The Fungus Among Us

As a little girl watching our landlord mow the lawn, I spotted a cloud of dust erupting every now and then beneath the mower. One day I discovered golf ball-size white pillows in the grass. When I nudged one, the ball exploded with a satisfying little poof.

A few years ago in a cemetery, I spotted another puffball and eagerly pressed my toe against it. I grinned as it spewed a cloud of dust. Of course, that dust was actually spores, the fungi version of seeds. Rather than the usual impetus provided by raindrops or animals, my curiosity had set off this mushroom (Lycoperdon), spreading its chances of growing elsewhere.

Lately I’ve noticed mushrooms popping up everywhere. On sweaters and dishtowels, phone cases and socks, nightlights and mugs, and a pack of 60 stickers that somehow ended up in my online shopping cart. Among the blooming number of mushroom-based products are coffee, jerky, leather, pest control, insulation, and packaging. Science also is turning to mushrooms to treat cancer, lower cholesterol, and regulate blood sugar.

I used to think of mushrooms as the gray chunks in soup or the limp taupe morsels I flicked off pizza. But not too long ago, I watched two documentaries whimsically titled Fantastic Fungi and The Magic of Mushrooms. They featured mushroom experts (mycologists) cooing at the forest floor as they pointed out an array of mushrooms and other fungi species. The varieties enchanted me. Some looked lacy, wavy, shaggy, or pillowy. Some looked as if they had been snipped from paper. Some glowed in the dark. Some were yellow, brown, purple, and—my favorite—red with white spots. Mushrooms, it seemed, were growing on me.

With a fancifal soundtrack playing in the background, the narrator of The Magic of Mushrooms claimed that we are “more mushroom than you could ever imagine.” According to the evolutionary myth, 1 billion to 1.5 billion years ago, the branches that would become animals and plants split on the evolutionary tree. Not for another roughly 10 million years would fungi diverge from the animal branch, creating their own kingdom. This 10-million-year lag means fungi evolved closer to animals than to plants, which means, in evolutionary lingo, closer to humans. But are we related to the same mildew that coats our shower curtain and the toadstools that turn up after a rain?

In stark contrast to this far-fetched fungal tale, Genesis reveals a different memoir for the mushroom, an account in which fungi and humans are not related but are connected in a grand internet of life.

The Facts about Fungi

Mycologists estimate that fungi come in up to 3.8 million species, though only 120,000 species have been named and only 20,000 produce the reproductive structures we call mushrooms. The mold in your washing machine, mildew on your shower curtain, your teenager’s itchy athlete’s foot, the yeast in your bread, vein in your blue cheese—you might as well surrender: you’re surrounded by fungi. They live in the air, water, ground, animals, and even you.

But what are fungi exactly? No one would blame you for mistaking them as plants—after all, they often grow from the ground, close to trees and vegetation. But fungi are a kingdom apart from plants and anything else in creation. They are eukaryotes, organisms whose cells have a nucleus housing their DNA. Other eukaryotes include mammals, insects, plants, and humans. Unlike plants, however, fungi don’t have chlorophyll, so they cannot make their own food through photosynthesis. Just as you must eat a burger or broccoli to stay strong, fungi absorb nutrients from other resources, sometimes including burgers and broccoli, though their palate isn’t typically that refined. But more on their menu later.

Fungi also aren’t animals. Though they do some wild things, they don’t have a brain or intelligence. Much like plants, they operate through programming given by the Creator.

Mushrooming into Existence

No verse in Genesis proclaims, “And on the fifth day, God created fungi.” But we can deduce from the other aspects of creation which day fungi might have arrived on the scene. We know God made fungi sometime between days three and six. Some fungi that rely on plants might have been created on day three, while others associated with animals might have been created on days five and six. Or all might have been created on day three since traditional Hebrew includes fungi and bacteria in the plant kingdom. Whichever day they were created, we can be sure God spoke all the original fungi kinds into existence, no millions of years involved.

One Big Fungal Family

You might have heard the claim that humans and fungi share up to half their DNA. That sounds like a fungal falsity you’d flat out refuse—but not so fast. DNA is just a building block for all living things. Humans share similarities in DNA sequence with other eukaryotes because we all are made of cells. Though unlike fungi, humans have many more specialized cells and organs (like livers and eyeballs and pinky toes), some of our genes function the same way.

But do these DNA dots connect to a shared point on the evolutionary tree of life? Think about it: when you listen to music by the same composer, you often hear the same motifs repeated. Just pay attention to soundtracks from the Star Wars, Indiana Jones, and Jurassic Park movies to detect many similar motifs, all melodic fingerprints of the composer John Williams. Just as Williams incorporates sweeping symphonic orchestration in his soundtracks, our shared Designer used the same basic material—DNA—to build badgers and daffodils and shiitake mushrooms and your goofy Uncle Rob.

Fallen Fungi

In the garden of Eden before death entered the scene, fungi stayed busy by decomposing fallen leaves and decaying plants, fruits, and vegetables. And when nature, um, called for the animals and Adam, fungi ate that too.

Today, we associate fungi with darkness, slime, rot, spoil, stink, and death—icons of the fall. Much like roaches, vultures, and the guy who empties porta-potties, fungi have a crucial role in keeping the earth clean. Certain fungi, called saprophytes, eat dead material—and with all the death resulting from the fall, fungi has a field day. Turn over any log in the forest to find a fungus doing what it does best: eating. In fact, fungi are sometimes called the digestive tract of the forest. When a tree or animal or plant dies, fungi break out digestive juices to break down the organic matter into nutrition for the fungi and for living plants and trees. (Of course some fungi, like mold, also enjoy your two-week-old leftovers in the back of the fridge.)

The Dark Web

Fungi connect things. Under the ground lies a miraculous network that rivals the interconnection provided by the world wide web. In fact, some people call this network the “wood wide web.” These mycorrhizal (myco = fungus and rrhiza = root) fungi live underground within plant and tree root tissue. Scientists estimate that up to 80% of all land plant species form symbiotic relationships with mycorrhizal fungi.

Mycorrhizal fungi produce strands, called hyphae, that extend throughout the soil under our feet. The strands weave together to form a mat called the mycelium. (The next time you rip up a plant from your garden and spy white strings tangled in the soil, say hello to the mycelium.)

According to some estimates, each cubic inch of dirt contains miles of mycelium webbing through the soil. One mega mycelium network in Oregon covers over three square miles (10 sq km)!

Running through this world wide web of mycelium are not cat memes, conspiracy theories, and dad jokes but nutrients like oxygen, nitrogen, and phosphorus. The hyphae release an enzyme to break down organic matter (such as waste and rotting wood and even rocks) and absorb the minerals and nutrients. Though plants and trees have their own roots that draw in nutrients and water, the mycelium spreads out farther and faster than roots can.

Some trees even send messages to other trees and ship nutrients to each other by way of mycelium. For their services, the mycelium messengers make off with a sweet payment: sugars that the plants and trees produce through photosynthesis. Meanwhile, the mighty mycelium enriches the soil, improving all aspects of the ecosystem. Think about it: healthier worms and grubs mean birds will be fat and happy. Healthier trees create plenty of oxygen and store plenty of ground water. All this to say nothing of the habitat healthy trees provide for other forest creatures.

With its woven mat-like structure, mycelium also provides structure to prevent soil erosion. And the dead mycelium threads, called the necromass (which would make a cool name for an indie rock band), store carbon. Turns out, fungi are also great at absorbing toxic metals from the water and soil.

When it’s time for the mycelium to reproduce, a mushroom pops up above ground. (Not all mycelium produce mushrooms, but all mushrooms emerge from mycelium.) The mushroom produces millions of spores that hitch a ride on wind or water and settle in suitable places where they put down roots—hyphae, that is—to make more mycelium.

The next time you see mushrooms dotting your yard, remember they’re just the tip of the mycelium network. Beneath the ground run miniature threads, weaving a fabric for life.

Fighting Fungus

As in all communities, some fungi members can leech off the resources of others without giving anything back. We know them as parasites. Like most parasites, these fungi wreak havoc on crops and even creatures. The catastrophic Irish potato famine (known as the Great Hunger) in the mid 1800s offers a particularly tragic example of parasitic fungi. A blight (type of fungi) nearly wiped out the country’s entire potato crop, the sole food source for much of Ireland at the time. The famine caused more than a million deaths and forced another 1.5 million Irish to leave their island.

Some frightful fungi even infect insects, using chemicals to control their behavior. One fungus (Ophiocordyceps unilateralis) infects ants and takes over their nervous system, causing the insects to move to a more humid environment, optimal for the fungus’ growth. Then the fungus leads the ant to sink its mandibles into a leaf where the fungus will feed on its victim before sending a chute out the ant’s head and dispersing its spores to infect more unsuspecting ants.

As you might have feared, parasitic fungi don’t discriminate against humans. It’s all fun and fungi until our worlds collide and our connection gets a little too chummy.

Let’s kick around a personal illustration, shall we? Last year I decided to remove the toenail polish I’d been wearing far too long. When the paint wiped off, I gaped at the yellow pallor and green line running vertically down the nail. My toe had been taken over by a fungus (though thankfully not my puffball fungus).

After my initial horror, I learned that I’m in good company. Some sources say 1 in every 10 Americans carry around a freeloading fungus beneath their nails. Though toenail fungus isn’t typically lethal, around 1.7 million people die each year from other fungal infections, and even with constant advances in treatments, that number continues to rise. In December of 2021, a fungal infection (Candida auris) showed up in an Oregon hospital, and in early 2022, a hospital in Louisiana treated their first cases of the same infection. Around 30% of infected patients die if the fungus reaches the blood, heart, or brain.

All this to say nothing of people who suffer from mold allergies and mold toxicity, a buildup of mold in the body, causing a host of medical issues.

Fungal infections are difficult to treat and are swiftly becoming one of the greatest medical issues of our time. Because fungi metabolism resembles our own, treating a fungus could harm its human host. In other words, my fungal friend is probably settled in for the long haul (but if you’ve got any natural tricks or tips, send them by way of mycelium—uh, I mean, the internet).

Even the fight with fungi points to the connectivity in God’s design. After all, a mold fungus (Penicillium notatum) provided us with penicillin, one of the most widely used antibiotics in the world. Penicillin weakens a bacteria’s cell walls until they break, obliterating the threat. By synthesizing penicillin’s bacteria-fighting properties, we now treat any number of infections.

The Creator Connection

Though humans aren’t related to fungi, we are connected. In God’s creation, nothing functions alone. Each element is part of an ecosystem, large or small, affecting other creatures for good or for bad. And one of the greatest natural networks is fungi. It’s a reminder that though God endowed humans with his image—a distinctive not seen in any other creature or organism—we are still created apart from but part of God’s handiwork. The same Creator who made all things and holds all things together (Colossians 1:17) stooped to take on the DNA of humans—and fungi—to reestablish our connection back to God once broken by Adam’s sin.

So to recap: you aren’t more mushroom than you can imagine—but mushrooms might be more than you can imagine, each pointing not to a shared evolutionary process but to an incomprehensibly imaginative Creator.