This week I had the immense privilege and joy of opening my moth light trap with 9-year-old wildlife-enthusiast twins in a garden that backs on to Combe Valley, East Sussex.
This Poplar Hawkmoth was the star of the show
We’d set up the trap (essentially a box with a UV light) the night before, and on the morning of 13/8/26 the children discovered with wide-eyed wonder what species had been drawn in, took photos, and released them back into the wild.
Orange Swift
Their garden, situated where it is, is a wildlife haven. The twins excitedly showed me the swallow nests in their barn, brimming with open-mouthed chicks eagerly awaiting their parents’ return with food.
Just that morning, on the Lectio 365 prayer app, I’d contemplated these familiar words from Psalm 84:
How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord Almighty! My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God. Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young – a place near your altar, Lord Almighty, my King and my God.
For the ancient people of Israel, this pilgrimage psalm expressed their anticipation of encountering the presence of God in the temple. The sparrows and swallows nesting in the temple’s walls were to be envied for their closeness to that Presence.
Hundreds of years later, Jesus and the New Testament writers unanimously declared that the temple was no longer made of bricks and stone but flesh and blood, and that Presence is no longer (or never was) confined to sacred buildings or religious rituals, but lives in human hearts, in Love, Empathy and Connection.
Common White Wave
Sharing in the wonder of wildlife with a beautiful family, connecting with them and with the moths and the swallows, was as sacred to me as the temple would have been for ancient Israel.
Straw Underwing
The serendipitous aligning of the psalm with the swallows was a resounding reminder to seek Presence, not necessarily in religion (though I’m not ruling that out either) but in kind, human connection, in nature connection, in solitude, wherever I may perceive It.
Like the swallows, to make my home there, in the living temple of Presence – in contrast to all the other places that falsely claim to be home.
And like the children in their wide-eyed wonder, and the swallow chicks with their wide open mouths, to be wide-hearted in the pursuit of this Presence.
My family and I were blessed to have a week in Brixham, Devon, again this summer (end of July to early August): a part of the world we’ve enjoyed and explored a number of times before. An area rich in wildlife and biodiversity – food for the soul.
View of Berry Head, near Brixham
This year, where we were staying, I had the delight of finding Painted Lady caterpillars on leaves of the giant Echium plants in the garden.
Painted Lady larva on Echium leaf
In some ways, not a surprise. It’s been declared a ‘Painted Lady year’, with vast numbers of these butterflies migrating from as far south as sub-Saharan Africa to the British Isles, where they breed and lay eggs, the larvae feed, and the resulting adults migrate back south later in the year in a marvellous multi-generational phenomenon. More details in this Guardian article.
Painted Lady on Red Valerian, Berry Head
In the same way, continental heatwaves, warm winds, and possibly a reduction in food sources in Europe due to drought conditions, have created a bumper year for Hummingbird Hawkmoths here in the UK. Personally, I’ve never seen so many articles about these fascinating furry friends in mainstream media as I have this year (such as this ITV article, for example).
I never get tired of seeing Hummingbird Hawkmoths, although I have to admit, this year, with their possible record abundance, even I haven’t reached for the camera every time I’ve spotted one. Sometimes I do, though!
Hummingbird Hawkmoth on Red Valerian, Berry Head, Devon
These surges in migration to our shores (this year has also seen increases in other visitors such as Queen of Spain Fritillary, Striped Hawk Moth and Crimson Underwings, for example), are always, I feel, somewhat tainted by the reminder they bring of the realities of global warming.
Nevertheless, like many other people, I will continue to welcome and revel in their colourful and diverse presence, as I do human visitors from distant lands.
Cirl Bunting, Soar Mill Cove
A lifetime first for me was this Cirl Bunting. Although still scarce and Red-listed, successful conservation and reintroduction efforts have led to a resurgence in its numbers in South Devon and Cornwall.
Goldfinch, Soar Mill Cove
Goldfinches are of course a common sight for many people across the UK, but I’ve included these photos, just ‘cos I like them!
Goldfinches, Berry Head
And I don’t often get close enough to a Bullfinch to grab a snap, so this was a rare treat..
Female Bullfinch, Berry Head
Here are some of the other wildlife encountered and enjoyed during the week, many of which were, for me, unusual sightings that made my heart sing…
Lesser Stag Beetle, Fishcombe Cove
Male Stonechat
Common Whitethroat, Soar Mill Cove
Common Whitethroat joined by a Stonechat for a photo opportunity
Wall Brown, Berry Head
However, probably the greatest excitement for me, as a butterfly lover, was stumbling across a colony of Small Pearl-Bordered Fritillaries (SPBFs) amongst a huge flurry of other butterflies, feeding on Hemp Agrimony at Soar Mill Cove.
Small Pearl-Bordered Fritillary with Meadow Browns
The SPBFs, like the Cirl Bunting, were a lifetime first for me.
Small Pearl-Bordered Fritillary
Apparently, in warmer years, SPBFs sometimes produce a partial second brood in August. This is definitely a warm summer, and we found these butterflies at Soar Mill Cove on 31st July (a day early!), so we were very lucky to see them!
Small Pearl-Bordered Fritillary
Thank you, Brixham and South Devon, for enriching my soul once again.
For our latest gathering on Sat 25th July, we met in a friend’s garden in Fairlight, on the edge of Hastings Country Park, after setting up my moth trap the night before.
As we identified and released the moths, we reflected on some of the myths, misconceptions and negative press around moths, as well as theories as to why moths are attracted to light.
Oak Eggar (female) – one of the delights released from the trap
I’ve discovered that some people don’t like moths too much, being under the misapprehension that they all eat clothes and carpets (in fact it’s only one species that has a penchant for these natural fibres).
I was in the office of a supported accommodation with a few of their staff recently, when I excitedly pointed out a Common Emerald I’d just spotted by the window. The manager joked that one of his colleagues had just opened their wallet. My avid observation had merely provoked humour based on the association of moths with dead, abandoned places: sadly, no one shared my appreciation of the gorgeous green visitor.
Common Emerald
Even the Bible gives moths a bad rap. Both Jesus and James warn of the dangers of storing up wealth that moths and vermin consume; advising us instead to set our hearts on more lasting treasures[1].
However, we agreed that, despite the scriptures’ negative view of moths, we can still see the insects in all their variegated beauty as a reminder of Jesus’ teaching to set our hearts on spiritual rather than material wealth.
Pale Prominent
As expected for the chosen location, the trap came up trumps.
We didn’t ID all the moths (that would have taken far too long), but from the ones we did identify, the most exciting for me was a Light Crimson Underwing.
Light Crimson Underwing
Although now being seen in large numbers at Knepp (the rewilding project in West Sussex), they’re for the most part rare migrants, and this was a lifetime first for me. Fairlight, situated atop south coast cliffs, is the first stopping-point for many birds, butterflies and moths after crossing the Channel.
Most of the Wild Church group had probably never seen a moth trap or been exposed to such a range of colourful moths as we did that morning. There were many gasps of awe and joy. A refreshing contrast to the accommodation staff I’d encountered a couple of weeks earlier. We even had a Common Emerald, this one receiving its due delight.
Jersey Tiger moth, on Verbena (photo taken last year)
Other moths identified included:
Oak Eggar (male and female)
Dusky Sallow
Pale Prominent
Jersey Tiger
Lunar Underwing
Large Yellow Underwing.
We discussed this great article from Butterfly Conservation, which outlines the various theories about why insects are attracted to light[2]. It looks like there may not be one single answer, but the most current, convincing theory is that moths use the sky, which is always lighter than the ground, as a means of ensuring they’re flying the right way up – although there may also be some truth in the older idea that insects use the moon and stars to navigate their course.
An ichneumon – one of the non-moth visitors to the trap….
Either way, if they get locked on to artificial lights instead of sky light, this can then set them on to a spiralling course towards that light.
We reflected on our need of the Eternal Light of God / the Divine, to navigate our lives; and how easily we can be distracted by ‘artificial lights’ – by many distractions that can navigate us in unhelpful, spiralling directions, taking our life (like moths to a flame) rather than giving us life.
I shared that personally I’m easily distracted by so many things, but that the small amount of meditation and prayer I do, does help to keep me somewhat oriented to the Light, which is Love.
We ended with this final blessing:
The word universe is derived from the Latin ‘uni’ meaning ‘one’ and ‘verse’ meaning ‘turn’. The universe consists of one great turning. Everything is moving in relation to everything else.
We are part of one great cosmic dance, spinning our way through the infinity of space at nearly 600,000 mph.[3]
Moths have found a way of navigating their path in relation to the source of natural, nocturnal light. Light, even in the darkness.
In the turning courses of our lives, may we be guided by the eternal light that our souls instinctively know to be true.
Living in a world of so many sources of artificial light, that so easily confuse and distract us, may be compassionate to ourselves.
May we be ever reminded to return, to re-turn, to the Divine Light.
May we therefore, by a miracle of Grace, also be a guide to – and be guided by – others, and so enjoy journeying together…
Like the moths, with the Light, even nocturnal Light, on our backs.
Amen.
…and a rather cool Black Sexton Beetle
[1] Matthew 6: 19 “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. 20 But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. 21 For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
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.
Gazing in awe at ‘The Tree’.
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.
Six-spot Burnet moth
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.
A pair of Azure Damselflies
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.
Not sure how I spotted it, really. This Comma caterpillar was nestled on the underside of a nettle leaf, as Comma caterpillars do.
Newgate Woods, Hastings, 29/5/26
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.
Comma pupa, 31/5/26
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.
Summerfields 18/3/25
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.
Summerfields Wood, Hastings, 10/8/24
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 19th Century, so did Comma numbers to the point of scarcity.
However, in the 20th 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.
The highlight of our latest Wild Church session (18th 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.
St Helen’s Spring
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]
Pond fed by the spring
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.
Bluebells, St Helen’s Woods
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.
Dandelions in Spring
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!
Lotte, enjoying St Helen’s Spring
May our faith in the Eternal Fountain continue to heal, restore, and reconnect us with ourselves, our neighbours, our world, and the Divine.
For our March gathering (on 21st), 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.
Bluebells in our local woods, 19/3/26
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.
Seeds of change
(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.
[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.
Our latest Wild Church gathering here in Hastings was focused (about 3 weeks late, on 21st 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 beach, 21/2/26
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.
Mermaid’s Purse
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.
Shoreline, Bulverhythe beach, 21/2/26
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.
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)
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.
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.
Velvet Shank fungus (I think!)
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.
Lichens
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.
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.
Ivy leaves (not in Devon!)
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.
“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.”
Ivy’s aerial (above ground) roots
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.
Swallow-tailed moth, 27/6/24
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.
Blackbird, Hastings, 1/3/25
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!)
Spirit of Nature 