Today the nave of Washington National Cathedral was filled for Jane Goodall’s celebration of life, drawing scientists, activists, diplomats, and children alike. The service opened not in mourning but in gratitude.
“This cathedral is a house of prayer for all people,” said Dean Randy Hollerith. “Jane was one of the world’s most remarkable human beings.” Few could disagree.
Goodall’s life spanned ninety-one years and an era of transformation in how humans see the natural world. The girl who once hid in a henhouse to watch eggs being laid became the scientist who revealed that chimpanzees use tools and express emotions long thought uniquely human. Yet the tributes this morning were less about what she discovered than how she lived: her patience, her wit, and her unrelenting belief that hope was not a sentiment but a discipline.
The quiet force
Anna Rathman, executive director of the Jane Goodall Institute USA, described a woman who led with restraint rather than volume, whose strength lay in conviction rather than command.
“Jane was never the loudest in the room,” Rathman said. “But her powerful message spoke volumes.”
Goodall, she reminded the audience, saw her institute as an ecosystem: a network of people working toward balance rather than hierarchy. The metaphor fit. To her, conservation was not a contest of dominance but a pattern of relationships, fragile yet resilient. Rathman urged those gathered to continue that work.
“Together we can, together we will, and together we must.”
Between hymns came readings by Indigenous representatives and family members. The words were elegiac but unsentimental, as Goodall herself might have preferred.
Science and the soul
Francis Collins, the physician and geneticist who led the Human Genome Project, recalled their unlikely friendship. He first met her at a Washington dinner. Within minutes she was chastising him—gently but firmly—about the treatment of chimpanzees in U.S. research labs.
“She appealed to our better angels,” he said.
She didn’t scold; she told stories. When he investigated, he found she was right. Her persistence helped end invasive chimp research in America.
Their bond deepened over years of dinners—often vegan Indian takeout—and late-night talks over whisky. They disagreed about genetically modified crops but never fell out.
“Her conversations were always unfailingly gracious and informative,” Collins said. He remembered her as someone who blended head and heart, science and spirit, reason and reverence.
Goodall’s “reasons for hope,” which she repeated like a litany, were the young, human intellect, the resilience of nature, and what she called the indomitable human spirit.
“No one represented that spirit better than Jane herself,” Collins said.
He imagined her now reunited with her mother, her dog Rusty, and the chimp she loved most, David Greybeard. Then he offered her own reminder: “You are here for a reason, and you can make a difference.”
Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jane
Leonardo DiCaprio spoke of a friendship that had lasted more than two decades, born of their shared environmental work as U.N. Messengers of Peace.
“It’s a privilege to stand here honoring a person of such immense magnitude,” he began. “Jane changed not only the world but so many of us in it.”
Where others spoke of her intellect, he spoke of her humanity. “The Jane I knew was gentle, curious, funny, witty, and absolutely unstoppable.” She had a way, he said, of making every conversation feel intimate, every cause achievable. “She never lingered in despair. She focused on what could be done.”
Even in her nineties, she traveled more than 300 days a year, sustained by what he called “resilience fueled by purpose.”
He remembered her approach to the camera: she preferred to look at the person next to her rather than the lens
“One of my favorite memories is from the first time I took a photo with Jane. I looked straight into the camera, but when I looked to my left, Jane was looking directly at me instead. She told me that that’s the way she preferred to take her photos because for her, it was never about the image itself. It was about that shared connection. And that small moment said everything to me about who she was, an enlightened homo sapien.”
DiCaprio closed with a plea that echoed her own. “May we all honor her by carrying forward that same fierce belief that we can do better, that we must do better, and that we have a responsibility to protect this beautiful natural world we all share.”
Then, quoting her directly: “Every day that we live, we can make an impact. May ours be an impact of hope.”
A grandson’s farewell
Among the tributes was one from her eldest grandson, Merlin van Lawick. He carried Mr. H, the well-traveled plush chimpanzee that had accompanied his grandmother to countless schools and speeches.
Each day in Gombe, he said, she would walk alone to her secret spot by the water, slipping through vines to sit in silence. She returned hours later, telling stories of ants and beetles and birds, each observed with the same reverence she once reserved for chimpanzees.
“She constantly reminded us that life was full of wonders,” he said. “When she left, she always returned. We would wait for her stories.”
This time, he acknowledged, she would not return. But he imagined her embarking on the “next great adventure” she often spoke of—the mystery of what comes after life.
“Either there’s nothing, in which case there’s nothing to worry about,” she used to say. “Or there’s something—and isn’t that the most exciting thing of all?”
He promised to carry on her mission: to think with a “clever human brain,” to act with a “compassionate human heart,” to live by her maxim that every individual matters.
“The seeds of hope you have planted have taken root in millions,” he said. “You will live on in countless hearts.”
The meaning of a life fully alive
Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde, who delivered the homily, called Goodall “a human being fully alive.” Her task, she said, was to translate that aliveness into a charge for the living. Reading from Goodall’s own writings, she described the sense of connection the scientist had felt in the forests of Tanzania—the awe of standing under trees after rain, the hush of dawn over Lake Tanganyika.
Budde quoted a line Jane had recorded near the end of her life, featured in the Netflix special Last Words: “In the place where I am now, I want to make sure that you understand that each of you has a role to play. Even where the planet is dark, there is still hope.”
For Budde, those were marching orders. “Get up. Go ahead. Do something,” she told the congregation. “Move to preserve our beautiful planet for all living beings.”
Her words bridged scripture and science, echoing the message Goodall had carried for decades: that knowledge is not enough without compassion, and that reverence is not weakness but strength.
A final benediction
The service included music and tributes from across Goodall’s wide world: Indigenous leaders offering prayers, young members of Roots & Shoots, and musicians from the National Symphony and the Cathedral Choir. Outside, therapy dogs from People Animals Love waited to greet attendees—a nod to Goodall’s affection for dogs, her “first love” before chimpanzees. A giant peace dove puppet, familiar from her youth events, was carried by young Roots & Shoots members.
It was a fitting symbol for a woman who insisted that hope must be acted upon. Her legacy, as her grandson said, belongs now to those willing to carry it forward.
Goodall spent a lifetime persuading the world that empathy was not a luxury, that action begins with wonder, and that hope, practiced daily, can become a habit as natural as breathing. Her grandson’s promise captured it best: “We will make the necessary changes in our lives to live by your motto. Every individual matters. Every individual makes a difference and it is up to us to decide what difference we make.”
The service ended not with finality, but with an invitation to carry her light forward. Her life showed that hope endures only through what we do next.
