Personal Blogs

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I see McDonald’s is using Enigma’s Return to Innocence. Every time I hear it, a film begins to roll in my head.

In 1999, I found myself in a Norwegian Hytte (cabin) overlooking the  serene landscapes of Norway, amidst the rugged beauty of its fjords. One evening, as I sat in a spiritual moment, gazing out over the stillness, a profound sense of melancholy washed over me. Enigma’s haunting melody played softly in the background, as if narrating an unspoken drama that had long been waiting to unfold.

In that moment, an image and a sensation collided. It was something deeper than any golden-hour photograph or carefully rendered painting could capture. The sun, a radiant ball of compressed energy, began to descend, casting its golden light across the water. The world seemed to slow. The evening glow became sacred, almost eternal. As the sun kissed the fjord, the heaviness I had felt gave way to a deep, all-encompassing peace.

For that fleeting moment, I felt completely at one with creation. The boundary between myself and the world seemed to dissolve, leaving only the quiet hum of life. It was an experience that words can barely contain, yet it has never left me—a reminder of the stillness and connection we so rarely encounter in our busy lives.

I have longed to return to that place. But I never will. Still, I have returned to it in quiet moments of memory.

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The Empty Words of the Gossiper: A Universal Story

I have blogged now and again about the subject of of Gossip and slander. It gets a considerable amount visitors which indicates many are hurting out there. So, I return to this matter.

Gossipers wear many masks—some colourful, some clever, some cunning—but beneath each is the same crooked smile. Across languages and cultures, the act of speaking ill of others behind closed doors (or wide-open mouths) has a universally negative connotation. Whether passed on in whispers or laughter, gossip’s damage is rarely denied, only disguised.

In Urdu, the word khabarcheen captures the essence of a “news-spreader”—but it is not the noble herald of truth. Rather, the khabarcheen is a figure of mistrust, lurking in social corners with ears pricked and mouth eager. In Cuban Spanish, the phrase Radio Bemba—“lip radio”—offers a biting metaphor: our mouths become unwelcome broadcasters, tuned into the private lives of others and transmitting with no regard for truth or tenderness. The names change, but the ugliness stays.

Even in the warmth of friendship or familial settings, gossip sneaks in during sobremesa, the Spanish term for that leisurely time after a meal when stories are shared. Yet how quickly sweetness sours. The shift from connection to cruelty is subtle, like honey left too long on the tongue.

Gossip rarely presents itself as evil. Like she­momedjamo, the Georgian word for “I accidentally ate the whole thing,” it is indulgence disguised as innocence. One might begin with a simple observation—harmless, surely—and before long, the feast of someone else’s misfortunes is consumed with relish.

Children are taught early to beware of the sharp tongue. Snow White’s downfall is plotted not through swords but through whispers—“Who is the fairest of them all?” The Queen’s envy finds voice long before it finds poison. In The Emperor’s New Clothes, it is not just the emperor who is mocked, but an entire society complicit in falsehood, gossiping behind closed doors rather than speaking with courage.

The brothers Grimm were moral cartographers, warning of wolves not only in forests but also in hearts. Little Red Riding Hood is taught to beware the stranger—but in many ways, the more insidious danger lies in the idle chatter that leads her off her path, that lulls her into complacency.

Gossip is the wolf in slippers.

In Hinglish, we call it badmouthing, a hybrid term that bridges two cultures, neither of which approves of it. In Inuit, iktsuarpok describes the anticipation of someone’s arrival—a word not for gossip, but akin to it in the way we itch for updates, unable to sit still until the latest scandal walks through the door. We act as though we await news, but often we await blood.

Even languages known for restraint, like Swedish, cloak criticism in civility. Lagom, meaning “just the right amount,” suggests balance and moderation—but someone who gossips disturbs this harmony. They upset the balance of the room, the respect in the air. In Japanese, wabi-sabi reminds us to accept the imperfections of others. Gossip is its antithesis: it rejects grace and replaces it with scrutiny.

From Easter Island, we have tingo, meaning to slowly borrow things from a neighbour and never return them. It mirrors gossip’s theft: taking someone’s reputation, piece by piece, and never giving it back.

Even in drag culture, where humour and drama dance hand in hand, the word kiki—a gathering for laughter and gossip—is only joyful until someone becomes the punchline. The smile fades when it is your name under their tongue.

Gossip is a virus disguised as a voice.
It is smoke from a fire you didn’t light—yet it chokes you all the same.
It is a feather pillow torn open in the wind—impossible to gather once released.

The Bible itself warns that the gossiper isolates themselves by losing close friends.

“A perverse person stirs up conflict, and a gossip separates close friends.” (Proverbs 16:28)

The Hebrew tongue calls the gossiper a rachil, literally a merchant—peddling information for social currency. It is telling that gossip is treated like trade: a transactional act, not a relational one.

Every culture knows it. Every language finds a word for it. And every word is, whether wrapped in humour or habit, an ugly one. There is no beautiful term for gossip, because gossip is, at heart, the betrayal of beauty. It mocks all that is good. It fractures trust. It takes what is private and parades it as entertainment.

As a child I was told, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” A nursery saying, but a profoundly grown-up truth.

Because in the end, the tongue can set fire to a forest (James 3:5), and we must choose—daily, deliberately—whether we will be arsonists or architects.

Make the world a better place and walk away from those who gossip. When we listen to them, we reward them and it becomes their addiction. 

" I am a man of principle, and I glory in the name.”

Mr Pecksniff in Charles Chuzzelwit 

Charles Dickens

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The World According to Pecksniff

On Self-Absorption and Its Everyday Disguises

In my life, I’ve encountered many such figures, some in positions of religious authority, others in the everyday world of work or family. And each time I’ve struggled to name what I was experiencing; it was literature that gave me the vocabulary. Specifically, Charles Dickens gave me Pecksniff.

Ah, Pecksniff! Dickens’s most gloriously hypocritical creation. In Martin Chuzzlewit, Mr. Pecksniff is a self-proclaimed moralist, a paragon of virtue in his own mind. He lectures on goodness, extols self-denial, and oozes piety like syrup on a cold plate. But beneath this surface of sanctity lies greed, manipulation, and a hunger for status that he cloaks in sentimental phrases. If hypocrisy had a mascot, it would be he.

Reading about Pecksniff was like suddenly putting on glasses and seeing certain people in my past with vivid clarity. The syrupy self-praise, the inability to truly listen, the way their goodness always required an audience, it was all there. I began to recognize the traits not only in others but in society’s broader patterns, and, if I’m honest, I had to check my own heart for the same seeds.

One of the most telling signs of self-absorption is a lack of empathy. A truly self-absorbed person cannot sit with another’s sorrow without shifting the attention back to themselves. They might feign concern, "Oh dear, that reminds me of when I had it even worse"—but it's all a performance. Like Pecksniff, who sheds tears for show but is incapable of genuine compassion, they mimic empathy while lacking its substance.

Then there is the need for validation. I’ve watched people pursue praise like it were oxygen, needing constant affirmation of their worth, intelligence, or virtue. They share their good deeds publicly, not to encourage others, but to soak in the applause. It reminds me of Jesus's warning in Matthew 6—not to sound trumpets when giving to the needy, as the Pharisees did. Dickens’s Pecksniff, too, cannot do a single thing without somehow narrating it as a testament to his own nobility.

Conversation-hogging is another mark. A self-absorbed person can’t abide silence unless they are filling it. You start to share something meaningful, and they interrupt with “That reminds me of when I…” Suddenly, you’re no longer part of the dialogue—you’re just a prop in their monologue.

Then there’s entitlement—a quiet assumption that the world owes them something. At worst, it becomes domineering: interrupting, overriding, expecting favours without the faintest inclination to return them. It’s masked well. Often these people wear a humble expression, quote scripture, and speak of love, all while subtly climbing over others to secure their own advantage.

Defensiveness is another red flag. If challenged, even gently, they twist the narrative or cast themselves as the victim. In Dickens’s portrayal, when Pecksniff is called out, he gasps in holy outrage—how dare anyone question his motives! It is spiritual gaslighting at its finest.

And then there’s the obsession with image. They care deeply about how they appear, not about who they are. Every conversation is an opportunity to curate a persona: humble, wise, enlightened, kind. But like the whitewashed tombs Jesus spoke of, it’s all exterior polish.

In real life, this can show up in subtle but exhausting ways. The person who never asks about your life. The “friend” who disappears when you’re in need but expects a cheering section for their minor struggles. The one who can’t hear no without punishing you emotionally. Or the religious leader who uses morality as a tool to control rather than liberate. And, of course, the social media saint—always preaching, always posting, always conspicuously good.

Over time, you begin to see that self-absorption is not just narcissism in a mirror, but a spiritual condition. It is the slow suffocation of empathy. It is the inverse of love, which “is not proud… is not self-seeking.”

The antidote isn’t to hate such people. It’s to name the behaviour, guard your soul, and model something better. Boundaries are not unkind. Silence, when someone demands your attention for the wrong reasons, is not cruelty. And real humility—not the sweetened, stage-lit kind—is the deepest form of strength.

Pecksniff is a warning, not just a character. And Dickens, in his brilliance, didn’t create him to condemn others alone. He created him to make us look in the mirror and ask: Where have I worn that mask?

“Let us be moral. Let us contemplate existence. Let us find out what it means, and let us be men of moral elevation and character.” 

Pecksniff’s lofty rhetoric is almost always undermined by his behaviour. This quote is classic Pecksniff: vague, moral-sounding, and completely empty.

“Children are made readers on the laps of their parents.”

Emilie Buchwald 

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On the Train from Glasgow to Ayr, I observed a father reading to his two children as they were cosied up and all ears. I asked mum what book was holding so much attention. It was The Broons Annual.

The Broons are a beloved Scottish comic strip family who’ve appeared in The Sunday Post since 1936. They live at 10 Glebe Street in the fictional town of Auchenshoogle. The strip follows their humorous day-to-day lives, often highlighting Scottish culture, family dynamics, and generational quirks.

The family includes:

• Paw and Maw Broon – the no-nonsense father and practical, loving mother.

• Granpaw – the mischievous old-timer with tall tales.

• Eight children – including stylish Maggie, brainy Horace, mischievous twins, and the wee Bairn who often steals the show.

They also holiday at their countryside cottage, the "But and Ben." The Broons represent a warm, humorous slice of Scottish life, cherished across generations.

 In What Ways Are Blogs Copyright Material?

Presenting the Law and Its Implications

Blogs are considered copyright material under international and national law because they typically meet the two fundamental legal requirements for copyright protection: originality and fixation.

📜 Legal Basis for Copyright Protection

Under the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works (adopted by 181 countries, including the UK and the Philippines), copyright arises automatically when a work is:

These principles are reflected in the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, as well as in the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

A blog post is typically:

Thus, blog content is protected from the moment it is written and published, without the need for registration.

✅ What Copyright Protects in a Blog

🧾 Registration (Optional, But Useful)

"Only the development of compassion and understanding for others can bring us the tranquillity and happiness we all seek." Leo Tolstoy

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Compassion in a Dark Street: Why Writers Should Read Thank You, Ma’am

In the quiet hush of a city night, a boy runs headlong into grace. Thank You, Ma’am by Langston Hughes is a short story, but its heartbeat is strong. It lasts barely a few pages—yet somehow carries the weight of a parable, the warmth of a kitchen, and the soul of a good sermon. For writers, it is more than a tale well told; it’s a lesson in how stories can heal.

A boy named Roger tries to snatch the purse of Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones. He’s young, ragged, and hungry for a pair of blue suede shoes. It’s a petty theft, the kind born not from evil but from lack—lack of money, lack of direction, lack of someone who cares.

What happens next in that small room is more than an act of kindness. It is an act of trust. It is redemptive. And it leaves Roger speechless. 

Langston Hughes does not press this point. He lets it rise gently, like the steam from the plate of lima beans and ham she serves. The story is quiet, restrained, and all the more powerful for it. There is no dramatic flourish, no sentimental swell. Just the steady unfolding of human decency.

For writers, this story offers more than inspiration—it offers instruction. Hughes reminds us that we don’t need sweeping plots or tragic twists to move the reader. A single moment—honest, human, and true—is often enough. He shows us that the ordinary can be made sacred if written with care. That dialogue, when real, does more than carry a plot—it carries the soul of a character. And that withholding judgment, as a writer, can allow a deeper moral truth to emerge without preaching.

There’s also something deeply respectful about how Hughes tells the story. He trusts the reader to feel what Roger feels. He doesn’t tell us how to interpret the boy’s silence at the end, or how long the effects of that night might linger. Instead, he leaves the door slightly ajar, allowing us to step inside the moment and draw our own meaning.

Thank You, Ma’am is a small story, but not a slight one. It’s a story of dignity offered where none was earned, and of mercy extended without condition. And in a world that often feels short on both, it reminds us that a story—well told and tenderly held—can be a vessel for grace.

Writers who wish to understand the quiet power of compassion would do well to read it. Not just once, but often.

Because sometimes, the most powerful thing a story can do is show us how to be better humans. 

"The heaviest burdens, grief that ages the soul, the fatigue of being,

 the weight of remembered loss, often leave no visible trace."

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Yesterday morning I was reading Ernest Hemingway’s A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. In the story, the silence of the night carries more weight than the sparse dialogue exchanged within it. The story centres on a nearly empty café, a late-night ritual, and two waiters, one young and impatient, the other older and attuned to the quiet ache of solitude. And, as with much of Hemingway’s work, it’s in what remains unsaid that the real story unfolds. Beneath the minimalist style lies a meditation on what it means to be alone, to endure, and to cling to slivers of dignity in a world that often turns its gaze elsewhere.

That little café isn’t just a spot to sip brandy; it stands as a kind of sanctuary. Clean and lit against the dark, it offers a reprieve. Not just from the physical night but from the emptiness it represents. Hemingway doesn’t shout this message, but he doesn’t need to. The older waiter, who understands why the old man lingers, becomes more than just a server. He is, in his quiet way, the keeper of this refuge, holding space for those who need somewhere to simply exist.

In a world that rushes past pain, the story gently insists that to keep such places open—to be that source of light, patience, or understanding—is a profound kindness. Turning on the lights and staying a little longer can be an act of mercy.

The younger waiter, eager to leave and puzzled by the old man’s sorrow, reduces suffering to a matter of wealth. “He has plenty of money,” he remarks, as though sadness should come with a price tag. But Hemingway asks us to look deeper. The heaviest burdens—grief that ages the soul, the fatigue of being, the weight of remembered loss—often leave no visible trace.

There’s humility in realizing how little we know of what others carry. The older waiter sees this. He doesn’t try to fix the old man, nor does he turn away. He stays, simply and deliberately, because he understands.

And at the centre of it all is that quiet confrontation with nothingness—what the older waiter names nada. His parody of prayer, hollowed out by repetition and doubt, suggests not just loss of belief, but a yearning for meaning that still lingers. It’s a stark, spiritual moment, laced with irony and pain. But it’s not nihilistic. It’s human.

This is perhaps the story’s most resonant truth: even in a fractured world, where old certainties crumble, the longing for a small light, for something kind and enduring, persists. Hemingway doesn’t pretend to resolve the ache. Instead, he affirms it, elevates it. He shows that in facing the emptiness and choosing to remain compassionate, we shape a quiet resistance—a flicker that matters.

What the older waiter offers is presence. Not answers, not platitudes, just presence. He delays his own rest, keeps the café open a little longer, and in doing so, honours a simple, radical grace. In a culture that prizes speed and resolution, this slow empathy becomes its own kind of faith.

Not in systems or doctrine, but in each other.

Hemingway doesn’t hand us a tidy conclusion. The story ends as it begins—modestly, solemnly. But within its economy of words, it reveals a truth both piercing and gentle: the light we offer one another, however small, is sometimes the only thing that keeps the dark from swallowing everything whole.

"With the ancient is wisdom; and in length of days understanding."

Job12:12 KJV

“Not all chains are iron. Some come in the form of likes, loops, and endless notifications.”

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It begins with the desire to stay awake to what is happening in the world, but then, we analyse our media habits—especially the kind of content I have been watching on YouTube and elsewhere. What started as an interest in staying informed has, without me noticing, turned into something more compulsive. I find myself drawn in by videos that stir the emotions—about the state of the world, moral decline, or political chaos. Some are thoughtful, others more reactionary—but the result is often the same: I come away feeling unsettled, drained, even a little hopeless.

When I was young we had News at Ten on the BBC. Now we have 24 hour news on many channels. On top of that we have debates and controversial interviews. 

Many now stay awake via online platforms. I’ve come to see it for what it is—a kind of addiction. Not to the content itself, but to the emotional charge it gives. The more we consume, the more we are  fed. The algorithms are clever that way, learning quickly how to keep a person hooked. And even though I might tell myself it’s good to stay awake or alert, I’m starting to realize that peace and perspective are being eroded in the process.

So, I’ve decided to change my diet.

I want to be more intentional by limiting my media intake to no more than 30 minutes a day, and choosing content that uplifts, enlightens, or inspires rather than provokes or disturbs. Blogs that build rather than tear down. Voices that breathe life rather than drain it.

It’s not about shutting my eyes to the world. It’s about guarding my heart and mind. I want to be rooted in what is good, not just reactive to what is wrong.

I’m sharing this not as a lecture, but as a confession of sorts. If you’ve ever felt this pull too, you’ll understand. The world is loud right now. And sometimes the most radical thing we can do is turn the volume down and make space for quiet, hope, and trust.

"But the Emperor has nothing at all on," said a little child.

The Emperor’s New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen.

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To Love the Truth More Than Being Right

There’s something achingly human about the way we cling to our beliefs, even when they’re cracked and imperfect. We argue for them passionately, patching over the holes with whatever scraps of reason we can find. It’s not always because we’re blind to their faults; more often, it’s because we can’t bear what letting go might mean.

Beliefs are more than ideas. They’re the threads of our identity, stitched over years of experience, memory, and relationships. To unravel them is to risk unravelling ourselves. A belief can feel like an heirloom—worn, perhaps, but cherished. To release it may feel like betraying not only who we are, but those who gave it to us.

But it’s not just personal. Beliefs bind us to others, weaving us into families, communities, even nations. Imagine admitting to your closest circle that you’ve begun to doubt something once held sacred. The fear isn’t just of being wrong—it’s of being cast out. Tribalism is a quiet but powerful force, pulling us to defend our shared truths, even when they wound us or silence others.

And then there’s the fear of the unknown. If I loosen my grip on this belief, what will take its place? Will anything? Even a frayed rope can feel safer than the dark chasm below. Certainty, even when flawed, offers comfort. Letting go feels unthinkable—not because the belief is strong, but because we are afraid.

Emotional investment deepens the entrenchment. The longer we’ve believed something, the harder it is to let go. Each argument we’ve made, each conversation where we stood our ground, becomes a brick in a wall we’re now reluctant to dismantle. It’s not just the belief we’re defending—it’s our pride, our past, our story.

This isn’t new. In the Bible, the Pharisees clung tightly to their interpretations of the law. Their rigidity blinded them to the love and grace of the very God they professed to serve. Their defense wasn’t born of ignorance, but of identity. And yet, in contrast, there’s Paul—whose zealous belief in persecuting Christians shattered on the road to Damascus. His transformation reminds us that truth can find us even in our certainty—and that humility makes room for something better.

This is where the tale of The Emperor’s New Clothes speaks so clearly. The emperor, flattered by tailors who wove invisible garments, paraded through the city in nothing but pride. Everyone saw the truth—but no one dared to speak it, for fear of looking foolish. They defended the illusion because the cost of honesty was too high. It took the courage of a child—untainted by fear or pride—to declare what was obvious: “The emperor has no clothes!”

Sometimes we need a childlike honesty to see our beliefs for what they are: not always noble, not always true, but deeply human. And the question is not whether we’ve ever been the emperor—but whether we have the humility to listen when someone dares to speak.

Admitting the flaws in our beliefs isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s the courage to acknowledge that the rope we’ve been clinging to may not hold—and to trust the space beyond. It’s the courage to say, “I may have been wrong,” and to welcome the growth that follows.

Letting go doesn’t mean abandoning everything. It means refining what we hold, allowing our beliefs to breathe and mature. Faith, after all, is not static. It’s a living thing—shaped by experience, study, and reflection. The beauty of being human is that we are always in progress. And so are the truths we cling to.

Defending flawed beliefs is not a failure—it’s a sign of how deeply we care. But perhaps the most liberating truth is this: we are not defined by our beliefs alone. We are defined by our willingness to seek truth, to grow, and to love—even when it means letting go of what once felt certain.

And in that surrender, we may discover we haven’t lost ourselves at all—but uncovered something truer, stronger, and more enduring.

If I am only a brain, then all my longings—for meaning, for connection, for eternity—are foolish.

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The older I get, the more precious a quiet conversation becomes. Those unhurried exchanges across a table, or the gentle companionship of someone who truly sees you, feel almost sacred. There is something in these moments that touches a deeper place. A spark. A knowing. But if naturalism is right, if all we are is a bundle of neural firings shaped by evolution and accident, then what exactly is happening in those moments? Are we merely biological machines exchanging electrical signals, our thoughts no more substantial than static?

Naturalism, with its emphasis on material causation, insists that consciousness is an emergent property of the brain. There is no ghost in the machine, no soul behind the eyes. Personhood, in this framework, is an illusion. We are not beings with intrinsic worth, only complex organisms reacting to stimuli. Love becomes a neurological cocktail. Thought becomes a transient storm of electrons. Everything we hold dear—truth, beauty, memory, even our sense of self—dissolves into chemistry.

At first glance, this sounds clinical but harmless. Yet something vital slips through our fingers when we accept it fully. If our interior lives are illusory, if the very "I" who writes and the "you" who reads are nothing but echoes of brain activity, then we are profoundly alone. No true communion can exist between illusions.

It fosters alienation. Not the kind that arises from being misunderstood, but something colder. A sense that, deep down, nothing connects. The self is an epiphenomenon. The other, a projection. Our relationships are convenient illusions, evolved for survival. Love, in this view, is useful but not real. And meaning? That is just another adaptation, a story the brain tells to keep us going.

There is a reason totalitarian regimes have often flirted with this mechanistic view of man. Reduce a person to a function, and you can reassign them, reshape them, or remove them. It is much easier to justify cruelty when there is no soul to harm.

But even the most committed materialist hesitates when their child laughs, or when they hold the hand of a dying friend. In those moments, we all act as if there is something more, some essence that matters. We name our dead. We write poems. We whisper love into silence, hoping it echoes beyond the brain. Why?

Because we know, instinctively, that to be human is to transcend mechanics.

Naturalism may describe the body, but it cannot explain the soul. It has no room for mystery, no vocabulary for wonder. And while it can study the brain’s activity when we fall in love, it cannot account for why love breaks us open or binds us together across time and death.

If I am only a brain, then all my longings—for meaning, for connection, for eternity—are foolish. But if I am more, if there is a spirit in the machine, then perhaps the ache itself is proof of a larger story.

We were not made for wires and neurons alone. We were made to love and be known.

Dashboard - DownToMeet

“People don’t join cults for their darkness; they join for their apparent warmth.”

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I am sorry to hear that you have a family member in a cult. Consider the following statement:  “People don’t join cults for their darkness; they join for their apparent warmth.” That sentence has stayed with me. It explains so much. People join cults because they are offered friendship, belonging, purpose, and a sense of meaning in a confusing world. But over time, many discover something deeply wrong: that the warmth is conditional, the truth is manufactured, and the light is dimming—replaced by fear, guilt, and control.

If you have a family member caught in such a group, you are not alone. And you are not powerless. But the path forward is rarely simple.

Not All Cults Wear Robes

The word cult conjures images of robed figures chanting in basements or predicting the end of the world from mountaintops. But most cults are far subtler. They often operate behind the face of well-organized religion, high-control ministries, or charismatic teachers who say all the right things—at first. They may even appear loving, moral, and diligent in good works. This is what makes it so hard to see what’s going on. It also makes it hard for your loved one to see it, especially when the group appears to be fulfilling legitimate emotional or spiritual needs.

But behind the smiles, many such groups exhibit disturbing patterns: they isolate members from their families, demand total allegiance, manipulate with fear and guilt, and elevate human leaders as unquestionable authorities. Any disagreement is met with suspicion, warnings, or punishment—spiritual and social.

This isn’t how Jesus operated.

Jesus, Not a Human Organisation, Is the Way

In John 14:6, Jesus spoke these piercing words:
“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”

Not through an institution. Not through a hierarchy of elders or apostles. Not through a governing body claiming exclusive revelation. Christ did not establish a corporate headquarters to act as mediator. He is the mediator.
As Paul told Timothy: “There is one God and one mediator between God and mankind, the man Christ Jesus” (1 Timothy 2:5).

So when a group claims exclusive access to God through their leaders or demands loyalty to them as proof of loyalty to God, beware. They have replaced Christ with man. They have confused the body of Christ with a brand name. Jesus never required His followers to shun their families, report one another for thought crimes, or suppress their conscience in favour of group conformity.

What Can You Do?

1. Keep the Door Open

Your loved one may not listen now. They may think you're "spiritually blind" or "opposing God's will." But your consistent, quiet presence may be the only genuine love they encounter. Keep the door open. Cults are designed to close every other door—especially family ones. Refuse to let that happen. Don’t argue over doctrine unless they invite it. Instead, focus on your relationship. Remind them they are loved—no matter what.

2. Don't Mirror Their Behaviour

It's tempting to respond in kind—to get angry, or issue ultimatums. Resist that. Show them the difference between the conditional love of a cult and the unconditional love of Christ. Jesus ate with tax collectors and sinners. He never coerced. He invited. Let your attitude echo that invitation.

3. Ask Gentle Questions

People in cults are discouraged from asking questions. You can help reopen that part of their soul. Ask things like:
“Can truth really be afraid of scrutiny?”
“Why do they say Jesus is the mediator, but then insert themselves between you and God?”
“Would Jesus ever ask you to cut off your family?”

Let these questions be seeds. Don’t try to harvest too early.

4. Recognize the Signs

Many cults show common traits:

• Authoritarian leadership: leaders cannot be questioned
• Us-vs-them thinking outsiders are evil or deceived
• Information control: only “approved” materials are permitted
• Fear-based motivation: threats of divine punishment for dissent
• Shunning and excommunication: relationships held hostage
• Inward focus: salvation only within the group

If your family member is exhibiting these or is under pressure to comply or suffer rejection, they are likely in a high-control group.

When They Begin to Wake Up

Many who leave cults do so not because someone convinced them with facts, but because something didn’t sit right in their spirit. They saw hypocrisy. They watched loving friends get expelled. They saw leaders accumulate wealth while members struggled. And when they do leave, they often face deep loss—spiritually, socially, and emotionally.

That’s when they need you most.

You can be the person who doesn’t say “I told you so,” but instead “I’m so glad you’re back.”
You can be the person who helps them find Jesus again—not in the rigid rules of men, but in the freedom of grace, truth, and love.

There Is Always Hope

Cults claim exclusive access to truth, but the real Jesus is not hard to find. He walked dusty roads, touched lepers, and forgave doubters. He told people not to put their trust in men but to follow Him. He never started a club with secret rules. He started a movement of freedom.

Your loved one may still be in darkness. But light, by nature, is patient and persistent. 

Now read John 6:25-59 and ask, “What does God and Jesus require of me?”

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Here I go again about that Hebrew word firgun. It's one of those words you can’t unsee once you know it. It means the joy we feel when we see others happy—not for anything they’ve done for us, not because it benefits us in any way, but just because they’re happy.

My eyes filled with tears last night for someone else’s happiness. Not someone I knew. Not even someone in the same country.

My wife and I were watching YouTube together, and, as algorithms do, it fed me something it knew I’d like: a video of 200 people in a field singing Bruce Springsteen’s Waitin’ on a Sunny Day.

Bruce Springsteen "Waitin' on a sunny day" - Over 200 Belgian musicians play for Bruce Springsteen

There they were, ordinary people singing with unbridled joy, their voices rising into the summer sky like birds that had forgotten what cages were. Something in that moment loosened something in me. When my wife stirred from her dream-slumber, began singing the chorus as sunbeams burst through the blinds. Scotland’s rare sunshine had found us.

But something deeper was happening.

Richard Dawkins, the renowned atheist and evolutionary biologist wrote:

“The universe we observe has precisely the properties we should expect if there is, at bottom, no design, no purpose, no evil, no good, nothing but blind, pitiless indifference.”

This made me pause.

Because if that were true; if the core of reality is truly indifferent, how do we explain firgun?

Why would we be wired to feel joy for someone else’s joy? Why would 200 strangers in another country move me to tears? Why would a wife, half-dreaming, wake up singing a song that connects her heart to mine?

Why do love, empathy, kindness, virtue, and sacrificial acts even exist in such a universe? Why does someone throw themselves in front of a train to save a child they don’t know? Why do we applaud goodness, even when it costs us?

You see, if we are merely the product of mindless evolution, if life is nothing more than survival and replication, then firgun is a liability. Altruism is wasteful. Empathy is inefficient. Kindness is, frankly, irrational.

But we know better. Our souls testify otherwise.

The world may sometimes appear indifferent, even cruel. But these moments—these little sunlit mercies—speak of something deeper. A moral inheritance. A spiritual dimension that no algorithm or formula can quite grasp.

We are not merely atoms and appetites. We are image-bearers of something greater. Something that smiles when we smile, that weeps when we weep. Something, someone, who planted the seeds of firgun in our hearts as evidence that love, not indifference, has the final word.

1 John 4:8 tells us who God is:

“God is love.”