Personal Blogs

"She wielded a pen that made tyrants tremble."

Mark Twain (on Harriet Beecher Stowe).

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It was the first book that made me angry, made me cry, and made me question racial injustice. Why, I wondered, would anyone write a book with such an unhappy ending?

Life for the protagonist, Tom, began as endurable. His master, Mr. Shelby, was a kindly man, though burdened by debt. Then the stranger came to town. John Gardner once wrote, “Every novel is based on two plots: someone goes on a journey, and someone comes to town.” In this story, the stranger was Mr. Haley, a cruel slave trader who purchased Tom to settle Shelby’s debts. Young George Shelby, the son, promised Tom that one day he would buy him back.

Tom’s journey was one of relentless suffering. He endured beatings, deprivation, and cruelty, culminating in his arrival at the plantation of Simon Legree, a man whose savagery knew no bounds.

Years later, I revisited Uncle Tom’s Cabin.  After Tom is beaten and left for dead, George Shelby finally arrives, as he had promised, to buy Tom back:

“Oh, Master George, it’s too late.”

“You shan’t die; you mustn’t die! I’ve come to take you home,” said George with impassioned vehemence.

“Oh, Master George, you’re too late. The Lord’s bought me. Come to take me home, and I long to go. Heaven’s better than Kentuck.”

And therein lies the justice. Tom, the first genuine Christian I ever encountered—even if only in fiction—was faithful, kind, and loving. Justice wasn’t served by earthly courts or human hands; it was delivered in hope and redemption. With the immortal line “Heaven’s better than Kentuck,” Tom’s suffering ended.

Legree could no longer punish him. “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul,” Jesus said. Justice for Tom wasn’t found in this world but in the next.

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In a quiet village in Japan, a man’s act of compassion becomes the heart of a poignant folk tale that resonates across cultures.

One day, he rescues a crane ensnared in a hunter’s trap, a selfless act that sets the stage for an extraordinary story of trust, honour, and compassion.

Later, a mysterious woman arrives at his door. Their bond grows, leading to marriage. The woman possesses a rare gift—she can weave garments of unparalleled beauty, bringing the man great wealth when sold at the market. Yet, there is one condition: he must never enter the room where she weaves.

Time reveals her secret. Overcome by curiosity, the man enters the forbidden space, discovering that his wife is the very crane he saved, weaving the garments with her own feathers. The delicate balance of trust is broken. When she realizes he has not honoured her wishes, she leaves, never to return.

This tale offers a profound lesson about the fragility of trust and the cost of dishonouring it. Like the feathers woven into the garments, trust is a delicate thread that binds relationships. Once broken, it is almost impossible to restore.

In our own lives, this truth is evident. When we share a secret with someone, it’s an implicit bond of trust. Yet, like a bag of feathers scattered to the wind, a broken confidence spreads far beyond our control. The damage can fracture relationships, making it difficult to rebuild the closeness that once existed.

The crane’s story reminds us to respect the confidentiality of those who trust us. Not every secret needs acknowledgment; often, it is enough to simply guard it in silence. Compassion and honour demand that we respect boundaries, even when curiosity tempts us to cross them.

In the end, the tale leaves us with a bittersweet truth: love and trust thrive when nurtured, but they wither when betrayed. By holding sacred the promises we make, we safeguard the relationships that matter most, keeping the delicate threads of connection intact.

“Debate your case with your neighbor,

and don’t betray the confidence of another." 

Proverbs 25:9.

“And be kind to one another, tender hearted, 

forgiving each other, just as God also in Christ forgave you."

 Ephesians 4:32.

Verses from the World English Bible

Though my father and mother forsake me, the LORD will receive me.

Psalm 27:19

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Though my father and mother forsake me, the LORD will receive me.

Psalm 27:19

Many thoughts around the one subject merged before me from various angles in the past 24 hours. I had been reading about the Hindi word Sneha (स्नेह) that implies the warm bonds that exist in families; a quality that Asian culture seem to be holding together in a fragmenting world. 

However broken families are as old as the Prodigal Son. But we see it on a scale like never before. Reasons can be varied, drugs, alcoholism, apathy, selfishness, lack of humility and forgiveness and a generation where the "I " stands erect like a North Korean soldier.

In the beautiful film The Quiet Girl (An Cailín Ciúin), we're introduced to a young girl named Cáit. She finds herself in a foster home, and for the first time, she experiences something she never knew existed—respect, warmth, and a sense of belonging. Her biological family, sadly, treats her with neglect and indifference. This stark contrast makes us ponder a profound question: What truly defines family? While genetics might link us to our relatives, it’s often the bonds formed through dignity and care that truly sustain us as human beings, regardless of blood relation.

We often see biological families as the cornerstone of human connection, bound together by shared genetics and upbringing. However, Cáit's story reminds us that these ties can weaken when respect and love are missing. Families aren't immune to dysfunction, and when relationships are marred by neglect, cruelty, or apathy. The innate sense of belonging starts to fall apart. This uncomfortable truth brings to light that while genetics may connect us, they don't automatically guarantee the emotional bonds necessary for a healthy relationship.

Interestingly, the genetic difference between family members and unrelated humans is less than 0.1%. This tiny difference emphasizes that what truly sets relationships apart is not biology but the shared experiences, values, and mutual respect that define them.

On the flip side, chosen relationships—like friendships, partnerships, and even bonds with neighbours—are built on mutual effort and shared emotional investment. Cáit's bond with the Kinsella’s, although temporary, highlights this perfectly. They offer her the stability and kindness that her biological family fails to provide, showing us that true belonging comes not from obligation but from genuine connection.

These chosen relationships are uniquely powerful because they are freely given and actively maintained. Think about a neighbour who checks in during tough times, a friend who listens without judgment, or a mentor who offers guidance—these individuals can provide a sense of family that goes far deeper than blood ties.

In many cultures, there's a strong expectation that one must remain loyal to family regardless of how they are treated. However, this notion can trap individuals in toxic relationships that hinder growth and happiness. The message of The Quiet Girl challenges this idea, suggesting that loyalty should be earned through kindness and respect, not imposed by genetics. Belonging, it argues, is not a right granted by birth but a privilege cultivated through love and care.

The movie invites us to rethink family as a concept rooted in actions rather than ancestry. Those who treat us with kindness and see and value us for who we are become our true family, regardless of shared DNA. This perspective is incredibly liberating, especially for those who feel unsupported or estranged from their biological families. It reminds us that belonging isn’t confined to the family we are born into but can be found in the relationships we build.

Your love must be real love. — Romans 12:9 (WEB).

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I was intrigued today regarding the Tamil word, நட்பு (Natpu): that friendship that carries with it a deep sense of loyalty and respect. Loyalty is important to me and my identity, but in the circles I have travelled in, I’ve been deeply disappointed.

It happens more often than I’d like. I’ll be approached by someone who seems friendly, eager to strike up a conversation or lend a listening ear. At first, I’ll think it’s the start of a genuine connection. But then, the conversation takes a turn—always the same turn—and I realize their primary motive isn’t friendship. It’s conversion.

The realization stings every time. What initially felt like a gesture of kindness and interest begins to unravel as something else entirely: a performance, a charade. And not just any charade, but a duplicitous one. The kindness was a means to an end. Their goal wasn’t to know me or understand me; it was to change me. To fit me into their world, their beliefs. In that moment, I feel less like a person and more like a project.

What bothers me most isn’t the desire to share their faith. I can respect that. I am a Christian. But I have no desire to join and organisation. I am happy with my relationship with God and Christ Jesus, and they therefore do not need to “shake the dust” off their feet. I may not accept Hellfire, the Trinity, and the failed prophecies that your organisation insist on propagating. Why should I change and adopt false doctrines that conflict with my conscience?

What concerns me is the lack of honesty in the approach that troubles me. When someone pretends to care about you as a friend, but their true intention is hidden, it feels like a betrayal. A real friend values you for who you are, not for what you might become under their influence. Now that some religious organisations are haemorrhaging numbers there are compromises on their part to fill seats,

This isn’t what I understand Christian love to be. Jesus didn’t build relationships by pretending to care. He didn’t treat people as projects. He showed genuine compassion, meeting people where they were, loving them as they were. Conversations about faith arose naturally, born out of authentic relationships. There was no guile in His approach, no hidden motive disguised as friendship. If anything, Jesus reserved his sharpest rebukes for those who practiced hypocrisy, those who put on a show of righteousness while their hearts told a different story.

When I’ve spoken to people about this, they’re often surprised by how clearly the pretence comes across. But as humans, we’re wired to sense when something’s off, when someone’s words don’t align with their intentions. That uneasiness we feel in such moments isn’t paranoia; it’s discernment. And it’s fair to name it for what it is. Now please do not get me wrong, I believe there are genuine, sincere souls in many religions, but I am addressing those who manifest the traits in this essay.

If someone truly wants to share their faith with me, I wish they’d simply be upfront about it. Honesty isn’t offensive; manipulation is. I can respect a straightforward conversation about beliefs, even if I don’t agree. But I can’t respect a relationship built on a hidden agenda. Friendship, after all, should be an end in itself, not a means to something else.

Sometimes I’ve gently called it out. I’ve said things like, “I value genuine relationships, and I feel uneasy when I sense someone has a hidden motive. If you want to talk about faith, I’m happy to do so honestly, but not at the expense of real friendship.” Reactions vary. Some people deny having an ulterior motive, while others pause, seemingly caught off guard. Occasionally, there’s a moment of reflection—a flicker of understanding that perhaps their approach wasn’t as noble as they thought.

I’ve also realized how important it is to extend grace, even in these moments. After all, many of these individuals believe they’re doing the right thing. They’re acting out of a sense of duty, however misguided it may feel. But good intentions don’t justify deception. Genuine love—the kind that changes lives—doesn’t require duplicity. It thrives on honesty, humility, and respect.

Ultimately, what I want—what I think we all want—is sincerity. If you care about me, care about me. Not the version of me you’d like to see or the one that fits neatly into your worldview. Let’s have an honest conversation. Let’s share ideas, even debate them if necessary. But let’s do it as equals, with no hidden motives lurking in the shadows.

Perhaps the most valuable thing we can offer each other isn’t conversion but connection.

I can’t help but think of my grandchildren this morning, one group on the school run in Renfrewshire, Scotland, and the other in Göteborg, Sweden. They’ll be waking up after what the Swedes so beautifully call a Frostnatt. It’s a poetic word for a night so cold that frost gently forms on the windows and across the ground, glinting in the first light of day. Bighting, slippery, but with a certain beauty.

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Both Central Scotland and Göteborg are waking to the same brisk chill, sitting at -3°C with frost covering everything. Winters like this always seemed harsher when I was a schoolchild. I still remember setting off in the mornings, long before the luxury of central heating. My adopted mother—bless her—would rise early to light the coal fire, her efforts filling the house with a welcome warmth. She’d make sure there was a bowl of warm porridge waiting for me, a little shield against the cold as I bundled up in my school uniform, a thick scarf, and my cosy balaclava.

It reminds me of that wonderful old saying often attributed to Rudyard Kipling but likely rooted in Jewish wisdom:

  “God could not be everywhere, that's why He invented mothers.” 

So, to all you children heading out into the frosty air in Scotland, Sweden, or anywhere else touched by winter’s hand—know this: Friday is on its way, and the warmth of the weekend isn’t far behind.

    "For as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in a circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning."

Mr Lorry--- A Tale of Two Cities

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Amma Odi: The Circle of Comfort 

As I navigate life’s chapters, certain thoughts, words, and memories resonate more deeply, like the rediscovery of a familiar song. One such word is the Telugu expression Amma Odi—a mother’s lap or bosom, the ultimate sanctuary of comfort, love, and security. It conjures the primal haven where no harm intrudes, and no trouble lingers. This image, woven with nostalgia, draws me back to my childhood, pulled irresistibly by the gravity of memory.

Early days feel paradoxically distant and achingly close. Charles Dickens captures this tension in A Tale of Two Cities, where Sydney Carton questions Mr. Lorry about the remoteness of childhood. Mr. Lorry’s answer strikes a resonant chord:

 “For as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in a circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning. It seems to be of the kind smoothing of the way.”

His words hold profound truth. Life feels less linear and more cyclical as we age. Memories of sitting on my mother’s knee—her lap the fortress of my small world—grow vivid, as if time has folded back upon itself. The farther I travel forward, the closer I feel to those simpler moments when love was tangible and infinite.

Amma Odi embodies more than physical comfort; it offers emotional and spiritual reassurance. It echoes humanity’s longing for connection and the certainty of being cradled by unconditional love. This thought reminds me of the importance of creating spaces of solace for those I cherish. In giving comfort, I reconnect with the comfort I once knew.

Childhood memories—snippets of laughter, discovery, and wonder—carry a dual weight. They are treasures to cherish and mirrors reflecting gains and losses. As these memories surface more frequently with age, they offer bittersweet solace. They remind me of my reliance on others and the sacred role my parents played in shaping who I’ve become.

Dickens’ metaphor of traveling in a circle resonates with a spiritual truth I hold dear. Life, at its core, is about returning—returning to innocence, faith, and love. Nostalgia and the fleeting nature of life call us to shed pretences and rediscover our essential selves. For me, this rediscovery aligns with faith, which speaks of an eternal return to a place where love, comfort, and security fulfil the soul’s deepest longings.

Reflecting on these themes links me not only to my past but also to my present. It calls me to live authentically, to cherish the circle of love that connects us, and to recognize that no matter how far we journey, the comfort of beginnings remains within reach.

The writer Nikos Kazantzakis once reflected on the simplicity of happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. His words encapsulate a truth that echoes through time—contentment lies not in grand possessions but in the humblest of pleasures.

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Are you, like me, tired of hearing Black Friday that seems to last more than 24 hours? Sponsored and sustained like a Mississippi blues note by those who want to dip into our wallet to buy stuff that give a temporary dopamine lift that lasts for a few hours. Wake me when it's over!

After communicating with a friend in Sweden today, I got to thinking of the Swedish term gökotta that encapsulates the idea beautifully; rising early to savor the stillness of dawn, to breathe deeply of nature’s beauty before the demands of the day intrude.

Last summer, my wife and I pitched our tent on the edge of Loch Lomond at Milarrochy Bay. Our spot touched the beach, where the rhythm of lapping waves carried us to sleep. Each morning, we rose early, greeted by a sunrise that painted the water in hues of gold and amber. Birdsong filled the air—a symphony of creation performed for an audience of two while the rest of the world slept. Over freshly brewed coffee and warm Greek flatbreads topped with smoked bacon, we savoured the stillness, absorbing the sheer joy of being alive.

It struck me then, as it does now: how simple happiness can be. The wealthy may seek solace in the high road of luxury, where opulence often crowds out peace. But as for me, I will take the low road—a path free from stress, anxiety, or pain.

The wisdom of Proverbs aligns with this sentiment: “Give me neither poverty nor riches but give me only my daily bread” (Proverbs 30:8). This prayer for sufficiency, for just enough, captures the essence of a balanced life. Excess breeds restlessness; scarcity, despair. But the quiet middle ground is where true contentment flourishes.

In those mornings at Loch Lomond, sipping coffee with my wife by my side, I felt the quiet perfection of gökotta. Happiness, I realized, isn’t something you chase; it’s something you wake up to. It’s therein the rustle of the leaves, the warmth of a flatbread on a griddle, and the stillness of a dawn that asks nothing of you but your presence.

I got my DNA heritage results today, and I have to tell you, I’m on a downer. You see, all my life I have suffered from what the Germans in the Fatherland call Fernweh: that feeling that you belong somewhere, but you are not sure where. But to explain all this, I need to take you back to something that happened at high school one day that changed my life.

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DNA Downer; 1.2% Scandinavian. Så typiskt!

It was 1971. I wasn’t in the mood for two periods of music.

You glanced around the class. I could see you summing up this new bunch of first years. This wasn’t the career choice you envisioned. Teaching sacred classical music to Clydeside kids who were only interested in the Beatles and Rolling Stones is not why you spent those years at university. You could have been the 70s Andre Rieu with your own glamourous orchestra that toured the world.

But here you were with your flannels with turnups and a Harris Tweed jacket thinking you better make the best of it. I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.

You went over to the record player and removed a ’78 from its sheath.

            “Let’s go on a journey, boys,’ you said.

            “Journey?” I wondered.

“Allegretto pastoral is what this music symbolises. Absorb the sound of the countryside; the sound of the flutes as they liaise and resonate with clarinets in fluid harmony saluting the rising sun. Listen as the flute and the oboe sing like two morning birds; the bassoon as it brings morning to a close and a new day begins.

You stood there whilst Morning was playing and observed each one of us being caught in the moment. It was spiritual. Apart from the gentle music rising in a lazy crescendo, it was the first time I heard such silence in a classroom. After school that day, I scampered to the library to find books on, Norway, trolls, Peer Gynt, The Hall of the Mountain King, and Edvard Greig. You made me believe I was born in the wrong place.

                               ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So here I am with my DNA results trying to absorb the shock of being 1.2% Scandinavian. Så typiskt!

Still, it’s nice to see I have relatives in Norway, Sweden, Germany, Canada, USA, UK, Ireland and who knows where else? I'm still trying to absorb it all and answering emails form those who are beginning to contact me. Interesting.

"Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much,

 and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much."

Luke 6:10

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I knew a student once. He had to resit his year at university due to plagiarism of someone else’s work. This put a heavy burden on his parents as they were working class people from an Asian country. He felt he disappointed everyone.

Plagiarism, at its core, is the act of presenting someone else's work, ideas, or words as your own without proper acknowledgment. It is an ethical violation that strikes at the heart of creativity and intellectual honesty. In a world increasingly dominated by digital platforms and instant access to information, plagiarism has become alarmingly common, undermining both personal growth and the value of original thought.

Plagiarism takes many forms, from outright copying of text to paraphrasing someone’s ideas without giving credit. It can be intentional, as in cases of deliberate deceit, or accidental, resulting from ignorance of proper citation methods. Regardless of intent, plagiarism is universally frowned upon, particularly in academic, creative, and professional circles. It erodes trust and damages reputations, creating a ripple effect that impacts not only the plagiarist but also the community that values authenticity.

The proliferation of writing platforms, blogs, social media, and content-sharing websites has made plagiarism easier and more tempting than ever. Tools like "copy and paste" allow anyone to replicate a passage within seconds, while the sheer volume of online content can create a false sense of anonymity. In an age where metrics like likes, shares, and search engine rankings often determine success, the temptation to cut corners can outweigh the commitment to originality.

Yet, this ease of access also means that plagiarists are more likely to be caught. Advanced algorithms, such as those employed by Google and plagiarism detection tools like Turnitin or Copyscape, can identify duplicate content with remarkable accuracy. Search engines, in particular, penalize websites containing plagiarized material by lowering their ranking or even removing them from search results entirely. These measures emphasize the importance of original content and the consequences of failing to produce it.

At its heart, plagiarism is an act of dishonesty—not just toward the original creator but also toward oneself. When individuals present borrowed work as their own, they deprive themselves of the opportunity to grow as writers or thinkers. Writing is a process of self-discovery, where one grapples with ideas, refines arguments, and uncovers personal truths. By taking shortcuts, plagiarists miss out on this invaluable journey.

Moreover, plagiarism fosters a false sense of accomplishment. Any accolades, grades, or recognition earned through unoriginal work rest on a hollow foundation, leaving the plagiarist unfulfilled and vulnerable to exposure. Authentic achievements, on the other hand, are a source of genuine pride and confidence, building a legacy of trust and respect.

Writing authentically is not without its challenges. Crafting original thoughts demands effort, creativity, and sometimes vulnerability. But these challenges are precisely what make writing so rewarding. The process of creating something uniquely yours fosters intellectual growth, self-expression, and even a sense of wonder. It allows writers to forge a connection with their audience, offering a glimpse into their worldview and experiences. Such connections are impossible when the words are not truly one’s own.

In a broader sense, original writing contributes to the richness of human knowledge. Every unique perspective adds value to the collective understanding of the world. Plagiarism, by contrast, stagnates this growth, recycling ideas without adding anything new.

For writers, the best safeguard against plagiarism is cultivating a mindset that values integrity and self-improvement. Proper research and note-taking habits, along with a clear understanding of citation guidelines, can help avoid accidental plagiarism. Online tools can also aid in checking work for originality. Above all, writers should embrace the learning curve of writing, recognizing that each struggle and triumph is part of a meaningful journey.

As readers and consumers, we can contribute by celebrating originality and holding creators accountable. By valuing authentic voices over mere repetition, we foster a culture that prioritizes creativity and honesty.

Plagiarism is more than a technical offense—it is a betrayal of creativity, integrity, and the writer’s own potential. In an age of unprecedented access to information, the temptation to plagiarize may be strong, but so too are the tools to detect and penalize it. By committing to authenticity and embracing the challenges of writing, we not only honour the work of others but also enrich our own lives through the joy of self-discovery. Originality is a gift—both to the writer and the world—and it is a gift worth cultivating.

"But the Emperor has nothing at all on," said a little child.

The Emperor’s New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen

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A Letter To Those Who Cannot Leave Go of the Flaws We Defend

There’s something achingly human about the way we hold onto our beliefs, even when they’re cracked and imperfect. We argue for them passionately, patching over the holes with whatever scraps of reason we can muster. It’s not always because we’re blind to their faults; more often, it’s because we can’t bear what letting go might mean.

Beliefs are more than ideas. They’re the threads of our identity, stitched together over years of experience, learning, and relationships. To unravel them is to risk unravelling ourselves. I think of how deeply personally a belief can feel—like an heirloom passed down, not perfect, but cherished. Letting go of it can feel like a betrayal, not only of who we are but of those who gave it to us.

But it’s not just about the personal. Beliefs bind us to others, weaving us into families, communities, even nations. Imagine admitting to your closest circle that you’ve begun to doubt something you all hold dear. The fear isn’t just about being wrong; it’s about being cast out. Tribalism is a force we often underestimate, pulling us to defend our collective truths, even when they hurt us or others.

And then there’s the uncertainty. If I loosen my grip on this belief, what will replace it? Will anything? Certainty, even when flawed, feels safe. It’s like holding onto a frayed rope over a dark chasm—letting go seems unthinkable, even if the rope itself is breaking.

Yet, perhaps the most profound reason we cling to flawed beliefs is emotional investment. The longer we’ve held onto something, the harder it is to let go. It’s as if every argument we’ve made, every conversation where we stood our ground, builds a wall that’s increasingly difficult to dismantle. It’s not just our belief at stake—it’s our pride, our history, our story.

I think of moments in the Bible where this plays out so vividly. The Pharisees, for example, held tightly to their interpretations of the law. They couldn’t see that their own rigidity blinded them to the love and grace of the very God they sought to honour. It wasn’t ignorance; it was a defines of the identity they had built over generations. And yet, in contrast, there’s Paul—a man whose belief in persecuting Christians shattered when confronted by truth. His humility in letting go is a reminder of what’s possible when we open ourselves to change.

But here’s the thing: admitting the flaws in our beliefs isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s the kind of courage that acknowledges the rope we’ve been clinging to might not hold and chooses to trust the unknown below. It’s the courage to say, “I may have been wrong,” and to embrace the growth that comes with that admission.

Embracing the flaws in our beliefs doesn’t mean abandoning them altogether. It means refining them, allowing them to grow and breathe. Faith itself isn’t static; it’s alive, shaped by experience, study, and reflection. The beauty of being human is that we are always in progress, and so too are the ideas we hold dear.

In the end, defending flawed beliefs isn’t a sign of failure—it’s a reflection of how deeply we care. But perhaps the most freeing realization is this: we are not defined by our beliefs alone. We are defined by our willingness to seek truth, to grow, and to love, even when it means letting go of what once felt certain. And in that letting go, we may find that we haven’t lost ourselves at all—but discovered something truer, stronger, and more enduring.

“Then the King will say to those on His right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.  For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat, I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink, I was a stranger, and you took Me in, I was naked and you clothed Me, I was sick and you looked after Me, I was in prison and you visited Me.’

Then the righteous will answer Him, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You something to drink?  When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You?  When did we see You sick or in prison and visit You?’

And the King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of Mine, you did for Me.’ Matthew 25: 34-40.

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Who Are Jesus’ Spiritual Brothers?

Theses verses in Matthew 25 challenge us to think beyond surface-level kindness. It calls us to recognize Jesus’ profound connection to His spiritual family—those He calls His brothers and sisters. But who are these brothers and sisters? And why does how we treat them hold such weight in His eyes?

Redefining Family

Jesus was clear that His family wasn’t determined by physical bloodlines. Once, when told that His mother and brothers were outside waiting to speak with Him, He turned to His disciples and said, “Who is My mother, and who are My brothers?” Pointing to His disciples, He said, “Here are My mother and My brothers. For whoever does the will of My Father in heaven is My brother and sister and mother” (Matthew 12:49-50).

With those words, He redefined the concept of family. It wasn’t about lineage or heritage but about faith and obedience to God’s will. His spiritual siblings are those who follow His Father and embrace His mission of love and righteousness.

This idea grows even richer in Paul’s letters. In Romans 8:16-17, Paul explains that believers are “children of God” and “co-heirs with Christ.” Faith doesn’t just bring us closer to God; it brings us into His family, with Jesus as our elder brother.

Jesus, the Elder Brother

The idea of Jesus as our elder brother is powerful. In Jewish tradition, the firstborn son held unique responsibilities. He was expected to lead the family, provide for its members, and act as an intermediary in times of trouble. Paul writes in Romans 8:29 that Jesus is "the firstborn among many brothers and sisters."

This title isn’t merely symbolic. Jesus fulfils the role of the elder brother in every sense. He leads us by example, intercedes on our behalf, and secures our inheritance in God’s kingdom. When we think of Jesus this way, it deepens the intimacy of our relationship with Him. He’s not only our Saviour but also our brother, walking with us and calling us to follow His path.

The Basis for Judgment

Understanding this family dynamic helps us grasp the significance of Matthew 25:40. When Jesus says, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of Mine, you did for Me,” He’s speaking directly about His spiritual siblings.

This connection is profound. Jesus identifies so closely with His brothers and sisters that any act of kindness or service toward them is, in essence, an act of kindness or service toward Him. To clothe, feed, or visit them is to honour Him.

But there’s more. In 1 John 3:10, the apostle writes, “By this the children of God are distinguished from the children of the devil: Anyone who does not practice righteousness is not of God, nor is anyone who does not love his brother.” This love isn’t optional. It’s the defining trait of God’s children and the marker of genuine faith.

Our judgment isn’t based solely on our relationship with Jesus but on how that relationship manifests in love for His spiritual family. If we truly belong to Him, it will show in our actions toward others.

Living as Part of Jesus’ Family

Being part of Jesus’ family is both a privilege and a responsibility. It calls us to reflect His character—to love as He loves, serve as He serves, and treat others with the same grace we’ve received.

This doesn’t mean we need to perform grand gestures of charity every day. Often, it’s the small, quiet acts of kindness that matter most: a word of encouragement, a helping hand, or simply showing up for someone in need. These moments of service, though simple, carry eternal significance because they’re done for Christ’s brothers and sisters.

The Eternal Bond

What makes this all so extraordinary is the eternal bond it creates. When we serve Jesus’ family, we strengthen a connection that transcends earthly relationships. We become part of a spiritual kinship that endures forever.

In this light, Jesus’ words in Matthew 25:40 aren’t just about judgment. They’re an invitation. He’s inviting us to see Him in others, to honour Him through acts of love, and to embrace the privilege of being part of His family.

This perspective transforms how we view kindness. It’s not about earning favour or recognition. It’s about living out the reality of our relationship with Jesus and His spiritual siblings. And when we do, we’re not just serving others—we’re serving Him.

So, who are Jesus’ brothers and sisters? They are those who do God’s will, those who walk in faith and righteousness, and those who reflect His love in the world. And as we extend love and care to them, we fulfil the calling of being part of God’s family, united with Christ and one another for eternity.

All verse from the BSB

"It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to trust in man."

Psalm 118:8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

“The one who showed him mercy,” replied the expert in the law.

Then Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.” —Luke 10:36-37 (BSB)

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

Go and do likewise indeed. We often miss out those most important words.  I once belonged to a religious group that believed it held a unique claim as God’s chosen people. While I initially embraced this identity, over time, I struggled with the exclusivity of the idea. I wrestled with the question: how could we assert this while countless Christians throughout history and across the world have made incredible sacrifices for God and Jesus? We like things to be all neat like a bento box; easily categorised, but that's not how I read the scriptures.

When I thought about the lives of other believers, both past and present, their acts of service, love, and sacrifice stood as powerful testimonies to the faith they professed. On cold winter nights, Christians comb the streets, offering warmth and hope to the homeless. Others dedicate their lives to orphan care, or volunteer aboard Mercy Ships, bringing medical aid to those in dire need. These examples of selfless service resonated deeply with me, challenging the boundaries of what it means to be "God's people."

The stories of missionaries like William Carey, Hudson Taylor, and Amy Carmichael further complicated my perspective. William Carey, the "Father of Modern Missions," left behind a stable life to immerse himself in India’s linguistic and cultural complexities. His translations of the Bible opened the Gospel to millions, despite the personal cost of losing a son and witnessing his wife’s descent into mental illness. Similarly, Hudson Taylor’s work in China required him to abandon not only the comforts of home but also the expectations of his own culture, enduring profound personal loss and alienation for the sake of the Gospel.

Then there’s Mary Slessor, a Scottish woman whose missionary work in Nigeria involved facing malaria, extreme isolation, and deep cultural barriers. Her courage in opposing harmful practices like the killing of twins and her nurturing care for abandoned children embodied a faith that transcended doctrine and embraced action.

Each story is unique, yet they share a common thread: an unwavering commitment to serve God by serving others, often at immense personal cost. Adoniram Judson, imprisoned and tortured in Burma, or Eric Liddell, who traded Olympic glory for missionary work in China, did not measure their faith by the boundaries of religious affiliation but by their love for God and humanity.

This realization forced me to confront the narrowness of the claim that any one group could exclusively represent God. How could I ignore the lives of those who had poured themselves out in faith and love, whether in remote African villages, bustling Indian cities, or freezing Siberian prisons? The sacrifices of figures like Jim Elliot, martyred while reaching out to the Huaorani people, or Amy Carmichael, who rescued children from temple prostitution, left me in awe of their boundless devotion.

Their examples remind me of Christ’s words: “By their fruits you will recognize them” (Matthew 7:16). Faith, I have come to believe, is less about belonging to a particular group and more about living in a way that reflects God’s love. The fruits of compassion, service, and selflessness, demonstrated by these Christians and many like them, reveal the heart of true discipleship.

Reflecting on these lives challenges me to broaden my understanding of what it means to belong to God. It is not about exclusivity but about embodying the spirit of Christ: a spirit of humility, love, and sacrifice. These individuals, and many nameless others, remind us that faith is not confined to the walls of a particular denomination or the borders of a specific group. It is alive wherever people serve God by serving others.

In their lives, I see not competition for belonging but a shared calling that transcends divisions. The hands that offer bread to the hungry, the feet that walk miles to reach the unreached, and the hearts that give without measure—these are the marks of God’s people. And in this shared mission, I find a sense of unity that is far greater than any claim to exclusivity..