We all know it: the numbers are overwhelming. Ice caps are melting, forests are disappearing, heatwaves are multiplying… The debate often focuses on technology, public policy, and consumption — and that is understandable.
But something else touches me even more: the way we sometimes treat the Earth without love. As if it were only a resource. As if creation were not a gift to cherish, but a warehouse from which we can take whatever we want.
When we bought our first house, the garden was completely paved. On the very first day, my father-in-law and I removed half of the tiles. Within a year, flowers appeared, a tree, birds, bees.
This choice — small as it was — felt like an act of love. As if I were opening a door and saying: here, life can breathe again. It was also a quiet protest against the hardening — not only of gardens, but sometimes also of hearts. And it awakened something in me: that caring for the Earth does not begin with policies or grand plans, but in the soil of my own life, in the choices I make each day.
The climate debate, often tense, is in great need of joy. The facts can be paralysing. One can become discouraged, or think that all of this is too big for a single human being. To be honest, I sometimes feel that powerlessness myself.
What helps is asking questions like: what opens my heart? where does life deepen? These questions invite us not to remain stuck in guilt or cynicism, but to discover the places where attentive love can take root.
Ignatius of Loyola, a spiritual guide of the 16th century, taught me to recognise the places where love and life grow — where joy appears, even in moments of helplessness. He trusted in a God who is found in the concrete choices of each day: not in perfect plans or grand solutions, but in the gestures that bring joy and weave connection.
This requires listening: to the Earth, to its longing, and to that gentle voice inviting you to become more fully human. And responding with concrete steps. Small, yes — but full of joy.
This is how we can find God even within the climate debate: in choosing to fly less, to green our gardens, to eat differently, or to support political decisions that protect creation. Not out of pressure or guilt, but out of love.
Such an attitude frees us from helplessness and guilt. It opens a space for hope — and perhaps that is where everything begins. For, in the end, only one question remains: what helps life to flourish, and how can I contribute to it?
By Rick Timmermans, a writer and spiritual director working with the Jesuits in the Netherlands and Flanders