Personal Blogs

"It is an irony of human existence that when you find you're the piper at  the gates of mortality, the world looks somewhat hopeful, illuminating the presence of kindness."

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Cancer's Unseen Grace

One thing I’ve observed about the human family is that a fatal cancer diagnosis alters the architecture of perception regarding how they treat you. Those who are often indifferent or preoccupied reveal a hidden tenderness.

Tolerance kicks in from those around. Some side effects of hormone therapy, which is targeted at building a wall around cancer, include grumpiness, failing memory, intrusive thoughts, and an insatiable appetite for laziness, triggered by the body fighting with itself, and a "can’t be bothered" attitude.

But the machinery of life—doctor's surgeries, hospitals, consultants, even passing acquaintances—shifts into a mode of quiet grace, as if some unseen conductor has signalled a change in the score. It is an irony of human existence that when you find you're the piper at the gates of mortality, the world looks somewhat hopeful, illuminating the presence of kindness.

Strangers extend themselves in unexpected ways; friends, once casual, become unwavering; professionals, who might otherwise be hurried, now pause, listen, and offer more than duty requires. The same world, unchanged in its mechanics, pulses with a gentler rhythm.

Of course, not everyone is transformed. There are always those who move through life as if unseeing, concerned only with their own trajectory. But is that new? Their indifference and selfishness are constants against which kindness becomes more visible. It is not that the world changes—it is that awareness sharpens, revealing the threads of compassion that were always there, woven into the fabric of existence.

A terminal illness, then, does not merely bring fear or sorrow; it grants a rare vantage point. From this place, one sees the world not as it should be, but as it is—both flawed and profoundly beautiful, both self-absorbed and astonishingly kind.

"What a person desires is unfailing love" Proverbs 19:22 (Niv).

"Navigating life after bullying is about dismantling the fortresses we built as children 

and learning to live without constant defence."

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"...there is a time when one man lords it over another to his own detriment."

Ecclesiastes 8:9 b (BSB).

In the quiet corridors of memory, sometimes the echoes of old school bells and whispered threats still linger, subtly shaping the adults we become. Though I wasn't bullied myself, the presence of gang members and weapons at school meant that my school days were spent in a state of high alert. This constant vigilance, while not bullying per se, instilled in me an acute awareness of my surroundings that has, in some ways, persisted into adulthood.

This heightened state of alert can be seen as a form of armour, developed young and worn through the years, ostensibly to protect but also sometimes to isolate. After delving into some research on the lasting impacts of bullying, I've come to understand more deeply how these early experiences can cast long shadows over our lives. Adults who were bullied as children may find that their schoolyard coping mechanisms have matured into more complex emotional responses. Sensitivity to criticism, difficulty in trusting others, and a propensity to sidestep conflict can all stem from those formative experiences of fear and humiliation.

For those who were bullied, the school environment becomes a battlefield of survival, where every interaction may be a potential threat. Such conditions can foster defensive behaviours that endure long past graduation. The defensive stance, while a necessary shield in youth, can lead to withdrawal or overreaction in completely benign adult situations, where the stakes are different, and the old enemies no longer present.

Understanding these patterns is crucial. Therapy, particularly cognitive-behavioural therapy, offers powerful tools for rewriting the internal narratives that tell us we are still trapped in those old roles of victim and antagonist. It teaches us to challenge our habitual responses and to replace them with thoughts that are more aligned with our current reality. This realignment can significantly alleviate the burden of the past.

Support groups also play a vital role. They are the collective where shared stories resonate with the power of common experience. In these spaces, validation and empathy flow freely, helping to salve old wounds. To speak and to be heard in such a setting is both empowering and healing, as it breaks the isolation that often accompanies the scars of bullying.

Moreover, engaging in activities that bolster well-being—such as exercise, meditation, and hobbies—enhances resilience. The simple act of walking through a forest or focusing on a creative endeavour can be profoundly therapeutic. These activities ground us in the present and remind us of the joys that life has to offer beyond our past adversities.

Cultivating strong, empathetic relationships is another cornerstone of healing. Friends, family members, and community connections can provide not only solace but also perspectives that challenge our ingrained patterns of thinking and reacting. They help us to see that not every critical word is a dagger, nor every disagreement a battle to be won.

Finally, education about bullying itself can transform pain into understanding. Knowing more about why bullying happens and recognizing its impacts can liberate a person from the chains of self-blame and isolation. It contextualizes personal pain within a broader social problem, which not only helps in healing but can also ignite a desire to advocate for changes that might save others from similar suffering.

Navigating life after bullying is about dismantling the fortresses we built as children and learning to live without constant defence. It's a journey of turning painful memories into stepping stones towards a more aware and compassionate self. By addressing the scars of our past with care, understanding, and support, we can reclaim our lives, proving that even the deepest wounds can be gateways to profound healing and transformation.

"And now, I said, let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened: 

Behold! human beings living in an underground den..."

Plato

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Plato's Allegory of the Cave, described in his seminal work, The Republic, serves as a profound commentary on the nature of perception, enlightenment, and the pursuit of truth. This allegory, though ancient, provides a compelling framework for understanding our contemporary world, particularly in how we perceive and interact with the reality around us.

In the allegory, prisoners are confined to a dark cave, only able to see shadows cast on a wall from objects passing in front of a fire behind them. These shadows constitute the entirety of their reality. The cave, in modern contexts, can be likened to the limited perspective that each of us holds based on our upbringing, culture, and media exposure. Much like the prisoners, our understanding of the world is often a reflection—shaped by the second-hand information that media, internet algorithms, and societal norms project onto the walls of our personal experiences.

The moment a prisoner escapes the cave and sees the world for what it truly is—an array of colours, objects, and lights—he undergoes a painful but enlightening transformation. This escape is akin to the personal awakenings that occur when individuals challenge their long-held beliefs or when they are exposed to different cultures, ideologies, or scientific truths. Such awakenings can be disorienting and challenging, questioning the very foundation of what we consider to be real and true.

Consider, for instance, the impact of the internet and global connectivity. Information that once took months to disseminate is now accessible instantaneously. People are regularly exposed to viewpoints from all corners of the globe, which can challenge parochial mindsets and encourage a more comprehensive understanding of the world. However, just as the freed prisoner squints in the sunlight, so too can this flood of information be overwhelming and difficult to process, requiring time and effort to discern truth from falsehood.

Plato's allegory does not end with the escape to enlightenment but includes a return to the cave to help free the remaining prisoners. This phase is crucial and perhaps the most relevant to our modern society. Those who have seen the "real world" are compelled to return and share their knowledge; despite the resistance and ridicule they might face. In today's terms, this can be seen in the efforts of educators, activists, and thought leaders who strive to illuminate truths about climate change, social justice, religious control, and political integrity.

The hostility that the enlightened individual faces upon returning mimics the backlash often seen in social media echo chambers or partisan news cycles where new ideas or inconvenient truths are met with scepticism or outright hostility. The allegory teaches us about the responsibility those with knowledge must educate and enlighten others, even when it is met with resistance.

On a personal level, the allegory encourages self-reflection and a pursuit of deeper truths. It asks us to consider what shadows we may be watching and mistaking for reality. Are we confined by the biases of our upbringing, the limitations of our education, or the echo chambers of our social networks?

Professionally, the allegory serves as a reminder of the importance of critical thinking and openness to new ideas. In a rapidly changing world, the ability to adapt and reevaluate our understanding of the world is crucial. Just as the freed prisoner must adjust his eyes to the sunlight, so too must professionals learn to navigate an ever-evolving landscape of technological advancements and cultural shifts.

Plato's Allegory of the Cave remains a powerful tool for understanding the complexities of human perception and the difficult journey towards truth. By applying the lessons of this allegory to our daily lives, we are reminded of the importance of questioning, learning, and teaching. The shadows on the wall are many, and the light of truth is bright and sometimes harsh, but the journey out of the cave is essential for both personal growth and societal advancement. In embracing this journey, we not only transform our own lives but contribute to a broader cultural enlightenment that can lead to meaningful change.

L'enfant gâté

"But his father had never once infuriated him by asking, 

“Why did you do that?'”

– 1 Kings 1:6 (CSB).

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The following thoughts were prompted after seeing a child sitting on the supermarket floor screaming and refusing to move until her mum bought her a toy. The mother gave in. I wondered how this would unpack as the child grew up. Let’s ponder on this.

A spoiled child is one who has been overindulged, excessively coddled, or shielded from life’s natural struggles. Such a child often grows up with an expectation that the world will bend to their desires, finding it difficult to adjust to a reality that is far less accommodating. The consequences of this upbringing can be profound, affecting relationships, career prospects, and personal development well into adulthood.

Spoiling a child often begins with well-intentioned parents or parent who wish to provide comfort, protection, or privilege. They may struggle to say no, overcompensate due to guilt, or mistakenly equate love with indulgence. The child grows up in an environment where their needs and wants are met instantly, without effort or consequence. In the absence of boundaries and discipline, the child learns entitlement rather than responsibility, preference over patience, and demand over gratitude.

Though the effects of spoiling can vary, common traits emerge: an inability to manage disappointment, poor resilience, a lack of gratitude, and a distorted view of one’s own importance. These characteristics, while tolerated in childhood, become glaring liabilities in adulthood.

One of the most immediate challenges a spoiled child-turned-adult faces is in personal relationships. Friendships and romantic connections require compromise, patience, and understanding. The entitlement cultivated in childhood often manifests in unrealistic expectations of others. They may struggle with rejection, feel slighted by perceived slights, or demand attention without reciprocation. As a result, they may experience frequent conflicts, failed relationships, and an inability to form deep, meaningful connections.

Adulthood is filled with setbacks—financial difficulties, career disappointments, personal failures—but resilience is built through experiencing and overcoming hardship. A spoiled child, having been shielded from struggle, often lacks the emotional strength to cope with life’s inevitable difficulties. They may react with frustration, blame external circumstances, or retreat into avoidance. Their emotional fragility may also make them prone to anxiety or depression when life does not meet their expectations.

The workforce does not cater to entitlement. Promotions must be earned, conflicts must be resolved, and hard work is often required before recognition is given. A spoiled adult who expects immediate success or special treatment may find themselves frustrated when reality does not align with their expectations. They may struggle with authority, take criticism personally, or lack the work ethic necessary to thrive. As a result, career stagnation, frequent job changes, or professional isolation can occur.
A child who is handed everything without effort is unlikely to develop financial discipline. As an adult, they may struggle with budgeting, impulse control, or saving for the future. Instant gratification—reinforced through childhood indulgence—can lead to reckless spending, debt accumulation, or an inability to manage financial independence. Some may continue to rely on their parents well into adulthood, further delaying their personal growth.

Ironically, a spoiled child often grows into an unfulfilled adult. Having been given everything, they may find themselves disillusioned when life does not continue to deliver rewards effortlessly. Without the struggle that gives meaning to achievement, they may feel a sense of emptiness, always searching for external sources of happiness like social media rather than developing inner contentment.

Fortunately, a spoiled childhood does not have to define adulthood. Growth and change are possible, but they require self-awareness, humility, and effort. Many adults who recognize their entitlement can begin to reshape their habits—learning patience, gratitude, and perseverance. Life itself often becomes the greatest teacher, providing hard lessons that gradually reshape unrealistic expectations.

Parents, or parent, can play a role in preventing these difficulties by setting boundaries, teaching the value of effort, and allowing children to experience and navigate small struggles early on. Discipline, not indulgence, is the greater act of love, for it prepares a child to face the world with strength and wisdom.

A spoiled childhood may seem like a gift in the moment, but it can become a burden in adulthood. Without the necessary skills to navigate hardship, build relationships, and contribute meaningfully to society, a spoiled child often faces a life of disappointment and frustration. However, awareness and intentional change can reverse these effects, allowing an individual to develop the resilience, discipline, and humility needed to thrive in the real world. True growth comes not from constant comfort, but from learning to endure, adapt, and persevere.

"There's a time each year that we always hold dear, good old summer time; 

with the birds and the tree's and sweet scented breezes, 

good old summer time, When your day's work is over then you are in clover, 

and life is one beautiful rhyme, No trouble annoying, each one is enjoying,

 the good old summer time."

"In the Good Old Summertime" by  by Ren Shields

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When I was in my early teens, I would spend summer on a nearby Scottish Island where I was always happy to help the farmer bring in the harvest whether it be wheat, barley or hay. It was hard work but always brought a sense of joy.

Now when I see images of a harvest or paintings like Bruegel's The Harvesters, they resonate with a deep, almost archetypal connection to the land and the cycles of nature.

Pieter Bruegel the Elder | The Harvesters | The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Harvest time historically signifies abundance, completion, and the culmination of months of labour and care. It's a moment of satisfaction and celebration, where the fruits of hard work are finally realized, and communities come together in gratitude and festivity.

In artistic representations like Bruegel's, there’s also a rich narrative element that speaks to these themes. Paintings of harvest scenes often depict not just the act of harvesting but also the communal aspect—people working together, sharing meals, and resting amidst the fields. This can evoke feelings of connection to others and to the rhythms of nature, reminding us of the fundamental human experiences of work, rest, and nourishment.

Additionally, harvest imagery can symbolize broader themes of reap what you sow, reflecting on personal growth and the results of one's efforts over time. This can make such art deeply personal and reflective, stirring feelings tied to one’s own experiences of effort, reward, and the passage of seasons in life. Does this connection to the harvest resonate with your own experiences or feelings?

"Go and do likewise."

Luke 10:37

I woke early this morning to catch a train to London, but with the 100 km/h winds from the day before, all trains and public transport were cancelled due to trees collapsing everywhere. By 2 pm, I was brain-dead from tiredness. So, I decided to sloth it in front of the YouTube rabbit hole and let the algorithms decide for me which clips I would embrace. First up was a Guinea pig lying on a blanket above a piano, sleepy-eyed, and absorbing Debussy. Next, I was moved by a high school graduation, resisting the urge to clap out of respect for a sound-sensitive student with autism. 

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Then I was transported into the courtroom of Rhode Island Judge, Frank Caprio. In the heart of Providence, Rhode Island, amidst the Italian American enclave of Federal Hill, Judge Frank Caprio's story begins with the humblest of origins. His father, Antonio, a steadfast fruit peddler and milkman, embodied the ethic of challenging work, and his mother, Filomena, a nurturing presence as a stay-at-home mother. This backdrop of familial dedication and modesty profoundly influenced Frank in his early years, where he earned pocket money as a shoe-shine boy.

Frank's educational journey took him to the halls of Suffolk University School of Law in Boston, where, amid the rigors of legal studies, he also taught and juggled various jobs, a testament to his indefatigable spirit. Since 1985, he has served in the municipal court where his approach—marked by empathy and an unwavering respect for the human spirit—has captured the hearts of people around the world.

It was his unique, empathetic approach to adjudication that propelled him into the national spotlight, with his proceedings on the show "Caught in Providence" becoming a conduit for viral internet fame. Here, viewers found a judge who prioritized understanding over judgment, compassion over censure—principles not often spotlighted in the judicial world.

For those drawn to the life and work of Judge Caprio, his story can be further explored through his official website or through episodes of "Caught in Providence," where his judicial philosophy plays out in real-time, offering a window into a career punctuated by genuine care and integrity—a beacon of how law, when wielded with humanity, can be a profound force for good.

I was deeply moved by his mercy and compassion. Having spent many years in a religious organization that failed to be embedded in mercy and compassion, I watched all this with regret. Regret because compassion and mercy are hallmarks of Christianity.

But there is a bigger picture to be absorbed in the example of Judge Frank Caprio. What makes three million subscribers subscribe to the channel "Caught in Providence"? The love of mercy and compassion.

We humans are all made in God’s image; some move away from that light, and some bend towards the arc of compassion. Jesus reflected that Godly quality in life and his teaching. Consider the woman at the well, the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal son, and the centurion’s servant’s child.

We don’t have the God-given powers that Jesus had, but we do have the power of compassion and mercy.

One day, a lawyer came to test Jesus by asking what he must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus turned the question back to the lawyer, who answered correctly with the command to "love God" and "love your neighbor as yourself." Wanting to justify himself, the lawyer asked, "And who is my neighbor?" In response, Jesus told the parable of the Good Samaritan:

A man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho was attacked by robbers who stripped him, beat him, and left him half dead. A priest and then a Levite passed by, but both avoided the man by crossing to the other side of the road. Then a Samaritan came along. Despite Samaritans and Jews despising each other, the Samaritan was moved with compassion. He bandaged the man’s wounds, using his own oil and wine as antiseptics, and placed the man on his own donkey. He took him to an inn and cared for him overnight. The next day, he paid the innkeeper two denarii and promised to cover any additional costs on his return journey.

After telling the story, Jesus asked the lawyer, "Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?" The lawyer replied, "The one who had mercy on him." Jesus then said, "Go and do likewise."

This parable emphasizes that compassion should transcend social boundaries and prejudices, and that to "love your neighbor" means to act with mercy and kindness to anyone in need.

I find those words of Jesus moving. First because we are called to act likewise. And second, finally of life, we will find ourselves before a compassionate judge.

Luke 10:25-37 (BSB).

Caught In Providence - YouTube

"This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day.

Thou canst not then be false to any man."

William Shakespeare (from 'Hamlet'):

Whilst 100 km winds where causing havoc on Scotland's west coast this morning, my wife and I where reading the UCB word for today. We are not members of any religion but I like the thoughtful way the writer of the daily words get us thinking. We focused on the words, "a time to be silent and a time to speak" from Ecclesiastes 3:7. Sometimes in life we can be drowned out by the noise of family, workmates and friends and we become victims of some selfish pecking order. So, in these cases, there's a time to speak.

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Finding Your Voice: The Courage to Stand Alone

Imagine yourself in a room bustling with conversation, a tapestry of voices each weaving their own narrative. You're there too, holding a truth you yearn to voice, but hesitation clasps your words. This is a familiar scene for many, especially those who, like you, once found themselves within a community where conformity overshadowed personal conviction. It’s not just about speaking up; it’s about breaking free from the fear that silences your true self.

Your journey might remind you of Joshua from the Bible, who stood before choices laid by tradition and the unknown, and declared, "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord" (Joshua 24:15). There's profound courage in choosing a path aligned with your deepest truths, especially when it means parting ways with the familiar. Like leaving a religion that no longer resonates with your understanding of the gospels, this decision can be both liberating and isolating. It requires you to assert who you are and what you stand for, even at the cost of losing friends, because living inauthentically is a price too steep to pay.

Assertiveness is not about dominating conversations or diminishing others but recognizing your own voice as valid and vital. Perhaps you were taught that being agreeable was the cornerstone of kindness, or maybe your opinions seemed less important when voiced, leading you to silence them to avoid discord. These experiences, though stifling, are not uncommon. They skew our perception, making us believe that to be assertive is to be confrontational. However, assertiveness is really about balance—honouring your feelings while respecting those of others.

Start small. Notice moments when discomfort stirs within you, signalling that your boundaries are being tested. If a friend’s words sting, resist the urge to gloss over your hurt. Instead, articulate your feelings with a simple, "That upset me," or "I disagree," allowing you to tread a new path of honesty and self-respect. It might feel like walking on a tightrope at first, wobbly and uncertain, but each step fortifies your resolve.

In asserting yourself, you’re not looking to win an argument but to represent your perspective with integrity. It’s not aggression but clarity you’re after, like when someone jumps the queue and you assert, "Excuse me, I was next." Such moments are exercises in self-advocacy, where your demeanour—your upright stance, steady gaze, and clear voice—speaks of newfound confidence.

This assertiveness extends to personal relationships, where the stakes often feel higher. Telling a friend, "Let’s check our schedules before making plans," or informing a relative, "I’m not comfortable with this," are ways of setting boundaries that protect your emotional space. These statements are acts of self-care, affirming that your needs are important and deserving of respect.

And remember, assertiveness is a skill honed through practice and persistence. You might falter, your voice might falter, but each attempt is a building block in constructing a self-assured you. The journey of finding your voice is fraught with challenges and discomfort, but each step forward is a declaration that you matter.

Your voice—tempered with kindness, strengthened by truth—can reshape your world. It’s not about volume but value; not about conflict but about establishing a presence that honours your individuality. As you continue to navigate the complexities of speaking your truth, take heart in knowing that each word spoken in authenticity is a testament to your growth.

So, the next time you find yourself hesitating, take a deep breath and embrace the power of your voice. Assertiveness isn't just about speaking; it’s about being heard. It's about transforming silence into dialogue, fear into courage, and isolation into a story of brave self-discovery. In the symphony of life, your voice has a crucial part to play. Let it sing with the fullness of who you are. Because indeed, you do matter.

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 "God is the first mover, Himself unmoved."

Thomas Aquinas 

Imagine you’re sitting in a park, watching someone roll a ball down a hill. You know that the ball didn’t start rolling by itself—someone had to give it a push. That’s a simple way to understand what Thomas Aquinas was talking about when he explained his idea of motion. He wasn’t just talking about things physically moving, though; he was talking about any kind of change, like how a fire makes a piece of wood hot or how a seed grows into a tree. In every case, something causes the change.

Aquinas believed that nothing could change or move by itself. For example, a stone won’t just decide to roll on its own, and a fire won’t just appear out of nowhere to heat a piece of wood. Everything in the world needs something else to get it going. But here’s the big question: if everything is moved or changed by something else, what started it all? If you keep tracing back through all the causes—like following a chain of dominoes—you eventually have to reach the beginning. If there wasn’t a first cause, then nothing would have started moving or changing in the first place.

This is where Aquinas said there must be something, or someone, who started everything but wasn’t started by anything else. He called this the “first mover,” and he believed this is God. God, he said, doesn’t need anyone or anything to make Him exist. He’s eternal, unchanging, and the reason why anything else exists at all. Without this first mover, the whole chain of causes and effects we see around us wouldn’t make sense.

Think of it like a line of falling dominoes. The last domino only falls because the one before it tipped over. And that one only tipped over because the one before it did. But if there was no one to push the very first domino, none of them would fall. For Aquinas, God is like that person who gives the first push—He gets everything started.

Now, some people don’t agree with this idea. They might say, “What if the chain of causes and effects has always existed? What if there’s no need for a first mover at all?” Others think that science, like the Big Bang theory, might explain how everything started without needing God. But Aquinas believed that no matter what science discovers, there still has to be something that explains why anything exists at all. For him, that something was God.

I think this is such an interesting idea to think about, especially when you look at the world and wonder why it’s here. For Aquinas, it all came back to God being the source of everything. He’s the one who set it all in motion, the one who keeps it all going, and the one who gives it meaning. It’s like looking at a beautiful painting—once you realize someone painted it, you can start to appreciate not just the painting but also the artist who made it. That’s what Aquinas wanted people to understand: the world is like a masterpiece, and God is the artist behind it all.

So, the next time you see something moving, growing, or changing, think about how it all started. It might just lead you to some big questions about life, the universe, and who made it all happen. And those are some of the best questions to ask.

"Where words fail, music speaks." — Hans Christian Andersen

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Desert Island Tracks Part One

I've never been a guest on the BBC's "Desert Island Discs," and unless I win the Nobel Prize for writing, it seems unlikely I will be. However, this is how it goes, Lauren Laverne, the Yorkshire lass with the sweet voice chats with famous writers, actors, scientists, and other luminaries. Each guest is asked to choose eight tracks of music, a book, and a luxury item, imagining their life marooned on a desert island. The music selections are particularly revealing, often tied deeply to the guest's personal story.

My thought with the BBC—shared by many, I presume—is that the show could also celebrate the unsung heroes among us. Imagine featuring the lad who sits outside Marks and Spencer’s, collecting coins for a hostel  bed for the night; or the elderly couple I met who visit Scotland from Arkansas every year and walk Scotland’s West Highland Way; or the Israeli doctor I met walking up  Goat Fell to camp under the stars with his family, or  the displaced family from Gaza who launched a thriving coffee shop on a Scottish isle. Their extraordinary stories deserve a platform too. If you agree, why not suggest to the BBC the inclusion of these inspiring, ordinary individuals with extraordinary stories?

If by some twist of fate, I were to be invited, rest assured, my music selections are already decided—prepared over many years of thoughtful consideration. For instance, during my undergraduate studies in English literature, we explored James Joyce's Dubliners. In the story "Eveline," she reminisces about the song "Marble Halls" from the opera The Bohemian Girl by Michael William Balfe, which symbolizes her dreams of escape and the poignancy of her past. Discovering Enya’s rendition on YouTube, the song immediately gave me goosebumps. After sharing it with a friend, who then forwarded it to his wife at work, she was moved to tears. Many on YouTube have echoed that it might be the most beautiful song ever crafted.

ENYA MARBLE HALLS

Years later, while listening to Paul Gambaccini on Radio 2, a familiar tune was introduced as a wonderful focal performance.  Sceptical yet intrigued, I gave it my full attention. It was Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush performing "Don’t Give Up." Once again, I was enveloped by the profound impact of the music, a lesson in how powerful a suggestion from a knowledgeable source can be.

Peter Gabriel - Don't Give Up (ft. Kate Bush)

Stranded on a desert island, one would inevitably experience both trials and joys. I envision the delight of watching a pod of dolphins leap and twirl against a backdrop of golden sands. Such a sight would stir my soul, compelling me to dance along the shoreline. And what better soundtrack for this scene than ABBA's "Chiquitita"? A song brimming with hope, it would be the perfect accompaniment to such a display of grace and freedom.

ABBA - Chiquitita (Official Music Video)

My wife is Filipino, so I would miss her if I was stranded, so here are a wonderful Filipino family doing a cover of the Abba song which would remind me of my wife waiting on some coastline hoping I would return,

CHIQUITITA_(abba) Acoustic Trio cover Father & Kids @FRANZRhythm

Stay tuned for Part Two of Desert Island tomorrow.

 Some years ago, my sister was sightseeing in Scotland. She saw an old man wiping tears from his eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Not really," he replied, "I'm looking at all this beauty and realize I won't live much longer to enjoy it."

The man was experiencing an existential crisis, seemingly resigned to the notion that death is final.

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It’s a strange set of affairs; Like the tearful old man, I love  to walk and explore nature in the fine places in Scotland that keep me feeling young. I’m a bit overweight but healthy and full of joie de vivre. There are so many places yet undiscovered. I haven’t been to the Outer Hebrides or north of Inverness. I have visited the Island of Islay on Scotland’s west coast, but with recent DNA connections revealing ties there, I need to return with fresh eyes. Yet, the doors are closing.

Just over a year ago, I underwent a series of medical tests. At the conclusion, I was invited in to discuss the results. I received unwelcome news: cells that had served me faithfully had turned rogue, causing a rebellion in my prostate, pancreas, and liver.

The consultant looked puzzled and said, "You seem very bravado about this?"

"Oh, I get all this," I replied. "But there’s a young man inside me who has walked with me all my life, I will still be around after I close my eyes"

I ask you, the reader—and I’m sure you know—but do you also feel that younger self with you throughout your life? This inner presence becomes more prominent as we age. May I share my thoughts on this?

Centuries ago, a wise man wrote the following:

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men…”

Those words are from Ecclesiastes 3:11 from The Berean Standard Bible and worded by  wise King Solomon speaks of a wisdom he received from God as a gift for faithfulness as a boy.

There are many theories out there I’m sure were the wise of this age speculate why I have a young man in my head and why eternity lives within, but no one, absolutely no one has any scientific evidence for why we have a rich inner lives dancing in our brains. Sure, they have unzipped the skull countless times, and they put it in jars and slice it like spam and study it under all their microscopic kits, but they only have theories, and theories come and go.

We have rich inner lives because we were built for eternity.

That morning, I was going to see the consultant, my wife and I, read Psalm 91:1,

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.”

After reading it, I said to my wife, “We are going to receive bad news today.” God was forewarning me before I got the results.

God has always spoke to us, but at certain times, there is that special voice that cannot be coincidence. No, there are 31,000 verses in the Bible, what’s the chances of opening the scriptures and that verse is staring at you? No, God spoke to us personally.

When Jesus said, You will be with me in Paradise, will it be better than the landscape I see before me in Scotland? Surely, without a shadow of a doubt.

"If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the assembly. 

If he refuses to hear the assembly also, 

let him be to you as a Gentile or a tax collector."

Matthew 18:17 (WEB).

"If he refuses to hear them, appeal to the Church; 

and if he refuses to hear even the Church, 

regard him just as you regard a Gentile or a tax-gatherer."

Matthew 18:17 (Weymouth New Testament).

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Chemla and Compassion: Rediscovering Mercy in Modern Christianity

We have come a long way in Christian congregations in dealing with sin, or, have we?  In reflecting on mercy, the Aramaic word Chemla provides a beautiful foundation. This ancient term from Talmudic texts embodies a compassionate kindness that flows not from obligation but from pure benevolence. It’s mercy extended not based on merit but as a gift, a gesture rooted in a generosity that goes beyond what is earned. In a world quick to judge and condemn, Chemla reminds us of the value in sparing judgment and offering kindness to those who may not “deserve” it. This sense of undeserved compassion finds its echo in the teachings of Jesus, especially in Matthew 18, where he lays out a path for dealing with interpersonal offenses—a path that focuses not on retribution but on restoration.

Matthew 18 emphasizes the unique worth of each person, particularly when they are in a vulnerable position. Jesus begins by stressing a deep responsibility to protect others from harm. In verse 6, he warns of the gravity of causing someone to stumble, illustrating the serious duty we hold to uphold one another’s well-being. This responsibility extends not only to protecting others from physical harm but from the emotional and spiritual damage that harsh treatment or judgment can inflict.

When Jesus addresses how to handle wrongdoing, he diverges sharply from the “cancel culture” or public humiliation we often see today in the press and media. Rather than exposing faults in a public forum, Jesus teaches us to approach the individual privately in verse 15. This private meeting is an act of compassion; it respects the person’s dignity and offers them a chance for redemption without the weight of public disgrace. It’s a step grounded in mercy, meant to open the door for healing and reconciliation.

If this first private attempt fails to bring understanding, Jesus offers a next step that is, again, full of gentleness: involving one or two other people. This approach is not intended to coerce or shame but to bring supportive witnesses, creating a space where understanding can grow without escalating tension or fostering resentment. The goal remains restoration, with all parties working together to preserve the individual’s dignity and support them in finding their way back. This approach stands in stark contrast to religious practices that employ harsh, procedural punishments. 

There’s something uniquely powerful in this way of handling sin that resists judgmental tendencies. Unlike religious methods that may rely on public penance or social isolation to correct, the pathway Jesus outlines is marked by patience and a commitment to mercy. Forgiveness, he reminds us, is not to be limited. In his conversation with Peter, he illustrates the boundless nature of mercy with his “seventy times seven” response, a call to forgive endlessly with no "question of the person's repentance " . Mercy, in this sense, becomes an ongoing commitment to view others through a lens of compassion, seeing their worth rather than their faults.

Even when efforts to reach reconciliation fail, Jesus does not abandon the path of mercy. Only after every attempt has been made does he suggest involving the larger community, the congregation,  and even then, not as a means to ostracize or condemn. Instead, the community’s involvement serves as a final collective effort to restore the individual. Rather than casting someone out, this step is a last, loving appeal unlike the formal stool-of-repentance- type of judgement. 

Matthew 18 offers us a different kind of road map for addressing wrongs. It’s a path steeped in the spirit of Chemla, that divine compassion that doesn’t judge but offers undeserved kindness. How different our communities could be if we followed this example, holding onto mercy as our guide, letting compassion outweigh condemnation, and valuing each person’s dignity even in their lowest moments. It’s a vision of mercy, not just as a response to sin, but as a way of life.

If your congregation is not handling sin un the compassionate way Jesus prescribed , your in the wrong place.

"Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission."

"Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching." — C.S. Lewis 

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A friend's daughter some time ago embarked on a school assignment that left a lasting impression on me. She titled it, "My Father Never Lies." This phrase resonates deeply, serving as a poignant reminder of the legacy of integrity and credibility one can leave behind—a true testament to one’s character.

The Swedish word Trovärdighet captures this essence beautifully. It’s a term that signifies an internal consistency between one’s actions and character, a steadfastness that others can rely upon without doubt. This concept of reliability and trustworthiness is crucial in understanding what it means to be human.

Reflecting on this, I recall rekindling a friendship with someone I went to school with. We occasionally walk across to the Island of Bute, where we both spent our childhood summers. Over these walks, it’s fascinating to observe how we have evolved over the decades. One trait that makes him stand out is his trustworthiness. Confiding in him comes with an assurance that my words remain safe, a quality that epitomizes Trovärdighet.

In the last 24 hours, about 3,000 visitors logged onto my blog, and it comforts me to think that many of us share this path. In a world often driven by deceit for personal gain, finding solace in the company of those we can trust is a rare comfort. It reassures us, provides peace, and sets a standard for how relationships should be.

This brings us to a critical question—can our children, partners, or friends confidently say that we are people who never lie? Do they see us as embodiments of Trovärdighet? Whether it’s in the context of family, friendships, or even professional relationships, the quality of being trustworthy is fundamental.

The Biblical proverb, "The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in people who are trustworthy" (Proverbs 12:22), encapsulates the divine appreciation for integrity. It is a principle that guides us, urging us to live lives that others can rely on, just as they would rely on a compass for direction.

In our quest to leave a meaningful legacy, let us strive to be remembered for our truthfulness and reliability—qualities that not only define us but also enrich the lives of those around us.

Note: 

In Swedish culture, as in many others, the importance of trust and credibility can be seen in social norms, business practices, and even in the legal system. Sweden is often noted for its high levels of trust in government and institutions, which is a testament to the cultural value placed on "trovärdighet."

In literature, credibility plays a crucial role in storytelling. A narrator's credibility, for instance, can significantly affect the interpretation of a story. Swedish literature, like that of many cultures, often explores themes of trust and deceit, and the credibility of characters can be a central theme.

The simple man believes every word,

but the prudent man watches his steps.

Proverbs 14:15 (BSB).

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I write because I'm dying. Not just in the poetic or existential sense, but in the very real, very inevitable way that all humans face. We are all participants in a march toward an endpoint; death is the silent tailor who took our measurements at birth, our final outfit meticulously prepared without our consent. But is the looming spectre of death truly a fundamental reason to write?

When I consider the ancient artists who left their handprints on the walls of the Cueva de las Manos in Argentina, I see a timeless desire to declare existence. Like them, my writing is a proclamation: "I was here." It's my method of defying the oblivion that death promises—a refusal to fade quietly.

Yet, there is another reason, intimately linked to this defiance of mortality, and that is the preservation of identity. The dead, after all, suffer a grave injustice at the hands of the living: they cannot defend themselves against misrepresentation or slander. They cannot participate in the narratives crafted about their lives, much like the characters in Máirtín Ó Cadhain's novel, The Dirty Dust, who, even in the afterlife, clamour to have their stories told rightly.

My family harbours a tale of a great uncle, a story that illustrates this point vividly. He allegedly answered the door to a foreign salesman peddling goods from a suitcase. In a moment of questionable judgment, he seized the suitcase and shut the door. As the salesman pounded on the door and peered through the keyhole, my uncle supposedly jabbed a toothpick into his eye. This story, patently absurd, morphs with each retelling. While many dismiss it as nonsense, there are always a few, perhaps those more credulous or less inclined to critical thinking, who entertain it as fact.

This anecdote, over time, has grown legs, as stories often do, shaped by biases and the whims of the storyteller. Yet, it underscores a crucial point: without a voice, without a defender, anyone's life story can be twisted into a grotesque caricature of the truth — I also take this as a personal warning as one of the traits God hates is "a false witness who pours out lies" according to Proverbs 6.

Thus, I write to claim my narrative, to ensure that my voice echoes beyond the silence of the grave. In writing, I defend not only my existence but my essence from being misrepresented or forgotten. It's an act of preservation as much as it is an act of creation—a laying down of memories in a form that can speak long after I cannot.

Writing, therefore, becomes an act of both defiance and defence. It is a way to exist beyond the temporal boundaries set by our physical bodies, allowing us to claim both our space and our truth in a world that will move forward without us. Just as those ancient handprints reach out from their stone canvases, my words reach out from the page, a testament to the life I lived and the truths I held dear.