Personal Blogs

 "Forgiveness says you are given another chance to make a new beginning."

Desmond Tutu

Several years ago, I had the honour of addressing an English-speaking Christian convention in Italy. The night before my speech, I dined with friends, including one who was deeply committed to providing pastoral care to prisoners. Among those he ministered to was a former Mafia member wrestling with a heavy burden.

During one visit, this individual posed a heart-wrenching question to my friend:

“I have taken many lives and committed numerous acts of violence. Will God forgive me?”

— Blaise Pascal, Pensées 

The idea that the root of human misery might be so simple—and so easily ignored—feels almost absurd. In an age where distractions are infinite and solitude is marketed as a problem in need of fixing, Pascal’s 17th-century insight cuts clean through time to strike the modern nerve.

Pascal, a philosopher, physicist, and man of faith, was not afraid of silence. Nor of God. He saw in the quiet room a mirror. Not merely a space of absence, but a presence—a reckoning. To sit in stillness, without distraction or agenda, is to be confronted with the self. And for many, that is unbearable.

The human spirit seems to resist solitude. We fill our lives with movement, conversation, television, scrolling, even the nobility of "being busy"—not always because these things matter, but because they spare us the confrontation with our own interior life. The still room is too loud with our unspoken questions: Am I loved? Am I enough? Am I avoiding something I must face?

And yet, Scripture speaks into this with a quiet but persistent voice: “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). Stillness isn’t just rest; it’s revelation. It's where we remember who we are—not as consumers or performers, but as souls. The quiet room isn’t empty. It’s where God often waits.

When I was young, silence meant punishment. It was what lingered after arguments, or hung in the air at funerals. As I grew older, I began to see silence not as a void, but as a sanctuary. In moments of loss, of awe, of love too deep for words, silence became a form of prayer. Sitting alone, I could hear not just my thoughts, but something deeper—something eternal.

I think of the monastics who made their homes in deserts and caves. Were they running from the world? Or were they running toward something it so easily drowns out? To sit in a quiet room alone is to discover the subtle music of the soul, which is so easily silenced by the world’s noise. The still, small voice of God is not heard at the volume of TikTok or talk shows.

In our hyperconnected world, loneliness is feared, but solitude is sacred. The former is a hunger; the latter is a feast. But few ever learn the difference. We resist the quiet because it requires courage—courage to face our regrets, our mortality, our longings. And yet in doing so, we make peace with the self, and perhaps more profoundly, with God.

There’s a reason Jesus often withdrew to lonely places to pray. Not because he feared people, but because he needed the voice that came only in the stillness. If the Son of Man needed solitude, how much more do we?

So perhaps Pascal was right. Misery begins when we cannot endure our own company, when we fear being unmasked by silence. But healing begins there too. In the quiet room. Alone, but not abandoned.

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 "It is the Holy Spirit's job to convict, God's job to judge, and my job to love."

Billy Graham

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I'm in the middle of something; a kind thought you might say. I'm thinking of those religious meetings from the past where the discourse often focused on Armageddon, the imminent "last days," the last seconds of the last seconds, and the terrors of hellfire. All aimed at jolting the congregation into wakefulness. Yet, one must ask: why evangelize through fear? This was never the way of Jesus. He reserved his stern warnings for the Pharisees and religious leaders, those who wielded considerable influence and bore great responsibility.

Isaiah 41 speaks of the future messiah, painting a picture of gentleness: "A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out." This imagery is a crucial reminder for all who teach. Many who enter places of worship are like these bruised reeds—seeking solace, encouragement, and a gentle hand to guide and uplift them.

A wise teacher, whose lectures I cherished in my youth, once shared with me, “If you focus on building up and encouraging the congregation, everything else will fall into place.” His words ring ever true.

"A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out"  Isaiah 42:3.

Hello World! Escape Loneliness - DownToMeet

“The more things that come into your head, the more room there is for others.” 

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I must have been eight when the janitor at St Anthony's in Govan brought in a big box of brand new books. The teacher handed us all a copy and I sat and got lost in the pages of mine. Many of the pupils got bored with theirs and asked for a change. "Look at McCrory" the teacher said, "He is enjoying his." The truth is, it was boring, but I got on with it and persevered. And if the truth were told, it was the only compliment I ever got from a teacher.

 In Selma Lagerlöf's The Wonderful Adventures of Nils, a profound yet straightforward insight is introduced: “The more things that come into your head, the more room there is for others.” This notion implies that the mind, unlike any physical space, expands with its contents. It grows ever vaster with each new thought, idea, or dream. Reflecting on this concept, I recognize its resonance in my experiences, especially in my interactions with others—both enriching encounters with individuals who read and think deeply.

My journey through life has often meandered along paths lined with books, through landscapes rich with paragraphs and ripe with rhetoric. Along these paths, I have met kindred spirits—people whose minds, like mine, seem to thrive on the endless nourishment of words and ideas. There is a palpable depth in conversations with these individuals, a shared understanding that reaches beyond the spoken word, facilitated by our mutual expeditions through literature.

This literary journey does more than just broaden our knowledge; it enhances our capacity for empathy. Like the trees I observe from my window in winter—prepared and eager for the abundance of spring—our minds, fertilized by myriad narratives and perspectives, grow branches and forge connections. Each book, each story, adds a layer of understanding, enabling us to relate more profoundly to others' feelings and experiences.

Moreover, empathy—a quality deeply tied to our ability to understand and share the feelings of another—seems enhanced by reading. Literature serves as a rehearsal space for empathy, inviting us into the minds and lives of others, promoting understanding across boundaries of time, culture, and circumstance. Without this engagement, my capacity to empathize would be stunted.

Reflecting on Lagerlof's wisdom, the more we fill our minds with thoughts, ideas, and emotions, the more expansive they become—not crowded, but enriched and deepened. Those who abstain from reading deny themselves not just the knowledge and entertainment books hold but also the chance to expand their cognitive and emotional capacities.

As I continue to navigate a world populated with both types of individuals—those open to the endless possibilities of thought and those closed off—I strive to advocate for the value of reading. Not just as a source of information, but as a vital exercise in building bridges between minds. My hope is that more people will discover the joy and value of reading, not only for their enrichment but for the greater empathy and understanding it fosters within our communities.

Tìng yǔ tīng xīn (Chinese, 听雨听心)

 (Listening to the Rain, Listening to the Heart)

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 Spiritual Bankruptcy

The Chinese phrase "Tìng yǔ tīng xīn" beautifully captures a moment of profound reflection, implying a recognition of the emptiness within oneself—a poetic awareness of an emotional or spiritual void.

Recently, my wife and I watched an interview with Ayaan Ali, a speaker and writer who shared her harrowing experience of enduring a decade of severe depression. Her condition was so debilitating that she contemplated ending her life. This period of profound despair continued until a therapist suggested she might be suffering from spiritual bankruptcy. This insight sparked a significant spiritual transformation in Ali, leading to a personal epiphany that dramatically altered her perspective and brought her an enduring sense of happiness.

In a world where Christianity often faces scepticism and ridicule, particularly from atheistic quarters, Ali’s story is a poignant reminder of the limitations of a solely scientific worldview. Atheism and what is sometimes called 'fake science' do not serve as definitive arbiters of personal experiences. Indeed, there are dimensions of human existence, such as conscience and the deep, intricate ways the human psyche communes with God and Christ is yet to fully understand, let alone measure.

(2) Richard Dawkins vs Ayaan Hirsi Ali: The God Debate - YouTube

Yet they say to God, ‘Leave us alone!

We have no desire to know your ways.'"

                                                           — Job 21:14

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This verse from Job offers a timeless reflection on the human tendency to turn away from the Creator. It speaks to an age-old struggle: the desire for independence, to walk our own path without guidance. And yet, this ancient mindset feels familiar in our modern world.

Friedrich Nietzsche tells the story of a madman who declares, “God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.” His words were not a triumphal cry, but a sorrowful warning. Nietzsche recognized that if we removed God from the heart of society, we would lose the moral foundation that provides meaning and stability. He foresaw a world where, without a shared sense of right and wrong, people might feel unmoored, uncertain of what truly matters.

Today, we live in a time when truth often feels subjective—shaped by personal views or cultural trends. While this flexibility promises freedom, it often leaves confusion in its wake. Without common ground, society wrestles with questions of fairness, justice, and integrity.

Yet, despite the desire for independence, the human heart still instinctively recognizes the need for justice. When someone is wronged—cheated, oppressed, or treated unfairly—they cry out for fairness. This reaction hints at something universal, something beyond cultural differences: a built-in awareness of moral order. As C.S. Lewis once said, we know a line is crooked only because we have an idea of what a straight line looks like. This deep sense of right and wrong reflects the moral imprint of a Creator who cares about justice and compassion.

Throughout history, humanity has struggled with the idea of surrendering to God's wisdom. The earliest biblical accounts describe this longing for autonomy—a desire to define good and evil on our own terms. People often seek fulfillment in success, pleasure, or material comforts. Yet, time and again, these pursuits leave the soul restless. The ache for something deeper remains.

Sometimes, this longing goes unnoticed until life’s challenges leave us feeling empty. Like the prodigal son, we may wander far in search of satisfaction, only to discover that what we truly need has been there all along. God does not intrude or force His presence upon us; He waits patiently, extending grace and a gentle invitation to come home.

When we look at the world around us, the consequences of living without that connection become clear. Injustice, division, and confusion often take root where compassion and truth wane. And yet, even in these difficult times, hope persists. God's love remains unwavering. Through the prophet Isaiah, He extends a tender offer: “Come now, let us reason together… Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” His call is not one of judgment, but of restoration.

As believers, we have the privilege of reflecting that love in how we live. Rather than pointing fingers or raising voices in frustration, we can quietly model lives of kindness, integrity, and peace. When our actions mirror God's grace, we become a living invitation for others to rediscover the hope that faith provides.

The question isn’t whether we can survive without God. History shows that societies can persist without shared moral anchors—but often at a cost. The deeper question is whether we can truly flourish without Him. The universal cries for justice, meaning, and love suggest we cannot.

And so, the invitation remains: to listen beyond the noise, to hear the gentle call of the One who has never left us. Even when the world says, “Leave us alone,” God’s patient, loving voice continues to whisper, “Come home.”

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"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself."

The Brothers Karamazov

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I asked my doctor as I was leaving his surgery “What’s your favourite book of all time? "               

"Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” he answered.

One of mine, I write one of mine because choosing your best book of all time is like choosing your favourite child. It cannot be done.  

Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov is right up there. It is not merely a book—it is a profound exploration of humanity that delves into the depths of the soul with unflinching honesty and philosophical prowess. This masterpiece is a must-read for anyone looking to understand the complexities of human nature, morality, and faith. Here’s why this novel remains an essential classic and a compelling piece of literature that speaks across generations.

At the heart of the narrative is Alyosha Karamazov, a character whose life is a testament to the transformative power of faith. Alyosha’s commitment to Christian principles of love, humility, and selflessness drives him to help others around him, making him a beacon of hope and moral guidance in a tumultuous world. His interactions, especially with the children of the town and his own family, showcase how deep faith can lead to tangible acts of kindness. Alyosha’s character is beautifully drawn, serving as a moral compass not only to his family but also to us as readers, urging us towards introspection and betterment.

Contrasting sharply with Alyosha is his brother Ivan, a skeptic who challenges the very foundations of morality and faith with his intellectual inquiries and the famous "Grand Inquisitor" parable. This philosophical dialogue provides a stark examination of freedom, the nature of God, and the burden of free will. Ivan’s existential struggles and his debates with Alyosha frame a central theme of the novel: the eternal conflict between faith and doubt, belief and despair.

Dmitri, the eldest brother, offers yet another viewpoint, with his passionate and impulsive nature leading him through a series of moral and existential crises. His turbulent quest for meaning and redemption reflects the broader human struggle against our baser instincts and the search for a higher purpose.

Dostoevsky does not limit his exploration to Christian values alone; rather, he presents a rich tapestry of ideas, questioning and affirming various moral philosophies through his characters' lives and fates. His portrayal of each brother’s journey highlights a broader narrative about the struggle between faith, materialism, and intellectualism in modern society.

The richness of The Brothers Karamazov lies in its ability to provoke thought and dialogue about profound issues—morality, faith, redemption, and the meaning of life. Dostoevsky’s nuanced portrayal of each character’s struggle with these themes makes the novel a mirror reflecting the eternal moral dilemmas faced by all of humanity.

Reading The Brothers Karamazov is a journey through the complexities of the human condition. It challenges readers to question and reflect on their beliefs and the nature of their actions. It reminds us that the pursuit of a good life requires confronting and understanding the darkest corners of the soul and choosing a path forward in the light of those revelations.

Thus, before you leave this world, immerse yourself in the pages of The Brothers Karamazov. It offers not only a story but a life-changing experience—a philosophical guide that continues to resonate with timeless relevance, encouraging a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world we inhabit. This is a book that does not just belong to the past; it speaks directly to the heart of our present human experience.

"In our writing, as in our lives, honesty is the vessel through which truth navigates the turbulent waters of human experience." 

– Unknown

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Writing personal essays as part of a Creative Writing degree immerses you in an intimate exploration of your own existence. My master's journey at the end of the Covid pandemic was largely defined by these reflective narratives—scrutinizing who I was during a time when the world itself seemed introspective and isolated. The personal essay compels you to peer inward, constructing stories that resonate not just with your truth but with universal human experiences. Yet, this is merely the starting point.

Authenticity in writing about personal experiences isn't always straightforward. It involves more than narrating events—it requires transforming memories into meaningful connections that resonate with others. This often creates a tension between portraying the raw truth and adhering to literary standards like structure, voice, and technique, which must all intertwine with the story's emotional core. This balancing act can sometimes distance you from your own truth as you refine and tweak your narrative for artistic sake.

The vulnerability inherent in crafting personal essays was particularly pronounced during my master's program. The workshop environment, where personal revelations are dissected for improvement, adds layers of emotional complexity. It was challenging to distinguish between critiques of my writing and perceived judgments of my personal revelations. This blurring of lines between the writer and the person written about requires a robust emotional resilience to navigate.

Moreover, there was a constant pressure to excel, to craft essays that were not only insightful but also impressive. In the competitive arena of academic writing, it's tempting to amplify your narratives or select themes believed to have more impact. This could lead to performative vulnerability—sacrificing genuine emotional truth for the sake of peer recognition or academic validation.

Writing amidst the backdrop of a post-pandemic world, filled with grief, anxiety, and isolation, added another layer of complexity. The pandemic pushed us all to confront our inner selves, often in stark and raw ways. Writing during this time sometimes felt like an act of uncovering layers of myself that I was still coming to terms with. It was challenging to find the right balance between being close enough to these experiences to write authentically and distant enough to maintain clarity.

Despite these challenges, there was a profoundly human element to writing personal essays. It became a method of processing and reflecting on my personal history and the broader collective experiences during the pandemic. However, the continual delving into personal memories, especially those that are painful or unresolved seemed uncomfortable.

Navigating themes of identity within the diverse voices of a workshop sometimes highlighted my own complexities in ways that felt exposing. It was often difficult to discern whether I was writing for my own catharsis or to meet an audience's expectations shaped by their perceptions of my identity.

The personal essay remains a profoundly rewarding yet demanding medium in the academic setting of a Creative Writing degree. It not only provides a means to explore and make sense of one's life but also requires significant vulnerability, emotional labour, and an openness to introspect parts of oneself that might be uncomfortable. Yet, it is precisely these challenges that make it such a potent medium for connecting with others, offering a glimpse into our shared humanity through the stories we tell and the truths we unveil. My time writing personal essays during my master’s degree was not just an academic endeavour but a profound way of understanding the world and my place within it during an uncertain era.