Personal Blogs

Many young people today have been fed two great lies. First, there is no objective morality. And two, because society deny the existance of God, the young grow up with a concept of oblivion.

In Light of Eternity

“He has made everything beautiful in its time.

 He has also set eternity in the hearts of men,

 yet they cannot fathom the work that God has done from beginning to end. "

 Ecclesiastes 3:12.

I was born and raised in the maritime city of Glasgow. Inevitably, it looks outward. And yet, where we travel shapes who we are inwardly. Now, I am crossing over to the Island of Bute on the MV Bute, reading about the fascinating philosophical thought experiment known as the Ship of Theseus, first proposed by Plutarch.

Theseus, the  mythological hero, sailed from Greece to slay the Minotaur. After completing his task, he returned to Athens and left his ship to decay. Over time, carpenters gradually replaced each plank of the ship. This raises a question: which ship is the Ship of Theseus—the newly restored one or the old parts rotting on the beach?

Our bodies are not unlike that paradox. Red blood cells form, embark on an arduous journey through the grand rapids of our arteries, veins, and capillaries—facing proportionally life-threatening obstacles—only to sail into oblivion after their two-month voyage. Skin cells decay, leading to weakening avalanches and shifting continental plates. They fall from their plateaus, aided by cascading water, gravitating toward terminal, anticlockwise whirlpools before their second day ends. Estimates vary, but the body replaces itself every seven to ten years. Like Plutarch’s thought experiment, this raises questions of identity and thoughts of eternity as I ponder the body’s self-renewal mechanism.

But here lies the paradox: neurons, those cells that drive the brain, remain with us, in some cases, for life. Though I am advancing in years, there’s still a young man living inside me. I can call him up at any time to visit the places he once visited, meet the people he met, and relive the joys he experienced. This convinces me of an action God took before I was born: setting eternity in my heart.

There is something profoundly beautiful in understanding that while our physical form undergoes continuous change, the essence of who we are remains anchored in something eternal. As I stand on the deck of the MV Bute, the wind tousling my hair and the vast expanse of the sea stretching out before me, I am reminded of the eternal nature that God has set within us. The same sense of eternity that inspired the ancient philosophers to ponder the Ship of Theseus and the same eternal truth that we find in the Scriptures.

In this ever-changing world, the constancy of God’s creation and His eternal purpose for our lives offer a reassuring anchor. Our journeys, much like those of Theseus and his ship, involve renewal and transformation. Yet, in each phase, there is a beauty that God has ordained, a purpose that transcends time.

Reflecting on these thoughts, I find peace in the knowledge that while the external may change, the core of our being is eternally held by God. This realization brings a profound sense of wonder and gratitude for the life I have been given, and for the eternal journey that lies ahead.

But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.
And there's a hand my trusty friend
And give me a hand o' thine
And we'll take a right goodwill draught
for auld lang syne

Robert Burns

But Seas Between Us Broad Have Roared

I have a large plastic folder at home that I cannot throw away.

I have been careful about almost everything else. Since my cancer diagnosis, I have done what the Swedes call death cleaning: giving things away, discarding what no longer earns its place, loosening my grip on objects that once felt essential—like photos, which I have passed on to posterity. Books have gone. Papers. Mementoes I defended for years with elaborate justifications now seem strangely willing to leave.

But not this.

The folder is plain and slightly warped with age. Inside it are business cards and contact cards collected over decades, mostly from Christian conventions and gatherings in Berlin, Paris, Edinburgh, and other cities whose names still feel larger than my present world. The cards are from the French, Germans, Dutch, Belgians, Japanese, Poles, Ukrainians, Russians, Italians, Swedes, and other nationalities. Names, email addresses, family photos, and phone numbers—sometimes with handwritten notes; details that felt important at the time.

There is no practical reason to keep them. Decades have passed. I will not contact these friends. Life, with its quiet and uncompromising turns, has made that impossible. Some of them will be dead. Some unreachable. Some so changed that even recognition would feel dishonest. I am no longer who I was when these cards were exchanged across café tables strewn with leaflets, faith, and optimism.

And yet the folder remains.

What it holds is not a network, nor even nostalgia in the usual sense. It is evidence. Proof that for a moment—sometimes only a very brief one—connection happened. That faith made strangers speak to one another as if they belonged to the same story, even if they would never share another chapter.

I’ve been thinking about this folder in connection with Auld Lang Syne, written down by Robert Burns, who once lived just along the road from me here on Scotland’s west coast. With music added, the song is often treated as sentimental—a harmless ritual for New Year’s Eve or other partings. But I don’t think it is really about the past at all.

Auld Lang Syne mourns the limits of time.

It recognizes something quietly unbearable: that some connections are real, even sacred, and yet cannot be sustained within one human lifespan, one geography, one changing self. The song never says we will stay. It only says we once held this together. And that restraint is everything.

There is a kind of honesty in that which feels almost moral. The song does not pretend that love, friendship, or shared struggle can always survive careers, illness, distance, age, or death. It accepts that finitude fractures continuity—not because people fail, but because life itself is short and fragile.

Psychologically, this is rare. Most cultures offer us stories that resolve connection into permanence: always, forever, till death do us part. Auld Lang Syne offers something more difficult, and perhaps more truthful: connection can be complete without being continuous.

Sociologically, that idea unsettles us—especially now, when technology whispers that nothing should ever be lost, that every relationship can be retrieved if only we try hard enough. The song gently frees us from that demand. It says: you did not betray the bond simply because time moved faster than you could.

That is why it is sung at thresholds. It is not so much a farewell as a witness. Someone stands with you—only briefly—to acknowledge that what existed was real, that it mattered, and that it has not been erased by silence or absence.

The handclasp at the end matters. People cross arms awkwardly, unsure who is holding whom. It is a physical admission of the truth the song dares to hold: connection can be briefly re-entered, but not permanently re-inhabited. We touch, and then we let go.

There is something almost theological in this, even though the song never names it. A sense that meaning exceeds duration. That what is shared participates in something larger than time, even if time itself cannot hold it.

This is why I cannot throw the folder away.

Those cards are not unfinished business. They are not failures of friendship. They are witnesses. Each one says: for a moment, this mattered. That prayer was shared. That recognition crossed borders that history works very hard to keep intact.

This life is not long enough to carry all the love it generates. Some of it must be set down without resolution.

And yet.

There is a moment in the Gospels where Jesus turns to a dying man beside him and says, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” It is not explained. No map is drawn. No mechanics are offered. It is simply a promise spoken at the edge of time, where explanation would be too small.

But in these words of Jesus, we do not have a promise so much as a denouement: a new life where old connections, found worthy of that life, may renew—and where friendships, old and new, may meet again at the cusp of eternity.

So I keep the cards.
And I keep the question.

And still, the cup is raised.

'And Jesus said to him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with Me in Paradise.”'

Luke 23:43

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