quite a lot on the interconnectedness of all things, partly inspired by my concurrent reading of Entangled Life by fungi expert Merlin Sheldrake and Rob Bell’s Everything is Spiritual. Both books speak of ‘entanglement’: one in the context of mycelium[1]; the other in quantum physics[2]. Both give clues about the physical interrelatedness of the universe that spiritual traditions have espoused for thousands of years.

I’ve been especially fascinated by lichen, partly because they buck the evolutionary trend of species diverging from each other, resulting instead from the convergence of algae and fungi. One organism formed from two. In fact, it was lichen that gave rise to the first scientific use of the word ‘symbiosis’ in 1877 and led to a whole host of other symbiotic discoveries.

Lichen (oakmoss, I think) with sloes (blackthorn)

Again, Nature (or The Divine, through Nature) has much to say about the strength of diversity and interdependence: something that certain governments desperately need to understand right now.

Turkeytail and Jelly-ear fungi sharing space

Also, reflecting on this, it speaks to me of how my (once more exclusivist) Christian faith has converged with other ancient spiritual beliefs and practices – in much the same way that the Celts’ adoption of Christianity subsumed their existing connections with the land – resulting for me in a new, richer, broader spirituality which, although still Christian-based, is hard to define by just one of its parts.

I’m loving Wild Church. It’s been a breath of fresh air – literally! – after the indoor noisiness of ‘normal’ church. I enjoy the preparation, the gatherings themselves, hearing the thoughts and longings of others, and writing reflectively about it – like this.

I plan to write a shorter piece than this introductory post after each gathering in future.

Each session is concluded with a blessing, poem or prayer, from the likes of Mary Oliver or John O’Donohue. Last time we finished with this blessing from John Philip Newell[3]:

Awake, O my soul,

And know that you are born of the earth.

Awake to your love for her,

Sown like a seed in the womb of your beginnings.

Honour her, protect her, cherish and adore her.

Awake, O my soul,

And know that you are born of the earth.

Awake, O my soul. Awake.

Snowdrops and crocuses, awakened from the earth, Ashburnham Place, 30/1/26

—–

All photos mine but no copyright.

If you’re local and want to find out more with a view to maybe joining us (and making us a mega-mega-church!), please feel free to contact me, Roger Nuttall.

[1] In mycology, “entangle” refers to the literal and functional intertwining of fungal filaments (hyphae) to form complex networks, as well as the metaphorical, deeply connected, and symbiotic relationships fungi have with other organisms and their environment. (Google)

[2] Quantum entanglement is a physics phenomenon where two or more particles become linked, sharing the same fate so their quantum states are interdependent, regardless of the distance separating them, meaning measuring one instantly influences the other’s state, like synchronized dice, without any signal traveling between them, a key feature of quantum mechanics described by Einstein as “spooky action at a distance”. (Google)

[3] From his wonderful book, Sacred Earth Sacred Soul, on Celtic Christianity.

Ivy Infusion

Last month, I sat in a tranquil garden in Devon, admiring an eye-pleasing, ivy-covered apple tree. Although I didn’t think to take a photo (I know – unusual for me!), I did contemplate the viney view.

The tree looked very healthy, with ripened fruit scattered about on the lawn (attracting seagulls of all things).

However, I wasn’t entirely sure whether Common Ivy (Hedera helix) was parasitic or not, so had to google it to check.

It’s not.

Hoverfly on Ivy, West Hill, Hastings, 21/9/25

In fact, the Royal Horticultural Society informs us:

“Maligned and misunderstood, ivy is often accused of strangling plants. While it may need controlling to keep it in check, particularly where it creeps into borders, ivy doesn’t directly harm trees and is a fantastic plant for wildlife.”

The ivy I saw certainly wasn’t doing the thriving apple tree any harm.

Hoverfly feeding on an ivy flower, Hastings, 28/9/25

Ivy provides incredible resources for wildlife, including shelter, nesting-places and food for a wide range of insects and birds.

Thick, woody ivy roots, covered in holes and webs, indicating a wealth of invertebrate life

The leaves are the food-plant for the Holly Blue butterfly and the Swallow-tailed moth.

Her flowers provide pollen and nectar late into the season for many insects such as bees, hoverflies, wasps, butterflies and moths.

Hornet Mimic Hoverfly on ivy flowers, Winchelsea, 6/9/25

Ivy’s high-fat berries are a rich source of food for numerous garden birds including blackbirds, finches, thrushes, doves, starlings, waxwings and pigeons.

As I contemplated the ivy-apple tree in Devon last month, considering the richness it brings to its surroundings and yet the misdirected judgment it sometimes receives from the ignorant, an obvious parallel sprang to mind, as the ongoing debate about immigration continues.

Education and information, alongside personal encounters, can help to break down our prejudices and promote appreciation of maligned and misunderstood creatures, whether arboreal or human.

—–

(As usual, all photos mine but I’m not precious about them, i.e. no copyright, so feel free to use!)

I spent the first part of each morning in quiet contemplation and prayer in the garden, overlooking a field inhabited by swallows and actual hares! In fact, in the couple of days we spent in this rural part of Suffolk, I saw more hares than I’d ever seen before in my life (having been able to count previous sightings on one hand).

When you see a hare, you know it’s a hare, not a rabbit – by its long, black-tipped ears and long legs

It was wonderful to see and photograph all manner of other wildlife too, in and around Aldeburgh.

Little Egret, coming down to land, next to river Alde

I’m proud to be able to say that I genuinely barely thought about work during our short break away. Times in Nature, walking and taking photos, helps me to practise mindfulness, to be present.

Or, as a long contemplative Christian tradition puts it, to “practise the presence of God.”

I think that’s one of many reasons I like to spend time outdoors. Hopefully the practice of Presence in Nature carries over into the times I spend with other people, whether with family, friends, or at work – despite the charge of “going at 1000 miles an hour”!

And perhaps in time I can also learn to be more like the proverbial tortoise and less like the hare.

There’s a worship song from the ‘90s that starts with the words, “You are here and I behold your beauty.” The song’s writer, Brian Doerksen, recognises the pre-existing presence of God, that needs no hype, no Hail Marys, no charismania, to enter into. Simply stillness, to recognise the Presence that is already – always – there.

Resting swallows, just outside the cabin

It’s a beautiful song, which I enjoy at face value. But I also like to turn some songs around, so in this case, instead of the words being sung from us to God, they become an expression of welcome from God to us.

“You are here”: in other words, God (or Presence / Yahweh / Love / Source / Father – whatever word you like to use[1]) being pleased at our presence. This, I believe, is the spiritual dynamic when we show up – in stillness, in silence, in mindful awareness[2].

The Scallop: sculpture on Aldeburgh beach, which captured my attention
(I’ve ‘doctored’ this photo more than I would normally, but I like the effect in this case)

“…and I behold your beauty”: I believe in the beauty of humanity. I believe humankind gets a bad rap. And I do understand why. Secularists might point to our selfish destruction of the planet; our genocides and greed. Some branches of Christianity speak of original sin and the total depravity of man. But personally, I believe that “God” (being Love) sees through the ugly outward layers to the total worth and dignity of every human being. That God says to us: “I behold your beauty.”

And perhaps, the more we can believe that about ourselves and each other, the more we might live up to our inherent worth and turn the tide of human and planetary destruction.

Some might call me an optimist.

Please feel free to comment. I am here.

All photos mine, between 4th – 6th August 2025, in Suffolk.

As I always say: there’s no copyright – feel free to use my photos for any purpose, if useful to you, with my blessing!

[1] My preference is for the name Yahweh, the name for God revealed by God to Moses, and the earliest biblical self-revelation of God’s identity. ‘Yahweh’, meaning ‘I Am’, indicates eternal Presence, Self-Being; that God just is, and always will be. That God is Presence itself. Hence my belief that when we practise presence (stillness, mindfulness, being present), we encounter Presence (I Am), whatever our faith or non-faith.

[2] See above.

Sharing Space

In the ‘90s egrets were such a rare sight in the UK that the bird book I have from that time doesn’t include any egret species. But in 1996 Little Egrets started breeding here in the UK. Now in 2025, thankfully, they’re a common sight. Some wildlife is flourishing in England.

Less familiar is the Great White Egret, but this too is enjoying an increase, particularly in south-east England and East Anglia. A few pairs are now breeding in England.

Even rarer to the UK is the Cattle Egret, which I’ve seen in France but not here (yet).

Great White Egret (*Ardea alba*), Pevensey Levels

In June this year I stopped to photograph a Great White Egret I’d spotted while driving along Pevensey Levels, East Sussex.

This member of the heron family is still rare enough for me to get quite excited at the opportunity to take some photos when I see one.

As if that wasn’t enough, I then watched it return from where it had been fishing, to its young just behind the pool of water. Wow, I thought, Great White Egrets are breeding here in East Sussex and I get the chance to photograph this young family!

Except…when I got home and looked at the photos, the other birds turned out not to be young Great White Egrets but a Little Egret and a Grey Heron.

L-R: Grey Heron; Little Egret; Great White Egret

Three birds of different species – but same family – hanging out together, sharing fishing space, sharing territory….

…looking very relaxed and at ease together.

If only, as Jesus suggested to his Middle Eastern audience, we could look at the birds and learn from them.

Imagine, if we humans – different but the same – one family – could learn to share space and resources in a similar way, whether in Gaza, our city centres or anywhere else.

Learning from the Swallows

Swallows have a special place in the hearts, culture and folklore of the Greeks.

Every year huge numbers (estimated in the millions) of these beloved hirundines migrate from Africa into Europe, including the UK, with a very significant proportion stopping and breeding in Greece.

Swallows, of which several species (not just the Barn Swallow known to us Brits) breed in Greece, are seen as bringers of Spring in that country as well as here in the UK.

One of the other swallow species found in Greece: the Red-rumped Swallow (*Cecropis daurica*)

At the hotel on Corfu where I had the privilege of enjoying a wonderful holiday last month, numerous Barn Swallows (Hirundo rustica) flew in and out of a covered, semi-open entertainment area on the edge of the facility, their forked tails sweeping sharply through the air. Here, in the rafters right above the heads of hotel customers, the birds nested, bred, and raised their young. In line with Greek culture, the staff seemed to actively welcome the birds, rather than see them as a nuisance. (Swallows don’t seem to make as much mess as pigeons or gulls!)

A few of the many Barn Swallows taking advantage of free accommodation at the hotel!

While watching them one day, I recalled a psalm[1], in which King David expressed yearning to be back in the temple of Jerusalem and reflected on how even the sparrows and swallows had found a home there in the consecrated building.

The psalm was an expression of David’s longing for God’s presence, which he associated with the familiar place of worship, with a sense of envy that even the birds were able to find a place there – close to God, as it were.

Three young swallows in a more ‘natural’ habitat, waiting to be fed

Humanity has a soul-longing for God, or Presence, or The Divine, or Oneness, or Peace. Some might say they’re all the same thing. Maybe. People search for this spiritual wholeness in all kinds of ways and places.

Many would say you don’t need to be in a special building to find God – that God is everywhere – but that worshipping with others who share the same faith is what matters. And that often happens in buildings set aside for the purpose.

Others (including me) would agree to a certain extent, but would add that some buildings with a strong spiritual history have become “thin places”, defined by one writer like this:

“They are locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses and we’re able to catch glimpses of the divine, or the transcendent or, as I like to think of it, the Infinite Whatever.”[2]

It seems the Temple in Jerusalem was seen in that way by the people of Israel.

I’ve heard people in recent years say that Nature is their “church”, their “cathedral”, their place of worship. I also lean in this direction.

Wild areas, not just buildings, can be “thin places.”

And despite David’s understandable longing for the place of community worship, it seems clear from even a casual read of his other psalms, that he too found the face and voice of the Divine in the wilderness.

John Muir, the Scottish-American naturalist and adventurer, was a vital prophet for conservation in the 19^th and 20^th Centuries. He was, very literally, a “voice crying out in the wilderness” that needs to be heard today. He spoke of the forests and mountains as “God’s first temples” that were being “desecrated” through deforestation and industrialisation.

For Muir, the God essence flowed through mountain granites as much as through trees, whether living or fallen. “These brown weeds and grasses that we say are dying in autumn frosts are in a gushing glowing current of life; they too are Godful.”[3]

The wilderness was emphatically Muir’s temple.

Returning to the swallows in the hotel – later the same day, after reminding myself of Psalm 84, my family and I visited a Byzantine church, popular with tourists, in Kassiopi, a short bus ride from our accommodation.

And here, just like in David’s psalm, swallows were feeding their young in the wooden rafters of the courtyard – again, I suspect, welcomed by the leaders and caretakers of the church, and again reminding me of David’s hunger for Presence.

As an adult swallow (both parents feed their young) visited one of the nests at the church with a tasty morsel for its chicks, I clicked the camera button – just too late! The adult had gone. But actually, what I was left with was a photo I’m proud of – these three hungry mouths clamouring for food:

Pulling together these reflections on all these wondrous sights and photos, I sense a reminder to nurture my spiritual hunger and thirst.

Like David, to recognise, above all, my need for Spirit, for connection with the Divine, above all the other desires and distractions that call for my soul’s attention.

Like the swallows, mouths agape for parents’ provision, to keep directing my hunger towards Father/Mother God’s nourishment.

As Jesus said, to keep looking to the birds and nature to see and hear God.

And like John Muir, to keep recognising and revering the sacredness of all things, and not to be afraid to see Nature as my church – while also, like David, seeking out a worshipful community of people.

(All photos taken by me, between 26th and 31st May 2025, in Corfu, and – as I always say – no copyright – feel free to use any photos with my blessing.)

[1] Psalm 84 Psalm 84 NIV – Psalm 84 – For the director of music. – Bible Gateway

[2] Eric Weiner, New York Times, 2012. Thin Places, Where We Are Jolted Out of Old Ways of Seeing the World – The New York Times

[3] Sacred Earth Sacred Soul by John Philip Newell (William Collins, 2022) – a book I highly recommend for anyone with leanings towards a Celtic / contemplative approach to faith.