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Jim McCrory

The Voice Betrays the Heart: August Strindberg

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 19 Apr 2025, 07:34


“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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Jim McCrory

Am I Virtue Signalling When I Write?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 10 Apr 2025, 11:05


"We all want to be loved; failing that, admired…We want to evoke some sort of sentiment. The soul shudders before oblivion and seeks connection at any price."

 — August Strindberg



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It’s a valid and searching question to ask oneself in this present society where the “I” stands erect as a Terracotta Warrior: Am I virtue signalling? Is the question. The very act of asking it risks becoming a kind of virtue signal itself—"Look how self-aware I am." 

And yet I ask myself in earnest.

When I write about empathy, kindness, gratitude, or faith, am I doing it to reflect what I believe to be good and true? Or am I polishing a self-image, hoping others will see me as thoughtful, moral, or enlightened? It’s easy to drift into that territory without noticing—especially in an age where sharing one’s thoughts with the world has become so effortless.

There is a tension here, and it’s worth acknowledging. We are all, to some extent, social creatures, shaped by others’ perceptions. But what concerns me is when the performance of goodness eclipses the substance of it. Jesus had a word for this—hypocrisy. Not in the modern sense of failing to live up to one’s ideals, but in the ancient sense of wearing a mask, like an actor on a stage.

The Pharisees, for all their public piety, were called out not because they failed to do good, but because they did good to be seen doing it. The applause of men had become their reward. I fear the same danger in myself.

Sometimes I write about the stranger who paid for my meal, the act of leaving a legacy for my grandchildren, or the quiet grief of losing a father at an early age, or simple anecdotes about being human. Sure, I like to be acknowledged, we all do. That’s what it means to be human. I do so not to impress anyone, but because these things pierce me and the fact that I have readers who visit regularly, indicates that you share similar experiences. They remind me I am human, and that other humans are carrying burdens I will never fully understand. But even as I write, I wonder—Am I telling this story to share the weight of the world, or to carry it like a badge?

Perhaps the difference lies in the motive—and in the fruit. Virtue signalling seeks affirmation. True virtue seeks transformation.

When I look at Jesus, I see someone who never signalled virtue. He simply lived it. Quietly, often in the margins, with no need for recognition. He didn't post his miracles. He told people not to tell others. He wept, he walked, he withdrew. And he died with few to witness it.

So I return to this question not as a condemnation, but as a check-in. Am I writing from the wellspring of grace—or from a desire to be admired? Am I confessing or performing?

To be human is to live in that tension. It is like navigating a river where currents are pulling you in two directions. But I hope, with each word, I am moving a little more toward the truth and a little further away from the mask.


“Two men went up to the temple to pray. One was a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed, ‘God, I thank You that I am not like other men—swindlers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and pay tithes of all that I acquire.’

But the tax collector stood at a distance, unwilling even to lift up his eyes to heaven. Instead, he beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man, rather than the Pharisee, went home justified. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”

                                                         Luke 10:10-14 (BSB).




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Jim McCrory

"I Have Taken the Lives of Many, Will God Forgive Me"

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 9 Apr 2025, 19:15


 "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?”

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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.




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Jim McCrory

Kindness Like a Fairy Tale

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 9 Apr 2025, 09:12



"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”
   — Aesop



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George and his wife were driving home from Skye, weaving their way through the Highlands on a golden summer’s day. They stopped in Fort William to fill up the car, stretch their legs, and treat themselves to a Magnum each. The shop only sold them in packs of three.

On their way back to the pump, George noticed a man at the next bay, filling up a bulky SUV. On a gentle whim, George held out the spare ice cream.

          "Fancy a Magnum?" he asked.

The man looked startled, then deeply moved. “Really? That’s... incredibly kind of you,” he said, taking it like a small treasure. “You’ve no idea what that means today.”

George just smiled and waved it off. "It’s only a spare Magnum."

But the man stood there, touched to his core — and George carried that look home with him.

Later that weekend, George told his three young grandchildren about the moment, not expecting much. But they were all ears and wide eyed like meercats.

Two weeks later when they were staying over, as George tucked them into bed, he asked the usual question:  

           “What story shall it be tonight?”

          “Where the wild things are,” said the eldest.

          “The tiger who came to tea,” said the middle one.

But the youngest, with a finger to his lip and a quiet seriousness, said:

          “Grandad, can you tell us the story about the man who gave you a Magnum?”

George smiled; heart full. A small act, remembered like a fairy tale.

 



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Jim McCrory

Being Old; Who Really Cares?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 4 June 2025, 13:37


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

 - The Coming of Age, Beauvoir


Image kindly provided by Harli Marten at https://unsplash.com/@harlimarten


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).



Hello World! Escape Loneliness - DownToMeet


 






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Jim McCrory

Why On Earth Are We Here?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 7 Apr 2025, 12:20


I see all this beauty and I don’t have much longer to live, but I want to stay.” 


Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@anik3t


I live in Scotland, and I know it’s rude to ask, but what age are you? Not that I’m prying —— goodness, I run away from prying people. Anyway, I’m just wondering if you are at this stage in life where you wonder, what’s it all about? Life, I mean. Why are we here? Are we just products of an aimless evolution and were just dancing to our DNA?

Well, you may believe that, but is that something you reasoned into or something you just accept because everyone else does? Hmm!  That’s no way to understand why we are here.

Let’s look at the evidence: We live on a beautiful planet. To be honest, it’s man that’s ruining it. Science doesn’t know who or what put the universe here, and yet, our planet is perfect for human habitation. We see beauty in flowers, animals, the microcosm, and the macrocosm. We see all this in colour. We love poetry, music, sport, dancing and just sitting in a summer evening with that hygge feeling as we sit watching a sundown with family and friends.

But then, we grow old, and wonder, why all this? Will it all be over for me soon. Yes, and torschlusspanik kicks in; that feeling that the doors are closing in on you. And you ask yourself again, what’s it all about?

This is where it all gets contradictory. You see, if evolution were true, we wouldn’t ask these questions. We would just say hatches, matches, and despatches, concluding that we are here to be born, mate, keep the line going and then depart. But no, we want to live forever. No. you don't believe that? Okay, when would you like to die? Tomorrow, next week, next year. No, we want to hold on to life as long as we can.

My sister was out one day and observed an old man crying as he looked at the landscape.

“Are you okay?” my sister asked.

“I see all this beauty and I don’t have much longer to live, but I want to stay.” He answered.

The old man felt like that because we have been programmed from birth to have life indefinite in our heart. Look at Ecclesiastes 3:11,

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart…” (NIV)

So, what about you and me? Is God going to give us that feeling and not open the door for us in some way?

Jesus spoke to a man when they both were dying, the man asked for Jesus to remember him when he got into his Kingdom. Look what Jesus said,

Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:43 (NIV).

This tells us where we can go, but not why we are here, right? Okay, here is my theory. Could it be that we are born here as a test?  You see there is this story in the Book of Job where Satan said to God that man only serves God for what he can get. Job chapter 1.

Let’s just stop there to take this all in. Satan has claimed that we would serve God for selfish gain only. I think Satan has a point, don’t you? But wait, that may be true of some, but not all. There are many people out there that would give their life to God and Jesus.

But there’s another factor here. 

God permitted Satan to test Job. So, there’s no doubt who’s in power here. Rather, it’s a moral issue. A moral issue that takes humankind’s lifetime to settle.

Let’s illustrate. If I were to say to you “I’m more honest than you. “How do we settle that? It would take our lifetime. And so it goes with God putting us here. We are here to be tested as to whether we are willing to side with God or Satan on this issue regarding man being selfish or selfless towards God. Look,

For the eyes of the LORD range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him.” 2 Chronicles 16: 9 (NIV).


 

 

Scripture quotations taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV®
Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.
Used with permission. All rights reserved worldwide.



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Jim McCrory

This is What I Told the Extra-Terrestrials

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 6 Apr 2025, 14:20


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.



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Jim McCrory

What Music Tells Us About Life Beyond This Realm

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 5 Apr 2025, 08:31


"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

 C.S. Lewis



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My wife and I have tickets for the André Rieu  concert in Glasgow tonight. I have been watching his concerts online and observed the great deal of joy that folk get from the music.

Music, much like a masterfully crafted poem, has a unique ability to transport us to places both vivid and vague, tethering our emotions to rhythms and melodies that echo through time and space. When I listen to music, especially classical pieces, I am transported far beyond my immediate surroundings. The sounds become landscapes, each note painting a vivid scene before my very eyes.

Take, for instance, Edvard Grieg’s "Morning." As the first few bars unfold, I envision a sunrise not just anywhere, but cascading over the lush, verdant pastures of Scotland—a place I hold dear. It’s a serene, almost sacred experience, as if the light itself is harmonizing with Grieg’s intentions, his notes the colours of dawn stretching across the horizon.

Contrast this with "Highland Cathedral," played on the haunting timbre of bagpipes. Here, the music encapsulates a dark winter evening in Glasgow, the soundscape morphing into the cold, brisk air that bites at exposed skin, the quiet solitude of a city holding its breath under the weight of the night sky. This music does not just speak; it evokes, conjures, and resurrects.

This auditory journey is deeply personal, reflecting my own narratives and memories. Each piece of music is like a poem whose meaning is reshaped by the listener's own experiences and emotions. What the composer intended and what I perceive are points on a triangle, with the third point being the unique interplay of my own inner life and the external piece.

However, not all musical journeys are without their interruptions. Ludovico Einaudi’s "Beautiful Night" and the lullaby "Suo Gan" carry me towards an ethereal realm, a place of beauty and tranquillity that feels just within reach. Yet, just as I am about to embrace this world fully, my mind, as if intimidated by the vastness of its own creation, abruptly pulls down the shutters. This sensation, akin to the German concept of Sehnsucht, reflects an intense yearning for something indescribably distant and unattainable, a place or experience that is deeply desired yet painfully out of reach.

This longing is bittersweet, filled with both the joy of near attainment and the sorrow of realization that some desires remain just beyond our grasp. It poses a profound question: when faced with the infinite, with existential mysteries that music so often touches upon, do we resign ourselves to defeat, or is there something more?

C.S. Lewis once suggested that our experiences of profound joy are but the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, and news from a country we have never visited. Perhaps, then, these moments of musical transportation do not merely escape but signposts, suggesting that our yearning for something beyond—this Sehnsucht—is not a mere emotional cul-de-sac but a hint of our destiny in another world.

So, where do we go from here? Do we accept these musical and existential journeys as fleeting moments of escape or recognize them as echoes of a deeper call to something beyond our earthly experiences? As I ponder this, I invite you, the reader, to listen closely not just to the music but to the responses it awakens within you. Maybe, just maybe, these sounds that resonate with our souls are inviting us to glimpse not just what is, but what might be, in a world yet unseen.

 


"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

This quote from Mere Christianity suggests that earthly experiences do not fully satisfy our deepest longings, which C.S  Lewis interprets as evidence of our ultimate destiny beyond the physical realm.


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Jim McCrory

Benign Economics the Biblical Way

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 5 Apr 2025, 06:32




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I guess the world woke up to the US governments tariffs with the feeling gloom that my a ancestors on Scotland's west coast may have felt when the Vikings had just raided. But listen up. Imagine a world where every 50 years, we hit the reset button on our economy. Land returns to its original owners, debts are wiped clean, and everyone gets a fresh start. Sounds radical, right? Well, that's exactly what the Biblical concept of the Jubilee Year is all about. Found in the Book of Leviticus, this ancient practice might seem a bit out of step with today’s fast-paced economic scene, but it holds some compelling lessons for how we might think about economics in a more community-focused, equitable way.

Every 50 years, the Jubilee Year rolled around, and all hereditary land was returned to the original family owners. Why? To prevent a few from accumulating too much and to ensure no one lost their grip on their family's future because of a few bad years or bad deals. It was a natural check on inequality, making sure that land, a fundamental resource, wasn't hoarded by the few.

Think about how this could translate today. We might not need to literally hand back properties every half-century, but what if our policies could reflect this spirit? Ideas like capping the amount of land one entity can own or taxing large land holdings more heavily could be a start. This could keep our housing markets fairer and prevent speculative land grabbing that drives up prices and drives out communities.

The Jubilee Year wasn't just about land; it also called for the cancellation of debts and the liberation of those who had become enforced  workers  as a result of their debts. This was about giving everyone a chance to start over without the burden of past failures hanging over them. It recognized that everyone could hit a rough patch and offered a structured way to ensure these rough patches didn't lead to lifelong poverty or bondage.

In modern terms, we might think about ways to prevent people from falling into crippling debt. Could there be a cap on interest rates for loans? What about more robust bankruptcy protections, or even periodic debt forgiveness programs for those in dire straits? These ideas might sound extreme, but they're all about ensuring that financial setbacks don't turn into life-ruining situations.

The Jubilee Year carried a deep theological message: the land belongs to God, and people are just stewards. This wasn't just about religion; it was a radical way of framing our relationship with the earth. Land wasn't something to be bought and sold without thought, but a vital resource that needed to be managed wisely and sustainably.

What if our policies reflected this stewardship mindset? Imagine laws that emphasize sustainable land use, that prioritize community and ecological health over private profit. Things like promoting renewable energy, supporting sustainable agriculture, and protecting natural areas could all be part of this approach, reflecting a modern-day take on the idea that we don't own the land—we're just borrowing it from future generations.

So, what can we take from the Jubilee Year today? It’s about more than just nostalgia for ancient times; it's about questioning the foundations of our economic systems. Are we building a world where wealth is shared and opportunity is universal? Are we taking care of the earth as if we truly believe it doesn't just belong to us?

While we might not institute a Jubilee Year tomorrow, we can draw on its principles to inspire policies that aim for fairness, sustainability, and community health. It’s about embedding a spirit of renewal and second chances into our economics, ensuring that our systems serve everyone fairly and reflect the kind of world we actually want to live in—a world where everyone gets a fair go.

The Jubilee Year teaches us that sometimes, the most forward-thinking ideas might just be buried in our past, waiting to be rediscovered and adapted to help us build a better future.

But something tells me that it would take a radical move to incorporate these principles. Man loves things, their possessions, their riches. Greed dominates today’s economic system and that is why Christian world wide utter the prayer, “Let your Kingdom come, let your will take place.”

 




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Jim McCrory

Morning Tranquillity On The Isle of Skye

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 4 Apr 2025, 11:40


            There's something about

            A blue bench

            With daffodils 

            Facing east

            Anticipating sunrise

            And waves gently slapping

            Ancient rocks.




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Jim McCrory

The Quiet Room

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 4 Apr 2025, 19:19


“All men’s miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone.”

— 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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Jim McCrory

“The sole meaning of life is to..."

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 4 Apr 2025, 19:24

“The sole meaning of life is to..."

Is to what? Gather riches, build a bigger house? Indulge  in carnal pleasures? For Tolstoy, especially in his later years, life’s true depth wasn’t found in status or wealth but in moral and spiritual awakening. " The sole meaning of life was to serve mankind" . Or, one might say, love ones neighbour. 

After grappling with depression despite his success, he turned to simplicity, faith, and compassion—finding meaning not in what he could gain, but in what he could give.


 "The sole meaning of life was to serve mankind." 




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Jim McCrory

Living in the Moment. Skye, April 1, 2025

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 4 Apr 2025, 10:49


Steam from the mug meets morning mist,
as sunlight spills like melted gold
across the heathered hills and Loch,
where silence breaks in notes untold—

A curlew's cry, a distant bleat,
the lapping hush of silver tide,
wind whispering through pine and peat,
the rustle where the deer might hide.

The kettle sings, the eggs are done,
toast stacked beside the marmalade;
but more than this, it’s light and song
that nourish what the night unmade.

Each sip, each bite, a sacrament,
the sky a canvas still being born—
and I, beneath this vast event,
a witness to the grateful morn.

Here, time forgets its rush and race,
as sun climbs slow through saffron air—
and breakfast, on this porch in Skye,
becomes a quiet, whispered prayer.













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Jim McCrory

Someone Planned All This

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 4 Apr 2025, 19:21


"To see a world in a grain of sand"

William Blake


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Imagine holding a simple stone tool in your hand, its edges roughly chipped to a functional point. There’s no question about its origin. It’s clear that someone, long ago, shaped it with intent and purpose. No one would seriously argue that it came into existence by chance—that wind, water, or random collisions of stones could produce something so obviously designed for a task. Even its crude simplicity speaks of intelligence. 

Now, consider the double helix, the elegant structure of DNA that carries the instructions for all living things. It is a marvel of complexity, a masterpiece of order and precision. Its intricacies—billions of coded instructions, capable of replication and error correction—make the stone tool seem almost insignificant. Yet, for many, the prevailing belief is that DNA, with all its unparalleled sophistication, simply "happened" through random processes over time. 

This contrast raises a perplexing question: if a simple tool unequivocally points to a maker, how can the infinitely more complex double helix be dismissed as the product of blind chance? 

The Bible offers an explanation in Romans 1:19-21, where it says, “People can clearly see what God is like because He has shown it to them. Ever since the world was made, people have seen the amazing things God created. These things show us His power and that He is God, so no one has an excuse not to believe in Him.” The passage goes on to explain that even though people can see this evidence, they often reject it, becoming confused and darkened in their thinking. 

This ancient insight speaks to something deeply human. It isn’t that the evidence of a Creator is hidden—quite the opposite. It’s plainly visible in every leaf, every cell, and every galaxy. Yet, acknowledging that evidence leads to uncomfortable questions about purpose, accountability, and the nature of God. For many, it’s easier to explain away creation as a product of randomness than to confront the possibility of a Creator who might ask something of us. 

Think about how illogical this is. We celebrate human ingenuity when we see a work of art, a skyscraper, or a complex computer program. We admire these creations precisely because they reflect intelligence and purpose. Yet, when faced with the far greater complexity of DNA—the very code that makes life possible—many argue that no intelligence was involved at all. 

This denial, as Romans suggests, is more than intellectual; it’s spiritual. When people refuse to acknowledge the Creator, their thinking becomes muddled, and they lose their sense of wonder and gratitude. And gratitude is the key. When we look at the world around us—the delicate balance of ecosystems, the beauty of a sunset, the breathtaking intricacy of a single cell—the only fitting response is awe and thankfulness. 

It’s like standing in a gallery filled with masterpieces and refusing to believe there’s an artist. The evidence of design is overwhelming, from the simplest stone tool to the incomprehensible elegance of the double helix. But seeing it requires humility, the willingness to acknowledge something greater than ourselves. 

If we can so easily recognize intelligence in the small things—like a primitive tool—shouldn’t we be even more amazed at the brilliance behind the complexity of life itself? The Bible reminds us that creation is God’s signature, visible to everyone who chooses to see it. To deny that is not merely to miss the truth—it is to turn away from the very source of life and meaning. 

The double helix doesn’t just whisper of a Creator—it shouts it. The question is, are we willing to listen?











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Jim McCrory

"A bruised reed he will not break..."

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 4 June 2025, 13:38


 "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.



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Where Will You Go When You Close Your Eyes To This Life?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 29 Mar 2025, 11:02


"Why is there a deep hope within us that life does not end when we close our eyes to this life? 

Why are there concepts of Paradise, Heaven, a New World, Valhalla, Fiddler's Green, 

The Elysian Fields, Tian, Jannah, and many more? "


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 "Last Saturday, I visited the British Museum, and as I wandered among the artifacts, it was evident that the items found in graves, tombs, and burial chambers belonged to past humans who believed in an afterlife. In some instances, pharaohs and similar figures were buried with their servants, presumably so they wouldn't enter the netherworld without the convenience of having everything done for them.

However, a particular burial that caught my attention this week was a discovery in the Czech Republic due to its unusual contents. This Bronze Age burial, found accidentally near the town of Břeclav in South Moravia in 2021, included a unique artifact—a puppet-like figure with a ceramic head. Dating back approximately 4,500 years, the burial featured this puppet, which had a head mounted on what seemed to be a wooden body, though the wood has not survived the ages. The head was distinctively decorated with incised geometric patterns, suggesting it might have held cultural or possibly spiritual significance.

Yet, I can't help but wonder—archaeologists sometimes make mistakes as their conclusions often involve a degree of guesswork. Even if it's educated guesswork, considerable disagreement among scholars persists. My theory? Perhaps this puppet was how the individual earned a living and entertained. After all, who doesn’t enjoy a good puppet show? And what better way to tell future generations who he was?

But these burial practices raise some weighty thoughts regarding the human psyche; why is there a deep hope within us that life does not end when we close our eyes to this life? Why are there concepts of Paradise, Heaven, a New World, Valhalla, Fiddler's Green, The Elysian Fields, Tian, Jannah, and many more? Wherever you look in the world of cultures, there is a name for the afterlife.

The truth is, in God’s original purpose, mankind was given everlasting life. That was, until sin entered the mix and brought death through sin. Jesus came to release mankind who accept and believe in him to have the opportunity of life everlasting. That’s why he spoke to the repentant criminal on the cross and promised, “You will be with me in paradise.”

But returning to the burial practices, this discovery made me reflect on what I would want to be buried with. What could future generations learn about me from such items? Perhaps my writer’s notebook would be a fitting choice.

Now, what about you? What would you leave behind for future generations that would hint at your identity?"


“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes,

and there will be no more death

or mourning or crying or pain,

for the former things have passed away.”

Revelation 21:4 (BSB).







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Once I Read a Book and Never Stopped

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 27 Mar 2025, 12:10


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.

Thus, my journey, much like that of young Nils, remains an inward as much as an outward adventure—an endless exploration where the more I discover, the more I realize how crucial it is to encourage others to open the books, open their minds, and by doing so, open


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Treading the path of Wordsworth

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 29 Mar 2025, 08:24


"We laugh, we cry, we care about characters on screen, not because we forget they aren't real, 

          but because they evoke real emotions in us." — Anonymous.



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Whilst Sir Walter Scott took a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon, Li, a Business Studies student at Glasgow University, was on a road trip with friends to see the Glenfinnan Viaduct. That same year, Kioko, a middle-aged widow, boarded a flight from Tokyo to Canada. Years earlier, her mother had flown from Tokyo to Edinburgh.

Aside from the obvious differences, they all had something in common: they were on similar missions. Each was indulging in what psychologists call parasocial relationships—or unilateral relationships. Sir Walter Scott set off to visit the home of his literary hero, Shakespeare. Li and her friends were headed to the spot where the Hogwarts Express crossed the viaduct. Kioko was travelling to visit the home of Anne of Green Gables, and her mother had once journeyed to the city where the Bay City Rollers had grown up.

I am no exception. One late spring in 2017, my wife and I took a trip to Britain’s Lake District. While there, we decided to visit Grasmere, the village where Wordsworth had lived, and the subject of much of his poetry.

When we arrived, Grasmere was ghostly—eerily still despite the bright summer morning. We strolled through the small village and eventually arrived at Wordsworth’s cottage. Suddenly, a group of forty or fifty Indian visitors appeared—professors, literature teachers, poets, and literary enthusiasts. Having studied English literature myself, I was intrigued to know why they had travelled from Delhi, Kerala, Gujarat, and Hyderabad to make this pilgrimage to the home of their beloved poet.

Their schedule was tight, but I managed to speak with one man from Delhi—a poet. I asked him a question that has often occupied my thoughts: Why do we make such journeys to visit the places that inspired our favourite writers, poets, and fictional characters?

I deliberately used the collective “we,” as I, too, am caught in this curious psychological phenomenon. Yet, in our brief conversation, we merely danced around the question. I walked away with a lingering sense that the answer remained incomplete—unexplored.



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Listening to the Rain, Listening to the Heart

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 26 Mar 2025, 10:50



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

 




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“Were not our hearts burning within us as He spoke with us...?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 25 Mar 2025, 11:16




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This past weekend, I found myself weaving through the vibrant tapestry of London’s bustling streets. Some carry with them a preconceived notion, whispered and widely accepted: that Londoners are a reserved bunch, particularly on the labyrinthine threads of public transport. Yet, my experience painted a different picture—a canvas filled with unexpected strokes of friendliness and openness.

It’s curious how a simple “hello” can thaw the frostiest of demeanours. Indeed, some individuals were tough shells to crack, a phenomenon not unique to this city but common wherever humans gather. The initial hesitation seemed rooted in issues of trust and security, but genuine interest and respect quickly bridged that gap, leading to warm exchanges and smiles that softened the sternest of faces.

I had been reading a companion of sorts—Edward Hirsch’s How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry. This isn’t your average introduction to verse. Hirsch dives deep, guiding the reader through the layers and rhythms of poetry.

One segment that particularly resonated with me was his exploration of Walt Whitman’s “To You.” In it, Whitman extends an invitation to the reader, a call to engage in the simplest yet most profound act of connection: conversation.

       “Stranger, if you are passing, meet me and desire to speak to me,
       Why should you not speak to me?
       And why should I not speak to you?”

Reflecting on these experiences, I am reminded of the essential truth that we often meet each other at our best when we are open to the world and to new interactions. As travellers and as humans, when we are removed from the everyday stresses and immersed in the joy of discovery, we find it easier to revel in the beauty each person has to offer.

Through the simple yet profound act of speaking to a stranger, I rediscovered the enduring power of human connection—a theme as timeless as any poem and as beautiful as any landscape. Whether in the heart of a bustling city or the tranquillity of the Highlands, it seems we are all just waiting for someone to extend a hand, open a dialogue, and connect. In doing so, we weave ourselves into a larger human story, one conversation at a time.

Interestingly, one of the most fascinating conversations took place 2000 years ago and someone recorded it:

Luke 24:13-35 NIV - On the Road to Emmaus - Now that same - Bible Gateway

 

 

 



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What's Happening to the World?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 4 June 2025, 13:40


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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Satisfying the Desire of Every Living Person

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 6 July 2025, 19:01

 

You open your hand,

    and satisfy the desire of every living thing

 


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I was only a boy when my music teacher introduced me to the hauntingly beautiful music of Edvard Grieg. It was the kind of music that reaches deep into your soul and stirs something ancient and unnameable. Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite, especially Morning and In the Hall of the Mountain King, carried me far away, beyond the confines of the classroom, into a place where mountains stretched endlessly toward the heavens and fjords cut through the earth like jagged wounds of breath-taking beauty. That day, I was struck by a peculiar feeling—a homesickness for Scandinavia, as if I had lived there in some other time. I felt, with an intensity that has stayed with me all my life, that I was born in the wrong country.

The Germans have a word for this: Fernweh. It translates as a kind of homesickness but can have a twist. Instead of pining for a place you've been, it describes a longing for somewhere you've never visited. It's the pull of an unfamiliar land that somehow feels more like home than the ground beneath your feet.

As a boy, I couldn’t have understood Fernweh in such terms, but I felt it keenly. It was as if Grieg’s music unlocked a door within me, leading to a distant, mist-shrouded land I had yet to see but already loved. The ache that came with it was as real as homesickness, a longing so profound that it almost felt like loss. To this day, when I hear Grieg’s compositions, that sensation returns—a yearning for mountains I’ve never climbed, forests I’ve never wandered, and the crisp, cold air of Scandinavia that I’ve never breathed but know in my bones.

This feeling isn’t unique, though it is deeply personal. Whilst reading at the dentist a while vack, I read about the story of Pablo the Penguin from Disney’s The Three Caballeros fascinated me. Pablo, living in the icy expanse of Antarctica, dreams of warmth. He builds a little boat and sails toward the tropics, yearning for sunshine and palm trees. But once he reaches the warm seas of his dreams, something unexpected happens. He feels homesick. He misses the icy winds of Antarctica, the very place he had been so desperate to leave behind.

Pablo’s story resonates with me because it captures the paradox of longing. We yearn for something different, something distant and elusive, and yet, when we reach that place, there’s a chance we might long for the familiarity of where we began. I’ve often wondered if I would feel the same if I lived in Scandinavia. Would my heart still yearn for those fjords and snowy landscapes, or would I find myself pining for the rugged coasts and rolling hills of Scotland?

Like Pablo, I’ve come to understand that homesickness, whether for a place we know or one we imagine, is part of the human experience. It speaks to a deeper truth about us: we are creatures of longing. We seek out beauty, peace, and belonging, sometimes in distant lands or in the melodies of foreign composers. But this longing is often as much about the journey as it is about the destination.

For me, Scandinavia is a place where my soul feels it belongs, even though my body has only been there a few times. The mountains and fjords I dreamed of as a child feel as real to me as my own home. I wonder if this is because there is a part of us, perhaps, that has roots in many places. Some of those roots are nurtured by the landscapes we live in, while others are stirred by the music we hear, the stories we tell, or the dreams we dream. Additionally, my surname is Celtic where a rich history of Scandinavian connection once waved over these landscapes. Who knows if this rich connection is still impeded in our psyche.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Fernweh truly is: the recognition that we belong not just to one place, but to many. It is the ache of knowing there are pieces of ourselves scattered across the world, waiting for us to find them, in countries we’ve never visited, in melodies we’ve never heard, and in the hearts of people we’ve yet to meet.

Pablo may have longed for the warmth of the tropics, only to miss the cold of Antarctica, but perhaps that’s the nature of longing itself. It moves us forward, reminding us of the places that call to our souls, while always leaving room for the pull of home—wherever that might be.

My friends and I got to talking about God's future plans. Will faithful humans go to heaven or earth? Could the future Paradise that Jesus spoke of be somewhere that has not been revealed to us yet.? I am not sure. But one thing is sure: we will not be homesick.

             You open your hand, and satisfy the desire of every living thing.

Psalm 145:16 WEB

 

 

 

 

 

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A Classic to Read Before You Die: The Brothers Karamazov

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 20 Mar 2025, 21:59



"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.

 


 











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Buongiorno Naples! Caffè Sospeso, That's a Wonderful Custom

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 20 Mar 2025, 07:02


Perhaps the best way to thank a stranger’s kindness

 is to become a stranger’s kindness in return.

Some years ago, I was in Rome, wandering the morning streets and absorbing the city’s timeless beauty. At some point, I stepped into a small café for an espresso—just a brief pause in my day. It was a simple, familiar ritual: order, sip, savor, then pay. But as I reached for my wallet, the barista smiled and shook his head.

“The gentleman before you has already paid,” he said.

I looked toward the door, but the stranger was gone, disappearing into the crowd without waiting for thanks. It was a small gesture—just a cup of coffee—but it carried a weight beyond its cost. The man had left behind more than a paid bill; he had left behind an echo of kindness, a reminder that goodness often moves unseen, like a quiet current beneath the surface of daily life.


Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Word


I learned of caffè sospeso recently, the Neapolitan tradition where someone pays for an extra coffee, leaving it for a stranger in need. It is an act of giving that does not seek acknowledgment or reward, only the simple hope that it might brighten another’s day. My benefactor in Rome had done the same—not because he had to, not because he expected anything in return, but because he could.

In a world often preoccupied with transactions and reciprocation, such gestures stand out. They remind us that kindness is not a business exchange but a gift, freely given. Perhaps that is why acts of quiet generosity stay with us long after they happen. They ask nothing of us but linger in memory, shaping the way we see the world.

I never thanked the man who bought my coffee. I never learned his name or had the chance to return the favour. But maybe that is the point. True kindness does not demand to be noticed—it simply exists, rippling outward in ways we may never see.

Perhaps the best way to thank a stranger’s kindness is to become a stranger’s kindness in return.

What about you, have you had similar experiences of kindness? Tell us in the comments.

 

“Be careful not to perform your righteous acts before men to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven.

So when you give to the needy, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by men. Truly I tell you, they already have their full reward.  But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

Matthew 6: 1-4 (BSB).

 











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Jim McCrory

Why Write Personal Essays?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 19 Mar 2025, 20:24


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

– Unknown


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


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.










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