How Then shall We Comfort Ourselves?
I am on a train, lulled by the steady rhythm of the rails. All feels settled as I read quietly, until my attention drifts to a young mother seated nearby with her two small daughters. They whisper to one another, swing their legs, exist without apparent self-consciousness. There is something quietly precious in watching them—innocence still intact, trust not yet tested.
At the next stop, a bunch of folk come on board the carriage. Their voices are loud, their laughter unguarded, their language coarse. I find myself wincing slightly. Not because they are extraordinary, but because they are not. Nothing here would make the news; nothing rises to the level of alarm. And yet, the atmosphere subtly shifts.
I notice the mother’s posture change almost imperceptibly, a small, instinctive response. I wonder what thoughts pass through her mind about the world her daughters are growing into. I imagine she asks herself that question often. I know I do, when I think of my grandchildren. The thought unsettles me, and with it comes an uncomfortable self-awareness—an embarrassment that I recognise these men as familiar, a sense that they reflect something ordinary in our culture.
Social change rarely announces itself in clear or cinematic ways. More often, it arrives gradually: edges soften, manners evolve, assumptions shift. Courtesy, once expected, can become optional without anyone deciding it should be so. Larger questions about truth, responsibility, and meaning don’t vanish overnight; they are slowly renegotiated in ordinary moments like these.
I hesitate to say society is in moral freefall. That language can obscure as much as it reveals. It may be more accurate to say that we are living through a prolonged period of disorientation—like being on a fairground ride that began with excitement but now spins longer than expected. Some enjoy the motion, some endure it, some feel uneasy but unsure how to step away.
The difficulty is not that no one notices the movement, but that noticing alone doesn’t tell us what to do next.
The following morning, I wake early. The house is still, and migrating geese call out against the dark sky. Their movement seems purposeful, instinct intact. I prepare for my daily Bible reading, drawn to the quiet, longing for something steady. The previous day lingers in my mind, unresolved. Before opening the pages, I pray—not with confidence or eloquence, but simply for clarity, for grounding, for truth that doesn’t bend with every shift in the noise around me.
I turn to Isaiah, chapter one.
As I read, questions surface—not abstract, but personal. Can patterns of moral confusion repeat across generations? Can a society believe itself to be progressing while unknowingly revisiting old failures in new forms? Can people be informed, expressive, even religious, and yet inwardly exhausted?
Isaiah addresses a culture rich in ritual yet struggling with conscience, articulate in self-defence but resistant to correction. The resemblance feels uncomfortably familiar. Yet woven through the warning is something else: an invitation. Not to despair, not to retreat into nostalgia, but to return—to choose attentiveness, humility, and responsibility anew, even after long seasons of drift.
I close the book slowly.
And I am left wondering—not how far the ride might go, but whether individuals, quietly and inwardly, might still decide to step off…
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