Late last May, a colleague and I were asked to present an amphibian conservation program at the Alabama 4-H Center just outside Birmingham. As a graduate student studying evolutionary biology at the University of Alabama, I often speak to school groups and others about amphibian ecology, biodiversity, and conservation in general. But on this Saturday morning, pulling up to a packed pavilion and a trio of smoking barbeque cookers, I quickly noticed that this program would be different - we were to be presenters at the Alabama Baptist Cooperative Fellowship's annual spring gathering.

            An evolutionary biologist wandering into a crowd of 200 Southern Baptists in Alabama sounds like the start of some bad joke, or at least a recipe for disaster. After all, in my two short years as a graduate student in Tuscaloosa I've seen students nearly come to blows arguing over science and religion, and my colleagues have excitedly gone to debates between religious and scientific scholars that start with civility and end with all the name calling of a fifth-grade playground squabble. So I couldn't figure out why I'd been asked to come out to a religious gathering to talk about conservation. To be witnessed to? Argued with? Chased out of town with pitchforks?

            Thankfully, the answer was none of the above. The Alabama CBF had themed this year's annual gathering around making churches green, devoting the weekend to discussing how to implement energy conservation in churches, saving the South's wildlife, and generally spreading the word of environmental protection in conjunction with the gospel. My job in all of this was to show amphibians, and to talk ecology to a group of hungry adults and children who had gathered for the day.

            While the Alabama CBFs mission is progressive, they aren't alone in the faith-based world when it comes to embracing environmentalism. Green churches, as they're being called, are spreading quickly throughout the nation, and throughout all denominations. The National Council of Churches for Christ, for example, is pushing carbon reduction and offering funding incentives to make churches green. In the Southern Baptist Convention, environmental stewardship is beginning to take a more prominent role in the group's overall theology. The pastors and parishioners I'd be spending the day with would be talking energy conservation, taking guided hikes to learn native wildlife, and attending workshops on how to lessen their churches' environmental impact.

            In all of this, two things are obvious: no one is immune from the environmental threats, and coming up with solutions to those threats will take the cooperation of everyone. This latter point is especially true when it comes to turning a place like the Bible Belt green - it's going to take an unlikely combination of faith, science, and politics to combat the effects of pollution and sprawl.

            Linking these two often-different sides under a shared goal undoubtedly takes finding some common ground with which to start from, but could it be that we, as scientists and environmentalists, are the ones lagging behind in making this connection? This past February, the journal Analytical Chemistry published an editorial stating that public outreach "detracts" from scientific research. Dr. Jerry Coyne, one of the world's foremost evolutionary biologists, recently wrote in his blog that we should stop "catering" to religious people and that the nation must become "a lot less religious" before we can accept scientific principles. More than a handful of bloggers and writers would echo that point.

            While our philosophical differences will likely never find a resolution, they shouldn't be an excuse for ignoring vital partnerships in protecting the environment. And finding some common ground may be simpler (and much more valuable) than it seems. As I fed a wriggling mealworm to a tiger salamander at the 4-H center and talked about amphibians' ties to healthy wetlands, an elementary-aged child asked me the usual question that comes up when I show animals to a crowd.

            "Why do these things even matter?"

            Here was my chance, my opportunity to lecture about amphibians' contributions to energy flow in ecosystems, about their intrinsic value as biodiversity,  why anyone with least bit of education should understand why we need to protect diversity. Before I had my chance, an older man in the crowd piped up.

            "Because God created them, and it's our job to make sure they stay around," he said simply. A rumble of "mm-hmm's" and head nods rippled through the congregation. I suddenly felt like a preacher. The tiger salamander begged for another worm.

            Could it really be that simple, finding some common ground for conservation? I'd like to think so. Here I was, my head full of fear-inducing facts about biodiversity loss and data from published studies, and the older man's answer was more than enough to satisfy the child. My name-dropping of famous environmentalists and quoting of influential studies was going to have little more impact than speaking in Latin would have. Our reasons may have been different, but our goals were the same: conservation in the name of morality, of science, of God - whatever you wanted to call it.

            Starting any kind of dialogue takes an ice-breaker, and on this Saturday morning I find it in a shared love for brightly-colored salamanders and slow-cooked barbeque. In things just as tangible as faith is unseen. Towards the end of the afternoon I eat lunch with a group of white-haired ministers dressed in khaki shorts and flip-flops, and we talk about football, religion, and yes, even science. We reach an agreement on none of them. While I'm placing my amphibians back in a cooler for the ride home, however, I notice a child struggling over a question at the "Seven Days of the Creation Quiz" at the table next to mine. "What day did God create the animals?" it says.

            "Day six," I tell him. I don't feel the least bit guilty.