From Slime to Selfies

 

Once upon a time, roughly 4.5 billion years ago, Earth was a hot mess. Literally. Molten rock, toxic gases, no Wi-Fi; absolutely ghastly conditions. But in the midst of all that chaos, somewhere in the warm, murky puddles of a young planet, a rebellious molecule said, “I think I’ll duplicate myself.” And thus began the greatest biological sitcom of all time: life.

Fast forward a few billion years we arrive at the Cambrian Explosion which is essentially God turning up the volume and the world bursting into technicolour with trilobites, sea scorpions, and creatures with more legs than any decent being should have.

It was all very exciting, albeit slimy.

Then came fish. Fish got bored and grew legs. Legs got bored and became dinosaurs. Dinosaurs got a little too cocky, and a rogue rock from space decided to humble them. Cue extinction. Exit stage left.

Enter mammals, small, furry, and with a glint of ambition in their beady little eyes. Give them a few million years, and one brave ape somewhere decided, “I shall walk on two feet and invent fire!” That, my friends, is human evolution, nature’s most impressive party trick.

Now, enter Charles Darwin

A gentleman with a long beard and a deep love for beetles, Darwin took a cruise to the Galápagos Islands and came back with the idea that we all share a great-great-great-great-something-grandparent with a chimpanzee. “Evolution by natural selection,” he said, “survival of the fittest!”

It was a bold claim… and for many, a complicated one. After all, we’ve long held the sense that humanity is something set apart. But perhaps these two truths, our biological beginnings and our spiritual calling are not at odds. They’re two sides of the same great mystery…the unfolding of a design far deeper than we can fully grasp.

Faith and reason aren’t adversaries. They’re fellow travellers, each holding a lantern, illuminating different aspects of the same path. Science tells us how the universe unfolds; religion tells us why it matters and who called it into being. One studies the mechanics of the cosmos, the other listens for its music.

And when someone scoffs at belief…as though science has made wonder obsolete, I’d say: If a thinking theist can find peace in both, why should it unsettle someone who doesn’t? Contentment with mystery is not confusion, it’s reverence.

To believe in both evolution and eternity is not intellectual laziness, it’s a kind of wholeness. It’s knowing that a spiral galaxy and a whispered prayer may be speaking of the same Creator in different tongues.

At the same time, it’s hard when people of faith reject science. I remember once, my son was really excited about dinosaurs. He was full of questions and wonder. But an older aunt told him it was a waste of time, “What do dead lizards have to do with anything important?” she said. I bit my tongue, I didn’t say much then, but I wish I had. Because I believe that curiosity is part of how we discover truth and wonder is not against faith. It’s part of it.

So no, we’re not choosing between logic and love, data and devotion. We’re choosing to stand in awe at a universe that is both deeply explainable and divinely mysterious.

An Afternoon with Mr. Darwin

Speaking of evolution, let me take you back to a surprisingly sunny afternoon in Kent, a rare meteorological miracle for the London area when I visited Down House, the very home of Charles Darwin himself. Tucked away in the rolling greenery of Kent, just an hour from London and several epochs from the Cambrian, lies Down House.

It’s a quiet, old Georgian home in the English countryside. It feels peaceful, with ivy on the walls, neat hedges, and colourful flowers blooming as if they know something important once happened here. This was the home of Charles Darwin, the man who gave us the theory of evolution.

Inside, everything feels calm and thoughtful. Darwin’s study still has his original desk, facing a large window. This is where he wrote ‘On the Origin of Species’, while dealing with illness, doubts, and interruptions from his ten children. The room feels like it’s holding onto his big ideas…even now.

Outside, there’s a path called the Sandwalk. Darwin walked it every day to think. He used to move little stones each time he completed a loop, like a Victorian version of a step counter. As he walked, he thought about animals, nature, and how life changes slowly over time. When I walked the same path, it felt special like stepping into his thoughts for a moment.

While I absorbed this quiet history, my then two-year-old son was toddling through the garden, wide-eyed and curious. He wandered among the flowers and trees, touching leaves, peering at bugs, and taking it all in with the innocent wonder that only a child can have. His tiny footsteps on the same soil that inspired Darwin’s great ideas felt like a beautiful echo of life’s ongoing journey, curiosity passed from one generation to the next, the mystery of creation unfolding anew through his bright eyes.

That sunny day in Kent reminded me that big discoveries begin with someone curious enough to stop, look closely, and ask ‘why’.

Natural Selection and the Art of Assembling IKEA Furniture

Let’s pause to appreciate the sheer genius of natural selection. Over millions of years, life has learned to adapt; to jungles, ice ages, plagues, marriage. But there is one challenge that even Darwin never could’ve predicted: the IKEA flat-pack.

Now, flat-pack furniture is evolution’s cruelest joke. It separates the weak from the strong, the patient from the panicked, the married from the soon-to-be separated.

In my own home, we tackled a deceptively simple bookshelf together. There were missing screws, mysterious diagrams, and a few new words muttered under our breath. But we worked as a team, my husband deciphering the manual, I found the right tools, and our little son proudly handed us dowels like a tiny, enthusiastic apprentice. In the end, the shelf stood straight (more or less), and we stood prouder still, proof that human evolution now includes the ability to cooperate under pressure, laugh through frustration, and build something real, together.

Why does this matter? Because these seemingly trivial domestic challenges are textbook examples of human evolution.

• Problem solving: Our ancestors hunted mammoth with spears. We figured out which Allen key fits.
• Language: Our great-great-grandfather probably grunted at a sabretooth. We grunt new curse words at an uncooperative shelf.
• Social bonding: Nothing brings people together like shared adversity and missing screws.

I can imagine Darwin writing in his notebook:
“Subjects work together to build strange object. Use new sounds called ‘curse words.’ Success builds group bonds. More study needed.”

How Evolution Explains the School Run

If ever there were a modern activity that proves the theory of evolution, it is the school run. The school run is a finely honed ritual of modern survival, involving strategy, speed, selective hearing, and caffeine. It’s the perfect storm of fight-or-flight, natural selection, and parental guilt.

Darwin himself might have scribbled in his notebook:

“Species exhibits high-stress migration at 7:43 AM. Offspring poorly shoed. Adults dishevelled. Communication reduced to barking. Remarkably, no one perishes.”

Evolution explains this perfectly. For example:

• Early hominids had to outrun predators. Modern parents must outrun the late bell.
• Our ancestors developed language to coordinate hunting; we use ours to yell, ‘WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES?’
• Problem-solving once meant finding clean water. Now it’s locating a missing library book that was definitely ‘right there last night.’

Children, of course, remain blissfully unevolved in this scenario. While you're attempting a complex logistical operation with military-grade precision, they are busy wondering whether slugs have best friends or whether a sandwich can be triangular and a rectangle at the same time.

At the school gate, you spot fellow parents. Some look fresh and cheerful. Others, look like they’ve just run a marathon with a backpack full of snacks and complaints. You exchange a smile. You made it. Evolution wins again.

Grades: The Modern Mammoth Hunt

Let’s say we’re happily eating lunch, content with our 87 in maths. Then someone walks in and casually says: “I got 99.5. Didn’t even study.”

Suddenly, the sandwich tastes like failure.

Why? Because our brain just did something ancient. It went: “Danger. Someone in the tribe is smarter. Must catch up or be left behind during the next metaphorical mammoth hunt.”

See, once upon a very prehistoric time, being clever meant not dying. You knew which berries wouldn’t kill you, which cave was safest, and how to make a fire without singeing your eyebrows. Now, instead of fire-making, we have final exams, spelling bees, and competitive science fairs.

Either way, it’s the same instinct: stay useful, stay seen, stay in the game.

Darwin might have said:
“When faced with sudden display of superior intellect, subject exhibits signs of distress and increased motivation. Likely adaptive response to maintain social standing within peer group.”

Sports: Because Throwing a Ball is Safer Than Throwing a Spear

Now think about sports. Why do we scream at football matches? Why does a dodgeball game in P.E. feel like a life-or-death battle? Because in the ancient brain, winning meant surviving.

Darwin might have observed:
“Displays of strength and skill serve to establish social rank without actual harm. Vocalisations and rituals reinforce group identity and cohesion.”

Being fast, strong, or able to throw a rock accurately once helped you get food and impress potential mates. Today, it gets you applause, medals, and maybe a slightly better seat on the school bus.

Even cheering from the sidelines is tribal. we're picking a side, painting your face, and yelling like your village depends on it. Evolution just loves a bit of friendly (or not-so-friendly) competition.

The Evolutionary Advantage of Complaining

One of the lesser-known outcomes of human evolution is our astonishing capacity to complain. No other species does it with such flair. When a crow squawks, it’s merely announcing its presence. When we squawk, it’s because the Wi-Fi dropped for ten seconds and we briefly had to face our own thoughts.

You see, complaining serves a critical evolutionary function; it’s a social bonding mechanism. Shared grievances build alliances. Whole civilisations have been founded on the principle of “Can you believe this nonsense?” From Stone Age neighbours moaning about mammoth dung to 21st-century rants about school WhatsApp groups, the essence is the same: grumble, gather, survive.

Survival of the Wittiest

Now, let’s talk about one of evolution’s most enduring battlegrounds: the family. Forget Jurassic Park…lunch with the extended clan is where true Darwinian drama unfolds.

Take, for instance, the classic sibling rivalry. On paper, we’re all made of the same DNA soup. In practice, we might as well be entirely different species. One is the golden child, the other is the outlander. It’s natural selection with a side of passive-aggression: one fights for the remote, the other for parental approval, and both insist they’re mum’s favourite.

And then there’s always that one particular relative…a fascinating evolutionary human. They don’t roar or rage. No, their weapon of choice is the forlorn sigh, the passive lament, the mournful gaze that suggests existence itself has failed them personally. Darwin might’ve called it emotional camouflage, drawing sympathy while quietly releasing a gentle cloud of guilt into the room. They arrive with a rolling commentary on the tragic state of the world, their health, the economy, the neighbour’s dog, and most importantly…us.

Still, they’re family.. Evolution teaches us to adapt, to survive in hostile ecosystems, and to smile graciously when offered unsolicited opinions wrapped in cling film. As Darwin might say:

“Subject D emits high-frequency vocal distress with no discernible threat. Pack remains calm but alert. Offspring affected only after exposure exceeds 45 minutes.”

In the end, it’s not the strongest or the smartest who get through family gatherings…it’s the wittiest. The ones who can make a joke at the right moment, keep their cool, and laugh off the drama. When the sighs, complaints, and awkward moments start piling up, the person who smiles and stays lighthearted is the one who really survives. After all, a good laugh is the best way to get through the family battlefield.

So, Are We Just Fancy Apes with Smartphones?

Well… sort of. But better.

We’ve evolved beyond just competing. Thanks to our brain’s clever front bit (the prefrontal cortex, if you’re fancy), we can think, reflect, and not punch people just because they beat us at Monopoly.

We can cheer for others, laugh off losses, and remind ourselves that being human isn’t about always winning; it’s about growing, learning, and occasionally throwing shade with grace.

The Evolution of Morality (or Why We Don’t Throw Sandwiches)

Let’s now tread into deeper waters. Evolution, for all its biology and bone structures, is not merely about the physical. There’s a moral arc to it, too. We’ve evolved not just bigger brains, but bigger hearts. We’ve developed empathy, conscience, and the understanding that throwing a sandwich at someone you disagree with is frowned upon, even if instinct suggests otherwise.

Religiously speaking, this dovetails beautifully. Catholic tradition sees us as created in the imago Dei (the image of God). Evolution sees us as a product of trial, error, mutation, and natural selection. They’re two ways of admiring the same mystery: how did matter become mind? How did instinct become love?

We are capable of incredible altruism. We rescue whales, adopt children, give up our seats on the Tube or train. No evolutionary advantage in helping a stranger; unless something greater is guiding us. Call it grace, call it conscience, call it the nudge of the Spirit. But it’s there. A divine glitch in the evolutionary code.

Where are we now?

We’ve gone from knuckle-dragging hunter-gatherers to philosophers, engineers, and people who get irrationally angry when their phone takes more than three seconds to load a video. We’ve decoded DNA, mapped the cosmos, and figured out how to toast bread just right. Evolution, it turns out, isn’t just physical; it’s intellectual, moral, and yes, even spiritual.

We are stardust wrapped in skin, made in the image of God, and shaped by a billion years of cosmic accident and divine intent. Our brains are bigger, our jeans tighter, and our questions deeper: Who are we? Where did we come from? And does the Vatican have a telescope? (Spoiler: it does, and it’s called the Vatican Observatory. Galileo would’ve loved that.)

Final Reflections: What Would Darwin Do?

If Darwin were alive today, I like to think he’d be fascinated by our modern quirks. Our obsession with selfies, documenting every angle of our evolved faces. Our need to Google every curiosity instead of wondering. Our ability to scroll endlessly past anything.

But he’d also be proud. We’ve gone from curious apes to cosmic contemplators. From club-wielders to gene editors. We have learned to write symphonies, build cathedrals, and wonder about God.

And while the fossil record tells us where we’ve come from, it’s our stories, our choices, our kitchen-table debates and tea-fuelled dreams that tell us who we’re becoming.

So the next time your sibling steals your charger, your toddler fills your shoes with dirt, or an entitled relative acts like the sun rises just for them, don’t stress, take heart. We are part of a glorious, chaotic, divinely-infused evolutionary masterpiece.

And remember: slime to selfies isn’t just a journey. It’s a miracle, with muddy footprints and divine fingerprints all over it.