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The mosque is too far from home,

So, let’s do this,

Let’s make a weeping child laugh

Nidi Fazli

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The poet Nidi Fazli once wrote, "The mosque is too far from home, so, let's do this—let's make a weeping child laugh." In this simple yet profound reflection, Fazli invites us to shift our focus from the grandiosity of religious structures to the heart of religious practice itself. If we cannot reach the sacred spaces that tradition has marked for us, what then? Fazli suggests that perhaps the most sacred act is to comfort a child, to be a source of joy and compassion in the world.

This notion can be applied across religions. Christianity, too, emphasizes that faith must manifest in tangible acts of love and kindness. The early Christians, as described in the Book of Acts, sold their possessions and laid the proceeds at the feet of the apostles to be distributed to those in need (Acts 4:35). Here, religion isn't merely a matter of doctrine or ritual but of community, self-sacrifice, and compassion. It is a recognition that true faith calls us to serve others, to love our neighbours as ourselves.

 The early Christian community understood that their faith was to be expressed not just in words, but in action. The radical decision to give away one's possessions speaks to a worldview that sees material wealth as secondary to the well-being of others. Such acts reflect a deep understanding of the biblical command to care for the most vulnerable members of society. In Exodus 22:22, 23, God gives a stark warning to those who would oppress widows and orphans: 

“You shall not take advantage of any widow or fatherless child.  If you take advantage of them at all, and they cry at all to me.” (BSB)

This is not a passive God, indifferent to suffering. This is a God whose heart is aligned with the marginalized, the oppressed, and the vulnerable. I see this being acted out in modern times noticing churches that operate food banks providing whose facing difficult times with substance.

The principle in this passage reflects the core ethic of many religious teachings: to look out for those who cannot fend for themselves. It reminds us that faith is not only about our relationship with God, but also about our relationship with one another. God’s fury in the face of injustice towards the powerless underscores how central these issues are to the divine nature. The divine commands justice, mercy, and care for the “least of these” (Matthew 25:40). In fact, failure to heed this call is not just a personal moral failing, but a direct affront to God.

In the modern world, religious organizations continue to embody this ethic in various ways. Christian medical missions reach underserved communities, providing healthcare to those who would otherwise be neglected. Orphanages and charitable institutions offer homes and care for children who have been abandoned or orphaned, continuing a tradition of service that dates back to the earliest Christian communities. Churches, mosques, temples, and other places of worship provide not only spiritual nourishment but also tangible resources—food, clothing, and even shelter to those in need. Many Christians, inspired by Jesus' teachings, visit the homeless with food and toiletries, working to restore a sense of dignity to those who have lost so much.

Yet, Nidi Fazli’s lines also remind us that sometimes religion can be inaccessible or distant from everyday life. Whether through institutional failures, geographic distance, or rigid dogma, religious practice can sometimes feel disconnected from the immediate needs of our world. The mosque may indeed be too far from home. The church may seem irrelevant or aloof. But Fazli’s words urge us to see that the essence of faith transcends buildings or ceremonies—it is found in the simple, human acts of love, kindness, and empathy.

This idea resonates deeply with the teachings of Jesus, who spent much of his ministry among the outcast and downtrodden. His healing touch, his words of comfort, and his acts of service were done outside the walls of the temple. He showed that true faith is not confined to sacred spaces or religious professionals. Instead, it is lived out in the streets, in homes, and in the everyday interactions between people.

Faith, when genuine, leads us to actions that reflect God’s love and justice. Whether we are providing medical care to the sick, shelter to the homeless, or simply making a weeping child laugh, we are doing God’s work. Religion should be a force for good, a force that heals and brings joy, a force that defends the defenceless and uplifts the downtrodden.

Perhaps, then, the most important religious act we can perform today is not to walk into a mosque or a church but to walk into someone’s life with compassion. To see the crying child and, as Fazli suggests, make them laugh. It is in these moments that we live out the true essence of faith, embodying the divine command to love one another as God loves us.

So, be careful when someone claimed to be a Christian. James 2:15-17.

'What good is it, my brothers, if a man says he has faith, but has no works? Can faith save him?  And if a brother or sister is naked and in lack of daily food, and one of you tells them, “Go in peace. Be warmed and filled;” yet you didn’t give them the things the body needs, what good is it?  Even so faith, if it has no works, is dead in itself.  Yes, a man will say, “You have faith, and I have works.” Show me your faith without works, and I will show you my faith by my works.' (WEB).

"A man’s a man. A word’s a word. And a promise, if kept, can be a quiet kind of holiness."

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On Promises, Cultures, and the Weight of Words

"When he promises to do something,
    he always does it. " Psalm 15:4.

When I was an eleven-year-old kid in Govan, there was a television series that hooked me. It was The Flashing Blade, originally titled Le Chevalier Tempête, and dubbed from French to English by the BBC; a swashbuckling epic. I would sing the theme song, Fight by The Musketeers, at the top of my voice. I knew the names of the characters: the Chevalier de Recci and his faithful servant Guillot. I suppose it offered a kind of escape from the gloom of living on the Clydeside in darker days.

One day, my mother promised we had to go somewhere, but assured me we would be back in time for my next episode. I trusted her. But we weren’t. She got caught up in conversation with a relative, and I missed the programme. I was crushed. It was only a boy’s TV show, perhaps, but the disappointment cut deep because a promise had been broken.

There’s a Dutch saying I’ve come to admire: "Een man een man, een woord een woord" — a man’s a man, a word’s a word. It feels ancient, as though it had been lifted straight from the pages of Scripture or chiselled into stone beside the commandments. The idea that your word is binding, that once spoken it carries moral weight, is deeply ingrained in Dutch culture. Promises are not suggestions. Agreements are not optional. Afspraak is afspraak. An agreement is an agreement.

This cultural ethos, the belief that a promise is in some sense written in stone, stands in sharp contrast to the more casual approach I’ve often observed in my own British culture. We are, I suppose, masters of softening certainty. “I’ll see what I can do,” might well mean no. “Let’s meet soon,” might mean never. It isn’t always dishonesty, more often a kind of social cushioning — language used to smooth things over rather than to commit. But even gentle evasions can have a cost. They can breed mistrust and wear down the soul when words are used without any real intention behind them.

The Dutch, shaped by centuries of necessity — reclaiming land from the sea and surviving through collective effort — seem to treat a promise not as a courtesy but as a cornerstone. When you say you’ll do something, it becomes a stone set in the dyke. Remove it, and the whole may weaken or collapse.

This reminds me of the ethical clarity found in Scripture. Jesus said, “Let your ‘Yes’ be yes, and your ‘No,’ no” (Matthew 5:37). Anything beyond that, he warned, comes from the evil one. His words are strong, but perhaps that’s what is needed in a world where speech is often slippery and truth is negotiated. James echoed the same thought: “Do not swear — not by heaven or by earth or by anything else. All you need to say is a simple ‘Yes’ or ‘No’” (James 5:12).

There is something profoundly human in our need to trust words. When we make promises to our children, our partners, our friends, they become the quiet architecture of love, the scaffolding of trust. When those promises are broken, something collapses. Sometimes it is only a little thing, like missing an episode of a childhood programme. Other times, it is much more.

Perhaps that is why the image of writing something in stone still resonates so deeply. Stone is not easily altered. It resists erosion, impulse, and whim. It represents a commitment to truth, to integrity, to something beyond ourselves.

And yet, there is room for error. None of us are perfect. We forget, falter, get overwhelmed. But perhaps the point is not to make no promises, but to speak fewer and mean them more. To take our words seriously, as the Dutch do. As Scripture calls us to do. To be the kind of people who, when we speak, don’t need to be cross-examined or second-guessed.

A man’s a man. A word’s a word. And a promise, if kept, can be a quiet kind of holiness.

Scripture quotations from The Message. Copyright © 1993, 2002, 2018 by Eugene H. Peterson. Used by permission of NavPress. All rights reserved. Represented by Tyndale House Publishers.

“Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe... the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” Immanuel Kant.

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I suppose it must have been the late summer of 1962, Telstar by the Tornadoes had been playing on the radio. I spent the summer days on the idyllic Island of Bute on Scotland’s west coast. We had a rural cabin. It had no running water or electricity. My job was to fill up the water containers from the communal well. Cows would cautiously approach and stare. The smaller calves would shuffle through for front-row viewing. I found their curiosity compelling.

At dusk, we would light paraffin lamps to illuminate the nights. My father would read children’s books borrowed from the library: Chinese Folk Tales, Heidi and 1001 Nights. We were all ears as 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; all 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.

*

Childhood memories like that visited me often and reminded me of my spiritual awareness from an early age, albeit in my own childish way.

I had an ache to know who created the stars, the moon, and the beautiful island that was so distant from my industrial town where idle men lingered on street corners like characters from a Loury painting. Where post-war tenements blocked natural light. Where unkempt dogs savaged through bins for scraps. Where it always seemed, there was better places to be raised.

Years later I read the following verse from the Bible,

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,

    the moon and the stars, which you have ordained;

what is man, that you think of him?

    What is the son of man, that you care for him?

— Psalm 8:3, 4.

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“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound,

 but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.

 So, it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”

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“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So, it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”

I’ve returned to this verse often. Especially on long walks near the sea, where the wind has a voice of its own—restless, invisible, alive. It rushes over the hills and through the marram grass without explanation or apology. It moves in sudden gusts or gentle whispers. Sometimes it comes from the south, warm and coaxing, sometimes from the north, sharp and cold. I hear it. I feel it. But I don’t control it. I never have.

And that, I believe, is what Jesus wanted Nicodemus to understand. That the Spirit doesn’t fit neatly into doctrine or prediction. That new life is not the product of lineage or learning or ticking off the correct theological boxes. It is a divine mystery—like wind, like breath—impossible to contain or anticipate. Yet unmistakable in its effect.

There have been moments in my life when I’ve felt something shift in me. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But like a breeze brushing the soul—quietly turning me away from something bitter or drawing me closer to something beautiful. Often it hasn’t come from a sermon or a sacred text, but from the kindness of a stranger, a line in a book, a morning sky, or the simple honesty of my wife’s voice. These moments don’t arrive with credentials. They don’t come pre-approved by human authority. But they feel real. They leave something changed in their wake.

That’s the challenge and the comfort of John 3:8. It reminds me that faith is not a formula. That I cannot chart the Spirit’s movements like a weather map. I cannot predict whom God will touch or where renewal might begin. The Spirit may stir in the heart of someone I once dismissed. Or pass over me when I think I’ve earned its presence.

And so I’ve come to believe that the truest mark of a life born of the Spirit is not knowledge, or certainty, or impressive religious activity. It’s humility. It's the quiet courage to let go of control. To admit we do not know where this is going, only that something beyond us is breathing life into us still.

“It's wonderful how, the moment you talk about God and love, your voice becomes hard”

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There’s a haunting moment in August Strindberg’s novel The Father, where a character says:

       “It's wonderful how, the moment you talk about God and love, your voice becomes hard, and your eyes fill with hatred. No, Margret, you certainly haven't the true faith.”

The power of this line lies not only in its irony, but in its psychological clarity. It exposes a jarring contradiction: that someone can invoke the vocabulary of heaven while radiating the temperature of Venus. Margret speaks of God and love—concepts that ought to soften the heart and lower the voice—but her words clang like iron gates. Her expression hardens, her voice sharpens. Instead of warmth, there's winter in her eyes.

Strindberg, ever the critic of spiritual and familial pretence, holds up a mirror here—not to Margret alone, but to any who weaponize piety. Faith becomes less a wellspring and more a performance; less a light to live by, more a spotlight to control others. His character’s rebuke— “you certainly haven’t the true faith”—lands not as insult, but as diagnosis.

It’s the genius of fiction to crystallize complex truths into a single breath.

This idea resurfaced for me while watching a conversation between Jordan Peterson and Peter Kreeft. They touched on a sobering point: that many who reject belief in God do so not from intellectual rebellion, but from wounds inflicted by those who claimed to represent Him. Religious trauma often wears the face of an apparent Christlike figure. Who reveals a dark secret. The degree of child abuse in religious institutions testify to this fact. Compounded by the act of brushing such under the carpet to protect the “brand”, but only to have the sins coming back to bite with crippling lawsuits.

In these cases, the religious organisation becomes less sanctuary and more stagecraft. But divine justice is not so easily outwitted. The ancient words still echo, heavy with warning:

“But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.” Matthew 18:6, BSB.

The trauma isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s simply the coldness of a leader whose actions betray his creed. It's one thing to preach Christlike love, another to practise it when no one is watching. Harshness in the name of holiness is a strange heresy—and perhaps the most enduring kind.

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Although I don’t recall the exact words of my friend's reply, the essence of our shared need for divine forgiveness and comfort remains vivid in my mind.

Isaiah 1:18 offers a reassuring message from God: “Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool” (ESV). This powerful imagery highlights the profound transformation from guilt to forgiveness that God promises.

David, another significant biblical figure, experienced estrangement from God due to his sins of adultery and orchestrating a man’s life. In his repentance, he wrote these words of comfort: “As far as the east is from the west, so far does He remove our transgressions from us” (Psalm 103:12, ESV).

Imagine this: God gathers all of our sins, places them in a metaphorical box, and buries them forever from east to west. However, it's essential to understand that true forgiveness involves a commitment to cease sinful behaviours (John 5:14).

Thinking back to the man who asked that poignant question, one wonders if he found the solace he sought in the Bible's profound assurances. Few things are more painful than a conscience weighed down by guilt and remorse.

"Society cares for the individual only so far as he is profitable."

 - The Coming of Age, Beauvoir

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A friend at the weekend was out for a walk when two youths in quad bikes passed him and shouted, “Out the way yah specky old…!"

Excuse me for not finishing the sentence; their following words are too shameful to relate. Two things struck me about this scenario, my friend realised he is now old. And although there is nothing new about disrespect for the elderly, it demonstrates a society of people in some quarters that have lost their way and are without conscience. But what did we expect when parents and society have abandoned moral restraint. Who will be the role models for the younger generation?

In the golden years of life, when the hustle and bustle of youth and middle age have quieted, many older adults find themselves facing a new reality—one where the walls, quite literally, seem to close in around them. It's a time when the vibrant social tapestry that once coloured their days begins to fade into the background, leaving a stark, unnoticed, and often uncelebrated existence. This gradual retreat into the shadows isn't just confined to one's home but can happen anywhere—in church pews, community centres, and even within the bustling life of family gatherings.

Many elderly individuals often share a common, poignant grievance: the phone remains silent, and the days stretch on without a call from their children or loved ones. This isolation can be a profound source of sorrow and loneliness, making the twilight of life seem less like a chapter of relaxation and more like one of seclusion.

Yet, this doesn't have to be the narrative. Each of us holds the power to change this storyline and bring light into the lives of the elderly. We can choose to be the family they long for, the friend they miss, and the community they need. It begins with a simple, yet profoundly impactful act: engagement.

Imagine the difference a moment of your day could make if spent sharing a conversation with an older person. Consider the stories they have to tell, the experiences they can share, and the wisdom they're eager to impart. These are the threads that can weave new tapestries into their lives and rekindle the colours that once defined them. Taking an elder for a coffee or a meal out can be a simple gesture, but the significance it holds for them can be monumental. It's not just about the warmth of the drink but the warmth of the interaction, the feeling of being seen, valued, and loved.

Moreover, engaging with the elderly is not a one-sided affair. The benefits are beautifully reciprocal. In giving your time and attention, you are likely to find yourself enriched with newfound perspectives and insights that only years of experience can bestow. The emotional lift that accompanies these interactions is a testament to the profound human connection that sustains us at all stages of life.

This call to action is about more than combating loneliness; it's about reaffirming the dignity and worth of every individual, regardless of their age. In a society that often celebrates youth and productivity, it's crucial to remember that our elderly are reservoirs of history, knowledge, and life lessons that are invaluable to our cultural fabric.

Let us then make a conscious effort to reach out, to listen, and to embrace. Let's ensure that our elderly do not fade into the background but continue to be active, cherished members of our communities. By doing so, we not only uplift their spirits, but we also elevate our own, fostering a culture of care, respect, and mutual support.

So, the next time you pass by an elderly person, whether a familiar face or a new encounter, spare a thought, a moment, and perhaps a cup of coffee. In this simple way, we can all contribute to a kinder, more inclusive world where every stage of life is celebrated and revered. After all, one day, we too will hope for the same kindness and recognition in the autumn of our own lives.

Consider,

Pure and undefiled religion before our God and Father is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world. - James 1:26,27 (BSB).

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For His eyes are on the ways of a man,

and He sees his every step.

Job 34:21 (BSB).

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This week, I returned from the Isle of Skye. Although I'm not a tourist guide, I ponder, what could I share about Skye? It boasts stunning views, welcoming locals, cosy cabins by the loch, and an educational lifeline where youths cross waters from neighbouring islands to attend school in Portree. Rural minibuses ferry younger children to their primary schools. Waking up was a delight with chickens strutting  around my cabin and a grand morning symphony orchestrated by the wilderness.

Yet, this morning, I find myself in a reflective mood, back home after attending a classical concert last night. While the music was sublime, requiring a serene environment for its delicate pieces, the ambiance was marred somewhat by attendees who frequently exited the auditorium for refreshments, alongside a noticeable number of latecomers. Wolf whistling during performances and at times, the concert seemed secondary to the party mood. Am I getting old and talking like my parents and grandparents as society changes? I don't think so Judging by the conductors’ comments, he seemed to indicate this was unique to my city. But I am sure this happens in other cities.

Afterwards, the city presented a stark contrast. The football crowd was caught up in a wave of drunkenness and aggression. On my journey home, the train scene was disappointing: people sprawled with their feet on seats, engaging in heavy drinking and smoking, leaving the carriage in disarray—a scene reminiscent of what my granny would call "Annaker’s Midden." I felt ashamed for my city.

In these moments, I contemplate what I would share if I were a guide to my own city. It's a city with many kind, respectful, and loving people, yet sometimes it also shows less commendable sides.

I sometimes muse about extra-terrestrials landing in my backyard, inquiring, "Is there any good reason for us to linger here a while?"

"Perhaps another time," I'd suggest, "when a transformative era (Armageddon) ushers in both moral and physical rejuvenation of our planet under God’s Kingdom."

For behold, I will create

new heavens and a new earth.

The former things will not be remembered,

nor will they come to mind.

But be glad and rejoice forever in what I create.

Isaiah 65:17,18.