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Jim McCrory

The Power of Fewer Characters: Creative Writing

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 26 Nov 2024, 08:13



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The Power of Fewer Characters

I remember opening War and Peace with a sense of excitement and reverence. Tolstoy’s masterpiece, heralded as one of the greatest novels of all time, seemed to promise an unparalleled literary journey. Yet, as I waded deeper into its labyrinth of characters and historical intricacies, the excitement waned. I found myself flipping back to recall names, relationships, and motivations. Before long, I set the book aside, its complexities outstripping my patience and desire to connect.

This experience sparked a reflection on the kind of stories that truly resonate with me. Over the past decade, the books I have cherished most all share a notable characteristic: they revolve around a few central characters, allowing me to form deeper emotional connections. Stories like The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas by John Boyne, and the short stories of Flannery O’Connor and Tobias Wolff invite readers into intimate, focused worlds. Their casts are limited, their narratives precise, and their impact profound.

Why is it, I wondered, that these stories linger so vividly while sprawling epics like War and Peace slip through my fingers? The answer, I believe, lies in the simplicity and relatability of their character-driven storytelling.

In a novel like The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, we walk alongside Harold as he embarks on a journey of self-discovery, grief, and redemption. The narrative is stripped down to essentials: Harold, his wife Maureen, and a few individuals he meets along the way. This narrow focus allows us to inhabit Harold’s thoughts, fears, and longings. His journey becomes our journey, his transformation our transformation.

The same is true of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. With its childlike perspective and restrained cast, the story zeroes in on the innocence of Bruno and Shmuel amid the horrors of the Holocaust. This intimacy amplifies its emotional impact; by the end, the loss feels personal, as though we have been touched by tragedy ourselves.

Short stories, by their very nature, excel in this economy of focus. Flannery O’Connor’s tales, for instance, introduce us to deeply flawed yet vividly human characters, often grappling with moments of grace or despair. Tobias Wolff, too, captures entire worlds within the constraints of a few pages, showing how the lives of one or two individuals can illuminate universal truths.

The challenge with sprawling novels like War and Peace lies not in their artistry but in their overwhelming scope. Tolstoy’s work is a panorama of Russian society, history, and philosophy. It demands intellectual engagement, certainly, but it risks losing emotional resonance amidst its vastness.

By contrast, stories with fewer characters distil the complexities of human experience into relationships we can understand and relate to. These narratives invite us to linger in the spaces between words, to reflect on how a single person’s choices ripple outward. They are, in a sense, microcosms of life itself, where depth outweighs breadth.

From a reader’s perspective, fewer characters often mean a more immersive and satisfying experience. Instead of juggling a roster of names and subplots, we can invest fully in the people before us. This emotional connection enriches the story, making it more memorable.

The academic lens supports this view. Psychologists have found that readers form stronger emotional bonds with characters when narratives are less crowded. This phenomenon, known as narrative transportation, suggests that simplicity fosters empathy, allowing us to step more fully into the lives of fictional characters.

Of course, preferences vary. Some readers thrive on the grandeur of epic tales, where history and humanity collide on a grand scale. Others, like me, find solace and meaning in the quiet brilliance of smaller stories. This is not a judgment of merit but a recognition of what moves us most deeply.

For me, the books I treasure are those that invite me into the hearts of a few individuals and hold me there long after I turn the last page. They remind me that even in life, it is not the multitude of acquaintances that shapes us but the depth of our relationships. Perhaps that is why, as I grow older, I find myself reaching for the familiar comfort of fewer characters, fewer distractions, and a clearer window into the human soul.

Tolstoy will have to wait. For now, I am content walking alongside Harold Fry, sitting at the table with O’Connor’s flawed everypersons, and listening to the quiet whispers of Wolff’s characters. In their company, I have found a richness that even the grandest epics cannot rival.


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Jim McCrory

A Letter To Those Who Walk Without Empathy

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 24 Nov 2024, 12:41




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Dear Fellow human,

I don’t write with anger or judgment, I don't even like using the word "sociopath" — it seems so confrontational and judgemental. How about,  A Letter To Those Who Walk Without Empathy? That sounds better.

I pen this letter with a heartfelt plea for reflection and hope. You may not think of yourself as someone who hurts others. Maybe you justify your actions, rationalizing that people deserve what happens to them or that life is simply a game to be played and won. But deep down, there’s a truth you can’t outrun: the choices we make, especially the way we treat others, shape the person we become.

You may have mastered the art of charm, weaving a web of deception so seamlessly that it feels second nature. Perhaps you’ve lied to gain someone’s trust, taken shortcuts without a second thought, or avoided responsibility by blaming others. You might act impulsively, driven by whims, or find it hard to control the anger that flares when life doesn’t go your way. And when relationships falter, maybe you’ve told yourself it’s their fault, not yours. Ultimately, you will never find happiness in this way. Perhaps, loneliness.

But here’s the thing: you don’t have to stay on this path. The capacity to choose differently, to rewrite the narrative of your life, is always within reach.

Psalm 15 offers a vision of what it means to live a life of integrity and depth—a life where others find safety, trust, and love in your presence. It says:

"Lord, who may dwell in your sacred tent?

Who may live on your holy mountain?

The one whose walk is blameless,

who does what is righteous,

who speaks the truth from their heart;

whose tongue utters no slander,

who does no wrong to a neighbor,

and casts no slur on others;

who despises a vile person

but honors those who fear the Lord;

who keeps an oath even when it hurts,

and does not change their mind;

who lends money to the poor without interest;

who does not accept a bribe against the innocent.

Whoever does these things

will never be shaken.

(NIV)

This passage isn’t just a lofty ideal; it’s an invitation. Imagine being someone others can trust completely, who speaks the truth even when it’s hard, who lifts others up instead of tearing them down. Imagine being someone who keeps their promises, lives with honesty, and treats others with kindness—not because it’s easy, but because it’s right.

What would it take for you to start walking this path?

Yes, it requires courage. It means acknowledging the harm you’ve caused, taking responsibility, and making amends where you can. It means letting go of excuses and facing the uncomfortable truth about yourself. But it also means freedom—freedom from the lies, the manipulation, and the emptiness that often accompany a life of deceit.

You were created for more than this. You were designed to connect deeply, to love sincerely, and to bring good into the world. It’s not too late to change. Seeking help is not a weakness but a sign of strength. Reaching out for guidance, admitting your struggles, and striving for a life of integrity can transform not just your relationships, but your entire sense of purpose. The very fact that you are reading this may be that God is prompting you to attain something better.

If this message feels like a confrontation, I hope you’ll see it instead as an act of care. Change isn’t easy, but the rewards are profound: peace of mind, genuine relationships, and a life that reflects the beauty of Psalm 15.

The path to becoming a person of integrity is open to you. The question is, will you take it?

With hope for your future,

A Fellow Human.

If you need support, Join us at Unshackled Faith Bible Study and Discussion Group - DownToMeet

 

Bible verses from the NIV,

THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.


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Jim McCrory

Serendipity Among the Stones: A Creative Awakening at the Glasgow Necropolis

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 22 Nov 2024, 18:57



"In the garden of memory, 

in the palace of dreams... 

that is where you and I shall meet."

– Théophile Gautier




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Serendipity Among the Stones: A Creative Awakening at the Glasgow Necropolis

What surprised me about yesterday’s blog was it received the most visitors since I’ve been blogging. It was just under 6000 visitors. I guess it was universal themes of life, death and hope that connects us all. However, I cannot forget the serendipity of yesterday— (See footnote).

It wasn’t a planned visit. My footsteps to the Glasgow Necropolis yesterday were, in hindsight, guided by something I might call serendipity. Like Newton’s apple, which fell at precisely the right moment to spark a revolutionary idea, my presence there was more than chance—it was a creative alignment of time, place, and reflection.

I hadn’t intended to spend that November afternoon walking among the graves of strangers, contemplating the mysteries of life and death. My original plan was more unsure. But as I passed Cathedral Square, a sudden pull directed my gaze to the imposing structure of the Necropolis, its headstones and monuments silhouetted against Glasgow’s afternoon sun. Something prompted within me—a nudge, an unspoken thought. Without much hesitation, I found myself climbing the hill into that silent city departed where they lay as victims of  Sheol's insatiable appetite. 

It’s strange how serendipity works. The events that led me there felt insignificant at the time: a slight change of direction, a chance look upward, the absence of pressing commitments. But in retrospect, I see how those small, seemingly inconsequential decisions brought me to a place that would inspire more than just an afternoon’s contemplation. It would become the setting for a piece of writing that would connect deeply with others—more deeply than anything else I’d written.

Yet, it wasn’t just the graves that shaped my thoughts that day. Serendipity had one more piece to the puzzle: the group of volunteers I encountered earlier in the city, raising funds for Pancreatic Cancer Action. Their resilience, their fight to preserve life against all odds, contrasted poignantly with the stillness of the Necropolis. The tension between these two encounters—a vibrant struggle for life on one hand, and the inevitability of death on the other—ignited something in me. It felt like Newton’s apple hitting my creative mind, a collision that produced sparks of insight.

Serendipity has a way of weaving threads we don’t notice until the tapestry is complete. My essay, born of that day, became a meditation on life, death, and the hope of resurrection. It was also a testament to the unexpected alchemy of creativity—the way chance encounters, and unplanned moments can converge into something meaningful. I hadn’t gone to the Necropolis seeking inspiration. But inspiration found me, because I happened to be at the right place at the right time, both physically and mentally.

This idea of serendipity is not new. Many creative breakthroughs, from scientific discoveries to works of art, owe their origins to chance encounters. Newton’s falling apple, Fleming’s accidental discovery of penicillin, even Wordsworth’s daffodils—all these moments hinge on being present, receptive, and willing to explore the unplanned. Creativity often thrives not in rigidly controlled circumstances but in the interplay of curiosity and chance.

Reflecting on that day, I realize that serendipity isn’t just about luck. It’s about awareness—being open to the world and its whispers. The Necropolis was there long before I arrived, its stories silently waiting to be told. The volunteers, too, had been standing there in the cold for hours, offering their smiles and hope to passers-by. What changed that day was my ability to notice, to connect the dots, and to let those moments shape me.

In the end, serendipity and creativity share a common thread: both require a kind of faith. Faith that the apple will fall, that the unplanned detour will lead somewhere meaningful, that the graves of strangers might whisper something profound to an unsuspecting visitor. And sometimes, as it was for me that day, faith that an ordinary afternoon can transform into an extraordinary moment of insight.

When I think back to the Necropolis now, I’m filled with gratitude—not just for the inspiration it gave me but for the serendipitous chain of events that brought me there. It’s a reminder to embrace life’s unplanned moments, to be present and attentive. Because in those moments, whether walking among the gravestones of the past or beneath the apple trees of possibility, we might just find the seeds of something extraordinary.

Footnote:

Serendipity refers to the occurrence of events by chance in a happy or revealing way. Call it a fortunate coincidence. The word has its roots in the Persian fairy tale, The Three Princes of Serendip, in which the characters frequently make discoveries by chance.


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Jim McCrory

The Glasgow Necropolis Where A Silent City Awaits

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 22 Nov 2024, 11:51



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The Glasgow Necropolis Where A Silent City Awaits

Walking through the Glasgow Necropolis, I am reminded of its stillness as it sits over Mother Glasgow and silently observes the living. The gravestones and monuments are weathered with time, others upgraded by forward generations who tell stories of lives once lived. Each name etched in stone represents someone who walked these streets, shared meals, and whispered secrets under Glasgow's grey skies.

Yet, beneath those stones lie mysteries I cannot fully grasp. These people once laughed, argued, hoped, and dreamed. They travelled, however far their lives allowed, saw sunsets over the Clyde, and perhaps loved or lost in ways as profound as we do now. What strikes me most is the thought of their consciousness—that inner film reel of moments unique to each person. Where has it gone?

Earlier that day, as I arrived in Glasgow, I encountered a group of volunteers raising funds for Pancreatic Cancer Action. They stood resolutely, braving the November chill with their collection buckets and bright smiles. Each one no doubt had a story, perhaps of this malady that robbed them and their family of so much life.

It struck me that at one end of Glasgow, there were people fighting to stave off death, channelling their concerns into hope and action. And yet, here in the Necropolis, I stood among those who had already succumbed. The contrast was sobering—on one hand, the fierce struggle to preserve life; on the other, the stillness of its end.

The Bible speaks of the breath of life, given and then taken away. In Ecclesiastes, we read that the dead know nothing, their plans and thoughts extinguished with their final breath. It’s an arresting image—this idea that what makes us who we are is so intimately tied to the breath God gives us. The people buried here had thoughts as vivid as mine, dreams that seemed so tangible, and inner worlds so rich that they would have resisted reduction to mere dust. And yet, the moment their breath left them, those worlds ceased to exist in the way we understand.

But as I walk these paths, I feel a sense of expectation, not hopelessness. Jesus’ words in John 5:28-29 echo in my mind: “Do not marvel at this; for the hour is coming in which all who are in the graves will hear His voice and come forth.” This promise fills the Necropolis with a strange kind of anticipation. If Jesus’ words are true, then these lives are not extinguished but merely paused, waiting for renewal.

What does it mean to be worthy of such renewal? I think of the struggles these people endured. Their gravestones hint at professions, relationships, and sometimes tragedies. But their worthiness, as Jesus described it, is not measured by accolades or wealth. It’s wrapped up in their relationship with their Creator—the choices they made when confronted with love, kindness, and faith.

The volunteers reminded me of this worthiness. Their fight against cancer was not just about extending days but about honouring the lives that had been lost. Their stories, like those etched in stone at the Necropolis, were filled with love, loss, and resilience. They stood as a reminder that the breath of life is precious and must be cherished.

The Necropolis reminds me that life is fleeting and precious.  But it also whispers of eternity, of a future where these lives may once again unfold in vibrant colour. The struggles we face, the meals we share with loved ones, and the dreams we pursue are not lost forever. They are held in suspension, preserved in the mind of God, who knows the secrets of every heart.

Walking among the graves, I feel a strange kinship with those who lie here. Someday, someone may wander past my resting place and wonder about my inner world, too. But the promise of resurrection bridges the divide between the living and the dead, offering hope that this mystery called consciousness will one day be restored, illuminated by the One who gave it life.



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Jim McCrory

Good Morning Estonia! I like Your Word Töörõõm.

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 22 Nov 2024, 18:45



"When I behold Your heavens,

the work of Your fingers,

the moon and the stars,

which You have set in place—

what is man that You are mindful of him,

or the son of man that You care for him?"

 — Psalm 8:3, 4. BSB



Every morning, as the first light filters through the curtains, I rise with a sense of joy, even though a shadow looms over me—one cast by the sword of Damocles, ever-present after a cancer diagnosis. Yet, despite this, I experience a peace and satisfaction that comes not from circumstance, but from the deeper places of life. As I rise, I embrace the quiet moments I have with my Creator, taking time to read from the Bible, pray, and reflect in silence. This sacred time is a wellspring of joy, a touchstone of stability in the face of life's uncertainties.

In those moments, I feel connected to a purpose beyond myself—a divine assurance that whatever challenges come, I am not alone. This time alone with God is my joy, a reminder that there is meaning even in the hardest days. For me, it is an anchor that keeps me grounded, a gentle whisper that life’s purpose is not defined by the trials we face but by the grace with which we respond to them.

Following this sacred time, my second source of joy is writing. Writing is my refuge and my expression, a way to channel the thoughts that arise during my moments of reflection into something tangible. I strive to focus my writing on the gentler, more positive side of life—the beauty of kindness, the warmth of human connection, and the joy of making the world a better place. In a world that often feels marred by negativity, I find solace in telling stories that inspire hope and evoke the quiet joy of simple living.

Today, my wife and I are meeting a friend from Estonia, a kindred spirit we met in Slovenia, and this prompts me to reflect on a Estonian word that carries profound meaning: Töörõõm. This untranslatable word is a beautiful expression of joy, one that highlights the essence of fulfilment derived from meaningful work. The literal translation of Töörõõm is “work joy,” but it encompasses so much more. It refers to the satisfaction, contentment, and peace that arises when one pours themselves into a task—whether that be a job, a project, or an endeavor—with love and care.

It’s a joy born not of the end result, but from the process itself, the journey of giving your best in the service of something that matters. In many ways, this concept resonates with my own sense of ikigai, a Japanese word that means "a reason for being." It’s the convergence of what you love, what you’re good at, what the world needs, and what you can be paid for. When all these elements align, the result is not just a career or a calling, but a life lived with purpose. This idea, akin to the Slovenian Töörõõm, captures the joy that comes from living a life of meaning, a life dedicated to what is worthwhile, and a life that can find joy in every small action, no matter the outcome.

In my own life, Töörõõm manifests in many ways—through my morning routine with God, my work as a writer, and even in the quiet moments spent with loved ones. It is the joy of knowing that what I do each day, whether it’s writing a few lines, sharing a conversation, or simply being present for someone, has meaning. It’s the contentment that comes from knowing that the work, whether big or small, is done with sincerity and purpose.

As I reflect on this joy, I find that it extends beyond work. It seeps into relationships, into small acts of kindness, and into the appreciation of nature’s beauty—whether it’s the first rays of light in the morning, the sound of birds chirping outside, or the laughter shared between friends. The joy of Töörõõm is the recognition that our work, and our lives, are connected to something greater, something that transcends the mundane and the difficult.

Today, as I meet our friend from Estonia, I am reminded of how these moments of connection are part of a larger tapestry. This joy is found not in the absence of suffering, but in the presence of purpose. As we gather, share stories, and laugh, I am reminded that the moments of joy in life—those quiet, unassuming, and sometimes fleeting moments—are the ones that carry the deepest meaning. It is through these connections and these small acts of living intentionally that we find our ikigai, our reason for being.

In a world often overshadowed by fear and uncertainty, it is in the pursuit of joy through meaningful work, through connection, and through reflection, that we find our way. And, as I reflect on the joy of Töörõõm, I realize that joy is not something we seek in grand achievements or in the absence of trials. It is found in the quiet satisfaction of living a life aligned with purpose, no matter the challenges that lie ahead.


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Jim McCrory

In Search of Christian Freedom

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 28 Nov 2024, 09:55

     


Forced belief denies the free will God gifted us.



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When people walk away from a religious group, tired of the weight of leadership’s flaws, they often find themselves on a winding and perplexing road. The desire for connection pulls them toward new communities, ones that seem to promise a refuge from the burdens they left behind. At first, there’s relief—a lightness in escaping the rigid expectations and disillusionment. But as they settle into these new groups, they begin to notice something unsettling: familiar patterns emerging, like shadows they thought they had escaped.

Rules creep in, subtle at first but growing, expectations of conformity tighten, and leaders claim authority that begins to feel uncomfortably similar to the very structure they fled. Financial appeals, unyielding doctrines, and a sense of déjà vu bring the realization—they’ve traded one set of chains for another.

The journey of leaving a group is no small feat. It carves out a void, a cavernous space where identity and purpose once resided. Filling that emptiness can be an overwhelming task. The hope placed in new connections often blinds people to warning signs. Red flags become pink in the glow of belonging, and initial misgivings are smoothed over by rationalizations. “This time,” they tell themselves, “It’s different.” But gradually, like a well-worn script, the same story begins to play out again.

Ironically, many who move on find themselves still tethered to their past, their focus shifting from faith to fury. Instead of embracing new paths, they become fixated on dismantling the old. Their lives can turn into a relentless campaign to prove their departure was justified, an endless retelling of grievances. The energy spent tearing down what was left behind traps them, a Sisyphean cycle of rolling the same stone uphill, only to see it tumble back into resentment.

The psalmist’s wisdom in Psalm 146:3 offers a striking reflection: “Do not put your trust in princes, in human beings, who cannot save.” It’s a reminder that human leadership—whether from old groups or new—is fraught with imperfection. Jesus, too, warned against relying on flawed authority. His invitation was clear: seek God directly. “And do not call anyone on earth ‘father,’ for you have one Father, and he is in heaven” (Matthew 23:9). This call challenges us to anchor our faith not in institutions or leaders, but in a personal relationship with God.

Too often, the yearning to belong leads people to compromise their own convictions, bending their conscience to fit into the mold of a group. Yet true belonging doesn’t require this sacrifice. It springs from a deep connection with God, one that equips us to engage in community without losing ourselves. It’s a belonging rooted not in conformity but in authenticity.

Perhaps the way forward isn’t to avoid groups altogether but to approach them with an open and discerning heart. To recognize the value of shared faith and fellowship while remaining vigilant against placing too much trust in human structures. Trusting God above all frees us to participate in community without the chains of dependency, allowing our faith to remain steadfast, even when human leaders falter.

The liberation lies in breaking free from the need for human mediators and rediscovering the simplicity of walking with God. It’s here that peace is found—not in proving the past wrong, but in embracing a future rooted in grace and truth. No longer shadowboxing with old beliefs, we can move forward with confidence, knowing that our ultimate guide is not a person or a group, but God Himself



 

 



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Jim McCrory

Mutually Assured Destruction

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"He who digs a pit will fall into it, 

and he who rolls a stone will have it roll back on him." 

                                                                                                    Proverbs 26:27



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Clan McRouge and Clan MacGris: A Fable

In a dense forest nestled between two hills, two fox clans lived on either side of a wide river. The Red Foxes occupied the eastern hill, while the Gray Foxes lived on the western one. Both clans were clever and resourceful, but their mutual distrust had grown over the years. Each feared the other would cross the river and claim their territory.

One day, the Red Foxes discovered how to spark fire using flint and dry grass. At first, they used it to keep warm and ward off predators, but soon their leader, Hector, had another idea.

"If the Gray Foxes ever threaten us," he announced, "we can use fired torches as weapons." He showed his clan how to make flaming bundles and hurl them across the river. "They won't dare come near us if they know what we can do."

When word of this reached the Gray Foxes, their leader, Toxo, decided they needed fire too. With much effort, they learned to ignite their own flames. Toxo declared, "If the Red Foxes think they can burn us, we’ll burn them first."

Now both clans possessed the power to destroy each other. They stockpiled dry wood and practiced throwing their fiery missiles across the river. Tension filled the air, and the once-vibrant forest became a place of unease.

One dry summer — a unique occurrence in Glen Geddon, a small ember from the Red Foxes’ practice ignited a patch of grass by the river. The flames leaped across the water to the Gray Foxes’ side, where their firewood piles caught alight. Panicking, the Gray Foxes retaliated, hurling their own flaming bundles back at the Red Foxes.

The blaze spread rapidly, consuming trees, burrows, and nests. Both clans fled to the barren outskirts of the forest, watching in horror as their homes were reduced to ashes.


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“Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.'"

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 28 Nov 2024, 09:56




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Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.'"

Luke 10:41-42

 

The New Testament paints a remarkable picture of women who played pivotal roles in the early Christian movement, often defying the cultural norms of their time. These accounts highlight not only their contributions but also their inherent value in the story of God’s work through Christ. Yet, the question of whether women should hold positions of authority in religious organizations remains a point of contention, often rooted in specific scriptural interpretations. To fully appreciate the issue, it is essential to explore the roles of women in the New Testament with compassion and to consider the validity of restricting their authority from a biblical perspective.

Women in the Greek text stand as vibrant witnesses to the transformative power of the gospel. They were not passive bystanders but active participants in Christ's ministry. It was Christian sisters, not men, who were first entrusted with the news of Jesus’ resurrection—arguably the most critical message in Christian history. Mary Magdalene, often called the “apostle to the apostles,” was the first to meet the risen Christ, receiving His command to proclaim the resurrection to the disciples. In a culture where women’s testimony was frequently dismissed, Jesus’ trust in Mary speaks volumes about the value He placed on women as bearers of truth.

Beyond their role as witnesses, women were disciples, supporters, and leaders in the early church. Mary of Bethany sat at Jesus’ feet, a position of learning traditionally reserved for men, demonstrating that discipleship transcended gender. Joanna and Susanna provided material support for Jesus’ ministry, while others, such as Lydia, hosted early Christian gatherings in their homes, creating spaces where faith could flourish. Priscilla, alongside her husband Aquila, taught Apollos, one of the early church’s most eloquent preachers, illustrating the significant teaching roles women could hold. Even in the conservative societies of the first century, these examples show how the gospel elevated women’s status and recognized their spiritual gifts.

Scripture also highlights women in roles of authority and leadership. Phoebe is described by Paul as a deacon of the church in Cenchreae—the masculine term indicating she had that office of authority—, and a benefactor, entrusted with delivering his letter to the Romans. Junia, mentioned in Romans, is referred to as “outstanding among the apostles,” a designation that has sparked much debate but nonetheless underscores her prominence in the early church. Women such as Anna, the prophet who bore witness to Jesus in the temple, and Philip’s four daughters, who prophesied, demonstrate that women were not only included but celebrated as spiritual leaders.

Despite these affirmations, certain passages in the New Testament are often cited to justify restricting women from positions of authority. In Paul’s letters, verses such as 1 Timothy 2:11–12 and 1 Corinthians 14:34–35 appear to limit women’s roles in teaching and leadership within the church. These texts have been interpreted as universal commands, yet they are not without complexity. Paul’s instructions may have been addressing specific cultural issues, such as false teachings spreading in Ephesus or disruptions in Corinthian worship. Viewed in their historical and social contexts, these restrictions do not necessarily contradict the broader narrative of women’s equality in Christ.

A deeper reading of scripture reveals a tension between cultural norms and spiritual realities. While Paul occasionally referenced the creation order to explain male headship, his broader theology emphasized unity and equality in Christ. In Galatians 3:28, Paul wrote that “there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” This declaration underscores the spiritual equality of all believers, challenging any interpretation that permanently relegates women to subordinate roles. The gospel message itself is one of liberation, where societal hierarchies are dismantled in favour of mutual service and love.

Religious organizations that restrict women from leadership roles often claim they are upholding biblical principles, yet they must wrestle with the New Testament’s profound acknowledgment of women’s value and contributions. The examples of women like Mary Magdalene, Priscilla, Phoebe, and Junia serve as enduring testimonies to the integral role of women in God’s plan. Their stories invite us to consider whether the gospel calls for their full inclusion in leadership, not as a concession to modernity but as a faithful response to the radical equality Christ inaugurated.

The New Testament is clear in its affirmation of women’s worth and their God-given gifts. While the question of authority remains debated, it must be approached with a spirit of compassion and humility. Women in the early church were entrusted with extraordinary responsibilities, and their legacy calls us to honour their contributions not only in history but also in the present. Rather than restricting their roles, we should celebrate the richness they bring to the body of Christ, recognizing that in Him, all barriers of division are overcome.




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"God writes straight with crooked lines."

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 29 Nov 2024, 07:55



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"God writes straight with crooked lines."

– Portuguese Proverb

The Portuguese proverb conveys the idea that even when life feels confusing or unjust, God’s wisdom can transform apparent chaos or human errors into something meaningful and good. This reflects a perspective rooted in faith and trust in divine providence, suggesting that challenges often serve a greater purpose, even if it’s not immediately visible to us.

This reflection was sparked by the heartfelt anguish of a young woman I read about online,  who, while reading the Bible, struggled to reconcile its words with her church’s teaching on the Trinity. Her experience reflects the struggles of many in high-control religious environments, where questioning organizational dogma can lead to ostracism, excommunication, or disfellowshipping—practices akin to the control mechanisms used by the Pharisees of Jesus’s day. Ironically, these punishments often come from organizations whose interpretations are themselves fluid and contradictory. 

Having grown up in the Christian faith, I have witnessed the tangle of doctrinal differences that divide believers. Some firmly uphold the Trinity, while others reject it. The concept of hellfire sparks similar debates: is it biblical truth or a misreading? Questions about Jesus’ origins also divide opinion—was His existence prehuman, or did it begin with His birth in Bethlehem? 

For those who study Scripture and arrive at conclusions differing from established teachings, the struggle is both theological and personal. Trusting one’s understanding of God’s Word often comes at a steep cost: isolation and rejection. This tension between personal faith and institutional rigidity highlights the challenge of navigating diverse interpretations within Christianity. 

These questions, though deeply theological, are far from abstract. They shape how we understand God and live our faith, exposing both the richness and the fractures within the Christian community. 

As someone who deeply loves God and seeks to follow Christ, I have found these differences both perplexing and unsettling. I have wrestled with questions that defy definitive answers and often wondered how God views the sincere efforts of believers who arrive at such diverse conclusions. 

The thought frequently comes to me: How does God see all of this? 

The answer, I believe, begins with God’s own heart. The Bible emphasizes repeatedly that He values what’s within us more than external perfection. I am comforted by the account of Samuel anointing David as king. God’s words— “Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart”—remind me that He sees beyond human correctness to the sincerity of our devotion. 

God recognizes the love and earnestness in the hearts of His worshippers. He knows the struggles of those who seek to worship Him as they believe is right—their hours in prayer, their trembling hands turning the pages of Scripture, their trust amidst uncertainty. 

But there remains the matter of truth. If God values truth, how do we reconcile the vast differences in how we understand it? This question once filled me with anxiety. I feared failing Him by misunderstanding something vital. Yet, as I have grown older, I’ve realized that the search for truth is not about achieving flawless comprehension but about the willingness to seek, to trust, and to accept our limitations. 

Isaiah’s words come to mind: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.” These words challenge my pride but also reassure me that God’s plan surpasses my understanding. 

The diversity of beliefs within Christianity reflects our humanity. Culture, history, and personal experience inevitably influence how we approach God’s Word. Even in the early church, disagreements were common—Paul and Peter did not always see eye to eye. Yet, God worked through them both. 

When I consider Jesus’ life, I see someone who prioritized the heart over dogma. He did not align with the religious factions of His time—Pharisees, Sadducees, or Essenes. Instead, He called people to love God and neighbour. While He corrected misunderstandings, He also extended grace to those earnestly seeking to follow Him. Think the woman at the well whose people worshiped in a place different from the Jews.

So where does that leave me? 

It leaves me with hope. Hope that God’s judgment is perfect, tempered with mercy, and not limited by human biases. Hope that my imperfect understanding won’t separate me from His love. Hope that the sincerity of my search matters more to Him than my grasp of every doctrine. 

Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians anchor me: “Now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.” While I lack all the answers now, I trust that clarity will come in God’s time.  For now, I live by what I know: that God is love, just, and faithful. I strive to love Him with all my heart, soul, and mind and to love others as myself. Beyond that, I trust Him to guide me—and all who seek Him—into truth. 

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Is It Wrong to Pray to Jesus?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 30 Nov 2024, 17:49



Image Generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

When I was a member of a religious group, I always thought I was doing Jesus a great injustice by just adding the tag “In Jesus Name” as if Jesus was not listening. The question of whether Jesus wants us to pray to Him or only to the Father or both, is one that has puzzled Christians for centuries. It touches on the nature of prayer, the relationship between Jesus and the Father, and how believers are invited to approach God. Looking at the Bible, we find some illuminating insights that can guide us. 

When Jesus taught His disciples about prayer, He pointed them to the Father. The Lord’s Prayer, for instance, begins with the words, “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name.” It’s clear that Jesus wanted His followers to direct their hearts and minds to God the Father, emphasizing a close and personal relationship. This prayer, often seen as a model for all Christian prayer, places the Father at the centre. 

But then, Jesus also says something remarkable in the Gospel of John:

…whatever you ask in My name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If you ask Me for anything in My name, I will do it.” (John 14:13-14).

This passage suggests that Jesus Himself is involved in answering prayer. He doesn’t simply pass the request along to the Father; He takes an active role, showing His authority and unity with God. 

This dual focus—the Father as the one to whom prayers are directed and Jesus as the mediator—runs through much of the New Testament. Paul, for instance, calls Jesus the "one mediator between God and men” (1 Timothy 2:5). In other words, Jesus isn’t just a passive figure in our prayers. He is the bridge that connects us to the Father, ensuring that our prayers are heard and answered according to God’s will. 

Interestingly, there are moments in the Bible where people pray directly to Jesus. One important example is Stephen, one of the early disciples. As he was being stoned, he cried out, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit. Falling on his knees, he cried out in a loud voice, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” (Acts 7:59). In that desperate and sacred moment, Stephen turned to Jesus, acknowledging Him as the one who could receive his soul. Similarly, Paul describes pleading with the Lord—likely Jesus—about a "thorn in the flesh" that tormented him, asking for relief (2 Corinthians 12:8-9). These moments show that prayer to Jesus has a strong precedent in Christian practice. 

Of course, some Christians feel strongly that prayer should only be directed to the Father, following Jesus’ example. They argue that Jesus’ role is to intercede on our behalf, rather than to be the recipient of prayer.  

So where does that leave us? It seems that the Bible leaves room for both approaches. Jesus taught us to pray to the Father, and yet He also invited us to ask in His name, promising that He would act. Moments like Stephen’s prayer to Jesus or Paul’s pleas remind us that Jesus is not only our mediator but also the Lord who hears and responds. 

Finding the balance is up to each individual, but the ultimate motive is to bring glory to the Father and honour to Jesus whom every knee will bend to.



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Love With No Agenda

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 30 Nov 2024, 08:21


The Good Samaritan flips the script: 

compassion isn't about who you are or where you're from,

it's about what you do when someone else is in need.



Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot



Love With No Agenda

Throughout my life, I’ve noticed something curious about some Christians I meet. Because I try to be approachable and open, I often find myself in conversations where people take an interest in me, especially when faith comes up. At first, their attention feels genuine, even warm. But I’ve also experienced the sharpness of that interest waning when it becomes clear I’m not going to "convert." It makes me wonder—what kind of love is that? Is it genuine, or is it something else entirely? 

This kind of interaction often leaves a sour taste. Love that comes with an agenda doesn’t feel much like love at all. True Christian love, as described in the Bible, is supposed to be unconditional. The kind of love Paul wrote about in 1 Corinthians 13 isn’t “self-seeking” or dependent on outcomes. It’s patient, kind, and enduring. When someone’s kindness or attention dries up because I don’t fit into their plan, it feels more like being a project than a person. 

I want to believe these moments are a product of misplaced zeal. Some Christians feel so compelled to share their faith that it becomes more about completing a task than forming a relationship.

But I’ve also come to see these interactions as a missed opportunity. The most profound witness to faith isn’t always tied to convincing someone to believe the same as you. Often, it’s simply showing Christlike love, the kind that cares for others regardless of whether they ever agree with you. That’s why the story of the Good Samaritan stands out so strongly to me. 

The Samaritan had no agenda. He didn’t help the wounded man to prove a point, win him over, or gain anything for himself. He simply saw a fellow human being in need and acted with compassion. His love wasn’t contingent on who the man was or what he believed—it was rooted in something deeper. In contrast, the priest and the Levite, though likely pious men, walked by. Perhaps they were too focused on their own spiritual obligations to see the man’s humanity. The Samaritan, on the other hand, demonstrated the kind of love that asks for nothing in return. 

That story reminds me of what Christian love is supposed to look like: patient, generous, and free of strings. When love becomes conditional—when someone withdraws their care or attention because they don’t get the outcome they hoped for—it feels transactional. It also leaves the recipient feeling less like a person and more like a checkbox on someone else’s spiritual to-do list. 

But maybe there’s a lesson in that, too. Those moments, while disappointing, can also be opportunities for grace. How we respond when someone’s interest fades might be the real test of our own ability to love without conditions. If we can meet those moments with kindness, we might leave a quiet impression of what true care looks like—a care that reflects Christ. 

When I think about these encounters now, I try to view them with understanding. Love that comes with an agenda isn’t necessarily “false”; it’s just limited. It falls short of the higher standard we’re called to as Christians. And perhaps that’s where the real challenge lies: to live a faith that doesn’t waver when it meets resistance, a faith that doesn’t walk away when there’s nothing to gain, and a faith that mirrors the selfless love of the Good Samaritan.

 


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Once Upon a Time, There Was a Man From the Land of Uz

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 19 Nov 2024, 15:13


 There was a man in the land of Us, 

whose name was Job. That man was blameless and upright, 

and one who feared God, and turned away from evil. 

Job 1:1 (WEB)


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You just know you are in for a good ride when you read that introduction to The Book of Job. 

I’ve often wondered how Job, a man who lived long before the written Word of God as we know it, could possess such deep knowledge of worship, morality, and faithfulness. The Bible describes him as “blameless and upright” (Job 1:1), someone who shunned evil and held fast to his integrity even in the face of unimaginable suffering. Where did this understanding come from? It’s a question that invites both speculation and reflection.

Job’s story likely takes place during the time of the patriarchs, a period when people relied on oral traditions to transmit their knowledge of God. Long before Moses brought down the tablets of the Law, the stories of creation, the flood, and God’s dealings with humanity would have been passed down from generation to generation. Perhaps Job grew up hearing these accounts around a fire, internalizing the lessons of reverence and obedience to the Creator. He might have known of Adam’s fall, Noah’s faith, or even Abraham’s extraordinary encounter with God. While there is no direct evidence that Job and Abraham ever met, I wonder if their lives might have intersected, or if news of Abraham’s covenant with God travelled far enough to reach Job’s ears.

But what strikes me most about Job is that his understanding of God seems to go beyond stories or traditions. It feels deeply personal, as though carved into his very soul. When I read Job’s speeches, his words are not mere recitations of what he’s been told—they’re profound insights born from observation, reflection, and, I suspect, a direct relationship with God. Perhaps he looked at the same stars I often gaze at on a clear night and marvelled at the power behind them. Romans 1:20 reminds us that God's invisible qualities are evident in creation, leaving no one with an excuse not to recognize His existence. Did Job see the same evidence of a Creator in the heavens, the mountains, and the life around him? I believe he did.

There’s another possibility that lingers in my mind. What if God revealed Himself to Job in ways not recorded in Scripture? The Bible hints at other individuals, like Melchizedek, who worshipped the one true God apart from Abraham’s lineage. Job might have been part of a faithful remnant who sought God with all their hearts and were guided by His Spirit. It’s humbling to think that, even without a Bible to turn to, Job knew what it meant to be faithful. His life exemplified the kind of righteousness that comes from walking closely with God.

Still, I find myself drawn to Job’s humanity. He was not a man of abstract ideals; he lived his faith in the everyday. He rose early to offer sacrifices on behalf of his children, just in case they had sinned. His awareness of sin and the need for atonement resonates with themes later formalized in the Bible. Where did he learn this? Perhaps it came from an intuitive understanding of God’s holiness, nurtured by his sincere devotion.

I also wonder if Job’s suffering sharpened his knowledge of God in ways peace and prosperity never could. In his anguish, Job wrestled with the profound questions of existence: Why do the righteous suffer? Where is God in the storm? Yet, even as he questioned, he never let go of his faith. “Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him” (Job 13:15). These are not the words of a man relying on second-hand knowledge. They come from a heart that knows and trusts its Maker, even in the darkest hour.

As I reflect on Job’s life, I am reminded of how privileged we are today. We have the Bible, centuries of theological insight, and the living example of Jesus Christ to guide us. Yet, I sometimes wonder if we, with all our resources, have the same depth of faith as Job. His unwavering devotion, born out of limited knowledge but boundless trust, challenges me. It makes me pause and ask: Do I truly live as someone who knows God, or do I merely know about Him?

Job’s story is a reminder that God has always made Himself known to those who seek Him. Whether through creation, conscience, or divine revelation, He ensures that His truth is never out of reach. Job’s faith wasn’t the product of chance; it was the fruit of a heart attuned to the Creator. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all: that even in a world without written scriptures, Job found God because he sought Him with all his heart.

I’d like to think Job’s life speaks across the ages, whispering to us in our modern complexity: Seek, trust, and hold fast, for the God who revealed Himself to Job is the same God who reveals Himself to us today.

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The person that blinks at wonder and sees darkness.

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 14 Dec 2024, 03:17


The mind that sees a tool and calls it crafted

The eyes that see a helix and calls it chance 

The child that blinks at wonder and sees providence.


Both Images generated with the assistance of Copilot


The Signature of Intelligence: From Stone Age Tools to the Double Helix

Imagine holding a simple stone tool in your hand, its edges roughly chipped to a functional point. There’s no question about its origin. It’s clear that someone, long ago, shaped it with intent and purpose. No one would seriously argue that it came into existence by chance—that wind, water, or random collisions of stones could produce something so obviously designed for a task. Even its crude simplicity speaks of intelligence. 



Now, consider the double helix, the elegant structure of DNA that carries the instructions for all living things. It is a marvel of complexity, a masterpiece of order and precision. Its intricacies—billions of coded instructions, capable of replication and error correction—make the stone tool seem almost insignificant. Yet, for many, the prevailing belief is that DNA, with all its unparalleled sophistication, simply "happened" through random processes over time. 

This contrast raises a perplexing question: if a simple tool unequivocally points to a maker, how can the infinitely more complex double helix be dismissed as the product of blind chance? 

The Bible offers an explanation in Romans 1:19-21, where it says, “People can clearly see what God is like because He has shown it to them. Ever since the world was made, people have seen the amazing things God created. These things show us His power and that He is God, so no one has an excuse not to believe in Him.” The passage goes on to explain that even though people can see this evidence, they often reject it, becoming confused and darkened in their thinking. 

This ancient insight speaks to something deeply human. It isn’t that the evidence of a Creator is hidden—quite the opposite. It’s plainly visible in every leaf, every cell, and every galaxy. Yet, acknowledging that evidence leads to uncomfortable questions about purpose, accountability, and the nature of God. For many, it’s easier to explain away creation as a product of randomness than to confront the possibility of a Creator who might ask something of us. 

Think about how illogical this is. We celebrate human ingenuity when we see a work of art, a skyscraper, or a complex computer program. We admire these creations precisely because they reflect intelligence and purpose. Yet, when faced with the far greater complexity of DNA—the very code that makes life possible—many argue that no intelligence was involved at all. 

This denial, as Romans suggests, is more than intellectual; it’s spiritual. When people refuse to acknowledge the Creator, their thinking becomes muddled, and they lose their sense of wonder and gratitude. And gratitude is the key. When we look at the world around us—the delicate balance of ecosystems, the beauty of a sunset, the breathtaking intricacy of a single cell—the only fitting response is awe and thankfulness. 

It’s like standing in a gallery filled with masterpieces and refusing to believe there’s an artist. The evidence of design is overwhelming, from the simplest stone tool to the incomprehensible elegance of the double helix. But seeing it requires humility, the willingness to acknowledge something greater than ourselves. 

If we can so easily recognize intelligence in the small things—like a primitive tool—shouldn’t we be even more amazed at the brilliance behind the complexity of life itself? The Bible reminds us that creation is God’s signature, visible to everyone who chooses to see it. To deny that is not merely to miss the truth—it is to turn away from the very source of life and meaning. 

The double helix doesn’t just whisper of a Creator—it shouts it. The question is, are we willing to listen?















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The Universality of a Need for Redemption

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 28 Nov 2024, 09:57

 


"Il n'est pas de coussin si doux que la conscience nette."

A French Proverb


 

A while back, I published a blog titled "Conscience: Why Do You Torture Me?" I woke up the next morning to find it had drawn in more visitors than any post I'd ever written. Readers from Vietnam, China, the Arab Emirates, Singapore, the United States, and countless other places had tuned in. This surge in interest led me to a sobering conclusion: people everywhere wrestle with a troubled conscience, struggling to regain the happiness they’ve lost along the way. Sometimes, the path to relief can be straightforward. Other times, it demands deep self-reflection and change.

In English, the word sorry spans a wide range of emotions, from apologizing for bumping into someone in a supermarket to making amends for more serious missteps. For trivial errors, it’s a reflex, often devoid of meaning. But for deeper wrongs, it’s not always enough. English lacks a single word that carries the weight of the Mandarin 对不—a term that not only conveys regret but also a sense of profound accountability and genuine self-examination. It’s no wonder that, as the song goes, “sorry seems to be the hardest word,” especially when we’re admitting we’ve deeply hurt someone. Pride, fear of vulnerability, arrogance, and shame often create barriers to true repentance.

Consider a powerful example: a man once revered for his humility, who rose to prominence but fell prey to his desires. One day, he saw a beautiful woman and became obsessed, even though she was married. Using his power, he arranged for her husband to be sent to the front lines of battle, ensuring his death. With the obstacle removed, he took the woman as his own, seemingly unmoved by the harm he had caused.

This man was none other than the Hebrew King David. His misdeeds were brought to light by a brave acquaintance who shared a poignant story: "Once upon a time, a poor man owned a single ewe lamb. He cherished this lamb—it slept in his arms, ate at his table, and became part of his family. But a wealthy king, with thousands of sheep, wanted to prepare a meal for a guest. Instead of using one of his own, he seized the poor man’s beloved lamb for his feast."

King David, listening intently, became outraged. The tale stirred a deep empathy in him, and he declared that the man who committed such an act deserved to die. At this moment, the acquaintance revealed, "You are that man."

The story shattered David’s self-deception. It forced him to see himself as others saw him, bringing him to his knees in a moment of crushing remorse. He wept, realizing he had wronged both God and those he was entrusted to protect. David’s epiphany echoes through the ages as a testament to the power of accountability and genuine repentance—a reminder that, sometimes, saying “sorry” isn’t just an apology; it’s a commitment to change.

For those interested, the full account is in 2 Samuel 12 in the Bible. It’s more than a tale of guilt; it’s a story of enlightenment, showing that when we truly see the harm we’ve done, it’s then that we can find the courage to make amends.

 


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Clarity in Creative Writing

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 14 Nov 2024, 09:07



On Clarity

If compression is the thief of understanding, then

clarity is the gift of enlightenment

Somewhere in the median,

they meet.

By Jim McCrory



Image Generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot


Clarity in creative writing is like a bridge between the writer and the reader, allowing ideas, emotions, and imagery to travel smoothly from one mind to another. When we write with clarity, we make it easier for readers to connect with our stories and stay immersed in the world we’ve created, even if our themes or language are complex. This doesn’t mean dumbing things down; instead, clarity means expressing we in a way that feels natural, purposeful, and readable.

Clear writing also makes the emotional layers of a piece stronger. When readers don’t have to sift through vague or convoluted language, they’re better able to feel what we want them to feel, whether it's the excitement of a tense moment or the sorrow of a heartbreaking loss. And it builds trust—when readers feel they can follow our thoughts, they’re more likely to invest in our voice and stick with us, even if we’re exploring challenging or intricate ideas.

A clear style also doesn’t take away from the use of rich imagery or symbolism; in fact, it highlights it. Well-defined language lets powerful images stand out and symbols carry real weight without getting lost in abstraction. And readers tend to stay engaged with clarity—no one wants to lose interest because they’re struggling to follow the narrative.

Ultimately, clarity empowers our unique voice, letting readers see the essence of our ideas. When we write clearly, we bring readers into our vision while still allowing room for depth and nuance. It’s that balance—clear yet rich—that makes creative writing both accessible and impactful.

 

Some notable 20-21st-century authors recognized for their clarity

Jhumpa Lahiri, Kazuo Ishiguro, Ian McEwan, Henning Mankell, George Orwell, Ernest Hemmingway, Marilynne Robinson, Sally Rooney, Ta-Nehisi Coates and Rebecca Solnit



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Good Morning Jamaica! I like That Word Labba-Labba

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 14 Dec 2024, 03:18




 

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                                            Drawing Boundaries in a World of Labba-Labba


Privacy is a cornerstone of human dignity, yet many people, while guarding their own secrets, fail to extend the same respect to others. In Jamaican Patois, labba-labba captures the concept of idle gossip, a harmful habit that often violates this dignity. For Christians, respecting privacy is integral to loving one’s neighbour, yet gossip erodes trust, exploiting personal details for entertainment or judgment rather than honouring another's boundaries.

The Bible cautions against gossip, as in Proverbs 11:13: "a gossip betrays a confidence, but a trustworthy person keeps a secret." To respect privacy means recognizing that not everything we’re curious about is ours to know. When we engage in labba-labba, we reduce others to topics, disregarding their feelings and trust. But at the same time, make us persons that are to be treated with caution since we cannot be trusted. This can lead to lives of loneliness on our part.

Christ’s example teaches us to practice humility and empathy, allowing people to open up on their terms rather than prying. Genuine interest supports others without intruding, while guarding privacy builds an environment of respect. As Christians, we can model this by choosing silence over gossip, becoming trustworthy protectors of each other's dignity. In doing so, we create a culture where respect and love are the true measures of interest. Think in teams of the positive side of the proverb where we read "a trustworthy person keeps a secret."



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"I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians."

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 17 Nov 2024, 14:46




"I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. 

Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."

Mahatma Gandhi

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot


One thing I’ve come to see in my years is that for some people, choosing a “religious” path doesn’t always lead to a truly godly life. Gandhi’s observation showed the chasm he saw between Jesus' teachings and the actions of some professed Christians.

And here, I use the word “religious” to make a distinction. It’s not about a sincere journey toward God but about a performance of belief, often focused on outward appearances. These folks may be quick to preach or make their faith visible in public, but when it comes to a deeper, genuine reflection of Jesus in their hearts, the connection sometimes seems distant. It’s as if the soul of their faith is missing, buried under rituals and routines that only scratch the surface.

This realization has been hard for me over the years because I find such joy and strength in the company of genuinely spiritual people. But it’s also a reality that’s hard to escape worldly values, the lure of possessions, and the need to appear outwardly “religious” can overshadow the simple, inward pull to follow Jesus authentically. It’s tempting to fall into that, to let a show of piety take the place of real, humble spirituality. We might laugh at or pity the Pharisees from Jesus' time — that group so devoted to looking the part but missing the important aspect. But, if we’re honest, there are shades of those same Pharisees in each of us.

Their story is a cautionary one. On the outside, they were models of observance, spotless and upright, but Jesus saw them as "whitewashed graves," bright on the surface but empty within. It’s humbling, isn’t it? It’s a reminder to pause and really look within. When was the last time we each took a good, honest look at our lives considering what Jesus taught? That’s a challenging task — it means carving out time to put away religious literature and go to the source, to read the Gospels slowly, to sit with them, to meditate on their true meaning, and to ask ourselves if we’re truly following Jesus or just the appearance of him. We may be surprised by what we find, and hopefully, inspired to live with a renewed, inward authenticity.

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Two things fill the mind with ever-increasing wonder...

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 19 Nov 2024, 14:59


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"Two things fill the mind with ever-increasing wonder and awe, 

the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me"


In Immanuel Kant’s famous words above, we find a truth both stirring and profound. Kant identifies the night sky and the sense of morality as two things that reveal the vastness and the mystery of our existence. But he also implies something more: both the cosmos and the moral compass inside us speak of an origin greater than ourselves. The order in the universe and the sense of right and wrong within us do not come from us, yet they define us. For me, this is one of the reasons I believe in objective morality—a moral law that is not subject to individual preference or societal consensus but is embedded in our being, given by a moral lawgiver.

As a young boy, I often found myself awestruck by the stars. Looking up from the small garden in my Scottish neighbourhood, I wondered what it all meant, feeling an inexplicable sense of reverence for the vast stretches of stars, each seemingly unchanging yet moving in perfect order. It was my first encounter with something beyond the everyday, a humbling reminder of my smallness. I could not have articulated it then, but I sensed that the stars spoke of something powerful and intentional. Later, when I began studying the Bible, I found words for that feeling. Scripture tells us, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1). The universe, both grand and orderly, seemed to bear witness to something beyond itself—something beyond me.

At that time, I also began experiencing the pull of another kind of law, one I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to: the moral law within. No one had to tell me that some things were wrong—hurting others, taking what wasn’t mine, dishonouring my parents; they all seemed wrong before I knew why. Even without knowing God, my conscience spoke with a clarity that required no outside approval. But unlike the laws of nature, the moral law demanded something from me: it required my response. Over time, I came to understand this law not as a collection of cultural rules but as something embedded within me, pointing to a higher standard that existed beyond human opinion.

Reflecting on Kant’s words, I find that both the heavens and the moral law point us in the same direction. The stars obey physical laws, while we are subject to moral ones. Just as the planets follow their orbit in accordance with the laws of gravity, so, too, do I believe we are called to follow a moral law written into the fabric of our being. If gravity and physics testify to the order of the natural world, then the moral law testifies to the order that should govern our hearts.

For many people today, the idea of objective morality is a stumbling block. Our culture values individual freedom and autonomy, and people often believe that morality is relative or subjective. Yet even in the most liberal societies, there is still an understanding of justice, kindness, and fairness. Certain principles—like the value of human life, or the wrongness of murder and betrayal—transcend cultures and religions. To me, this universal understanding points toward an objective morality, a standard that is unchanging regardless of circumstances or opinion.

The need for objective morality became real to me in times when I saw profound injustice or felt the ache of someone else’s suffering. If morality were simply a construct, then every moral outrage would be nothing more than a personal irritation or an arbitrary preference. But my conscience tells me otherwise. When faced with injustice, I know that something greater is being violated, something more than just my own feelings. The injustice itself, the wrong, exists independently of how I feel about it. It is not a construct, but a reality that demands a response, whether we like it or not.

 For me, objective morality is not only real but necessary. Without it, there would be no ground for judgment, no reason to expect others to act justly or kindly. Without it, we could not cry out against injustice or celebrate goodness, because those ideas would lack substance. My belief in objective morality affirms that life, dignity, and integrity are not simply useful or preferred; they are good because they reflect the nature of the One who made us.

To believe in objective morality is also to believe that there is a purpose for human beings beyond survival or pleasure. Our moral sense points us toward something—or Someone—who has written His laws within us. Like the stars that proclaim His power, the moral law within us whispers of His nature: just, loving, and pure. To ignore this inner law is, in a way, to ignore our very selves.

Perhaps this is why Kant’s words resonate with me so deeply. They remind me that both the starry heavens and the moral law are not ours to control; they are there to be observed, to humble us, and to remind us of something greater. Both reveal that we are part of a created order, called to live not for our own desires but in response to the truth placed within us. And it is this truth—the objective reality of right and wrong—that I believe points us home.

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Dear Visitors

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 11 Nov 2024, 20:04



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Dear Visitors,

Thank you so much for visiting A Writer's Notebook. It truly brings me joy to see so many of you stopping by—over a thousand each day! Your presence and interest are a real encouragement to me as I continue to share reflections and stories about this life we share. And I hope I can continue for some time.

Please forgive me if I’m not able to respond or engage in discussions as much as I’d like. Due to some health challenges, my energy and time are limited. A touch of Torschlusspanik the Germans may say—the feeling that time is slipping by faster than I can keep up!

Nonetheless, I’m deeply grateful for each of you who takes the time to read, ponder, or find some solace here. Your quiet companionship, even from afar, is something I truly value. One day in God's grand future, we may meet round a table to a beautiful sundown during the "Renewal" (Job 14:14-15, NIV).

With warmth and appreciation, 


Jim

 


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Love: The ultimate truth that lies at the heart of creation.

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 20 Nov 2024, 16:31


“Love is the only reality, and it is not a mere sentiment.

 It is the ultimate truth that lies at the heart of creation.” – Rabindranath Tagore


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You will find then everywhere. In your congregation, family, school and workplace. Narcissists are nothing new. They can be traced all the way back to the Garden of Eden, where the serpent tempted Eve with the promise, “You will be like God.” That same spirit of pride—the original sin—caused Satan’s fall and continues to weave its way into human hearts. When Jesus was tempted in the wilderness, the devil made his intentions clear: he wanted worship. “Away from me, Satan!” Jesus responded, refusing to engage further. He didn’t waste time in debate, knowing that doing so would only play into Satan’s hands. 

As Christians, we’re called to humility—the very opposite of narcissism. But life often places us face-to-face with people who thrive on pride, manipulation, and control. These interactions can be draining, even damaging, if we’re not careful. Recognizing the signs early can help us avoid unnecessary conflict and protect our hearts from their influence. 

Narcissists often come across as confident and charismatic at first. They might even seem like the kind of people you’d want to follow or admire. But over time, certain patterns emerge. They talk endlessly about their accomplishments and seek admiration rather than offering genuine interest in others. They twist situations to their advantage, dismiss others’ feelings, and crave constant validation. When something goes wrong, they’re quick to shift blame, never owning up to their mistakes. 

It’s easy to get caught in their orbit, especially if you don’t notice these behaviours early on. I’ve learned this the hard way. Years ago, I tried to resolve a misunderstanding with someone who, in hindsight, clearly exhibited narcissistic tendencies. No matter how calmly or reasonably I approached the situation, they turned every conversation into a battle for control. By the end of each exchange, I felt drained and unheard. I see now that engaging with them only fed their need for attention and dominance. 

Proverbs 26:4 offers a bit of timeless wisdom: “Do not answer a fool according to his folly, or you yourself will be just like him.” Arguing with a narcissist is like wrestling with quicksand. The more you struggle, the deeper you sink. They aren’t interested in understanding or resolution; they thrive on conflict and the attention it brings. 

So how do we respond as Christians? Jesus’ teaching to “love your enemies” doesn’t mean we have to let ourselves be mistreated. Boundaries are crucial. Protecting your heart is an act of stewardship, as Proverbs 4:23 reminds us: “Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” Sometimes that means limiting your exposure to people who drain your emotional and spiritual energy. 

When confrontation becomes unavoidable, it’s important to speak truth with love. But I’ve found it’s equally important to know when to stop. Endless debates with someone who won’t listen lead nowhere well. Instead, I pray for discernment, asking God to help me navigate difficult relationships with grace. 

And then there’s the hardest part: leaving justice in God’s hands. Romans 12:19 reminds us not to seek revenge but to trust God to set things right. It’s tempting to try and “fix” the situation or make the narcissist see the harm they’ve caused, but that’s not always our role. 

At the same time, these encounters can be humbling. They remind me that I’m not immune to the pull of pride. Jesus’ parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector in Luke 18 is a sobering reminder of this. The Pharisee’s boastful prayer mirrors the spirit of narcissism, while the tax collector’s humble plea— “God, have mercy on me, a sinner”—reflects the posture we should strive for.  When dealing with narcissists, it’s wise to set firm boundaries and avoid getting pulled into their games. But we should also pray for them, that their hearts might soften and turn toward God. And through it all, we can follow Christ’s example—standing firm in truth, refusing to be drawn into prideful traps, and choosing humility and love over conflict. 




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Turn my eyes away from worthless things

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 17 Nov 2024, 14:47



"Comparison is the thief of joy." —Theodore Roosevelt



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I never got a gold star at school, and truthfully, I never wanted one. But I’d watch, detached, as some eager child proudly flaunted their star in the playground, an easy target for the trolls of envy who would approach at breaktime. “You got a gold star, and I didn’t!” a girl would sneer in a shrill, mocking voice, while the star-winner, at first so pleased, seemed to shrink. Often, by the end of the day, some boy would rip the victim’s jotter in secret, leaving a torn reminder of their "success."

This petty cruelty speaks to something deeper. The Greeks had a word for it: phthonos. Envy, in this sense, goes beyond mere jealousy; it has a twist of ill will and spite. And it’s not just an emotion—it gravitates toward action, leaving scars on both the victim and the one consumed by envy.

The truth is the playground is just a smaller version of the wider world. The same dramas play out in adult life, though with larger stakes. How much is so-and-so worth? Look at her—she’s had liposuction. Did you see how worn-out she looks at sixty? Look at their new pool. Just like in the playground, adults, driven by envy, often undermine others to dull the sting of comparison. Yet, by tearing down others, they sink into unhappiness themselves.

This cycle is painfully familiar. We’re content living alongside our neighbours—until someone installs a sleek new conservatory or upgrades to a luxury car. Suddenly, our contentment plunges. The whispers start, the frostiness creeps in. In the workplace, it’s no different. We’re content—until someone gets that raise. Then our inner scales of happiness dip once again.

Envy thrives on comparison, and it sours our happiness by constantly shifting our focus to what others have. But if you look closely, the happiest people are those who are content, unhooked from comparison. Happiness or misery lies in our own hands, within our control.

There’s wisdom in the Psalmist’s prayer: “Turn my eyes away from worthless things” Psalm 119:37, BSB. Contentment, like envy, starts with where we place our gaze. True peace lies not in what others have or how they fare, but in finding renewal in a higher path, free from the bitterness of comparison.

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No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 11 Nov 2024, 20:05


"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."
– Aesop

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The dark winters in Govan, exacerbated by tenements that reached the heavens—at least, that’s how it seemed when you were only ten years old—made life thick with gloom. The lamplighters had made their visit, so we hung around the close to keep warm and dry, stretching out the night with friends.

We heard joyful singing somewhere along the dockside of Copeland Road and went to investigate. It was the local church. Lured by the promise of cakes and drinks, we wandered in. We were given a songbook or song sheets and ushered into a pew.

We were soon caught up in the joyful spirit as we sang something like, 

“G double O D, Good, G double O D, Good.

I want to be more like Jesus, G double O D, Good.”

Afterward, we received home-baked cakes, drinks, and an invitation to the meeting the following week. But we were kids and soon forgot the kindness of strangers.

It was just a moment in time, but that song and evening, like the Northern lights that emerge from time to time, dance a joyful dance in my head.


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There's Another Person Living in My Head

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 19 Nov 2024, 15:14




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It’s a strange set of affairs, I like to walk and explore nature in the fine places in Scotland that keep me young. I’m a bit overweight but healthy and full of the joie de vivre.

But, just over a year ago I went through a series of medical tests and at the conclusion I was invited in for the results. Unwelcome news, cells that have served me faithfully turned rogue and caused a rebellion in the prostate, pancreas, and liver.

The consultant looked puzzled and said, “Your very bravado about this?”

“Oh, I have the full implications on all of this,” I replied, “But there’s a young man inside me who was walked with me all my life, his age I’m not sure of, but he has had the same experiences as me and he never changes.” I replied.

I ask you, the reader and I’m sure you know, but you have that younger person with you all your life and this person becomes more prominent as you get older. Can I tell you about my take on this?

Centuries ago, a wise man wrote the following,

“ He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in their hearts, yet so that man can’t find out the work that God has done from the beginning even to the end.”

Those words are from Ecclesiastes 3:11 from The Voice Bible and the speaker was wise King Solomon; a wisdom he received from God as a gift for faithfulness as a boy.

There are many theories out there I’m sure were the wise of this age speculate why I have a young man in my head and why eternity lives within, but no one, absolutely no one has any scientific evidence for why we have a rich inner lives dancing in our brains. Sure, they have unzipped the skull countless times, and they put it in jars and slice it like spam and study it under all their microscopic kits, but they only have theories, and theories come and go.

We have rich inner lives because we were built for eternity.

That morning, I was going to see the consultant, my wife and I, read Psalm 91:1,

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High
    will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.”

 

After reading it, I said to my wife, “We are going to receive bad news today.” God was forewarning me before I got the results.

Coincidence? No, there are 31,000 verses in the Bible, what’s the chances of opening the scriptures and that verse is staring at you? No, God spoke to us personally.


Unshackled Faith Bible Study and Discussion Group - DownToMeet 

 

Scripture taken from The World English Bible.

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Dilsoz: The Warmth of a Heart That Heals

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 11 Nov 2024, 19:13


“Were not our hearts burning within us as He spoke with us on the road 

and opened the Scriptures to us?” — Luke 24: 32, BSB.


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Dilsoz: The Warmth of a Heart That Heals

 

Since the days of my youth, I've been drawn to language and its power to shape our experiences. Certain words resonate deeply, capturing emotions or ideals we often struggle to express. Dilsoz, a word from Tajikistan, is one of those treasures. It describes a person with a heart warming presence, someone who instinctively uplifts others and leaves them feeling understood and comforted. I’ve met only a handful of people like this in my life, and each left an indelible mark. They’ve shown me a vision of the person I wish to be—a presence that heals simply by being there.

Being Dilsoz is more than mere kindness. It’s a deep, intuitive empathy, a gift for seeing unspoken needs and responding with genuine care. True people with the quality  don’t necessarily use grand gestures; often, they comfort with a simple word, a look, or a quiet presence that offers solace. When I think of this quality, I recall friendships that have carried me through challenging times—friends who had an almost instinctual ability to comfort. They became models for how I hope to engage with others, radiating the kind of warmth that quietly heals.

I’ve tried to nurture this quality in myself, though I’ve realized that empathy isn’t a skill that can be practiced through rigid techniques. It’s an art of knowing when to step forward and when to hold back. Sometimes, it’s about simply sharing in silence or sensing when words are unnecessary. True comfort comes from an understanding beyond platitudes, from an open heart that speaks when words can’t.

The memories of those rare, compassionate people continue to shape me. They knew when to sit in silence, when to ask the right questions, and when to share words that untangled the knots within. There’s a subtle difference between showing up and showing up in a way that opens the heart and witnessing it first-hand has been a gift.

Living up to the ideal of this rich concept  isn’t about fixing others’ problems or wearing a constant smile. It’s about showing up with understanding and an unguarded heart, being willing to share a bit of someone else’s burden. The essence of Dilsoz lies in offering comfort without conditions, in carrying warmth that touches others’ lives. I’m grateful to have known it—and I hope, in some way, to share it.

 


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The Tragedy of Trust: When Good Faith Meets Deception

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 19 Nov 2024, 15:15


We all know someone who, in Iago’s mould who uses lies and deception to exploit, betray, and divide. They are in the family, workplace, congregation and anywhere were there are people.




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The Tragedy of Trust: When Good Faith Meets Deception

 

When I studied Shakespeare’s Othello, it broke my heart in a way few works of fiction do. I was drawn to Othello, feeling his intensity, his strength, and his tragic flaws, only to see him fall, bewilderingly, into a web of lies. By the end, I couldn’t shake the question: why was he so easily taken in by Iago? How could someone so powerful be so susceptible?

Iago, Othello’s ensign, is the root of the tragedy, a character defined by deceit, manipulation, and a remarkable skill for sowing discord. He systematically ruins Othello’s life, convincing him that his loyal wife, Desdemona, has been unfaithful. Though Shakespeare would not have used the term, Iago’s behaviour closely matches what modern psychology would describe as sociopathic. What strikes me most is how eerily accurate Shakespeare’s portrayal is, even centuries before psychology defined these traits with clinical clarity. Iago’s lack of empathy, his relentless pursuit of personal gain at the expense of others, and his pleasure in watching others suffer are traits we now associate with a sociopathic personality.

We can recognize Iago’s traits today: manipulative, dishonest, charming when it suits his needs, yet fundamentally selfish and empty of empathy. He doesn’t care about the people he destroys; he simply sees them as pieces on a board. Like many modern psychological profiles, he thrives in creating chaos, deriving satisfaction not from personal victories alone but from watching others unravel. There’s an unsettling familiarity here because figures like Iago exist beyond fiction—they can be found in workplaces, families, communities, and yes, even in places as sacred as churches.

Shakespeare understood, intuitively, what we now study in psychology: the profile of a person who causes harm without remorse and operates without a moral compass. Iago’s deceit is so layered, his words so plausible, that even the discerning Othello is blindsided by his betrayal. Othello, a capable, brave man, falls precisely because of his willingness to trust—a quality that ought to be a strength but becomes a liability when weaponized by a heart devoid of compassion. This insight into human weakness is what makes *Othello* so timeless and its tragedy so universal.

 The heartbreak I felt at the end of Othello—the frustration, the sorrow for Othello’s tragic misplacement of trust—is the heartbreak we sometimes feel in life when encountering similarly ruthless characters. While Shakespeare couldn’t define sociopathy, he painted a vivid picture of the devastation such a character can wreak, drawing on an intimate understanding of human nature.

In this sense, perhaps Othello isn’t fiction after all. It’s a reflection of our own lives, our relationships, and our vulnerabilities. We all know someone who, in Iago’s mould, uses charm and deception to exploit, betray, and divide. Shakespeare knew them too. And he reminds us, painfully, of what it costs to let them in.


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