The first time I interviewed Matt Humphrey, we were driving in his pickup truck through southern British Columbia, passing fields and forests, only five kilometres from the US border. Humphrey, then thirty-one years old, is a father of three and an evangelical Christian with a keen appreciation for the Bible. He is also an environmentalist, one who believes fighting climate change is a moral duty.
On the eighteen-acre property we were heading to, Humphrey and others from an evangelical Christian group called A Rocha (pronounced “a-RAH-shah”) were growing organic crops, running Bible workshops, and helping young people get out in nature to study species like salmon in a river that flowed through their land. It’s called the Brooksdale Environmental Centre, and Humphrey, six feet three with a broad smile, was its assistant director at the time. I’ve been in touch with Humphrey for a few years, and it was on our drive to Brooksdale that he first described his faith to me—and how it shaped his environmentalism.
“I don’t want to claim that Christianity gives the best understanding of the environment,” he said, “but for those who are claiming to be Christian, part of that discipleship involves a relationship with creation.”
Spend time with Christian environmentalists and you’ll hear the word “creation” a lot. It refers to the biblical story of Genesis, in which God created the world in seven days, forming the oceans and forests, plants and animals, before crafting the first humans. Evangelical Christians take the Bible more literally than most, yet they haven’t always been as serious about protecting what God made. Growing ranks of younger evangelicals, however, along with members of organizations like A Rocha, see themselves more as stewards, grounding their concern for nature and the planet in the Bible. If God created the planet and all that’s in it, the reasoning goes, shouldn’t pains be taken to protect it?
For most American evangelicals, the answer is far from clear. Around a quarter of Americans—84 million—call themselves evangelical Christians. According to the Pew Research Center, a majority lean Republican and don’t buy the science behind human-caused climate change. White evangelicals, in particular, are among the least likely to accept the science: only 28 percent believe humans cause global warming. This has vast implications for electoral politics as well as for putting policies in place to tackle climate change. Some 81 percent of white evangelicals in 2016 voted for Donald Trump, who then spent four years in the White House trying to tear down a half century of environmental protections. In the 2020 election, 75 percent of them wanted to give him another four years.
Humphrey grew up in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley and moved to the coast to study at Christopher Newport University, a public, secular college in Newport News that drew many evangelical Christians from the region. “I went to college during the [George W.] Bush years,” he said, “when to be a Christian often meant having an American flag decal on your car.” Humphrey understood, better than most, the evangelicals who doubted established science, but in 2021, a few years after we first connected, he told me even he hadn’t seen 2016 coming. “I was frankly surprised by the success of Trump,” he said. Some friends back home expressed skepticism over his involvement with A Rocha and environmental issues. One told him that environmental groups were part of a sinister plot, led by Al Gore, to seize power.
Many younger evangelicals, however, are open to new ideas and appear to accept the scientific evidence. One Pew study found a majority of younger evangelical millennials supported stricter environmental laws, and groups like Young Evangelicals for Climate Action are leading the charge.
Humphrey had straddled these two worlds—right-wing politics and evangelical environmentalism—which gave him a unique perspective as well as a potential ability to bridge divides. He was part of a group of evangelicals who, with their embrace of mainstream science, conservation, and environmental protections, didn’t fit the conservative stereotype.
The definition of “evangelical” Christian isn’t always clear cut. In popular usage, “evangelical” includes Protestants who regard the Bible very seriously—as much more than a collection of parables and ancient history. But it may also encompass those who emphasize the redemption of Jesus’s crucifixion, believe non-Christians need to be converted, and are of the view that faith shouldn’t be divorced from politics.
One thing many American evangelicals share is a skepticism of climate science, for reasons that include theology, politics, and a hostility to the theory of evolution. Charles Darwin’s theory, of course, suggested that humans evolved over millennia, through natural selection and shared ancestors with modern apes—an idea that doesn’t easily square with the belief that the Book of Genesis is a fact-based origin story. While Darwinism helps explain some American evangelicals’ historical aversion to science, it’s politics that best explains their aversion to climate science. In the 1980s, President Ronald Reagan promoted evangelical views in exchange for votes. In his doing so, a decades-long alliance was formed. As evidence accumulated that humans were heating up the planet, that relationship meant evangelicals were in lockstep with Republicans when climate change became a charged partisan issue.
In the early 2000s, a leading GOP strategist, Frank Luntz, wrote a now-infamous memo advising the party and then president George W. Bush to push the line that the consensus around climate change was still up for debate. “Should the public come to believe that the scientific issues are settled,” he wrote, “their views about global warming will change accordingly. Therefore, you need to continue to make the lack of scientific certainty a primary issue.” For many evangelicals, a hostility to climate science became a badge of identity. (Luntz, however, would later make an about-face.)
How strong are these political influences? For a large segment of evangelicals, “their statement of faith is written primarily by their politics, and only secondarily by their faith,” said Katharine Hayhoe, a prominent climate scientist and herself an evangelical Christian. “If the two come in conflict, they will go with their politics over what they claim to believe.”
But there remains a large segment of “theological evangelicals,” she told me, “whose statement of faith is written by the Bible.” Those are the people Humphrey wanted to reach.
In 1967, the historian Lynn White Jr. published a short essay in the journal Science. “The Historical Roots of Our Ecological Crisis” argued that the Christian world view could be blamed for the rapid pace of environmental destruction. The biblical story of Genesis, after all, called on people to “subdue” the earth and to have “dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air.” It was God’s will. White wrote that this dogma entrenched the idea that the natural world had no purpose “save to serve man’s purposes,” which influenced the development of modern technology and the ecological crisis it wrought.
White already saw climate change as a consequence of this world view. “Our present combustion of fossil fuels threatens to change the chemistry of the globe’s atmosphere as a whole, with consequences which we are only beginning to guess,” he wrote.
The essay set off a debate that still burns today. Reams of papers were written for and against. It remains a staple on university reading lists, and it helped shape the field of environmental ethics. The essay also prompted soul searching among some Christians, leading them to ask how they could embrace the growing environmental movement. “It really is amazing how influential these five pages from the journal of Science were,” Humphrey said, “and I think that’s because many of White’s arguments struck a chord.”
Over the next half century, many Christians imbued their faith with a concern for the natural world. To counter the idea of “dominion,” they went back to the Book of Genesis. The same story, they said, asked people to “work and take care of” the land and to “let the birds increase on the earth.” Rather than interpreting the story of creation as a licence to dominate, these Christians considered it a call to protect and steward the landscape.
A Rocha was founded in Portugal by two British evangelicals, Peter and Miranda Harris, in the 1980s. (“A rocha” means “the rock” in Portuguese.) Near the estuary of the Ria de Alvor on the southern coast, home to 150 bird species, the Harrises collected data, conducted research, and protected a variety of birds. Today the organization they started has projects in more than twenty countries, including the United States, Lebanon, Uganda, and Peru.
In his 2008 book Kingfisher’s Fire, Peter laid out the connection between his faith and the organization’s conservation efforts. “We believe our data can contribute to the survival of the habitats and species we are studying,” he wrote. “Our work for the care of nonhuman creation is important to its Creator.” A Rocha’s moderate evangelical culture also stems, in part, from its British roots—the atmosphere in Britain being less politically charged compared to that in the United States.
Katharine Hayhoe, who had spoken at A Rocha’s events and acted as an adviser to the organization, thought the Bible made this responsibility clear. “If we really take the Bible seriously,” she said, “we would be at the front of the line demanding climate action.”
One day, in Abbotsford, not far from the Brooksdale Environmental Centre, I visited the Columbia Bible College to watch Humphrey give a presentation on what’s known as ecotheology.
In front of a packed room of students in their teens and twenties, Humphrey tried to provide what he rarely had when he was younger: a biblical perspective, free from partisan politics, that embraced the scientific consensus around climate change and other environmental issues. Humphrey thought that Christians shouldn’t be bystanders to modern ecological calamities, and that the Bible might be used to inspire Christians to care for God’s creation. To illustrate this, he told the students about the story of Naboth’s vineyard.
In the Book of Kings, a man named Naboth was pressured by a wealthy king, Ahab, to sell his land. Naboth refused, because the soil provided food for his family and the land was an inheritance from his ancestors. Ahab’s wife, Jezebel, then set up an elaborate ruse that wound up with Naboth being executed and King Ahab getting the vineyard.
Humphrey described this story as a struggle between a defiant farmer and a military ruler, and he believed this theme of resistance echoed through other biblical stories in which agrarian people, in tune with the land and the seasons, often had to fight powerful Ahabs to protect what they had. He then drew a parallel to modern times, describing how, around the world, land and natural resources are often degraded and commodified by powerful people who put profit before the needs of local communities. “We therefore need, now more than ever, to recover the deep sense of our membership within, and dependence upon, creation,” Humphrey said. “And we need to put this into practice with concrete social and ecological action.”
After he finished, the room buzzed with chatter, and I turned to a young couple behind me, Glenn and Katie, to get their reaction. “You don’t often hear it said in this way, or with a call to action like that,” said Glenn. But he was hesitant about mixing theology with environmental activism and wondered if pointing to passages from the Bible for support was the best idea. “I think some parts of the Bible are downright problematic. For example, Naboth’s vineyard is an awesome challenge to power, but there are many other instances where people acquiesce to power.”
Some are wary of involving religion in environmental discussions. After all, Christianity and Islam famously battled with science, and deeply religious civilizations destroyed their natural environments. Yet the reality is that religions still shape how a majority of people view the world. Muslims, Christians, and Hindus together represent 5.2 billion people, or two-thirds of the world’s population.
For evangelicals concerned about climate change, questions of morality seem to weigh as heavily as those of science. Humphrey cared not only about nature or creation—the scorched forests and the melting polar ice caps—but also about the human fallout from climate change in the decades ahead: rising seas destroying the homes of millions around the world, devastating droughts causing millions more to go hungry. He often worried about how people will respond when confronted with this version of the future.
“What will hold us capable of living lives of justice and love and goodness for the vulnerable, once the illusion of safety and affluence slips?” Humphrey asked me. He thought the Christian church might help answer these moral questions; for others, it could be Islam, Judaism, or another religion. As climate change inflames divisions in society, many people like Humphrey believe the response requires not just solar power, electric cars, and mass transit but also teachings of love, prayer, and forgiveness.
It was in this spirit that more than seventy Christian leaders, climate scientists, and government officials gathered in 2002 at the University of Oxford to discuss the threat of global warming and how to reconcile their response with Christian imperatives. They produced the Oxford Declaration on Global Warming, which urged Christians to confront climate change for scientific reasons as well as moral ones. After all, the effects of climate change, such as severe heat and rising sea levels, disproportionately hurt the world’s poor. To “love thy neighbour as thyself,” they reasoned, should also mean to help them.
This shift in thinking opened the way for the Evangelical Climate Initiative and its 2006 Call to Action. Similar to the Oxford Declaration, the Call to Action brought formerly reluctant evangelical leaders together over climate change. Megachurch pastors with tens of thousands of followers, including Joel Hunter and Rick Warren, soon signed on. This evangelical movement has faced a backlash from many congregations across the US, and it hasn’t broken the connection between climate-denying Republicans and most evangelicals, but new ways of thinking have taken root.
With an audience of billions, pastors like Hunter and Warren, along with priests, imams, and rabbis, could be powerful advocates for climate action. In a 2016 essay, two religious scholars at Yale University, Mary Evelyn Tucker and John Grim, considered the role of religious leaders in spurring social change over recent decades, whether in movements for civil rights or in advocating for the poor. “Although the world religions have been slow to respond to our current environmental crises, their moral authority and their institutional power may help effect a change in attitudes, practices, and public policies,” they wrote. Tucker and Grim, a married couple who founded the Yale Forum on Religion and Ecology, then issued a challenge: “The individual religions must explain and transform themselves if they are willing to enter into this period of environmental engagement.”
Part of this engagement, Hayhoe argues, involves nurturing a sense of hope. In a survey of British schoolchildren, one in five reported having nightmares about climate change. Many can relate: just staring at charts of rising global temperatures can engender a sense of dread. In her 2018 TED Talk, viewed 4 million times, Hayhoe described the consequences of giving in to despair, a gloom that leaves people paralyzed. “Fear is not what is going to motivate us for the long-term, sustained change that we need to fix this thing,” she said.
When I talked to her, Hayhoe was adamant that nurturing hope can be as simple as getting out and doing something. “We know that what gives us hope is action, whether it’s seeing others act, hearing about others acting, or acting ourselves.”
Humphrey, for instance, has continued working with A Rocha, focusing on theological education, but he has also, along the way, become an ordained minister. He now lives and preaches in Victoria, BC, and with a group of friends, he founded Wild Church Victoria. On weekends, members hike local mountains, through grasses and Garry oak forests, or they visit nearby beaches and walk along pebbled shores. Outside, in nature, surrounded by creation, they read scripture and practise their eco-conscious faith.
It was at Brooksdale that I saw A Rocha’s efforts to put creation care into practice. Along the Little Campbell River, which runs through the property, the Salish sucker, a small freshwater fish once thought locally extinct, was rediscovered thanks to A Rocha’s watershed monitoring. This blend of science, conservation, and Christian faith seemed so at odds with the popular conception of anti-environment evangelicals.
Perhaps this proximity to nature, along with the experience of growing food and protecting wild species, helps raise awareness about the threat of climate change and the destruction of the natural world. This is hardly a novel idea, as a growing body of evidence shows that connection with nature is linked to a desire to protect it. But in an era where our eyes are glued to the minicomputers in the palms of our hands, contact with nature, a fact of life for millennia, can seem radical.
For the next couple of hours at Brooksdale, I stuck around to help build the shelter for their outdoor oven. The sound of a radial saw slicing through beams of wood filled the air. We were soon drilling nails into rafters and attaching them to boards that ran along the shelter’s peak. By the fifth or sixth board, we had the hang of it and fell into a routine of eye contact, head nods, and reassurances of “good enough.”
Humphrey told me that A Rocha didn’t have a church. But it seemed to me that here, at Brooksdale, the volunteers were constructing a place of significance surrounded by nature: a large wooden shelter around an oven hearth, where food grown in the fields would be cooked, in acknowledgement of Earth’s wonder. What they call creation.
Adapted from Climate Hope: Stories of Action in an Age of Global Crisis by David Geselbracht (2024), published by Douglas & McIntyre Ltd. Reprinted with permission from the publisher.
