Personal Blogs

Where is God? God is Dead. God remains dead. And we have

killed him. How shall we, murders of all murders, console ourselves?”

― Friedrich Nietzsche

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

The Abolition of Man, written by C.S. Lewis, is a prophetic exploration of the dangers of abandoning objective morality—a morality that, as Christians understand, is rooted in God. Lewis’s thesis warns that when humanity rejects this divine foundation, we not only lose our moral compass but also our very essence as beings created in the image of God. In relinquishing objective morality, we venture into a perilous realm where Nietzsche’s Madman—declaring that “God is dead”—finds an unwitting audience. This rejection of God sets the stage for a world spiralling into chaos, as foretold in 2 Timothy 3:1-5.

Lewis describes the consequences of dismantling the “Tao,” his term for the universal moral law recognized across cultures and centuries. He sees this abandonment as a catastrophic shift that severs us from the transcendent source of truth. Without the Tao, humanity becomes a slave to subjective impulses, desires, and a self-imposed morality that fluctuates with societal trends. Lewis’s warning aligns with Paul’s caution in 2 Timothy, where the Apostle lists the traits of people in the last days: “lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive… lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God.” These characteristics describe a humanity untethered from its Creator, adrift in moral relativism and self-indulgence.

Nietzsche’s Madman, in proclaiming that “God is dead,” not only mourned the loss of God but also recognized the vacuum left in His absence. If we have killed God, as Nietzsche suggested, then we have also destroyed the foundation upon which objective morality stands. What remains is a chilling question: What will fill the void? History provides unsettling answers. When humanity seeks to create its own moral framework, it often leads to tyranny, oppression, and a devaluation of human life. Totalitarian regimes, genocides, and the commodification of human beings are not merely historical aberrations but natural outcomes of a worldview that denies God.

The consequences of this moral void are visible today. The exponential rise in chaos—from global conflicts and environmental degradation to fractured families and mental health crises—can be seen as symptoms of humanity’s estrangement from God. Without an objective standard, “right” and “wrong” become malleable concepts, bent to serve the interests of the powerful or the whims of the majority. The sanctity of life, the dignity of the individual, and the call to love our neighbour are all casualties of a world that has, in Nietzsche’s words, “wiped away the horizon.”

Paul’s description in 2 Timothy concludes with a critical phrase: “Avoid such people.” This instruction is not a call to isolation but a warning to guard against being swept into the moral decay of the age. As Christians, we are called to be “salt and light” (Matthew 5:13-16), preserving and illuminating the truth of God’s Word in a darkened world. This responsibility grows ever more urgent as we witness the acceleration of moral decline.

The abolition of objective morality does not merely signify the loss of ethical guidelines; it signifies humanity’s rebellion against its Creator. By rejecting God, we reject the image in which we are made and the purpose for which we are designed. This rebellion leads not to liberation but to dehumanization, where love is replaced by lust, justice by power, and humility by pride.

Yet, as Christians, we hold to a living hope. The chaos of a godless world is not the end of the story. Christ’s victory over sin and death assures us that God’s kingdom will prevail. Our mission is to proclaim this truth, reminding the world that the solution to its crises lies not in human ingenuity but in repentance and reconciliation with God.

The consequences of abandoning God and objective morality are dire, but they also serve as a call to action. Let us not despair but stand firm, knowing that the light of Christ shines brightest in the darkest times. For while humanity may “kill” God in its philosophies and actions, God remains the sovereign. In Him alone is the restoration of all things, including our lost humanity.

"The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice"

Theodore Parker

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

I live in the United Kingdom, a country often regarded as a secular society. Despite this prevailing notion, our actions frequently contradict our professed secular worldview. How so? By the simple act of listening to people’s everyday conversations. Consider some of the common expressions we hear:

- “You wouldn’t believe what she said about me.”

- “Eh, excuse me, but there’s a queue.”

- “That’s not fair!”

- “He deserves better.”

- “You owe me an apology.”

- “What they did was uncalled for.”

- “We should split it evenly.”

Do you see what is happening in all these expressions? They are calling on a universal sense of justice. These statements reveal an innate recognition of right and wrong, fairness and justice, which seem to transcend cultural and religious boundaries.

If we are living in a universe that is nothing more than an accidental bang, where life stepped out of a prebiotic pool with no first cause, then those expressions of injustice would be meaningless because there is no inherent justice in an aimless world. We would all just be dancing to our DNA. But we are not. And there is a reason why: we are subject to a universal law, given by a lawgiver who has stamped these laws into our hearts.

Micah 6:8 encapsulates this universal principle beautifully: "He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you but to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?" This biblical passage emphasizes that acting justly, loving mercy, and walking humbly are not merely religious edicts but profound human imperatives.

Madrugar: A word that embraces the joy of getting up very early in the morning, 

before dawn and savouring the sunrise

Image kindly provided by by https://unsplash.com/@nobleshots

I was reminded of the word, Madrugar today after a kind invite to the home of  some Mexican friends last night. It is a Mexican untranslatable that captures the simple joy of waking up to the sunrise enjoying the magical hour.

The writer Nikos Kazantzakis once reflected on the simplicity of happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. His words encapsulate a truth that echoes through time—contentment lies not in grand possessions but in the humblest of pleasures.

Last summer, my wife and I pitched our tent on the edge of Loch Lomond at the Camping Club’s site in Milarrochy Bay, a picturesque location. “We have a lovely spot for you,” the staff member assured us. And indeed, it was.

Our spot touched the beach, where the rhythm of lapping waves carried us to sleep. Each morning, we rose early, greeted by a sunrise that painted the water in hues of gold and amber.

Birdsong filled the air—a symphony of creation performed for an audience of two while the rest of the world slept. Over freshly brewed coffee and warm Greek flatbreads topped with smoked bacon, we savoured the stillness, absorbing the sheer joy of being alive.

It struck me then, as it does now: how simple happiness can be. 

The solace in the those mornings at Loch Lomond, sipping coffee with my wife by my side, I felt the quiet perfection of Madrugar. Happiness, I realized, isn’t something you chase; it’s something you wake up to. It’s there in the rustle of the leaves, the warmth of a flatbread on a griddle, and the stillness of a dawn that asks nothing of you but your presence.

"For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream."

Vincent Van Gogh

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

I suppose it must have been the late summer of 1962; Telstar by the Tornadoes had been playing on the radio. I had been spending my entire summer on the idyllic Island of Bute on Scotland’s west coast. We had a cabin sandwiched between Canada Hill and Bogany Farm.

 It had no running water or electricity. My job was to go and fill up the water containers from the communal well. Cows would cautiously approach and stare curiously whilst the smaller ones would shuffle through for front-row viewing.

At dusk, we would light paraffin lamps to illuminate the nights. My father would read children’s books. We were all ears as he read Heidi, Tales From 1001 Nights and Chinese Folk Tales. We ate freshly made pancakes with homemade jam and washed down with small glasses of sweet stout.

The lamp caused a sibilant sound as it burned up kerosene. It flickered and fostered sleepiness. It finally slumbered for the evening, and we would retire.

I lay there in my bed watching the stars cascading through the window; every one of them. And I wondered if the Chinese farmer boys, or the Bedouin shepherd boys or the milk maids in the Swiss mountains were seeing and feeling the sense of awe that I felt in my heart as the universe entered in.

“Silence is true wisdom’s best reply.” — Euripides

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

There is a quiet beauty in Shaanti. The word itself rolls off the tongue like a whisper, embodying the very peace it signifies. But Shaanti is more than a word. It is a state of being a sanctuary we create within ourselves—especially in a world that seems intent on disturbing it. As an empath, I’ve come to see Shaanti not just as a desire but as a necessity, a lifeline that allows me to navigate a world full of noise, criticism, and negativity.

Empaths feel deeply. We sense tension like electricity in the air, absorb the pain of others as though it were our own, and often find ourselves standing at the crossroads of chaos and calm. It is tempting to be swept into the currents of other people’s storms, but I have learned, sometimes painfully, that not every battle is mine to fight. Not every critical word deserves my energy, and not every misunderstanding demands my defence.

For much of my life, I thought it was my responsibility to explain myself, to clarify my intentions, and to prove my worth to those who misjudged me. I would wrestle with their negativity, hoping to reshape it into understanding. But over time, I realized this was an endless, exhausting endeavor. The truth is, some people see only what they wish to see, filtered through their own biases and insecurities. Their judgment says more about them than it ever does about me.

Letting go of the need to justify myself was one of the most liberating decisions I’ve made. It wasn’t easy. Walking away from a misunderstanding feels counterintuitive, like leaving a wound untreated. But I’ve come to understand that not every wound needs my tending. There is no point in pouring my heart into convincing someone who has already decided who I am. My energy is better spent elsewhere—on those who meet me with kindness, on pursuits that nurture my spirit, and on the quiet cultivation of Shaanti within.

I’ve also learned the importance of boundaries. Toxic people, with their relentless criticism and self-serving agendas, can drain the most vibrant soul. As an empath, I’m particularly susceptible to their influence, often feeling their negativity as acutely as a physical weight. For years, I tolerated such relationships out of a misplaced sense of duty, convincing myself that understanding their pain meant excusing their behaviour. But I’ve come to see that protecting my peace doesn’t make me unkind; it makes me wise. Setting boundaries isn’t about shutting people out; it’s about creating space for the right people to come in.

Still, choosing Shaanti isn’t without its challenges. There are moments when I feel the sting of being misunderstood, of being labelled distant or aloof simply because I refuse to engage in conflict. Some interpret my quiet retreat as weakness, as though my choice to walk away from unnecessary drama reflects a lack of courage. But I know better. It takes immense strength to choose peace when anger beckons, to remain still when provoked, and to let go of battles that serve no purpose.

There is a profound power in silence. It is not the silence of defeat but of resilience, of knowing when words would only feed the flames. In that silence, I find Shaanti. I find myself.

Nature often reminds me of this truth. On early morning walks by the beach, I watch as the waves meet the shore—a gentle rhythm, undeterred by the chaos of the wind. The sea doesn’t argue with the storm; it doesn’t seek to justify its existence. It simply is, constant and enduring. In those moments, I feel a kinship with the water, a reminder that I, too, can remain steady amidst turbulence.

Shaanti is not about avoiding conflict at all costs; it’s about choosing where to place my energy. It’s about recognizing that my peace is precious and that not everyone deserves access to it. It’s about knowing that my worth isn’t diminished by someone else’s misunderstanding and that walking away doesn’t mean I’m weak—it means I’m free.

So I will continue to seek Shaanti in my own quiet way, stepping back when the noise becomes too loud, holding fast to the peace that I’ve cultivated within. I will embrace the misunderstandings, knowing that they do not define me, and I will let go of the need to prove myself to those who cannot see me as I am.

In the end, Shaanti is not something the world gives us. It is something we create, moment by moment, choice by choice. And for those of us who feel deeply, who see the world through the lens of empathy, it is our gift to ourselves—a gentle, unshakable place where we can simply be.

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

Éviction

He looks outside from the Café Lumière, his hand lingering on the glass as he watched her. His adult child, animated and confident, handing out pamphlets to passing strangers, her voice carrying a message of salvation. Her polished presence a contrast to the fractured silence she had left in his life. It struck him as odd, that she could pour such devotion into strangers' souls while leaving his questions unanswered. He feels the weight and speaks in his heart; "Il avait autrefois été son sanctuaire."

Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@keebarber

Whilst on holiday in the Scottish Highlands, I often get talking to other Europeans. As we admire the sweeping glens and lochs around us, the subject of cultural differences emerge—a topic as wide and deep as the scenery before us. What are the main differences between us Brits and our Dutch cousins is an interesting one and worth bringing to the table.

One characteristic stands out is the British approach to keeping promises. We’re light-hearted about it, often treating promises as tentative rather than binding. “I’ll call you sometime.” “Let’s plan a trip next year.” “Can I borrow some money? I’ll give it back next week.” “There’s no one else.” These words, often spoken casually, linger in the air like faint vapours, easily dissipating without consequence.

The Dutch, however, take a quite different view. Make a promise to a Dutchman, and you are expected to keep it. No, honestly—really expected to keep it. There’s no wriggle room, no casual opt-out clause. I believe we call this virtue loyalty: commitment, faithfulness, the keeping of obligations. It’s a quality I deeply admire, and I suspect I’m not alone. We are drawn to loyal people, aren’t we? There’s something noble about unwavering commitment in a world that often seems fickle and self-serving.

This conversation recalls a familiar figure from my own country: the statue of Greyfriars Bobby that stands in Edinburgh’s Old Town. Bobby, the loyal Skye Terrier, famously spent 14 years guarding the grave of his master, John Grey, after the man’s death in the late 19th century. Bobby’s faithfulness captured the hearts of a nation, inspiring stories, books, and even a Disney movie. The statue remains a poignant symbol of loyalty, a tribute to the enduring bond between the dog and his master.

But here’s where it gets tricky. Why are we so moved by the virtue of loyalty? If we’re nothing more than biological machines, dancing to the dictates of our DNA in an aimless universe, then loyalty should be little more than a chemical impulse, a behaviour arising from evolutionary necessity. And yet, it stirs something deep within us—something profound, almost sacred.

The Bible’s wisdom speaks directly to this. Proverbs 20:6 reads:
“Many a person proclaims his own loyalty, but who can find a trustworthy person?”

Here lies a tension we all recognize. Most people like to think of themselves as loyal and trustworthy—there’s a bias psychologists call illusory superiority. We overestimate our own virtues while often falling short of embodying them. The proverb cuts through this self-assured facade, asking the piercing question: Who can find a trustworthy person?

This rhetorical question points to a deeper truth. Loyalty is rare, perhaps because it requires sacrifice, humility, and a prioritization of others above us. It’s not a virtue we stumble upon by chance; it’s forged through intentionality and assessed in moments of trial. Greyfriars Bobby didn’t sit by that grave for 14 years out of convenience or whim. His loyalty was an act of devotion, something that resonates with us because it points to a greater reality—a reflection of God’s own faithfulness.

In a culture that often prizes personal freedom and flexibility over commitment, loyalty can feel countercultural, even radical. Yet it is precisely this steadfastness that we admire in others and aspire to cultivate in ourselves. The Dutch have a saying: afspraak is afspraak— “a deal is a deal.” It’s a reminder that promises matter, that words carry weight. We Brits could stand to learn a thing or two from our Dutch cousins.

And maybe, just maybe, loyalty matters so much because it hints at a truth beyond us. In a world that sometimes feels aimless, loyalty reminds us that we are part of something greater—that our actions, promises, and commitments echo with meaning far beyond what lays on the surface.

Image generated with the assistance of Chat GPT

One enduring legacy my father left me before he passed away was an awareness of an objective morality that manifests itself in all aspects of life and, particularly, in literature. He would often say, "Every story has a moral heartbeat, even if it’s faint." Almost every tale worth telling has a moral denouement: the bad guy loses, the good guy wins. Otherwise, we, the readers, feel robbed. Why should that be? If we are creatures merely “dancing to our DNA” in a “mindless universe,” as Mr. Dawkins suggests, then why should we care about justice? Yet we do.

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” Martin Luther King once said. His words point to a deeper truth: we live in a moral universe, an objective moral universe, whose reflection is cast in literature—stories large and small, stories that move and shape us, often without our conscious realization.

I was raised in the shipyard town of Govan, Glasgow. It was a gritty place, full of hard edges and hard lives. But it was also a place steeped in stories. Every corner seemed to have a tale, whether whispered in the darkened streets or spun at the kitchen table. My father loved stories, and he passed that love to me. He often brought books home—some from the library, others from dusty second-hand shops—and would leave them lying around, perhaps knowing that curiosity would get the better of me.

One day, when I was about ten years old, I found myself in The Modern Book Shop, a cramped little store that sold used books. Its narrow aisles smelled of old paper and damp wood, and I loved it. That particular day, I was drawn to a small book with a curious cover. The illustration depicted a wooden puppet with gangly limbs and wide, expressive eyes. Intrigued, I opened to the first page and read the following epigraph:

“Now it happened that Mr. Cherry, the carpenter, found a piece of wood that laughed and cried like a child.”

And so begins the hero’s journey: to become a real boy. The book, of course, was The Adventures of Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi.

Pinocchio’s story captivated me, not only because it was fantastical but because it felt profoundly true. Here was a puppet, brought to life, yearning to be more than he was. But he was stubborn, prone to lying, easily led astray by temptation. How human he seemed! Yet, at the heart of his journey lay a moral truth: to become a “real boy,” he had to learn courage, selflessness, and integrity. These weren’t arbitrary rules; they were the keys to a meaningful existence. Even as a child, I sensed the weight of this lesson. The story spoke to something deep within me, something my father had often hinted at: the idea that life has a moral fabric, and we are called to live in harmony with it.

Years later, as an adult, I would come to see Pinocchio’s journey as a metaphor for the human condition. Like him, we are all, in a sense, trying to become “real.” We wrestle with our flaws, stumble down wrong paths, and face moments of reckoning. And like Pinocchio, we find that the road to authenticity is paved with choices that test our character.

This notion of an objective morality—a moral compass embedded in the universe—has stayed with me throughout my life. It’s why I find it impossible to believe that morality is merely a human construct. If that were true, why would stories like Pinocchio resonate so universally? Why would we instinctively root for justice, even in fictional worlds? There is something within us that recognizes goodness and beauty and truth—not as inventions, but as reflections of a greater reality.

My father never used grand theological terms to explain this. He didn’t need to. He simply lived it, and he pointed it out in the stories we shared. Whether it was the selflessness of Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities or the triumph of Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia, he saw these narratives as echoes of the ultimate story: the triumph of good over evil, of light over darkness.

Now, as I reflect on my father’s legacy, I realize how deeply it shaped my own journey. The books he left behind, the stories he loved, and the truths he pointed me toward have become part of who I am. Like Pinocchio, I am still on the road to becoming “real,” still learning what it means to live with courage, selflessness, and integrity. And though my father is no longer here to guide me, his lessons remain—woven into the fabric of my life, much like the moral arc he so passionately believed in.

In the end, it seems fitting that the stories we cherish are not just about heroes and villains, but about us. They remind us that we live in a moral universe, one where justice matters, where truth endures, and where, even in the face of darkness, the light finds a way to shine.

“The mind enslaved by fear or blind faith is a prisoner that builds its own cage.”
— Unknown

Image generated by Microsoft Copilot

 "I am the way and the truth and the life. 

People don't join cults for their darkness, they join for their apparent warmth. And those who express that warmth, don't realise they are in need of light. You see, many cults indulge in good works and this is why It can be surprisingly hard to recognize when you’re caught in the web of a cult. 

The term itself conjures images of secretive rituals, fanatical devotion, and bizarre beliefs, but most cults are far subtler. They operate under the guise of legitimate organizations, offering hope, community, or answers to life’s deepest questions. If you’re wondering whether you’re in a cult, you may already sense that something isn’t right. Recognizing the signs often begins with asking hard questions about the group’s practices and your own feelings of freedom and individuality.

At the heart of many cults lies absolute authority. Cult leaders claim to hold exclusive truths—truths that no one else can access. Their teachings and decisions are not to be questioned. If you find yourself unable to voice doubts or challenge leadership without fear of backlash, that’s a significant red flag. Healthy organizations welcome accountability and foster critical thinking, while cults demand unquestioning loyalty.

Another hallmark is isolation. Cults often create an “us versus them” mentality, painting outsiders as threats or enemies. You may be encouraged to limit contact with friends and family who don’t share the group’s beliefs. Over time, this isolation can erode your support network, leaving you increasingly dependent on the group for emotional, social, and even financial needs.

Speaking of finances, cults frequently make extreme demands on members’ time and resources. Whether it’s through monetary contributions, volunteer labour, or total control over your daily life, the group’s needs are prioritized above your own. If you’re constantly sacrificing your well-being or struggling to meet the group’s demands, it’s worth considering whether those sacrifices are reasonable.

Control often extends into the realm of emotions, too. Fear, guilt, and shame are powerful tools in a cult’s arsenal. You might be made to feel unworthy or sinful if you fail to live up to their standards. Fear of leaving—whether due to threats of divine punishment, public shaming, or the loss of community—is another common tactic. Such emotional manipulation can leave you questioning your own judgment, making it harder to see the group’s actions for what they are.

Cults also insist on exclusivity of truth. They claim to have the sole path to salvation, enlightenment, or fulfilment. Other perspectives are dismissed as dangerous, and critical thinking is discouraged. This creates a closed system where the group’s beliefs become self-reinforcing, shutting out alternative viewpoints that could challenge their authority.

Manipulation often begins subtly, with an initial period of love bombing. This is when you’re showered with attention, praise, and affection to draw you in. Over time, however, this warm embrace can turn cold. Public criticism, humiliation, or even shunning may be used to enforce compliance. Members who leave are often ostracized, painted as traitors or failures.

Secrecy is another key feature of cults. You may notice that certain practices or teachings are only revealed once you’re deeply involved. Financial dealings, leadership decisions, or the true extent of the group’s demands might be hidden. Transparency is a hallmark of trustworthy organizations; secrecy is not.

So, how can you know for sure? Ask yourself some honest questions. Do you feel free to leave the group without fear of punishment or loss? Are you encouraged to think critically and ask questions? Does the group’s leadership live consistently with the values they preach, or do they seem to benefit disproportionately from your contributions? Most importantly, do you feel more empowered or diminished by your involvement?

Recognizing these patterns isn’t easy, especially if you’ve invested a lot of time, energy, or emotion into the group. But stepping back to evaluate your situation objectively is crucial. Reach out to trusted friends or family members outside the group for their perspective. Professional counsellors and organizations like the International Cultic Studies Association can also provide guidance and support.

https://www.icsahome.com/

Being part of a community can be a beautiful thing, but true community is built on mutual respect, freedom, and trust. If those elements are missing, it’s worth exploring why—and whether you’re in a place that truly has your best interests at heart.

The length of our days is seventy years—or eighty if we are strong— Psalm 90:10 (BSB)

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

The length of our days is seventy years—or eighty if we are strong— Psalm 90:10 (BSB)

There will come a time when I have to depart this earthly existence and so will you. Despite false religious prophecies like "Millions Now Living Will Never Die," They did die. That's not a problem for me, but I would worry about my wife I would leave behind. But, in recent months, God has built a wall around her; protecting her. I feel blessed.

***

At the close of 2023, I went through some medical examinations. On the day I had an appointment to see the consultant for the results, my wife and I read a scripture that morning as we do every morning. It was Psalm 91: 1,2:

‘He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

Will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.’

I will say to the Lord, “You are my refuge and my fortress,

My God, in whom I trust.’

I said to my wife, ‘we are going to get bad news today.’ She agreed. God had often given us messages through the scriptures that were specific. God continues to speak as he has always spoken, but at times, the right verse miraculously lands in our lap when needed.

And sure enough, cells in the prostate that served me faithfully, turned hostile and have created a rebellion in the pancreas and liver and who knows where else.

The consultant who revealed this, looked at me and said, ‘You are very bravado about this.’

I replied in all confidence, ‘There’s a young man inside me. He has followed me around all his life. His age, I do not know, but he is always there. He comforts me and his presence convinces me God has eternity in view for me,’ I replied.

The truth is, God has ‘set eternity in our hearts.’

We came home that day and read the whole of Psalm 91 and felt a great sense of comfort. I have no sensation of what the Germans call torschlusspanik, that awareness that the doors are closing in on me. No, I wake with a miraculous feeling of peace that only comes from God and Christ.

When I think of God, Christ, and my relationship with my wife, I am drawn to the Punjabi word  Fikar (ਫਿਕਰ): Though it translates to "worry" or "concern," it implies a deeper sense of care and responsibility, often used in a context of emotional attachment.

 “This is the Sabbath! It is unlawful for you to carry your mat.”

John 5

Image Generated by Microsoft Copilot

I Want Mercy

It’s 7:10 and the song and prayer have concluded and the meeting has started. A sister rushes in and finds a seat at the back. She is still in her uniform; she’s a care worker and a migrant from Ghana.

Afterwards, she is invited to have a talk with two brothers in a private room, and she is "counselled" for turning up at the meeting in uniform.

Your love must be real love. — Romans 12:9 (WEB).

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

I was intrigued today regarding the Tamil word, நட்பு (Natpu): that friendship that carries with it a deep sense of loyalty and respect. Loyalty is important to me and my identity, but in the circles I have travelled in, I’ve been deeply disappointed.

It happens more often than I’d like. I’ll be approached by someone who seems friendly, eager to strike up a conversation or lend a listening ear. At first, I’ll think it’s the start of a genuine connection. But then, the conversation takes a turn—always the same turn—and I realize their primary motive isn’t friendship. It’s conversion.

The realization stings every time. What initially felt like a gesture of kindness and interest begins to unravel as something else entirely: a performance, a charade. And not just any charade, but a duplicitous one. The kindness was a means to an end. Their goal wasn’t to know me or understand me; it was to change me. To fit me into their world, their beliefs. In that moment, I feel less like a person and more like a project.

What bothers me most isn’t the desire to share their faith. I can respect that. I am a Christian. But I have no desire to join and organisation. I am happy with my relationship with God and Christ Jesus, and they therefore do not need to “shake the dust” off their feet. I may not accept Hellfire, the Trinity, and the failed prophecies that your organisation insist on propagating. Why should I change and adopt false doctrines that conflict with my conscience?

What concerns me is the lack of honesty in the approach that troubles me. When someone pretends to care about you as a friend, but their true intention is hidden, it feels like a betrayal. A real friend values you for who you are, not for what you might become under their influence. Now that some religious organisations are haemorrhaging numbers there are compromises on their part to fill seats,

This isn’t what I understand Christian love to be. Jesus didn’t build relationships by pretending to care. He didn’t treat people as projects. He showed genuine compassion, meeting people where they were, loving them as they were. Conversations about faith arose naturally, born out of authentic relationships. There was no guile in His approach, no hidden motive disguised as friendship. If anything, Jesus reserved his sharpest rebukes for those who practiced hypocrisy, those who put on a show of righteousness while their hearts told a different story.

When I’ve spoken to people about this, they’re often surprised by how clearly the pretence comes across. But as humans, we’re wired to sense when something’s off, when someone’s words don’t align with their intentions. That uneasiness we feel in such moments isn’t paranoia; it’s discernment. And it’s fair to name it for what it is. Now please do not get me wrong, I believe there are genuine, sincere souls in many religions, but I am addressing those who manifest the traits in this essay.

If someone truly wants to share their faith with me, I wish they’d simply be upfront about it. Honesty isn’t offensive; manipulation is. I can respect a straightforward conversation about beliefs, even if I don’t agree. But I can’t respect a relationship built on a hidden agenda. Friendship, after all, should be an end in itself, not a means to something else.

Sometimes I’ve gently called it out. I’ve said things like, “I value genuine relationships, and I feel uneasy when I sense someone has a hidden motive. If you want to talk about faith, I’m happy to do so honestly, but not at the expense of real friendship.” Reactions vary. Some people deny having an ulterior motive, while others pause, seemingly caught off guard. Occasionally, there’s a moment of reflection—a flicker of understanding that perhaps their approach wasn’t as noble as they thought.

I’ve also realized how important it is to extend grace, even in these moments. After all, many of these individuals believe they’re doing the right thing. They’re acting out of a sense of duty, however misguided it may feel. But good intentions don’t justify deception. Genuine love—the kind that changes lives—doesn’t require duplicity. It thrives on honesty, humility, and respect.

Ultimately, what I want—what I think we all want—is sincerity. If you care about me, care about me. Not the version of me you’d like to see or the one that fits neatly into your worldview. Let’s have an honest conversation. Let’s share ideas, even debate them if necessary. But let’s do it as equals, with no hidden motives lurking in the shadows.

Perhaps the most valuable thing we can offer each other isn’t conversion but connection.