Birding as Spiritual Attentiveness
A Feature Review of
Watch and Wonder: Birding as a Spiritual Practice
Ragan Sutterfield
Paperback: Broadleaf Books, 2026
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Reviewed by Justin Cober-Lake
Birders often seek new species, trying to build up a life list of what they’ve seen. The chase for a rarity goes something like this: You get an alert from one of your dozen groups that something strange has been spotted within an arguably reasonable drive from home. You rush out the door, spilling your coffee and forgetting your snack. You drive as fast as legal and moral imperatives allow, frustration growing with each car in front of you. You arrive at a beautiful setting, like a regional landfill, and you walk as fast as you can to where the bird was reported to be, scanning for both flying creatures and other birders. You stand around awkwardly for a few hours before deciding the bird has left. You drive home bitterly, considering that this event suggests the idea of a benevolent God might be so much hokum. The bird returns and others see it.
Such might be the typical outing for a typical birder, but author and Episcopal priest Ragan Sutterfield isn’t exactly typical. As its subtitle explains, his latest book, Watch and Wonder, considers his birding hobby as a spiritual practice. The concept might sound quaint — wander off into the woods, notice pretty nature, feel good about God — but Sutterfield has a deep approach to it, one developed both theologically and experientially. His writing might be targeted at birders, but his religious reflections deserve more than a niche audience.
Rather than treating birding as an analogy to the spiritual life, Sutterfield takes a systematic, almost liturgical approach to the subject. This is a book about slowing down and considering how we “inhabit time,” deepening our connection to the natural world as we grow our faith through our practices (x). He structures the book as if it follows a calendar, one chapter given to each month and one spiritual practice. The chapters mix engaging birding stories with religious reflections, and the presentation allows the book to flow smoothly, both within each section and across topics.
One chapter focuses on listening as a spiritual practice. Birders don’t simply look for birds — they also, sometimes primarily — listen for them. Taking to the field involves times of quiet and focus. As Sutterfield explains, “In many ways, this kind of listening awareness is like the work of prayer. In its deepest forms, prayer is about hearing God, and deliberate time set aside for this task is where we begin to hear the songs and calls of the divine voice” (79). The author doesn’t suggest that something miraculous happens when we take to nature. Instead, our spiritual practice helps to put us in a position where we can hear what we need to. The same practice also opens us up to the unexpected. He writes, “We want a guaranteed experience rather than chance of a surprise encounter,” even though true wonder “cannot be manufactured” (87). As we make space for the world and for God, we allow something new to come upon us, providing an event more profound than the packaged commodification we usually settle for.
The concept extends further, as Sutterfield addresses in a chapter on patience. He quotes French philosopher Jacques Derrida, who wrote, “Not knowing how to wait is idolatry, it is to produce from oneself what one wants to allow to come” (166). In Sutterfield’s spiritual practices — and his overall approach to birding — the point isn’t to force an issue or to get results now. He sees them as the actions we intentionally engage in that help shape us, as we “become the kinds of people the world needs now” (ix). “The things to which we give our attention and the activities we do with intention can have profound impacts on who we are,” he writes, echoing the liturgical sensibility of authors like James K.A. Smith. As we bird, we can choose to slow down and take the steps that open us to wonder, finding meaning and gratitude as it comes.
That wonder surrounds us. However, as Sutterfield points out, “We think that, because we can order anything from Amazon…we are living in a time of abundance. But the truth is that our experiences, the varieties of life in which we engage, are ever more uniform” (57). While Jesus promises an abundant life, we settle for a wealth of meaningless options. Sutterfield’s birding-inspired practices help us open up to something more.
Finding that abundance isn’t simply about having a more exciting (or, ugh, more productive) life, but about making deeper connections. Sutterfield, as a priest, naturally connects more deeply with God in this process. He sees nature as “an extravagance—a gift of the God who made room for the creation” (38). In that understanding, we look back with gratitude to the gift-giver. But we don’t neglect the gift. Sutterfield grows deeper in his affection for the natural world, and his attentiveness to it helps better to see the risks it faces in the current era.
In the book, he finds a more profound connection to those around him, whether in the little parts of daily life, the heavy moments of grief, or a lifetime spent together. It’s all of a piece. He writes, “I find that the best and most enduring friendships are built on common landscapes and shared love, on the memories of an embodied life together and the tracks we etched walking alongside each other on the trails” (205). When we spend careful time with others, we grow closer, a vital aspect of Christian community. We don’t simply celebrate seeing a bird together, but we strengthen our ties, connected to nature and standing in awe of the God who created it.
The practices that Sutterfield describes will make anyone a better birder, even if it means thinking about icons or working through grief. They will also challenge Christians to be more aware in their faith, making space for and noticing the wondrous parts of life. We can learn to find beauty and truth and allow those discoveries to blossom into affection, always aware that there’s something greater out there. That revelation is sometimes visible in the small moments: “An everyday mystery can humble us” (96). In our humility, wonder abounds.
Justin Cober-Lake
Justin Cober-Lake a pastor in central Virginia. He holds an M.A. in American Studies from the University of Virginia and has worked in academic publishing for the past 15 years. His editing and freelance writing have focused mostly on cultural criticism, particularly pop music.
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