It was a perfect spring day, the kind that whispers of new beginnings. Clouds, soft as cotton, drifted lazily across the sky, and the grass underfoot was a vibrant, welcoming green. The air hummed with the cheerful songs of wrens and chickadees, their melodies weaving through the trees. As a family, we were immersed in this springtime splendor, joined by dear friends, our footsteps leading us through the pastures on a gentle quest: to find the newborn lambs.
And then, there they were. Not one, but two tiny lambs, nestled beside their mother beneath the shelter of a tree. Their legs seemed unsure, wobbly beneath them, and their wool was still damp and clumped from their mother’s care. One lamb, full of life, suckled with gusto, nudging its mother for more nourishment, while the other faltered, collapsing onto the ground. The mother sheep, in her own instinctual way, nudged the weaker lamb aside. A wave of concern rippled through our small group. “Did you see her swallow?” my friend Martha murmured, her voice barely audible. “Should we help her latch?”
Looking at Martha, a familiar memory surfaced. Martha, my doctor, had been my guide through my own journey into motherhood. When my first daughter struggled to nurse, it was Martha who stood by my side, offering gentle encouragement: “Look! Did you see her swallow? Should we help her latch?” In that moment, watching the sheep, then glancing at Martha, and then thinking of my own daughter, a profound realization dawned. I am not just a farmer tending to my flock; I am, fundamentally, a creature too, deeply connected to the natural world.
In his insightful book, The Bible and Ecology, New Testament scholar Richard Bauckham points out a critical disconnect in modern Western thought:
Modern Western people, beginning with the Renaissance, forgot their own creatureliness, their embeddedness within creation, their interdependence with other creatures. They sought to liberate themselves from nature, to transcend their own dependence on nature, and conceived themselves as functionally gods in relation to nature.
This separation has distanced us from a fundamental understanding of ourselves. We can observe a lamb, or regard a cow, even The Family Cow, without recognizing our own reflections in their lives. We might see ourselves as protectors of nature, or even masters of it, but rarely as an integral part of nature itself.
Genesis 1 beautifully narrates the creation of the universe. God brought forth day and night, sky and water, land and plants, sun and moon, creatures of the sea, birds of the air, and animals of the land. Finally, on the sixth day, humankind was created. Humans are uniquely made in God’s image, a distinction no other creature shares. Humans are given “dominion” over other creatures, a unique responsibility. Yet, when we read Genesis, we often fixate on human uniqueness and authority, overlooking the crucial truth – that humans, too, are creatures. Like the fish, the birds, and the beasts, we are part of creation. Like them, we possess bodies, experience birth, and face mortality.
We are creatures, not the Creator. This is a cornerstone of scripture and Christian theology: the essential difference between God and everything else. However, in our human pride, we have shifted the focus. We, as humans, even as Christians, have often prioritized a different division: the separation between humanity and everything else.
But this is not the biblical perspective. Time and again, scripture places humans within – not above – the vast community of creation. Psalm 104 proclaims, “How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures.” Here, humans are listed alongside lions and leviathan, all dependent on God for sustenance. Psalm 148 calls for praise from lightning and hail, fruit trees and cedars, men and women, all together. The powerful Christ hymn in Colossians 1 encompasses humans within “all things” in heaven and on earth, not as separate. In John’s apocalyptic vision, the redeemed join every creature in heaven, on earth, and under the earth in worship, offering praise and honor to God (Revelation 5:13).
The Bible does not dwell on human exceptionalism and dominance. While scripture acknowledges the human calling to steward the earth, it doesn’t emphasize human supremacy as we often do today. Instead, the focus is on the glory of God, magnified by the chorus of all creatures, not humans alone. The sheer diversity and abundance of creation, all dependent on God, showcases God’s boundless power and creativity. Sun, moon, stars, mountains, sea life, humanity, and more – together, these voices form a symphony of praise to the one, uncreated Lord. Together, they reveal the vastness of God’s generosity and imagination in a way no single being ever could. To only listen to human praise is to silence the grand song of creation. To elevate and isolate humans diminishes God’s glory and distorts our understanding of humanity itself.
Historian Lynn White Jr., a churchman himself, famously pointed to the church as a source of our modern ecological crisis, stating, “Christianity is the most anthropocentric religion the world has seen.” Yet, this human-nature divide persists even in secular environmental movements. Wendell Berry, in his book Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community, eloquently argues:
The idea that we live in something called “the environment,” for instance, is utterly preposterous … An “environment” means that which surrounds or encircles us; it means a world separate from ourselves, outside us. The real state of things, of course, is far more complex and intimate and interesting than that. The world that environs us, that is around us, is also within us. We are made of it; we eat, drink, and breathe it; it is bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh.
Berry highlights how the very term “environment” reinforces a false separation. The environment becomes something “out there” that we must save or protect, but we are not intrinsically part of it. While the environmental movement aims to curb human destruction of the non-human world, this underlying separation remains a flawed concept, contradicted by both science and scripture.
Genesis declares that God formed man’s flesh from the dust of the earth. This remarkable origin mirrors the creation of Eve, fashioned from Adam’s rib. In both instances, God uses existing creation – earth, man – to bring forth something new. And in both cases, the new creation is named in relation to the old: woman from man, Adam from earth. Yet, we often interpret these accounts differently. We readily accept the kinship between man and woman but often deny the profound connection between humanity and the earth itself.
Misinterpretations of the Bible have contributed to this false human-centered view, but I believe scripture holds the key to correcting it. Within its pages lies a counter-narrative: humans are an integral part of the community of creation. We exist among – not above – all created things. Our well-being is intertwined with the flourishing of our non-human neighbors, and we are all ultimately dependent on God. God has not abandoned creation; He has entered into its suffering, for the world, in the person of His Son, who promised to renew all things. God alone can truly save the world; humans are called to care for it. But to be good stewards, we must first remember our place as creatures within it.
That perfect spring day held a surprising shift for me. Having three children, I had believed our family was complete, but witnessing the ewes and lambs sparked a change of heart. My memories of motherhood had been colored by the isolation of winter days indoors with newborns and toddlers. But observing the sheep and their lambs opened a new perspective, allowing me to see myself as part of a wider community of mothers, both human and animal.
A year later, our daughter Phoebe arrived. Like the newborn lambs on our farm, Phoebe had to learn the basics: how to latch and how to stand. Unlike the sheep, I was fortunate to have the support of older children and a loving partner. I never nudged my newborn away when she sought nourishment, though I confess there were times I didn’t respond immediately to her needs. However, when the time came to wean Phoebe, I felt a surprising reluctance. I was ready for the end of the constant nursing schedule, but not quite ready to relinquish my role as her primary source of sustenance. So, for our birthdays – Phoebe’s first and my fortieth – I made a special request: a family cow.
A few months later, my husband brought Rosie home. Rosie was, and remains, the most beautiful cow I have ever seen. Her face possesses the delicate features of a deer, unlike the sturdier build of our beef cattle. Her brown coat is sprinkled with white flecks, including a charming, jagged heart shape on her left side. Her large, dark eyes, framed by dark rims, evoke a Disney princess, not a typical bovine. What an extraordinary birthday gift! Our very own family cow.
For a year now, Rosie’s milk has been a cornerstone of Phoebe’s diet. Most mornings, Phoebe accompanies me to the stanchion, playing nearby as I milk Rosie. One day, watching Phoebe enthusiastically petting Rosie’s calf, another moment of recognition struck me: they share the same primary food source. The calf nurses directly from Rosie, while Phoebe drinks from a cup, yet both derive their nourishment from the same magnificent animal – our family cow.
Anthropologist Sarah Blaffer Hrdy, who has extensively researched the topic, uses the term alloparents to describe animals who provide care for young, unrelated offspring. Hrdy notes this cooperative behavior across species, from birds to humans to other mammals. Magpie jays in Costa Rica bring food to nests that aren’t their own; lemur mothers take turns nursing, allowing others to forage.
You could say I weaned my daughter, or you could say I found an alloparent. Rosie, our family cow, provides what I no longer could: milk. But I remain involved, bridging the gap, bringing the milk from Rosie’s udder to Phoebe’s cup each day. In this meaningful way, I share a fundamental aspect of parenthood, not just with my husband, but with a cow.
Is this dominion or dependence? Perhaps it is both, intertwined. For me, it is a new form of partnership – a partnership that paradoxically makes me feel both more deeply human and more connected to the very dust of the earth from which we all came. The family cow has become more than just a provider of milk; she is a teacher, a reminder of our place within the intricate web of life, and a gentle guide back to our own creaturely hearts.
