It was my great grandmother who started it all. One Christmas, when I was a young boy, she gave me a little green bird book with a pair of cheap plastic yellow binoculars: a beginner’s birdwatching set. I was immediately captivated by this gift. A new world of discovery had been opened up in front of me and I grasped the opportunity with both hands. Thus began the journey I am still on, a journey that has taken me far and wide in God’s magnificent creation: the journey of identifying – naming – every bird that I see.

Early in my explorations, one bird enthralled me like no other: the kingfisher. Perhaps it was because this species featured prominently on the front cover of my bird book, but I prefer to think that this enchantment was kindled simply by beauty. The kingfisher, with its electric blue and rich orange plumage is arguably the most stunning of all British birds. In any case, I had to see it. My earliest childhood memories consist of riverside walks with my parents, searching for the elusive bird. Time and time again, I came home disappointed. The kingfishers were, apparently, doing their best to hide from me. In the meantime, though, I added many species to my ever-growing repertoire of sightings and filled my bird guide with satisfying check marks next to the species names. But the page with the kingfisher remained empty.

I still have that little green bird guide, filled with its misshapen childhood check marks and illegible hand-scribbled notes, hidden safely away inside my memory box. Although I have now moved on to more advanced field guides, replete with many more species, this first guide will always hold a special place in my heart. For it was this book that taught me a precious skill – a skill that I am still developing as I walk in the woods, estuaries, and fields near my home in the south of England. It is the skill of identification, the skill of naming.

This skill requires keen powers of observation. Slight differences in wing pattern or eyebrow color may differentiate a rarity from a more common cousin. You need a good memory, too, to be able to hold the names and distinctive features of any of the hundred or so species that can be encountered on a day out in the British countryside. Whereas many of my companions on a walk are content with enjoying the view, my eyes are constantly darting back and forth, instinctively seeking out every flight between the trees and every speck in the sky, my ears attuned to every rustle in the bushes. I ask each bird the same question: “What is your name?” My hobby has opened new worlds of discovery that make every walk in the countryside unique, for who knows what rarities might turn up on this walk?

The United Kingdom is a nation of bird lovers. Nothing epitomizes this more than the January tradition of the Big Garden Birdwatch, organized by the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. Thousands of people across the country spend an hour noting down the names of all species they see in their gardens (which Americans call yards). This is a thing eminently British: to have a look in your garden, write down what you see, and share that information.

These willing participants are tapping into a core part of the British heritage – amateur naturalism. This pursuit can trace its roots to the clergyman Gilbert White (1720–1793), its most well-known forefather. He is numbered first among the many “parson-naturalists” – clergymen who saw the natural connection between bringing glory to their Maker in their locally bound service of him, and enjoying and studying his good gifts in the slice of creation bounded by their parishes. In his best-known work, the Natural History and Antiquities of Selbourne, White used a series of letters to document his “observations on various parts of nature.” These demonstrate a remarkably astute eye for detail concerning the species that surrounded him.

White’s most noteworthy observations concern his reflections on how the creatures of his parish waxed and waned with the seasons, arriving at different times during the spring migration with a regularity that could be predicted. Of course, this kind of knowledge was common and had been shared from time out of mind by rural men and women, but he was the first to systematize it. He is for this reason regarded as the father of the science of phenology: the study of the annual life cycles of plants and animals, and the timing of natural events. Collecting and synthesizing this information was a laborious feat requiring scrupulous record-taking from many long days out in the field over many years – all without the comforts of modern waterproofs, binoculars, and transportation.

White’s skills at identification were equally impressive. He managed to distinguish the chiffchaff, willow warbler, and wood warbler – three species whose identification is a notorious stumbling block to any young naturalist – by differences in their song.

White’s field notes on this matter are the stuff of detective fiction, if there were detective fiction written about British leaf warblers:

I make no doubt but there are three species of the willow-wrens: two I know perfectly; but have not been able yet to procure the third. No two birds can differ more in their notes, and that constantly, than those two that I am acquainted with; for one has a joyous, easy laughing note; the other a harsh loud chirp.

White and the many naturalists who have followed in his footsteps have made the United Kingdom first among nations in the thoroughness with which its native flora and fauna have been studied, named, and classified. These records go back, in some cases, three hundred years or more. It is no surprise, therefore, that Britain also boasts one of the world’s earliest nature conservation organizations: the Society for the Protection of Birds. Founded in 1889 by Emily Williamson, the organization later gained Royal Charter status to become the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. When you know the names of creatures, you will naturally want to protect them.

This love for naming and classifying harks back to an ancient calling – a calling as old as humanity itself. The task of naming the creatures was the first job given to Adam in Genesis:

Now the Lord God had formed out of the ground all the wild animals and all the birds in the sky. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name. So the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds in the sky and all the wild animals. (Gen. 2:19–20)

This first responsibility given by the Creator to his image-bearer is multifaceted in its purpose. To begin with, naming is an act of dominion – an expression of the commandment given to Adam: “Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground” (Gen. 1:28).

Parents name their children, a founder names her company, a craftsman names his product. All have the authority to name, and this authority is an expression of rule. The named doesn’t get to choose its own name. Likewise, Adam had a God-given delegated authority over the rest of creation, and with that authority came the extraordinary privilege to name what came before him – extraordinary in the sense that the Maker delegated his own right to name his creation to humankind. Only one creature was named by God – Adam himself – a mark of his own submission to his Maker.

It isn’t a matter of pure domination. God was giving Adam an opportunity to care for what he had dominion over. To name something is an act of love. Done rightly, naming bestows value, dignity, and an identity on what is named. It is attentive, recognizing the nature of the thing. This is why improper naming is so wrong. Calling a human by a string of numbers or a slur dehumanizes and causes offense. Referring to a species as a pest or a weed will mean it is always viewed as an enemy. Naming creation is therefore a task that involves skill, knowledge, and wisdom – attributes that rely on relationship and careful observation. It is no simple task. It is, instead, a great and profound responsibility.

Naming is an act of love, too, because knowing the names of the creatures around us enables us to see them. “To look and to see are not the same thing,” writes Norman Wirzba in Agrarian Spirit. “Though individuals may ‘look’ at the same scene, what they ‘see’ can vary considerably. This is because viewers come equipped with different habits of attention and are motivated by varying desires and interests.”

Whereas to the casual observer that group of winged creatures are just a bunch of birds, to the birdwatcher each individual speaks the name of its kind.

Once each species has become visible and distinct through a seeing that leads to naming, its particular traits can become visible and known. Each species has particular requirements – its ecological niche – which need to be provided for it to flourish.

It is the same with all wild species. What we do not know the name of, we cannot love and care for with wisdom, skill, and particularity. For Adam to be the good steward-in-the-garden that God intended, he needed to be able to differentiate between the species under his care by giving them their names. He had to get to know the species under his rule, creating that familiarity that is essential to good and proper care. This is also why learning the skills of species identification constitutes the first fundamental steps on any conservationist’s career.

We no longer know the original names Adam gave to the animals, but we can assume that they fitted each creature and told us something about it: its appearance and behavior, or perhaps its importance or use to mankind. In the modern day, each species has two names, its common name (which varies between cultures and languages) and its Latin or scientific name. Often, a name will tell you something about a creature’s behavior and ecological needs – the kingfisher is an expert at catching fish, able to dive underwater at great speed to catch its slippery prey, while the archerfish uses a jet of water like an archer’s arrow to knock insect prey from branches and leaves above its riverine home. There are also colloquial names that evoke folklore and local tradition, and there are indigenous names – which remind scientists that many of the species they have “discovered” as new to science were in fact already discovered, named, and known by peoples who have loved and stewarded them for millennia. Wherever you travel, you will find that the creatures of the world are named. As Mark Mitchell has said, “to be human is to be a namer.” It is an instinctive, God-given desire.

That is why it is a tragedy when a society does not know the names of the species that inhabit its lands.

All around us – all around me in the heavily industrialized United Kingdom – creation is in trouble. Species such as the black grouse, which were familiar to Reverend White in his Selbourne parish, are now extinct across vast swathes of the United Kingdom. Charismatic farmland birds such as the cuckoo, skylark, and turtledove, whose names feature frequently in our folklore, folk songs, and art, have suffered severe declines. Our abandonment of lower-intensity forms of agriculture in favor of industrial methods to satisfy our desires for cheap food has destroyed and degraded the habitats these species rely upon. But, as a society, we have largely failed to notice the losses occurring all around us. Partly this is due to shifting baseline syndrome – the phenomenon where a lack of familiarity with the past condition of the environment leads people to believe the current degraded state of nature is its norm. But perhaps the greater factor in our societal ignorance of the decline of birdlife is the concomitant decline in the number of amateur naturalists in the United Kingdom, and the knowledge and skills of identification. We may still love and be able to identify the birds in our garden, but for many of us that is where our horizons stop. The birds that inhabit our wider countryside are unknown and unnamed to us, and we have failed to recognize their decline.

Among the many efforts to stem the decline of British birds and other creatures, rekindling our heritage of amateur naturalism ranks among the most important. People who love nature and enjoy observing and studying it will want to care for and protect it. They will be more inclined to make the necessary and costly lifestyle changes to lower their environmental impact and will advocate for nature in the local and national political arenas. But amateur naturalism and the love for nature that goes hand in hand with it can only develop and flourish when the names of the creatures one beholds are known. Do you care about the creatures in your place? It’s your responsibility to learn their names. First the names of the creatures in your garden, then the names of those in the wider countryside. And then pass this knowledge on to your children. It can be as simple as giving them a bird guide for Christmas. I know it was for me.

My great grandmother died this year, but she left me with a legacy that I continue in her honor. I joyfully endeavor to learn the names and needs of all I see – moreover, creation is diverse enough to ensure this journey will last a lifetime.

And I finally did see a kingfisher. And he was as regal as his name.