Personal Blogs

“For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against the principalities, against the powers, against the world’s rulers of the darkness of this age, and against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places. Ephesians 6:12” (WOB).

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

The Family

It is quite a statement made by the Apostle Paul in the above verse. And it raises the question, is there any evidence in society that demons influence us?

Let’s take a particular example I have in mind: The family; the very structure of civilisation.

There was a time when all the family went to the same store for clothes. There was a time when all the family spoke the same language. There was a time when all the family listened to the same music. But that is all changed in the last two centuries. If you have someone who speaks a different language, wears different clothes, and listens to different music, you have a foreigner. A foreigner in your own home.

Now think of sit comes and dramas that make father stupid and children who know best. Think of the aggressive language among family members in the soaps. Think of the way children and youths address their parents and talk about their parents and promoting the idea that parents can be an object of abuse. Now with the emergence of the cyber-sea, we have children isolating in their own room addicted to computer games and their own television and smart phones. Added to that is the dangerous predators that pray on youths on social media.

With the family crumbling, the support mechanism crumbles also, we now have a pandemic of depression, drug addiction and alcohol addiction.

Young people also grow up with the idea that outer beauty is of more value than inner beauty.

In addition, we have the me-first culture that breeds narcissistic values and the I and the Me stand erect like Terracotta warriors.

The family is crumbling before our eyes. So, what is the solution?

Everyone in the family is an individual that needs a voice and a need to be heard. If a child goes in a huff, there must be a reason. If there is aggressive speech, communicate your feelings in a private discussion. If you have an issue with a child, parent, or sibling, speak to them alone and not to others. There is no point in building up resentment and being stressed. You do not know a person well unless you talk with them and find out their feelings and why they act the way they do. If there is a dominant character in the family, communicate your feelings in the spirit of mildness. Finally, have a family discussion regularly with God’s word as a focus There is no point in building up resentment and living a life of stress. Find value in the family by listening and acting. No family is perfect, but they can be happy with good focus. Remember, there is powerful forces at work.

“…with all lowliness and humility, with patience, bearing with one another in love, being eager to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” Ephesians 4:2-3 (WEB).

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

The Devil is in the Details

It seems every patient in the waiting room is tuned in to the same channel; hypnotised by daytime soaps where everyone shouts, cries, or throws fits of anger. Why do we expose ourselves to this stuff? Is life not bad enough without action replays during our leisure time? That thought stayed with me longer than expected. Why do we willingly bring this kind of chaos into our living rooms? And perhaps more importantly, what is it doing to us?

Psychologists tell us that we’re wired for drama. Something about tension and emotional upheaval keeps us glued. There’s a word for it, catharsis; the emotional purge we get from watching others suffer or triumph. It’s the same reason ancient Greeks flocked to see tragedies. Today, it’s soap operas, reality shows, and courtroom dramas. But the goal is the same; to feel something, even if it’s second-hand. Our brains reward these moments with dopamine, the feel-good chemical that doesn’t care whether joy or fury triggered it. So we become hooked, not to the story, but to the chemical reaction inside us.

Still, there's something deeper going on. Many people, often without realising it, return to the same dysfunctional patterns they grew up with. If shouting, silent treatments, or emotional manipulation were part of childhood, there’s a strange comfort in seeing those behaviours on screen. Drama reflects their internal landscape. For others, it’s a chance to feel superior—“At least we’re not like that”—a subtle ego boost at someone else’s fictional expense.

But why, philosophically, are we so drawn to evil? Thinkers from Augustine to Nietzsche wrestled with this. Evil fascinates us because it mirrors the capacity for darkness within ourselves. Every story needs a villain, but modern entertainment often goes further; it lets the villain win, or worse, blurs the line so much that we don’t know who to root for. Stories used to end with good triumphing and lessons learned. Now they often end in disillusionment. Our cultural heroes are flawed, selfish, and broken—and instead of changing, they become more entrenched. It’s a form of storytelling that reflects a world weary of hope.

Writers know that conflict drives narrative. They’re taught that if nothing goes wrong, the story dies. But there’s a difference between meaningful tension and gratuitous turmoil. Not all conflict builds character. Sometimes it just sells ads. The more outrageous the behaviour, the more clicks and viewers. There’s also a crisis of imagination. Peaceful stories are harder to write. Joy is quiet. Kindness is subtle. Love grows slowly. These virtues are not easily packaged into thirty-minute plot arcs.

The real concern is what this constant exposure does to us, especially in the context of family life. When children grow up watching couples belittle one another or families explode over trivial matters, they internalise these models. Over time, what begins as entertainment becomes instruction. We mirror what we consume. Shouting becomes normal. Sarcasm becomes clever. Manipulation becomes strategy. And somewhere along the way, empathy quietly slips out the back door.

Even our moments of rest are no longer restful. We work all day, juggle responsibilities, and come home desperate for peace. But instead of filling that space with calm, we hand ourselves over to screen-induced agitation. We let fiction pick our moods and gatecrash our dream. Is that really rest?

I don’t think we’re doomed to this. In fact, I believe families can choose something better. We can laugh together over old comedies that don’t mock people for sport. We can sit around a table and talk—really talk—not over characters but over our day. We can read aloud. Play music. Go for a walk when the light’s beginning to fade. Watch nature documentaries and let ourselves marvel. Share stories from our own lives, the kind that aren’t exaggerated or scripted, but real and remembered.

When we replace noise with connection, something begins to heal. The tension drops. The home becomes a refuge instead of a replay of what’s wrong with the world. Children learn how to speak with respect. Couples rediscover calm. And our minds finally breathe.

Entertainment isn’t evil. But we owe it to ourselves to ask: is what we’re watching helping us become better? Kinder? More patient? If not, maybe it's time to change the channel, or better yet, turn it off. Because life is already dramatic enough; our homes should be where the peace begins.

"He who walks with integrity

and practices righteousness,

who speaks the truth from his heart,

who has no slander on his tongue,

who does no harm to his neighbor,

who casts no scorn on his friend"

Psalm 15: 2,3. (BSB).

A special thanks to https://unsplash.com/@kellysikkema for the use of the image

Their Hearts Grew Softer: A Lesson on Being Human

In the sun-scorched hills of Judea, nestled in the small village of Bethany, lived a devout, God-fearing couple known throughout the village for their dedication to the synagogue on the hill that overlooked their community. The husband, a skilled carpenter with hands hardened by years of working wood and stone, had repaired nearly every home in Bethany. The wife, a gentle woman of learning, taught the children of the village, filling their minds with the Torah and their hearts with stories of God's miracles.

From the outside, they appeared as pillars of faith. They were always present at the synagogue, with the husband's deep voice rising above the others as he sang psalms, and the wife's quiet prayers comforting those in need. They organized village gatherings, led Torah studies, and ensured that every widow and orphan was cared for according to the Law of Moses.

 The people of Bethany admired their devotion, often turning to the couple for guidance. "The Lord has surely blessed them," the villagers would say, watching the couple go about their duties, always busy with good deeds. But behind the closed doors of their stone home, nestled at the edge of the village, another story began to unfold.

Though they were devoted to the synagogue, the couple developed a growing habit of speaking about others behind their backs. It began innocently, as many things do. After the Sabbath service, they would walk home along the dusty path leading through Bethany, reflecting on the day's events.

 "Did you notice how late Simon arrived today?" the husband would murmur as the sounds of the service faded into the distance.

 The wife nodded, adjusting her shawl against the desert breeze. "Yes, and he didn’t look well. It’s a shame, really… he’s not been the same since his wife passed. We should keep him in our prayers."

 At first, their words were cloaked in concern, an expression of care for their neighbours. But over time, the concern turned into something else. The remarks grew sharper, less about prayer and more about judgment. As they sat by the oil lamps in the evenings, their conversations often shifted toward the villagers of Bethany.

“I’ve heard that Miriam’s daughter has been seen speaking with the Roman soldiers,” the wife would say, her voice low. “People are starting to wonder if she’s been influenced by their ways.”

 The husband shook his head. “It's no surprise. The girl was always rebellious. This is what happens when the parents fail to uphold the Law properly.”

They felt justified in their talk, believing it was merely to keep each other informed and to pray for those who had strayed. But in truth, their words carried a sting, and the whispers they spread began to drift through Bethany like the dry wind blowing from the wilderness.

It wasn’t long before rumours began to take root in the village. Quiet suspicions turned into gossip that passed from house to house. Soon, the people of Bethany began to view one another with suspicion, not knowing where the rumours had started but feeling their effects all the same.

One Sabbath morning, the rabbi delivered a sermon unlike any the couple had heard before. Standing before the congregation, his voice sombre, he spoke of the power of the tongue.

"The scroll of Proverbs tells us that life and death are in the power of the tongue," the rabbi said, his voice resonating in the stone chamber of the synagogue. "Gossip, my friends, is like a serpent’s bite. It poisons relationships and tears communities apart. When we speak ill of others, even under the guise of concern, we sin against God’s command to love our neighbour."

 His words hung in the air, as heavy as the heat outside. The couple sat stiffly in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances. It felt as though the rabbi's words had been directed at them, piercing through the layers of self-righteousness they had built over time.

 As they walked home after the service, the usual chatter between them was absent. The desert wind whispered through the olive trees, and the only sound was the shuffle of their sandals on the dusty path. Finally, the husband broke the silence, his voice quiet.

 “Do you think he was talking about us?”

 The wife hesitated. “I don’t know… but I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we’ve allowed our words to become more judgmental than kind. We’ve spoken as if we were above others.”

The husband nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “Yes. We’ve let pride take root in our hearts, hiding it behind concern for others.”

That evening, as the oil lamps flickered in their home, there was no idle talk of their neighbours, no whispered judgments. Instead, they sat in silence, reflecting on the rabbi's sermon and the weight of their own actions.

The next Sabbath, as they made their way to the synagogue, they were filled with a new resolve. This time, their prayers were not just for the people of Bethany but for their own hearts. They asked for forgiveness—not just for their words, but for the pride that had crept in, making them believe they were better than those around them.

In the months that followed, they worked to change. They remained active members of the synagogue, still teaching and helping their neighbours, but their hearts were softer. They learned to hold their tongues, to listen without judgment, and to view their fellow villagers with kinder eyes.

The people of Bethany, unaware of the couple’s inner struggle, continued to look to them for guidance. But now, their faithfulness was no longer just an outward display—it came from a deeper place of humility and The Goodwill of God. And in time, their story became a quiet reminder to the village: even the most devout must guard their hearts, for it is easy to lose sight of The Goodwill of God, even in the holiest of places.

-------

Note: The story does not resemble anyone dead or alive; It was written for my own benefit and a reminder what I personally must apply in the moral of the story.

No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car.

                                                                                                 August Strindberg.

 Image provided by https://unsplash.com/@enginakyurt

Once upon a time, time began at the moment of the big bang. Don’t try to work that out; that’s what theoretical physicists get paid for.

As soon as the Book of Genesis proclaimed, "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth " Time not only began, but continued to move forward. As soon as you read one word here, the moment has gone, never to return. It’s easier to find porchetta at a Bar Mitzvah that move back time.

Fortunately, time refuses to stands still in our head. If I ask you the capital of Scotland, you might say Edinburgh. But if I ask you to describe the last meal you had with family or friends, a film rolls in your head. A captured moment in time.

My Captured Moment in Time.

As a child, I was brought up in Govan, Glasgow. My friends and I would take the ferry over the River Clyde and eventually find ourselves in the Dowanhill area where Avril Paton’s famous painting was set.

https://avrilpaton.co.uk/prints/windows-in-the-west

I would stare into these homes envious of the happiness that seemed to emanate as I observed get-togethers and cosy chairs with people sitting reading with cats on their lap and children playing board games on a table. Strange, many years later, I had the same sensations when I saw observed winter scene in a Stockholm suburb. I can only conclude that it takes us back to our cosy fairy-tail childhood where logs where on the fire and the family sat around reading and talking. It is a rolling film in my head that only dementia can rob me of.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory

 ^"It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man."

Psalm118:8 KIV.

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

Religion is deeply personal. For many, it shapes how they see the world, make decisions, and find purpose. But what happens when doubts creep in? Is it wrong—maybe even sinful—to question your beliefs? Or could it be a sign of faith, a desire to seek truth and draw closer to God?

People question their religion for all sorts of reasons. Some do it out of a sincere longing to understand and to ensure their faith aligns with God's will. Others, admittedly, may use doctrinal issues as a convenient excuse to throw off moral accountability. But the act of questioning itself isn’t inherently wrong. What matters is the motive behind it.

When my wife and I decided to step away from our religion, it wasn’t an impulsive choice. We wanted to return to the core of our faith, so we turned to the Gospels and the Book of Acts. We asked ourselves, What do God and Jesus actually require of us? That journey wasn’t easy, but it brought us a profound sense of freedom.

For three decades, I felt trapped, always busy with religious obligations, spinning like a Sufi whirler who never stops to reflect. I couldn’t sit down and enjoy a movie without guilt or take a day for leisure without feeling I was neglecting something. Once we stepped back, though, I found myself with time to study God’s word independently, free from outside pressures. It was refreshing in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

Around that time, I read Nothing to Envy by Barbara Demick, a book about life in North Korea. It opened my eyes to how people can hold two conflicting beliefs at the same time. North Koreans are taught that Kim Jong Un is a god, but deep down, they see the lack of evidence. Speaking those doubts aloud, however, could lead to isolation or worse.

I saw unsettling parallels with my own experience. In my religion, questioning the system was frowned upon, even dangerous. Isolation wasn’t physical imprisonment, but it was emotional and social. Doubts were equated with disloyalty, and leaving could cost you everything.

Contrast that with the example of the Bereans in the Bible. In Acts 17, Paul and Silas share the gospel in Berea, and the people there don’t just take their word for it. They eagerly examine the Scriptures daily to see if what they’re being taught is true. That’s what makes the Bereans noble—they don’t blindly accept; they investigate.

When I started examining my own beliefs in that way, I realized how many of them didn’t hold up. It wasn’t a sinful rebellion against God; it was a return to Him. I wanted to know Him more deeply, not through the filter of human rules and traditions, but directly through His word.

It does sadden me when I see others leave religion and lose faith entirely, often blaming God for what they endured. But the Bible warns us not to put our trust in men. People can fail us, but God remains constant. Leaving a religion doesn’t mean abandoning God. In fact, it can be an opportunity to grow closer to Him.

I often think about the issue raised in Eden: Will humanity remain loyal to God, or will we go our own way? That question is just as relevant today. The choice is ours, but it’s not one between blind obedience to human institutions and total rejection of faith. There’s a third path: one of seeking truth, understanding, and a deeper connection with God.

So, is it a sin to question your religion? I don’t believe so. In fact, I think it’s necessary. Asking questions can strengthen faith, strip away unnecessary burdens, and bring clarity. Jesus himself said, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” Truth isn’t something to fear—it’s something to pursue.

 When a man dies, will he live again? 

All the days of my hard service I will wait, 

until my renewal comes Job 14:14.

Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@cadop

In the Book of Matthew, Jesus states in verse 10:29 the following,

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father.”

When a man dies, will he live again? All the days of my hard service I will wait, until my renewal comes Job 14:14.

"[We] forbade him, because he doesn’t follow us"

Image by https://unsplash.com/@kiwihug

"For whoever is not against us is on our side. "

 I was reading about this Sanskrit word, Muditā. It’s defined as a selfless joy one derives from seeing and experiencing the success of others.

There was this incident in the Bible where a man was performing miracles in Jesus’ name.

The disciples who were with Jesus got a bit hubristic and protested,

John said to him, “Teacher, we saw someone who doesn’t follow us casting out demons in your name; and we forbade him, because he doesn’t follow us.”  But Jesus said, “Don’t forbid him, for there is no one who will do a mighty work in my name and be able quickly to speak evil of me. For whoever is not against us is on our side.  For whoever will give you a cup of water to drink in my name because you are Christ’s, most certainly I tell you, he will in no way lose his reward. Mark 9:38-41 mi (WEB).

The disciples were under the illusion that they had a monopoly on the Holy Spirit, like many religious groups today. but no, God and Christ are greater than any religious denomination and we can see the working of the Spirit on many individuals, irrespective of the denomination. Jesus, not the religious group is “the way the truth and the life.”

And therefore Jesus celebrated this man who was on his side.

Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@purzlbaum

The Yaghan people of Tierra del Fuego — I love saying this country—have this long untranslatable, Mamihlapinatapai. Now this is what this word is all about. Two strangers meet and gain eye contact. Both are desperate to initiate a conversation, but The Owl of Minerva flies at dusk, so to speak, and they miss that opportunity. Tis a pity.

I spent my first five years of childhood in a sort of solitary confinement. These were the days before nurseries, and I spent most days playing in the back yard. To add to the problem, I attended four primary schools before high school. Naturally, I grew up with a painful shyness. As a result, I missed many opportunities in life.

When I was eighteen, I bought a book on shyness; it changed my life. Often shyness relates to not knowing what to say. I know people who have never read a book. Who spend their evening hours watching TV and wasting time on the cyber-hive playing video games and social networking. Then, when they meet people, they don’t have much to say. And to be honest, they can be extremely boring as they repeat the same old stuff.

Learn to read, there are many book-reading meetings online.

Learn to start conversations,

“I see you are reading a book, what’s it about?”

“That’s a nice camera, do you have a website where you post your images?”

“Is this your full-time job, or do you attend university?”

These are a few questions I ask, and I have had the most interesting conversations with passing strangers. Think of the various scenarios in which you can use conversation starters. Go on, bite the bullet.

"Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them! "

Ålmeshultasjön, Nässjö, Sverige kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@magnusostberg

Some years ago, I read The Emigrants by Wilhelm Moberg and when I took a trip to Sweden, I visited the Emigrant Museum in Växjö. Blighted by famine in the mid-1800’s, many Swedes migrated to Minnesota. Växjö is in Småland, a region that faced the heaviest migration toll. 

Entering the building one is hit with an emotional cloud as the rooms reek with sadness: images of emaciated pensive creatures in sepia-tone like Holocaust victims facing an uncertain future.

As a child, my friends and I would skip school, take the Govan Ferry over the Clyde, and spend the day at the Glasgow Art Galleries and Museum. The Last of the Clan by Thomas Faed was a painting that always caught my eye; An old clan chief on a horse, a few kith ‘n’ kin, some trunks, and earthenware pots to start life in North America. They were victims of The Highland Clearances; a policy  where sheep were favoured over humans for economic gain.

Such challenging times are repeated throughout the world from the persecution of the Lollards in Germany to the famines in Ireland. Events that are memorialised in songs like Runrig’s The Cutter, Shane McGowan’s Fairytale of New York and Björn Ulvaeus and Benny Andersson’s musical, Kristina from Duvemåla.

When we left the museum, we found a café in town and sat for a while people-watching, and I thought about what I observed in the museum. I wondered if emigration in the national consciousness makes Sweden more egalitarian and kinder to migrants. 

With the threat of deportation, many little migrants are falling victim to a strange syndrome called uppgivenhetssyndrom (Resignation syndrome). A catatonic state peculiar to migrant children who slip away from everyday reality due to the stress caused by the anxiety of an uncertain future.

At the time of writing, families with children cross the channel in a desperate attempt to run from poverty, exploitation, war and all forms of human cruelty.

I believe the following verses offer a future hope for children, 

"Now people were bringing the little children to Jesus for Him to place His hands on them, and the disciples rebuked those who brought them.

But when Jesus saw this, He was indignant and told them, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them! For the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who does not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”  And He took the children in His arms, placed His hands on them, and blessed them."

Mark 10:13-15 (BSB).

Image by https://unsplash.com/@jjying

Memories: Look at Me

My father closed his eyes when I was ten years old. Memories of him are like distant candles, too far to emit significant light.  I have one picture of us when I was seven. He has a Mediterranean look although his grandfather was from Donegal. Many agree that he looked like the actor, Antony Quinn, rugged with compassionate eyes. He is dressed in white shirt and black trousers. He appears dignified.

His business was successful which allowed us to live in a nice building in the shipyard town of Govan. His proudest possession was not the home, but the view from our third storey. When visitors came, he would point over to Hills Trust Primary School and tell them it was the school John Mclean (1879-1923) taught in. Although McLean was a half century out of the public eye, ‘Mother Glasgow’s succour is perpetual’ and everyone remembered him as the political activist who was dismissed by the Govan School Board for ‘Using language likely to cause a breach of the peace.’

 Mclean taught evening classes in Marxism and political economics. Dad shared his views, and he would put me on his shoulders and march round the house singing John McLean’s March; a song that celebrated Mclean’s release from prison.

Hey Mac did ya see him as he came doon the Gorgie
Away o'er the Lammerlaw and north o' the Tay
Yon man is coming now the whole toon is turnin' oot
We're all sure he'll win back tae Glasgow today.

 I never understood the foreign sounding words, but I enjoyed the bonding as he marched round the living room ignoring the precarious position of ornaments and photos as they defied gravity.

Books were his pleasure: Twain, Dickens, and The Untouchables by Eliot Ness. I think it was the sense of justice and injustice explored by these writers that appealed to him. Bedtime stories were memorable as I would be privy to abridged versions of Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, and Huckleberry Finn. They were related with incredible feats of memory and accent skills, enhanced by his rhythmic wheeze that was sustained from a childhood bronchial condition.

He always had time for the lonely. I recall an ex-employee regularly visiting us. Jimmy Hooper was his name. I guess he was young, but his long brown coat, working boots and seven o’clock shadow aged him. Jimmy stopped working for my father when he was admitted to a mental institution with schizophrenia. He had a severe stutter, and my father, with his hands clasped like a priest would, patiently listen to Jimmy, as he lost all self-respect when rhythmically moving his head to and fro like a Rabbi reading the Mishnah in an effort to blurt out a simple sentence. It was stressful for all in his company.

In ‘66 Dad was rushed into hospital with respiratory failure. My last image was a pale looking man gasping for life.

A few years ago, I was at the Edinburgh Festival; a BBC live recording. The folk group, Tonight at Noon performed John MacLean’s March. My eyes filled with pleasing tears. When I related this memory to Kanoko, a Japanese friend, she put both hands to her mouth and uttered ‘natsukashii’. In this context, she was using a word for a positive nostalgia; a fleeting, but sweet memory, initiated by music.

Nostalgia is a vogue word that’s obscured by abuse, misuse, and overuse in society. Like a last-minute kedgeree, the various nuances of memory are thrown into one pot and labelled ‘nostalgia’ in our English language.  But memory is never that simple, the complexity of images and films drawn up in our private vaults hidden away from human scrutiny, reveal a colourful array of thoughts and meanings that change with the transfer of time and space and present themselves in colourful assemblages of meaning, reminding us we are unique and individual.

natsukashii: evoking sweet memories from the past.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory

‘I am a child of this age, the child of disbelief and doubt, until now and even to the grave. What a terrible torment this thirst for faith has taught me, and now cost me, which is stronger in my soul, the more in me the arguments to the contrary.’ ----  Dostoevsky 

Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@vivom

A profile of Dostoevsky reveals a man who experienced considerable injustices in life.  Diagnosed with Grand Mal Epilepsy as a teenager, a last-minute reprieve from a firing squad, exiled to Siberia, death of his second wife whom he loved, death of his child from an epileptic convulsion and the distress of raising a troubled teenager.

Scholars recognise the Karamazov book mirrors Dostoevsky’s life. That being the case, it was the existential angst that troubled Dostoevsky’s later years. Mourning the repeated inhumanity of Russian society, he inevitably turned to thoughts of Divine justice. A question that is as relevant today as it was two centuries ago.

When he was exiled to Siberia, an old widow supplied him and his fellow prisoners some hospitality. She signalled out Dostoevsky and gifted him with a Bible. He later wrote:

‘I am a child of this age, the child of disbelief and doubt, until now and even to the grave. What a terrible torment this thirst for faith has taught me, and now cost me, which is stronger in my soul, the more in me the arguments to the contrary.’ Letters XXV111/1, P.176, 

The Bible, she gave him, was still in his possession at his death.

Fascinating that The Brothers Karamazov was, despite careful reading, I never found that attributed phrase where Alisha said to his atheist brother, ‘If there is no God, then all things are permissible.’ The problem lies in the translation it seems. Nonetheless, the aphorism stands as a valuable argument for objective morality and the personal God. Why does something exist rather than not exist? Why are humans who are apparent chemicals that have come about in the big cosmic game of chance directed by this virtue called justice? Are all the evil and good deeds carried out by humans all for nothing? Are the acts carried out by Pol Pot, Putin, Stalin, and others, permissible? Will there not be a great judgement? If we are alone in this dark universe, then anything and everything goes. But the lived experience reveals otherwise.

We are governed by an invisible force that bends towards justice. We feel it in our lives daily. I say bends because we are free moral agents on a level playing field where goodness and wickedness meet. There’s too much wickedness for God to exist some might say. But isn’t the reverse also true? There’s considerable goodness. Why would any virtue exist in a universe that just happened? I see medical staff going to war-torn countries and risking life to provide care for those who are not their kin. What about Ignacio Echeverría, the 39-year-old Spanish lawyer who confronted the terrorists in the 2017 London Bridge attacks and sacrificing his athletic future and life in the process? There’s the stranger who sacrifices a kidney for the person he will never meet. The millions of charitable givers who make life more endurable for orphans in Brazil, the Philippines, Bangladesh, and other parts of the world. These acts defy the theory of reciprocity allogrooming. They describe altruism in the true sense. Just pure, unconditional love. And history is filled with such.

Back in 1979, just like Dostoevsky, I had many vexing theological questions I wrestled with. One Sunday morning, a man who looked dressed for a funeral, knocked my door and asked, ‘If you had an audience with God, what would you ask him?’

Between a blink and a wink, I asked, ‘Why so much injustice in the world?’ I was expecting this tall thin man with heavy black glasses to ferret away in view of my difficult question. But no. He read me the following:

‘We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time … For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay…’

Why would God create a beautiful planet then subject it to futility? I have thought of this most of my adult life. Here’s what I think. Are we not free moral agents? Then it’s back to that level playing field scenario. How will humans conduct themselves in the absence of a creator? The presence of injustice is a factor caused by man. This gives the illusion that there’s no God. But are humans not like the child who behaves in the parents’ presence and disobeys in their absence? Is there a place for the child who always conducts himself unselfishly, metaphorically speaking? I say that God has us in this seemingly futile situation to test our worth. Not knowing if he is there for sure, reinforces our true selves. What we value most.

C.S. Lewis wrote, ‘If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world will satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we are made for another world.’

All the books I read as a child was about a craving. The hero’s striving for something. I could not put my finger on it at the time. But it was the human impulse for justice. Something books will never satisfy. I found that hope in the further words the man read to me that day as he stood at my door:

‘He (God) will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, the old order of things has passed away.’

 Revelation 21: 4.

I shed many a tear as a child. I shed some now. But to embrace a hope where a universe will prevail and justice being at its centrepiece, I wipe my eyes. The dark and stormy night looks brighter in the end.

A special thanks to Nik for the image https://unsplash.com/@helloimnik

I was singing a song one morning as my wife was getting ready for work. She is from the Philippines. She asked, 'where did you get that song, did you make it up?' 

'It's an old Glasgow street song,' I replied. 

Perhaps you sung it as a child? I would  be interested to know if some of you from various countries sung it. When I did a bit of research on it, it seems it originated from Tonga in the 13th century. I guess Glasgow being a maritime city, it travelled with sailors from the area. We will never find out who the mystery wordsmith was who taught us how to hide from humans, and brought joy to countless millions of kids. Here is the melody at the end, if you wish to karaoke with it.

Nobody loves me, everybody hates me

I think I’ll go eat worms.

Big fat juicy ones

Emsie weensy squeensy ones

See how they wiggle and squirm

Down goes the first one, down goes the second one

Oh, how they wiggle and squirm!

Up comes the first one, up comes the second one

Oh, how they wiggle and squirm!

I bite off the heads, and suck out the juice

And throw the skins away

Nobody knows how fat I grow

On worms three times a day.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y3MZlRPEMBA&t=1s

"“Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.”
― C.S. Lewis

Image by https://unsplash.com/@matblueforest

I have an embarrassing  secret. I am happy to tell you what it is so long as you don’t tell anyone. Is that a deal? This is my secret. I love children’s books. At my age I should know better, but it's an addiction . I love them so much that I changed my degree from a Literature Degree to an Open Degree to accommodate EA300 Children’s Literature with The Open University.

Gyo Fujikawa is the most addictive for me. Children in paradise. Waving from tree houses. Gentle fairies and children no bigger than polka-dot toadstools. Captivating. But, there's the loneliness of the child with no one to play with except a frog. That saddens me. I was a lonely child and I empathise. 

https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/how-gyo-fujikawa-drew-freedom-in-childrens-books

Then there’s Astrid Lindgren’s The Children of Noisy Village. I’m a Swedophile who can speak a few words of Swedish and I am in awe of the beauty and setting where the tale is filmed. An age of innocence. Swedish village life that will never return, perhaps.

https://tv.apple.com/no/movie/the-children-of-noisy-village/umc.cmc.13bmjs0xgg1sv8sju2tv3za5j

There’s the Portuguese word that best explains my longing to enter a world that these stories encapsulate, Saudade,  a longing or nostalgia for something that cannot be realised.

I guess the reason such stories appeal is the desire to escape mentally from this broken world. C.S. Lewis wrote:

“If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.”

Interesting, but what world did C.S Lewis mean? Did he mean the world of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe? No, he was a Christian and an academic who wrote children’s books, Christian, apologetic and academic books. The world he was thinking of was the world recorded in Luke 23:43 “Truly I say to you today, you will be with Me in Paradise.”

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory