Somewhere, on an Amazonian hillside far, far away, the last golden toad (Incilius periglenes) lived and died, an apparent victim of human-caused habitat loss, climate change, and introduced disease. Although the species was declared extinct in 2023, the Amazon rainforest ecosystem did not suddenly collapse and, halfway across the globe, my everyday life as a biologist and theology student continues as though the golden toad had never existed. So why lament the loss of this small and inconspicuous amphibian?

Biodiversity can be defined as the full range of species and genetic variation we see in nature. When teaching Conservation Biology (the applied science of maintaining biodiversity) to university students, I would tell them in the first lecture that this branch of science was unusual because it entailed an ethical presupposition. Namely, biodiversity is GOOD and the untimely extinction of species is BAD. Of course, in a secular science class, we could not explore the philosophy behind conserving species but I devoted a few subsequent lectures to explaining various material, functional (utilitarian) benefits of biodiversity. 

For example, we humans depend on the natural services that ecosystems provide such as pollination, water filtration, and nutrient cycling. Because the number and diversity of species is thought to promote the stability and resilience of ecosystems, it therefore seems wise to keep the full suite of species on the landscape to ensure our own survival. Even if we can't pinpoint whether a particular species plays a critical role in the ecosystem it is still best to preserve it because, like the game of Jenga Tower, one never knows when the removal of a single block may cause the whole system to collapse. A founding father of conservation biology, Aldo Leopold, emphasized this precautionary principle in a famous quote: “To keep every cog and wheel is the first precaution of intelligent tinkering.”  And who knows? That rare wild forest flower or that obscure golden toad might be a source of undiscovered medicine, or a source of genetic variation that, with breeding, could improve our own health or food supply. 

Certainly biodiversity may have economic or health benefits, but pinning the preservation of a particular species on discovering its utilitarian benefit seems shaky when we observe species like the golden toad disappearing without apparent consequences. Can theology provide a robust philosophical reason for valuing even such "useless" creatures? As a young undergraduate in biology, I was happy to learn that Christians did not need to interpret the "dominion" of humans over creation in Genesis 1:28 as an excuse for selfish exploitation of other organisms. Instead, some theologians promoted conservation by emphasizing that our God-given mandate was for "responsible stewardship." Stewardship continues to be a popular catch-phrase in Christian circles but what does it actually look like on the ground? I fear that even with good intentions, the idea of stewarding can carry paternalistic connotations as if we still "own" other species which are there to be used by us as long as it is "sustainable." I've even heard some theologians argue that God expects us to actively intervene and transform/"subdue" nature, ostensibly to improve creatures or ecosystems. Why not drain that swamp with all its creepy-crawlies to create the more beautiful, managed Eden-like garden that God always intended? In our arrogance, we often assume we know more about "wise management" and ecological tinkering than we actually do.

Recently, I've been reflecting on whether there is a healthier way to view other species—not as resources but as relationships. The idea of humans as image bearers within God's temple (creation) seems helpful with this framing. As image-bearing communicators of God to other creatures, our priestlike role is not so much that of a coercive manager with "power over" others, but a responsibility to substantiate God's love to those more vulnerable ones placed under our care. Just as God sees each of us individually, with our quirks, flaws, and imperfections, and yet loves us unconditionally, so are we to see and value other species, each with its unique form and behaviour. Demonstrating the divine love to organisms ranging from slime molds to orcas is not sweet sentimentality but a call to self-sacrifice for the flourishing of the other. Sadly, it seems humans have little natural motivation when resources are limited to allocate enough undisturbed habitat to our neighbours on this planet, but our Christian calling—our ethic as image-bearers—demands this. Living in generous relationship with other species may often mean voluntarily limiting our own consumptive footprint and sprawl on the landscape even for those particular species which may not offer material benefits in return.

Ecological generosity is not easy but training oneself in the discipleship of creation care can become more enjoyable as we develop relationships with the ones we are to love. The first step in such relationship-building is slowing down to really "see" the other and learn what makes them unique. Many of us already take walks-of-worship in nature, so why not deepen this liturgical practice by committing to learning the name and identity of one new species on each walk? Identification books are informative but new digital apps like Merlin (for identifiying birds) or iNaturalist (from plants to insects to birds) are very accessible for novice naturalists. Taking part in a nature walk hosted by your local field naturalist club is also a great way to be introduced to new species (and to a quirky bunch of humans eager to share information about them)! How wonderful to see, and share love with, the diversity of familiar friends beside us.