A Father’s Liberation Diary by Jeong Ji-a

A Book Recommendation

There are novels in which history arrives as a lecture, heavy with dates, causes, factions and verdicts. Jeong Ji-a’s A Father’s Liberation Diary does something rarer and more humane. It lets history enter by the side door: through grief, funeral rites, village gossip, grudges, old loyalties, family embarrassment and the strange comedy that attends death when the living do not know what else to do with themselves.

The novel begins with a daughter confronting the death of her father, a former communist partisan whose life has been shaped by Korea’s ideological divisions. Yet Jeong resists turning him into either a martyr or a monster. He is, instead, recovered slowly through the testimony of others. As mourners arrive, they bring with them fragments of him: debts repaid, kindnesses remembered, absurdities cherished. The daughter, who has lived under the shadow of his convictions and their consequences, begins to discover that the man she thought she knew was both smaller and larger than the figure preserved in family resentment. There is something humane in this; we think we know someone, but we do not.

This is the book’s great achievement. It understands that parents often remain unreadable to their children, not because they are mysterious in any romantic sense, but because family life narrows them. A father becomes a burden, a silence, a stubborn opinion, a source of shame, a piece of furniture in the house of memory. Only after death do other people return him to proportion. In Jeong’s hands, the funeral becomes less an ending than an act of revision.

The political subject matter is grave, but the novel is not solemn in a deadening way. Its humour is essential. Jeong writes with a lightness that does not trivialise suffering; rather, it makes suffering bearable to look at. The absurd, the tender and the painful sit close together, as they do in real mourning. A life marked by ideology is revealed also to have been marked by appetite, foolishness, loyalty, stubborn mercy and ordinary human contradiction.

What makes A Father’s Liberation Diary so moving is its refusal to separate private grief from public history. The father’s life cannot be understood outside the violence and suspicion of modern Korea, yet the novel insists that no person should be reduced to the political category imposed upon them. To call him a partisan is true, but insufficient. To call him a father is also true, but insufficient. The daughter’s liberation lies in learning to hold both truths together.

Jeong Ji-a’s prose has the calm authority of a writer who knows that reconciliation, when it comes at all, is rarely clean. The book does not offer easy forgiveness. It offers something better: a widening of vision. By the end, the father has not been purified, explained away or turned into a symbol. He has been restored to the difficult dignity of being human. Therefore, if I was to takeaway something from this book, it would be not to judge others; we do not know all the facts and judgement is biased.

A Father’s Liberation Diary is therefore not only a novel about a daughter and her dead father. It is a novel about what survives political catastrophe: memory, rumour, affection, irritation, debt, laughter and the stubborn need to tell the truth about the dead without pretending they were simple. It is a quietly profound work, tender without sentimentality, political without rhetoric, and comic without cruelty.

Note: Jeong Ji-a’s A Father’s Liberation Diary — published in Chinese as 父親的解放日記 in Taiwan and 父亲的解放日志 in mainland China — was first published in Korea in 2022 as 아버지의 해방일지.

Europe's Darkness Dressed as Liberty

Proverbs 29:18 warns us, “Where there is no vision, the people cast off restraint.” It is a solemn truth, and Scripture bears witness to it again and again. When man loses sight of God, he soon loses sight of himself. Purpose fades, moral restraint weakens, and what once would have been called sin is slowly renamed freedom.

In our own time, a darkness has fallen across much of Europe. Atheism has often been embraced as though it were enlightenment, and godlessness has been presented as liberation. Yet we must ask: what kind of liberty is it when man is left standing alone before a cold and empty horizon? What kind of freedom is it when the soul is offered no hope beyond itself?

It is rather like the old tale of The Emperor’s New Clothes. The people were told that the emperor was dressed in splendour, though in truth he was wearing nothing at all. No one dared speak honestly. Falsehood walked through the streets dressed as wisdom, and fear kept the crowd silent.

So it is with much of what is called liberty today. We are told that freedom means casting off God, denying moral truth, and living without restraint. We are told that this is progress. Yet beneath the fine words there is often emptiness. Darkness has been dressed as liberty, and falsehood has been paraded as freedom.

But the Word of God still speaks with clarity. It does not leave man lost in confusion, nor does it call him to despair. It calls him home.

Micah 6:8 says:

“He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you but to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?”

Here is the true path back: justice, mercy, and humility before God. Not pride dressed as knowledge. Not rebellion dressed as freedom. Not darkness dressed as liberty.

Europe does not need a deeper descent into spiritual emptiness. It needs a renewed vision of God. It needs the courage to name falsehood for what it is, and the humility to return to the One who alone gives life, meaning, and hope. This is why many young people are finding God and walking away from the emptyness of a broken society.

For when man walks away from God, he does not become free. He becomes lost. But when he walks humbly with God, he discovers the only freedom that can truly save the soul.

"When we point the finger at others... we have only stepped further away from love and walked into darkness."

When Our Light Rises in the Darkness

Yesterday I wrote about the words of Isaiah:

‘If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk …
then your light will rise in the darkness.’
— Isaiah 58:9–10

Today, I find myself returning to that verse from yesterday; some verses do not leave us quickly. They sit quietly in the soul, waiting for us to come back to them. Isaiah’s words are like that. They are not only beautiful and searching, they ask something of us.

The words speak of doing away with oppression, with the pointing finger, and with malicious talk. These are not small matters. They are the everyday ways in which darkness can enter human life. A harsh word, a cruel accusation, a bitter judgement, a careless piece of gossip — such things may seem light on the tongue, but they can weigh heavily on another person’s heart.

Malicious speech can wound deeply. I have seen it divide friends, poison families, weaken communities, and darken the spirit of the one who speaks it. When we point the finger at others, we may feel for a moment that we have lifted ourselves higher, but in truth we have only stepped further away from love and walked into darkness. And continuing as a courier of gloom, we show to the world how unhappy we are.

Isaiah shows us another way. He tells us that when we turn away from such things, when we refuse to take part in cruel speech, something holy begins to happen within us. God says, ‘then your light will rise in the darkness.’

What a promise that is.

This is not merely the happiness of a good mood or an easy day. It is something deeper. It is a happiness that comes from God. It is the quiet joy of a clean conscience. It is the peace of knowing that our words have not been used as weapons. It is the warmth that comes when we choose mercy instead of judgement, kindness instead of accusation, and silence instead of harm.

There is a kind of darkness that comes from living with bitterness. It can creep into the mind and settle in the heart. But when we give up malicious speech, we make room for the light of God. We become less burdened by resentment. We are no longer feeding the shadows. We begin to see others more gently, and perhaps we begin to see ourselves more truthfully too.

The Creator reveals a beautiful truth: our light rises when our speech is healed.

This does not mean we ignore wrong or pretend that evil does not exist. It means we do not become servents of cruelty. It means we do not delight in tearing others down. It means our words are guided by love, justice, humility, and grace.

In this world filled with accusation, mockery, and suspicion, choosing not to speak maliciously is a quiet act of faith. It is a way of saying, ‘Lord, let my tongue belong to You. Let my words bring light, not darkness.’

And perhaps this is where true happiness begins. Not in winning arguments. Not in exposing the faults of others. Not in being the loudest voice in the room in order to feed our own low self esteam. But in walking humbly with God, speaking with kindness, and refusing to add more darkness to the world.

Then, as Isaiah says, our light will rise in the darkness.

And that light is not our own achievement. It is a gift from God.

A Friday Night Before the World Grew Heavy

I asked my sister, now in her eighties, “What was your happiest childhood memory? ” She didn’t mention holidays or presents. She went straight to the rear courts of the Govan tenements to a period before my time. Back court where the bins, the dykes, the washhouses, and the Friday nights set aside for what might now be called Govan’s Got Talent.

The anticipation in her was fit to burst, like a boiling haggis. Our mother would be busy fashioning some paper‑mâché flourish for her costume, and by the time the great night arrived, Anna was ready for the stage.

But it wasn’t only her own performance she lived for. She had a gift; a kind of instinctive firgun, that Hebrew word for the joy we feel in the happiness of others. Even as a child she couldn’t help slipping into everyone else’s act: singing, reciting, dancing, helping, interrupting — whatever was happening at the building round the back that became a community gathering, Anna had to be in the thick of it. Her delight wasn’t competitive; it was contagious. She shone because she wanted everyone else to shine too.

Even the neighbour who preferred to spend his Friday nights drinking beer with his mates found himself drawn in: “Come and see Anna performing round at the steamie.” It wasn’t the promise of a show — it was the promise of her joy.

There was no television audience, no bright stage, no prize at the end of it. Only the back court of a Govan tenement, a gathering of neighbours, and a wee girl who believed, with all her heart, that the show must go on — not for applause, but because something in her felt most alive when others were lifted.

And perhaps that was the happiness of it. For one Friday night, among the bins and the dykes and the washhouses, the ordinary world became a theatre. Not because it was transformed, but because she was: a child who hadn’t yet learned to doubt herself, who hadn’t yet been taught the adult habit of shrinking. A child whose joy in others’ joy made the whole back court glow.

Maybe that’s why the memory has stayed with her all these years. Not because she was the star — but because, for a brief moment, she lived in a world where everyone’s light made her brighter too.

“You have faith and I have deeds.”

Show me your faith without deeds,

and I will show you my faith by my deeds.

James 2:18

A Quiet Hope for Kindness

She had come to the very place where she should have found refuge, warmth and companionship, yet it seemed to be a struggle for her simply to be there. I sometimes wonder what thoughts passed through her mind as she took her seat among us.

Perhaps someone will notice me today. Perhaps someone will sit beside me and ask how I really am.

But no one did. I would often see her sitting alone in a coffee shop in the town: Alone.

And, looking back, I must acknowledge with sorrow that I failed her too. I saw something of her loneliness, but I did not do enough to relieve it. At the time, as an elder, I was more tied up with procedure rather than compassion. I am more aware now, more observant as I walk along the beach, the town or the city that the elderly are calling out in silence

Now that I am getting older myself, I am more conscious of that vulnerability. Age can bring many changes. Strength diminishes. Health becomes uncertain. Friends and loved ones are lost. The world becomes quieter, and sometimes the walk into a congregation requires more courage than anyone else realises. A person may arrive hoping not merely to attend a meeting, but to feel that they still matter; that they are still loved; that their presence is still precious.

Yet how easily a congregation can fall into familiar patterns. People gather in their usual groups. The middle-aged speak with those who share their interests. The younger ones laugh easily among themselves. There is warmth, certainly, and friendship is a beautiful gift. But sometimes that warmth does not reach beyond the circle.

And so, an older brother or sister, a widow, someone who is ill, bereaved, anxious or quietly struggling, may walk away just as lonely as they walked in.

There is something deeply sad when a congregation begins to feel more like a social club than a spiritual family. Fellowship is a good thing. Friendship is necessary. But when fellowship becomes a collection of closed circles, leaving the vulnerable standing at the edges, something precious has been lost.

A place of worship should be one of the safest places for a lonely person to enter. It should be a place where tired eyes are noticed, where a quiet sigh is heard, where the person sitting alone does not remain alone for long. It should be a place where someone cares enough not merely to offer a passing greeting, but to sit down and ask, ‘How are you really?’

It does not always require great effort to ease another person’s burden. Sometimes it is a conversation. Sometimes it is a seat offered beside us. Sometimes it is remembering a name, making a telephone call, offering a lift, sharing a cup of tea, or listening without hurry. Small deeds of kindness may appear insignificant to those who give them, but to a lonely person they can be the difference between feeling forgotten and feeling loved.

James wrote of a faith that is shown by deeds. His words remind us that spirituality is not measured merely by our attendance, our knowledge, our words or our outward appearance. It is revealed in compassion. It is seen in the willingness to notice those whom others overlook, and to draw near to those who are quietly hurting.

It is easy to speak of love. It is much harder, and far more meaningful, to practise it when there is no recognition or praise; when the person needing our attention is frail, withdrawn, awkward, grieving or unable to offer anything in return. Yet perhaps it is in those moments that our faith becomes most visible.

God notices the lonely person whom others overlook. He sees the brother or sister who enters with a heavy heart and leaves without anyone knowing the burden they are carrying. He sees the one who sits among many, yet feels painfully alone.

And perhaps he also notices whether we see them.

I often think now of that elderly sister from many years ago. I cannot return to those days and sit beside her. I cannot ask her the question I should perhaps have asked then. But I can allow the memory of her loneliness to soften my heart now. I can try to be more watchful, more compassionate, more willing to cross the room and speak to the person standing quietly on their own.

For faith is not only something we confess with our lips. Sometimes faith is a chair drawn close to someone who is lonely. Sometimes it is a hand held in grief. Sometimes it is a few sincere words spoken to someone who feared that no one had noticed them at all.

And in such simple deeds, love becomes visible.

In the Voice of a Child

I read John Boyle’s Galloway Street some fifteen years ago and back then, I realised it stands as a rare kind of memoir; one that doesn’t simply recall childhood but manages to enter it again. Rather than filtering memory through the polished distance of adulthood, Boyle writes as though he has stepped back into the cramped tenement rooms, the rough play, the Catholic rituals, the smells of the street, and the half-understood adult dramas with a child’s unguarded immediacy. The power of the book lies in that return: the vantage of a boy who sees the world not yet as a system, but as a collection of vivid, puzzling, often hilarious fragments.

Writing from a child’s viewpoint is deceptively difficult. An adult mind is trained to interpret, to contextualize, to moralize. A child’s mind simply encounters. Boyle’s achievement is his ability to resist the urge to explain his younger self, allowing the reader to feel the uncertainty, wonder, and sometimes the fear of a boy standing exactly where he once stood. Moments aren’t framed as lessons; they are lived. Humour isn’t crafted; it bubbles up naturally from innocence and misunderstanding. Pain isn’t magnified; it simply exists at the edge of the frame, the way a child experiences hardship without yet possessing the vocabulary for it.

This perspective gives the memoir its tenderness. The adult writer knows what the child did not—about poverty, about sectarian tension, about the fragility of the adults in his life—but he never forces that hindsight onto the narrative. Instead, he lets the past breathe, allowing the reader to witness the world forming itself around the boy, brick by brick, story by story. In doing so, Boyle not only recreates a childhood; he honours it.

The emotional truth of this approach becomes especially striking when the book resonates with those who lived fragments of that same childhood. When I met an old school friend after fifty years, I gave him a copy and his immediate response—“That’s you and me when we were boys”—acted as a quiet confirmation of Boyle’s authenticity and the fact that it reflected our childhood in nearby Govan, just a few miles from Boyle’s Ferguslie Park, Paisley,  where the book was set.  It wasn’t that the memoir was a perfect factual mirror of your experiences; rather, it captured something deeper: the texture of boys growing up in a world that was often hard but always alive, always shared. You recognized yourselves not in the specific details, but in the spirit—the mischief, the limitations, the loyalties, the unspoken understanding that childhood friendships are forged from closeness rather than words.

My friend’s remark also reveals something essential about memoir itself. A good memoir doesn’t just present a life; it awakens the lives of others. Boyle’s child-viewpoint writing opens a door that my friend and I could both walk through, back into the noise of the street, the sting of the weather, the small victories, and the bewildering adult world just beyond your reach. In this way, Galloway Street becomes more than one man’s story; it becomes a shared landscape, a place where the memories of many readers find familiar footing.

Seen from the perspective of craft, Boyle’s method demonstrates how writing through a child’s eyes can preserve not only events, but the emotional truth underneath them. Seen from the personal angle you experienced, that same method has the power to bridge years, revive companionship, and remind us gently of who we once were.

Do you love me?

Many years ago, I watched the film Fiddler on the Roof. One scene has stayed with me ever since. Tevye’s wife, Golde, suddenly asks him a question after many years of marriage: “Do you love me?”

The question catches Tevye off guard. In their tradition marriages were arranged, and love was rarely spoken about openly. To him, the answer seems obvious. He begins listing all the things he has done for her over the years: working hard, providing for the family, sharing the burdens of life. Surely these things demonstrate his love. But Golde is looking for something more than a list of duties fulfilled; she longs to hear words of appreciation.

Her question reveals something deeper. What she really wants is recognition expressed aloud—something that acknowledges the bond between them. The moment becomes tender and reflective, leading into the gentle song Do You Love Me? where the two cautiously explore feelings that had long been assumed but never spoken.

The scene captures something deeply human. We live not only by actions but also by words. A kind word can lift the spirit in ways that practical service alone sometimes cannot. Most people do not seek constant praise, yet sincere appreciation has a quiet power. It reassures us that we are seen and valued.

Unfortunately, the opposite can also be true. Some people carry with them a kind of gloom—an atmosphere of criticism or coldness. It may appear in sharp remarks, dismissive attitudes, or simply a lack of warmth. Such negativity can weigh heavily on those around them. Where appreciation is absent, discouragement often takes its place.

Gratitude, by contrast, has a remarkable effect on human well-being. It can increase happiness, strengthen relationships, and even lessen feelings of depression. One reason for this is simple: gratitude shifts our attention. Instead of focusing on what is missing or imperfect, it turns our gaze toward what is present and good.

Literature offers many poignant reflections on this theme. In Middlemarch by George Eliot, we encounter the quiet suffering of Dorothea Brooke. I recall cringing, I mean really cringing as I watched a certain scene play out. Dorothea is an intelligent and idealistic young woman who longs to dedicate her life to meaningful work and moral purpose. Believing she can contribute to something intellectually significant; she marries the scholar, Edward Casaubon.

Yet her hopes gradually fade. Rather than welcoming her devotion and assistance, Casaubon becomes defensive and distant. Dorothea’s generosity, intelligence, and willingness to serve are not only unappreciated but subtly resented. The marriage becomes a place where her gifts remain largely unseen.

Her story reveals a quiet tragedy: the sincere desire to contribute, combined with the pain of feeling that one’s efforts do not matter. Eliot writes with deep sympathy for such people—those whose goodness is genuine but easily overlooked in the ordinary patterns of life.

In reality, many people experience something similar. Those who are thoughtful, generous, or humble do not always attract attention. Louder personalities or rigid social expectations can overshadow quieter virtues. Yet the absence of recognition does not diminish the value of those qualities.

From a Christian perspective, kindness and appreciation are not merely social niceties; they reflect something deeper about the way human life is meant to be lived. In Galatians 5:22–23 we read:

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”

Here kindness is described as something that grows naturally in a life shaped by God’s Spirit. It is not forced or artificial. It emerges from a heart that has learned to see others with compassion and respect.

A quiet thread runs through these reflections from Golde’s simple question, to Dorothea’s unnoticed devotion, to the biblical call toward kindness.

Gratitude does more than acknowledge a good deed. It recognises the dignity of the person who offered it.

In this way, a few sincere words can do something remarkable: they affirm the quiet worth of a human soul

The Big Question: Who Are God and Jesus? 

Some years ago, after leaving Jehovah’s Witnesses, I wrote to a Christian lawyer, a Christian scientist and several other Christians, hoping to understand how they interpreted God and Christ.

The scientist never replied. The lawyer sent what appeared to be an AI-generated collection of relevant scriptures, and others seemed reluctant to discuss the subject at all.

I was deeply disappointed by the lack of thoughtful engagement. It led me to wonder whether many people had ever truly reasoned their way into their beliefs, or whether they had simply accepted what they had been taught.

More recently, I came across a young person online who seemed deeply troubled by these same questions. Her concern stayed with me.

It reminded me of Jesus’ conversation with Nicodemus, when he said: ‘You are Israel’s teacher, and do you not understand these things?’

T

And perhaps that is where we should begin: not with labels, not with inherited arguments, but with the Bible itself.

“Let Us Make Man in Our Image”

We first encounter a striking statement in Genesis, when God moves to create mankind:

“Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.”
— Genesis 1:26

Who is God speaking to when he says, “Let us make man in our image”?

Some Christians see this as an early indication that there is plurality within God’s own identity. Others understand God to be addressing the heavenly court — angelic or heavenly beings who are present before him, as we see in passages such as 1 Kings 22:19–22 and Isaiah 6:1–8.

What cannot be overlooked is the next verse:

“So God created man in his own image.”
— Genesis 1:27

The speech is plural — “Let us make” — but the act of creation is singular: “God created.” Genesis does not explain the mystery in full. It gives us something to think about, but not a complete doctrinal formula.

When I read that humanity is made in God’s image, I naturally think about the qualities God desires to see reflected in us. Galatians 5:22–23 describes the fruit of the Spirit as:

“Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”

Looking around at humanity, we can see traces of these qualities — sometimes beautifully, sometimes imperfectly, and sometimes sadly obscured. Yet their presence reminds us that human beings were created with the capacity to reflect something of God’s goodness.

The Bible Is Clear That There Is One God

Whatever conclusion we reach about Jesus, we must begin with the Bible’s firm witness that there is one God.

Moses declared to Israel:

“Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one.”
— Deuteronomy 6:4

Through Isaiah, God says:

“I am the first and I am the last; besides me there is no god.”
— Isaiah 44:6

And again:

“I am the LORD, and there is no other, besides me there is no God.”
— Isaiah 45:5

These verses leave no room for the idea of two rival Gods, or a collection of separate gods competing for worship. The faith of Israel was founded upon the worship of the one true God.

Therefore, when Christians speak about Jesus in exalted or divine terms, they must still explain how Jesus relates to the one God revealed in Israel’s Scriptures.

Yet the Old Testament Is Not Entirely Simple in Its Language About God

Although the Old Testament teaches that there is one God, it sometimes describes God’s presence and activity in ways that are richer than we might first expect.

God creates through his word:

“By the word of the LORD the heavens were made.”
— Psalm 33:6

God’s Spirit is active in creation:

“The Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.”
— Genesis 1:2

God’s Wisdom is described in remarkably personal language in Proverbs 8, present before the created world and rejoicing in God’s work.

God also speaks about his Name dwelling among his people, and in Exodus 23:20–21 he speaks of an angel who bears his Name and must be obeyed.

None of these passages, by themselves, proves the later Christian doctrine of the Trinity. But they do show that within the Old Testament, God’s own presence, Word, Wisdom, Spirit and Name can be spoken about in profound and sometimes mysterious ways.

That matters when we later come to the New Testament and read what it says about Jesus.

Jesus Is Clearly Distinct from God the Father

There are many passages in the New Testament where Jesus is plainly distinguished from God.

Jesus prays to the Father:

“Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.”
— Mark 14:36

In prayer, Jesus refers to the Father as:

“The only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.”
— John 17:3

Jesus also says:

“The Father is greater than I.”
— John 14:28

After Jesus’ death and resurrection, Peter preached:

“Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with mighty works and wonders and signs that God did through him.”
— Acts 2:22

A few verses later, Peter says:

“God has made him both Lord and Christ, this Jesus whom you crucified.”
— Acts 2:36

Paul similarly writes:

“There is one God, and there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.”
— 1 Timothy 2:5

And throughout his letters, Paul often writes of “God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ,” distinguishing between them.

These verses cannot honestly be dismissed. Jesus prays to God. Jesus obeys God. Jesus is sent by God. Jesus receives authority from God. Jesus even speaks of “my God” after his resurrection, as we find in Revelation 3:12.

Therefore, Jesus cannot simply be identified as the same person as the Father. Scripture preserves a real distinction.

Yet Jesus Is Also Given an Astonishingly Exalted Place

At the same time, there are passages where Jesus is described in language that places him extraordinarily close to God’s own identity, work and glory.

The opening words of John’s Gospel are among the most important:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
— John 1:1

John does not say that the Word was the same person as the God he was “with.” There is distinction. Yet he also says that the Word “was God.” Then, in John 1:14, we are told:

“The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

John is clearly speaking about Jesus.

Later in the same Gospel, after seeing the risen Jesus, Thomas says to him:

“My Lord and my God!”
— John 20:28

Jesus does not rebuke Thomas for saying this.

Another deeply important passage is Philippians 2:5–11. Paul says that Christ existed “in the form of God,” yet willingly humbled himself, taking the form of a servant and becoming obedient unto death. After this, God highly exalted him and gave him “the name that is above every name,” so that every knee should bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.

What makes this especially significant is that Paul appears to draw upon Isaiah 45:23, where every knee bows before the LORD himself. Yet Paul applies this honour to Jesus, while still concluding that this brings glory “to God the Father.”

That is the tension we repeatedly meet in Scripture: Jesus is distinct from God the Father, yet he is spoken of in language that belongs remarkably close to God.

“One God, the Father” and “One Lord, Jesus Christ”

Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 8:6 deserve careful attention:

“Yet for us there is one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist.”

A reader might initially think Paul is separating Jesus from the one God entirely. Yet there is something deeper happening here.

The Jewish confession of one God in Deuteronomy 6:4 speaks of the LORD as the one God of Israel. In the Greek Old Testament, the divine name is regularly represented by the word “Lord.” Paul now speaks of “one God, the Father” and “one Lord, Jesus Christ,” while associating both with creation and human existence.

This does not erase the distinction between Father and Son. But it does mean that Jesus is not treated merely as an ordinary prophet, teacher or heavenly messenger.

What Does “Firstborn of All Creation” Mean?

One of the most discussed passages in this entire subject is Colossians 1:15:

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.”

Some readers understand “firstborn” to mean that Jesus was the first being God created. From that viewpoint, Jesus is exalted above all other creation, but is still himself created.

Others point out that in the Bible, “firstborn” can refer not only to birth order, but also to rank, inheritance and supremacy. For example, in Psalm 89:27, God says of David:

“I will make him the firstborn, the highest of the kings of the earth.”

David was not literally the firstborn son in his family. The title described his supreme position.

The verses immediately following Colossians 1:15 are therefore very important:

“For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible… all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”
— Colossians 1:16–17 (Cautionary note, one Bible says “All other things” Other does not appear in the Greek texts).

That is extraordinary language. Christ is not merely said to exist before other things. All things are said to have been created through him and for him, and to continue holding together in him.

It is understandable that some readers see the word “firstborn” as suggesting subordination or derivation. But it is equally understandable that others see the surrounding verses as placing Christ on the Creator side of the divide between Creator and creation.

An honest reading must allow the whole passage to speak.

“All the Fullness of Deity Dwells Bodily”

Colossians continues with another remarkable statement:

“For in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily.”
— Colossians 2:9

This is one of the strongest passages in the New Testament concerning Jesus’ identity. Paul does not merely say that Jesus was inspired by God, represented God, or received power from God. He says that the fullness of deity dwells bodily in him.

Yet even here, the verse does not say that Jesus is the Father. The New Testament maintains distinction while still giving Jesus an exceptionally high identity.

Hebrews Chapter One: A Son Unlike Any Other

Hebrews 1 gathers together some of the most striking statements about Jesus in all of Scripture.

The Son is described as:

• the heir of all things;

• the one through whom God made the world;

• the radiance of God’s glory;

• the exact imprint of God’s nature;

• the one who upholds all things by his powerful word;

• the one seated at the right hand of the Majesty on high.

The chapter then applies several Old Testament passages to the Son.

The Son is called God’s Son from Psalm 2:7.

The angels are commanded to worship him.

Words from Psalm 45 are applied to him:

“Your throne, O God, is forever and ever.”
— Hebrews 1:8

There is debate about how this line should be translated. Many understand it as God addressing the Son as “O God.” Others argue for the rendering, “God is your throne.” That debate should be acknowledged fairly.

But Hebrews does not stop there. In Hebrews 1:10–12, words from Psalm 102, originally addressed to the LORD as Creator of heaven and earth, are applied to the Son:

“You, Lord, laid the foundation of the earth in the beginning, and the heavens are the work of your hands.”

That is remarkable. Hebrews distinguishes between God and the Son, yet it applies Creator-language and divine honour to the Son.

Verses Commonly Emphasised by Those Who Reject the Trinity

Those who do not accept the Trinity often draw attention to passages such as these:

• John 17:3, where Jesus calls the Father “the only true God.”

• John 14:28, where Jesus says, “The Father is greater than I.”

• Mark 13:32, where Jesus says the Son does not know the day or hour.

• Acts 2:36, where God makes Jesus “Lord and Christ.”

• 1 Corinthians 15:24–28, where the Son finally subjects himself to God, so that “God may be all in all.”

• Revelation 3:12, where the risen Jesus repeatedly speaks of “my God.”

These verses strongly support the distinction between Jesus and the Father. They speak of obedience, dependence, received authority and subjection.

A serious Christian cannot simply brush these texts aside.

Verses Commonly Emphasised by Those Who Accept the Trinity or a Divine Identity for Christ

Those who believe Jesus shares in the divine identity often point to passages such as these:

• John 1:1–3, where the Word is with God, is called God, and is involved in the creation of all things.

• John 8:58, where Jesus says, “Before Abraham was, I am.”

• John 20:28, where Thomas addresses Jesus as “My Lord and my God.”

• Philippians 2:6–11, where Christ exists in the form of God, humbles himself, and receives the honour described in Isaiah as belonging to the LORD.

• Colossians 1:15–20, where all things are created through Christ and for Christ.

• Colossians 2:9, where the fullness of deity dwells bodily in Christ.

• Hebrews 1, where the Son is described as the radiance of God’s glory and Old Testament passages about the LORD are applied to him.

• Titus 2:13 and 2 Peter 1:1, where the Greek wording is understood by many translators and scholars as referring to Jesus as “our God and Savior.”

These passages are equally serious. Jesus is not presented merely as a righteous teacher or a created servant carrying messages from God. He receives titles, honour, creative functions and worship that raise profound questions about his relationship to the one God.

Scripture Seems to Unfold the Question Gradually

The Old Testament begins with uncompromising devotion to one God.

Within that same Old Testament, God’s Word, Wisdom, Spirit, Glory, Name and heavenly presence are described in ways that prepare the reader for a deeper revelation.

The Gospels then present Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of God and the Son of Man. He forgives sins, claims authority over the Sabbath, calms storms, receives worship, speaks with unique authority and finally rises from the dead.

Paul describes Jesus in connection with creation, cosmic rule, divine glory and final judgment.

Hebrews speaks of him as the radiance of God’s glory and applies Old Testament language about the Creator to the Son.

John gives perhaps the clearest expression of all: the Word who was with God and was God became flesh and lived among us.

Later Christian doctrine did not create these difficult questions out of nothing. The questions arise from the biblical text itself. Christians tried to find language that preserved all of the scriptural evidence together:

• there is one God;

• the Father is God;

• Jesus is distinct from the Father;

• Jesus prays to, obeys and is sent by God;

• Jesus also shares divine titles, divine works, divine honour and divine glory;

• the Holy Spirit acts as God’s active and personal presence.

Whether one agrees with every later doctrinal formulation or not, the material that gave rise to the discussion is plainly present in Scripture.

A Small Illustration from the Mystery of Creation

At this point, someone may reasonably say, “But how can all of this be understood?”

That is a fair question. We are trying to speak about the identity of God and Jesus, not the identity of ordinary human beings. We are considering realities far greater than ourselves.

An illustration from science may help us approach the question with humility.

Scientists speak of quantum entanglement. Put very simply, at the smallest levels of creation, particles can be connected in such a way that they cannot be fully described independently of one another. Their relationship is real, even though it does not behave in the ordinary way our everyday experience leads us to expect.

More recently, researchers have reported evidence of quantum entanglement involving the quarks and gluons within a proton. A proton is one of the tiny building blocks found in atoms. In other words, even within something unimaginably small, scientists continue to uncover relationships and behaviour that are extremely difficult for the ordinary human mind to picture.

I am not saying that quantum entanglement proves the identity of God, proves the Trinity, or explains the relationship between the Father and the Son. It does none of those things.

My point is much simpler.

If the created world contains realities so strange and profound that even brilliant scientists struggle to describe them in everyday language, should we be surprised that the eternal God is not easily reduced to a simple human formula?

Psalm 8 says that mankind has been made “a little lower than the heavenly beings.” We are creatures, limited in understanding, looking toward the glory and mystery of the Creator.

That should not prevent us from studying Scripture carefully. But it should keep us humble.

Where Does This Leave Us?

For me, the honest conclusion is not that the difficult verses should be ignored, nor that only one group of passages should be allowed to speak.

Scripture contains language of distinction and subordination:

• Jesus prays to God.

• Jesus obeys God.

• Jesus is sent by God.

• Jesus receives authority from God.

• Jesus speaks of the Father as greater.

• Jesus calls the Father “the only true God.”

• The Son is ultimately subject to God.

But Scripture also contains language that includes Jesus in God’s own work, honour and glory:

• the Word was God;

• all things were made through him;

• Thomas calls Jesus “my Lord and my God”;

• every knee bows to Jesus;

• all things were created through him and for him;

• the fullness of deity dwells bodily in him;

• the Son is the radiance of God’s glory;

• Old Testament words about the LORD as Creator are applied to the Son.

Any honest reading must allow both sets of passages to stand before attempting to settle the matter doctrinally.

For the young person who seemed troubled, and perhaps for others who quietly carry similar concerns, I would say this: do not be frightened by the depth of the question. God is not dishonoured by careful reading, sincere prayer or humble searching.

We may not be able to explain the fullness of God’s identity as easily as we explain the identity of a human being. But perhaps that is to be expected. We are speaking about the living God, his eternal glory, and Jesus Christ, through whom the New Testament says all things came to be.

My own desire is not to win an argument. It is to remain faithful to Scripture, honest about what it says, humble about what exceeds my understanding, and grateful that God has made himself known through Christ.

The facts, as I understand them, are these: Scripture contains both subordination language and divine-inclusion language concerning Jesus. A sincere reader should not force one side into silence. We should read, pray, think carefully, and allow the full witness of Scripture to lead us closer to God.

Passages Mentioned for Personal Study

Genesis 1:1–27; Psalm 8; Psalm 33:6; Psalm 45:6–7; Psalm 89:27; Psalm 102:25–27; Proverbs 8; Isaiah 44:6; Isaiah 45:5, 23; Exodus 23:20–21; Deuteronomy 6:4; Mark 13:32; Mark 14:36; John 1:1–14; John 8:58; John 14:28; John 17:3; John 20:28; Acts 2:22–36; Romans 1:7; 1 Corinthians 8:6; 1 Corinthians 15:24–28; Philippians 2:5–11; Colossians 1:15–20; Colossians 2:9; 1 Timothy 2:5; Titus 2:13; Hebrews 1; 2 Peter 1:1; Revelation 3:12.

Science Note

The illustration concerning entanglement within protons is based on research publicised by Brookhaven National Laboratory in December 2024, reporting evidence that quarks and gluons within protons are subject to quantum entanglement. This illustration is offered only as an appeal for humility before mystery, not as a scientific proof of any Christian doctrine.

Does Christ Have Us on Airplane Mode?

“Wake up, O sleeper,
rise from the dead,
and Christ will shine on you.”
— Ephesians 5:14

The Lord having us on airplane mode is an unsettling truth: Christ does not shine on us because we are impressive, disciplined, or spiritually eloquent. He shines on us when we wake up.

We often speak as though God is hidden. Yet scripture tells a different story. God is not the distant one; we are the distracted ones. The bush still burns, but we pass by without removing our sandals. The whisper still speaks, but our lives are filled with too much noise to hear it.

We have become people of hurry, performance, and endless distraction. Our days are crowded with movement but starved of attention. We carry candles through broad daylight and then wonder why they seem so dim.

Even faith itself can become strangely familiar. The words lose their weight. The prayers become rehearsed. Congregation language hangs around us like wallpaper we no longer notice. We know the hymns, the creeds, the verses by heart, yet the heart itself can remain untouched.

The prophets warned of this long ago:

“These people honour Me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from Me.”

There is a terrible distance between the mouth and the soul. And often it is in that distance where God seems most silent.

The early Christian fathers called this condition acedia — not open rebellion, but spiritual exhaustion. A slow drifting. A weariness of the soul. It is the feeling of moving through holy things half-asleep, waiting for God to speak while ignoring the voice already calling our name.

It is like asking why our mobile never rings while it remains switched off. We approach God in a crisis and have him on Do not disturb when life goes well.

So, heaven has not fallen silent. Perhaps we have simply not given God our all.

Paul’s words are not merely a warning; they are an invitation.

“Wake up, O sleeper…
and Christ will shine on you.”

Notice the order. We do not shine first and then receive the light. We wake, and the light is already there.

This is the miracle of awakening: not merely that we begin to see God, but that we begin to reflect Him. Like windows thrown open at dawn, we catch a brightness that was waiting for us all along.

So why does God seem absent?

Perhaps He has already passed by countless times unnoticed: in the trembling beauty of trees in the wind, in the unexpected kindness of a stranger, in the ache that rises in you while watching a sunrise alone. Perhaps God has not stopped speaking. Perhaps we have forgotten how to listen.

The call of the gospel is not always toward spectacle, but toward awareness. Toward attention. Toward waking up.

And like sleepers slowly rising at first light, may we rise too — not because we are worthy, but because Christ has already shone His light upon us.

Then, in time, like windows catching the morning sun, we too may shine.

“If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain…”

Emily Dickinson

Are You a Deeply Sensitive Person?

About a year ago, I bought four lovely china mugs online for about twenty pounds. I do not drink alcohol, not even a glass of wine, but I do appreciate a good blend of tea. And a good blend of tea deserves a proper vessel to drink it from, don't you agree. Let's face it, you don't a good Scottish malt or a Château-Neuf‑du‑Pape out of a billy can so you? 

At first, I treated the mugs with great care. I would wash them separately from the ordinary dishes and handle them gently. But over time, I slipped into careless habits. I began leaving the china in the sink among heavier utensils, or reheating lukewarm tea in the microwave. One by one, the mugs cracked or chipped, and now only two remain. They are too fragile to survive neglect.

I often think people can be much the same. Some souls are made sturdy for rough handling, while others are more delicate by nature. Yet sensitivity is often spoken of as though it were a flaw. How many times have we heard the criticism, “You are too sensitive”? I have heard it throughout my life, usually from those who seem to have little understanding of empathy themselves.

 A relationship with a sensitive person can be deeply nourishing because sensitivity often comes with heightened awareness, emotional depth, and attentiveness to the inner lives of others. While sensitivity is sometimes treated as fragility, it can also be a quiet strength that enriches connection in ways that are easy to overlook.

One of the greatest advantages is emotional understanding. Sensitive people tend to notice subtleties — a shift in tone, tiredness behind a smile, the silence that means more than words. They often listen carefully, not merely waiting for their turn to speak. In close relationships, this can create a feeling of being truly seen rather than merely accompanied.

Sensitivity also often brings compassion. A sensitive partner or friend usually remembers pain because they feel it deeply themselves. That awareness can make them gentler in conflict and more thoughtful in daily life. Small acts of care like checking how you are after a difficult day, remembering meaningful details, offering comfort without being asked often come naturally to them.

There is usually richness in emotional intimacy too. Sensitive people are often reflective and sincere. Conversations may move beyond routine subjects into fears, hopes, memories, faith, beauty, loss, or meaning. This depth can create bonds that feel substantial rather than superficial. Even ordinary moments may feel more alive because they notice them fully.

Another advantage is loyalty of heart. Many sensitive people value trust profoundly because they themselves are easily wounded by carelessness or betrayal. When they love someone, they often do so earnestly and wholeheartedly. Their affection may not always be loud, but it is usually genuine.

Sensitivity can also deepen appreciation for beauty and humanity. Music, nature, kindness, literature, quiet moments, spiritual reflection, these things may carry unusual significance for them. Being close to such a person can help another become more attentive to life itself, slowing down enough to notice what is often rushed past.

Of course, sensitivity also requires tenderness and patience. Sensitive people may become overwhelmed more easily, withdraw after harshness, or carry emotional burdens quietly. But relationships are rarely strengthened by hardness alone. Often, the safest and most enduring bonds are built where two people learn how to handle each other with care.

At its best, a relationship with a sensitive person can feel less like living beside someone and more like sharing an inner world, one where empathy, depth, sincerity, and quiet understanding are allowed to matter.

“And be kind to one another, tenderhearted,

forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you.

Ephesians 4:32

NKJV

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

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Are You Hurting?

There is a tender image in the Psalms where David cries out to God and says:

“Put my tears in Your bottle.”
— Psalm 56:8

In David’s day, a skin bottle was precious. It held water for the journey through desert places. David was saying something deeply human: “Lord, do not let my sorrow be wasted or forgotten. Hold it close. Remember me.”

What comfort there is in that thought.

God does not stand far away from human grief. He does not dismiss trembling hearts or weary minds. Every tear shed in silence, every sleepless night, every ache hidden behind a brave face — He sees it all. The tears of the elderly who sit alone waiting for a phone call that never comes. The wife carrying the weight of a marriage grown cold and tired. The child wounded by cruel words. The man exhausted from loving an alcoholic parent.The love of your life who ends it all. The mother frightened by the path her addicted son has taken. The soul quietly breaking under anxiety no one else notices.

The world can be harsh. People forget gratitude. Families fracture. Trust wears thin. Life throws sudden stones into already burdened hands. There are valleys where human wisdom reaches its limit and no earthly comfort seems large enough.

Yet Scripture gives this gentle assurance: not one tear is unseen.

God gathers them as something sacred.

Not because suffering itself is good, but because you are precious to Him. Tears are language when words fail. They are prayers from the depths. And the Lord listens closely to broken hearts.

Sometimes we think faith means never struggling. But David — a man after God’s own heart — wept often. Elijah collapsed beneath despair. Job sat among ashes. Even Christ Himself wept.

When Mercy Runs Out of Time

In 1973, two social psychologists, John Darley and Daniel Batson, conducted a study with a title that immediately catches the eye: From Jerusalem to Jericho: A Study of Situational and Dispositional Variables in Helping Behavior. The title borrows from Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan, and the study asks a question as old as that story: why do some people stop to help while others walk by?

Darley and Batson did not take their research to a desert road in ancient Judea. They stayed on the campus of Princeton Theological Seminary, recruiting students training to become ministers. If anyone should stop to help a stranger, surely it would be them, or so we might think.

The setup was clever in its simplicity. Each student was asked to walk to another building to give a short talk. Some were told the talk would be on job prospects for ministers, while others were assigned the parable of the Good Samaritan itself. On the way, every student passed someone slumped in a doorway, coughing and groaning, a man clearly in need of help.

The crucial variable was time pressure. Some students were told they were already late. Others were told they were exactly on time. A third group was informed they still had a few minutes to spare. That small difference changed everything.

The results were stark. Of those in a hurry, only 10 percent stopped to help. Among those who were not rushed, 63 percent did. And the topic of the talk made surprisingly little difference. Whether the students were about to speak on the Good Samaritan or on ministry careers hardly mattered at all. Some students, on their way to deliver a sermon about compassion, stepped right past the man in need.

It is easy to smile ruefully at that, until the discomfort begins to settle in. Is this not us as well? How many times have we passed someone in need, not because we are cruel, but because we are preoccupied, distracted, or hurrying toward the next demand? The world may no longer insist on ritual purity as it did for the priest and Levite in Jesus’ story, but it certainly demands efficiency. And in that demand, something essential gets squeezed out: the ability to notice, to linger, to care.

What strikes me most is how weak personal disposition proved to be in shaping behaviour. Being more “religious” or inwardly spiritual did not make much difference. Even preparing a talk on the Good Samaritan was not enough to make someone act like one. That is a sobering thought. It suggests that moral character, by itself, can be surprisingly fragile. We like to believe we are guided by convictions, yet so often our actions are shaped by pressures, by schedules, by what feels urgent in the moment.

For people of faith, this raises uncomfortable questions. If theological training, spiritual reflection, and even preaching on mercy do not automatically lead to compassionate action, then what does? Perhaps the answer lies less in abstract belief and more in the rhythms of daily life. If we never leave margin in our days, if we are always rushing from one obligation to another, then the groaning man in the doorway becomes almost impossible to see.

Reading about this experiment feels a little like looking into a mirror. In the past, I was part of a religious group where there was always pressure to do more, achieve more, and give more. I often felt like a whirling dervish, spinning endlessly without rest. I can remember moments when I walked by, not always physically, but emotionally or spiritually. Times when someone near me needed help and I had the right words, yet not the time or presence to offer them. And perhaps that is one of the quiet tragedies of our age: not that we have stopped caring, but that we rarely slow down long enough to show it.

Yet there is hope hidden in these findings as well. If environment plays such a powerful role in shaping behaviour, then perhaps we can reshape our environments too. We can slow our pace. We can create breathing room in our lives. We can choose to look up rather than endlessly ahead. Helping behaviour often begins with something very small: stopping.

The road from Jerusalem to Jericho may have been short, but it revealed something profound about the travellers who walked it. Our own modern roads, crowded schedules, relentless alerts, endless tasks demanding attention, present the same challenge. Will we notice? Will we stop?

Darley and Batson’s study is more than an academic exercise. It is a quiet parable about human nature. Belief without action becomes little more than noise. Compassion without time remains only an intention. And still there are people in doorways, coughing, waiting, hoping that someone will care enough to arrive late.