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Scripture quotations [marked NIV] taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version Anglicised Copyright © 1979, 1984, 2011 Biblica. Used by permission of Hodder & Stoughton Ltd, an Hachette UK company. All rights reserved. ‘NIV’ is a registered trademark of Biblica UK trademark number 1448790.

“I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.”

 Helen Keller

Learning to Walk in Another’s Shoes

I was driving my wife to work this morning when I saw a child and her father waiting at the traffic lights. The girl stood quietly, her small hands clasped together as if in prayer. More likely, she was cold. Yet, in that simple posture, there was something sacred; a child’s instinctive response to life’s chill.

On my way home, I saw them again, walking along the pavement. The little girl’s legs worked hard against the distance, her father walking patiently beside her, adjusting his stride to hers. She could not have been more than five. The scene touched me deeply, stirring memories of a winter long ago.

I grew up in Govan, Glasgow, where the Atlantic wind from the west could cut through any coat. I remember The Big Freeze of 1962–63, when temperatures fell to -22°C in parts of Scotland and the ground stayed iron-hard for weeks whilst the Elder Park pond became a skater's paradise. My mother would rise before dawn to light the coal fire, the smell of smoke and porridge filling our small kitchen. She would pull a balaclava over my head, wrap a scarf tight around it, and send me off to school with a kiss and hug. 

Perhaps it was those winters that kindled empathy in me, for genuine empathy is not born in comfort but in shared struggle. It is, as the Bible says, the ability to “rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15). The Greek word used in the New Testament, sumpatheo, means to “suffer with.” It suggests more than pity; it is an entering into another’s experience with the heart.

In truth, empathy, or entering another's experience is also cultivated through stories. Reading has been one of the surest ways we learn walk in another’s shoes. Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry showed me what it felt like to be a young Black girl navigating prejudice in the American South. Dostoevsky’s The Idiot revealed the quiet agony of being too tender-hearted in a harsh world and I feel the aching of the writer's soul.  Dickens taught me that justice is not a cold principle but a human pulse beating beneath the grime of industrial London. And Othello exposed the pain of being victimized by envy and deceit, the terrible loneliness of being misunderstood. Dostoevsky, in The Brothers Karamazov also taught me the challenges of being a believer and facing existential paradoxes.

Each story, like a window opened on a frosted morning, lets in warmth from another life. To read is to thaw the ice around one’s own heart. Empathy, then, is not merely an emotion but a light that burns through coldness—the kind a father carries as he slows his steps for his child on a winter’s morning.

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“Now it happened that Mr. Cherry, the carpenter, found a piece of wood that laughed and cried like a child.”

Books That Teach Us Human Values

Before my father died, he left me something more enduring than possessions; an awareness that life itself rests on moral ground. He often said, “Every story has a moral heartbeat, even if it’s faint.” It was one of those sayings that lingered. Years later, I’ve come to see how right he was.

Every good story, he believed, reaches a moral reckoning: the wicked fall, the just prevail, or at least, we sense what should have happened if justice had its way. When stories fail to do that, we feel cheated, as though the universe has bent out of shape. But why? If, as Richard Dawkins insists, we are merely “dancing to our DNA” in a purposeless cosmos, why do we care about fairness at all? Yet we do — instinctively, universally.

Martin Luther King once said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” My father, though not a philosopher, lived as if that were true. He saw in every narrative, every act of conscience, the reflection of a moral order that runs deeper than human opinion.

I grew up in Govan, a shipyard town on the edge of Glasgow. A place of stories. The air was thick with shipyard noise, but also with imagination. You could hear stories being told in pubs, at bus stops, or around the kitchen table. My father loved that world of words. He’d bring home books — sometimes borrowed, sometimes rescued from the dust of second-hand shops and leave them lying about.

When I was ten, I wandered into The Modern Book Shop, a cramped little cave of used books that smelled of paper, dust, and rain. Among the shelves, I found a small volume whose cover showed a wooden puppet with wild eyes. I opened it and read the first line:

“Now it happened that Mr. Cherry, the carpenter, found a piece of wood that laughed and cried like a child.”

That was my first encounter with The Adventures of Pinocchio.

Pinocchio fascinated me. He was mischievous, stubborn, and foolish, yet achingly human. Beneath the fantasy lay a truth I somehow recognised: to become “real,” he had to learn honesty, courage, and love. These weren’t arbitrary virtues. They were the warp and weft of what it means to live meaningfully. Even as a child, I sensed that Collodi’s tale was more than a fable; it was a mirror.

As I grew older, I began to see how that story echoed our own. We are all, in one way or another, wooden creatures longing for life. We stumble through temptation, wrestle with conscience, and yearn for transformation. The journey toward becoming “real” — authentic, upright, whole — is the human story itself.

That’s why I’ve never believed morality to be a mere social invention. If it were, why would the same moral chords resonate across cultures and centuries? Why do we root for justice, even in fiction? It’s because something within us — perhaps the image of God — knows that goodness, beauty, and truth are not imagined; they are discovered.

My father never spoke of theology. He didn’t need to. He simply pointed to stories. Sydney Carton’s self-sacrifice in A Tale of Two Cities, Aslan’s resurrection in Narnia — to him, these weren’t just plots; they were echoes of a greater narrative, the one written before time began: light overcoming darkness, love outlasting death.

Now that he’s gone, I see how profoundly his quiet faith shaped mine. His books still line my shelves, their pages bearing traces of his thumbprints. When I open them, I hear his voice, steady and sure, reminding me that life has meaning, and that our choices matter.

Like Pinocchio, I am still learning to become “real” — still stumbling, still finding my way toward courage and integrity. But the moral compass he gave me keeps its bearing.

In the end, the stories we cherish are never just about heroes and villains. They’re about us — about the moral universe we inhabit and the justice we intuit. My father believed that light, no matter how faint, will always find a way to shine. And I believe him still.

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The Moral Architecture of Happiness

Many years ago, I picked up a dusty old book and beneath the subject of Justice, found a passage that stopped me in my tracks. It was written by the 18th-century English jurist William Blackstone, whose words still gleam like gold in the dust of forgotten shelves:

“[God] has so inseparably interwoven the laws of eternal justice with the happiness of each individual that the latter cannot be attained but by observing the former; and, if the former be punctually obeyed, it cannot but induce the latter.”

Blackstone is saying that divine justice and human happiness are not merely connected, they are woven together by the very hand of God, like warp and weft in the fabric of creation. Pull at one thread, and the whole garment trembles.

This reflects his conviction in what he called Natural Law — the belief that God’s moral laws are stitched into the structure of the universe and written on the human heart. The Apostle Paul said as much when he wrote, “The work of the law is written in their hearts, their conscience also bearing witness” (Romans 2:15). To live justly, then, is to live in tune with the music of the Maker and to move in rhythm with the moral gravity that holds all things together.

True happiness, Blackstone argues, cannot exist apart from righteousness. The psalmist knew this: “Blessed is the one who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked… but whose delight is in the law of the Lord” (Psalm 1:1–2). Happiness here is not a fleeting pleasure or a passing thrill. It is a deep stillness of the soul.

When one violates justice, through deceit, cruelty, or selfishness, one violates one’s own design. The conscience, like a compass knocked off its axis, spins without direction. We lose our bearings in the moral fog. But when one walks uprightly — with integrity, compassion, and justice — happiness follows not as a reward, but as a result, as naturally as morning follows night.

In that sense, God’s universe is morally self-regulating. Justice brings joy; injustice brings misery. The sinner’s misery is not arbitrary punishment; it is dissonance. The righteous man’s peace is not indulgence; it is harmony.

Blackstone’s insight could be paraphrased like this:
God has made the moral order and human happiness one and the same thing. You cannot break one without breaking the other.

This is a profoundly theological view of law. If civil justice loses its anchor in divine law, society begins to fray. C. S.. I truely believe Europe has experienced this loss. C.S. Lewis warned of this unravelling when he wrote in The Abolition of Man that modern society “has discarded in practice what he retains in theory.” In denying objective morality, we saw away the very branch upon which we sit.

Does it surprise us, then, that the key to happiness is bound to God’s law? Would you rather live in a community shaped by the Ten Commandments, or in a world where everyone “does what is right in his own eyes”? (Judges 21:25). To choose the former is to accept that we are bound, not by chains, but by chords of love. As Jesus said, “If you love me, keep my commandments” (John 14:15).

Many have chosen the latter and as a result, have stood back and watched society broken to the core and have sought refuge and happiness in the teachings of Christ and sparking a religious revival.

That is why Christians preach: to call home the wanderers, those who, like the prodigal, have squandered their inheritance of peace for the illusion of freedom. Repentance is the return to harmony, the realignment of one’s life with the moral order of God’s kingdom.

Happiness is not a by-product of obedience; it is interwoven with it. As Blackstone saw, and as Scripture affirms, “Great peace has those who love Your law, and nothing can make them stumble” (Psalm 119:165).

To obey God is not to bow under a burden, but to stand upright in joy. The law of eternal justice and the happiness of the soul — they are threads of the same divine tapestry, shimmering in the light of the One who wove them.

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“I have made this letter longer than usual because
I have not had time to make it shorter.”
— Blaise Pascal

 Why Are You a Christian?

Someone asked me last night if I could explain why I am a Christian in 100 words.
For you students on Creative Writing modules, you’ll know how challenging concise writing can be — but here goes:

As a boy on the island of Bute, far from Glasgow’s dark slums, I would sit in my secret place — my smultronställe, as the Swedes would say — and gaze at the night sky, wondering who made the moon and stars. In time, I learned it was the Lord: The Maker of galaxies and of man, crafted in His own image.

Then came Jesus, walking among us, showing what it truly means to be human — to mirror the Father’s light, to forgive, to serve, to love one’s neighbour even unto death.
In Him, I found grace, purpose, and peace. I found my way

When I behold Your heavens,
the work of Your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which You have set in place —
what is man that You are mindful of him,
or the son of man that You care for him?

Psalm 8:3–4 (BSB)

Note

The Swedish phrase “smultronställe” literally means “wild strawberry place,” but it carries a much deeper, emotional meaning in Swedish culture. A smultronställe is a personal, often hidden spot that holds special significance, peace, or nostalgia. It might be a place from childhood, a quiet lakeside, or simply somewhere that makes you feel wholly yourself.

God and the Two Cosmic Dancers

I first learned about quantum entanglement while speaking with a physicist on the island of Kerrera, on Scotland’s Inner Hebrides. It was one of those quiet afternoons when the sea and sky seemed to merge into one, and our conversation turned to the unseen forces that bind the universe together.

Imagine two dancers—one from Glasgow, the other from Beijing. They bump into each other one busy afternoon on Buchanan Street. That’s all. They’ve never met before and will never meet again. Yet somehow, when one lifts her arm, the other does too—at the same instant. No delay. No signal sent through the air. Just an invisible knowing.

That, in an illustrative way, is what what happens when two particles—say, protons—become entangled.

It begins when they’re born together in the same quantum “dance,” perhaps in a high-energy collision in a laboratory, or deep within a star, far from any human eye. In that moment, their properties—spin, charge, magnetic orientation—become linked in a mysterious partnership. Once entangled, their fates are no longer independent; they share a single story.

Even if one proton ends up in a lab in Glasgow and the other in Beijing—or separated by light-years—the bond remains it is theorised. Measure one, and the other responds instantly. Einstein disliked this idea. He called it “spooky action at a distance.” Yet experiment after experiment has confirmed it.

What fascinates me most is what this says about reality itself. Entanglement suggests that the universe isn’t made of isolated pieces, but of relationships. Particles that once touched never entirely let go. Space isn’t an empty void, but a living fabric of invisible connections—threads of meaning woven through creation.

Some physicists even suggest that these invisible ties are what hold the universe together—that space, time, and reality itself might arise from this web of entanglement. But I see something deeper. As the writer of Hebrews reminds us: “By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.” — Hebrews 11:3 (NIV).

So, when I hear about entangled protons, I hear more than a scientific marvel. I hear a whisper from the deep structure of existence—a reminder that everything which has ever met is still somehow connected. And as we look into that mystery, we find ourselves echoing David’s ancient question beneath the same starlit sky: “What is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them?” — Psalm 8:4 (NIV).

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“I was seven Last Night”

I was seven years old last night. I wanted to be a vet. I didn’t want to be a soldier or a president — just someone who could touch the quiet and visit the animals in the forests near my home. 
Mama said I should sleep, but the stars were still awake, scattered like precious gems on the dark sky above my town. I pressed my face to the cold windowpane, trying to count them, but they kept trembling, as if frightened too be counted.

Papa had promised me we’d go to the park again when the weather turned warm and this is all over. I’d ride my old chopper that belonged to dad when he was seven; the one with the bent handles like a Harley. Dad would chase me till we both fell laughing into the grass before all this happened. I liked the way the world smelled after rain. It always felt like God had washed it clean, ready for another try.

When the sirens started, I thought they were part of a dream.
Mama’s arms wrapped around me, I could hear her heart beating fast; dum-dum! dum-dum!
The world outside howled; a wind, a growl, a noise from the deep.
I wanted to ask, why do they hate us? But the words got lost in the thunder.

There was light then. A light too bright for night. The kind that doesn’t belong to our world.
And then, quiet again. Not the kind that means safety, but the kind that holds everything, every prayer, every tear, every unspoken why.

I’m not cold now. I’m not afraid.
The stars are closer than ever, and I wonder if they know my name.
Mama is sleeping somewhere below, her heart aching in that endless human way. Tell her I’m sleeping now, to keep my chopper until I wake. Tell her when we meet again; we will laugh with a gentle heartbeat.

The town is erased from my memory now with the guns, bombs, planes, drones and tanks.

But stories don’t die that easily. They echo, even in ruins.
I was going to grow tall, learn English, study biology. I had a notebook with drawings of foxes, mushrooms, birds, moons, comets trailing their long silver hair. Maybe someone will find it in the rubble. Perhaps they’ll know I was there.

And I ask the same question every soul asks when the world forgets itself: What is the meaning of all this?
Men build guns and drones and tanks and planes, but none of it follows them here. No one has power here. Only the things we gave without return. The love the affection the kindness.
People are clutching photographs. They are still looking for purpose in the ruins. Mama and Papa hold my photo, my first day at school, they are kneeling beside the broken room where I will always be seven.

I was seven years old last night.
Now I am part of something older than time —
the silence between stars,
the heartbeat of the world when no one is listening,
the small, unending hope that someone will finally learn
what it means to be human.

“If someone dies, will they live again?
All the days of my hard service
I will wait for my renewal to come.”
— Job 14:14 (NIV)

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“Dances with Wolves – Dancing in My Head”

When I listen to John Barry’s theme from Dances with Wolves, something stirs deep inside me; it's what the Swedes call längtan or a  “longing,” but that translation feels too shallow. The word means a profound yearning for something distant, lost, or not yet known. It is not quite sorrow, not quite hope, but a tender ache that points beyond itself.

The music carries me into wide, open spaces, endless sky, wind over grass, a horizon without end. Then, suddenly, I reach a wall, an invisible edge beyond which I cannot go. The music continues, but I stop, left with that ache suspended between presence and absence. Am I sharing a piece of Barry’s mind as he composed the piece? Who knows.

I have known this feeling since boyhood when I see endless stars, a sundown or extracts from the classics and even in Runrig, Na h-Oganaich , Pink Floyd and Horslips music.

Perhaps längtan is the soul’s memory of wholeness, its reaching for the eternity God has placed in our hearts (Ecclesiastes 3:11)

I no longer see this longing as a wound but as a gift. It keeps me searching beyond the visible and reminds me that I am meant for something more. Even the ache itself is beautiful, because it whispers of a love, a home, and a life still waiting beyond the horizon.

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The Test of Hiddenness

“It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings” Proverbs 25:2 tells us. The world is arranged in such a way that we are never given certainty, only possibility. God is present enough to be found but hidden enough to be ignored.

As Blaise Pascal noted, there is light enough for those who wish to see and darkness enough for those who prefer to turn away. This is no accident; it is the wisdom of a God who does not coerce belief but invites it. We live our lives as if unobserved, like children playing in the street, unaware that eyes are upon them. It is in this unguarded state that our real selves are revealed, not the selves we perform under scrutiny, but what we are when we believe no one is watching.

 In that space, our choices speak for us. Do we search for what is hidden, or do we walk past it, uninterested? God’s concealment, then, is not a withdrawal but a test of love and longing. It is a way of discovering who we truly are, not by what we know, but by what we seek.

“God intended that they would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us.”  Acts 17:27 (BSB).

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Lovers of Self

"And know this: in the last days, times will be hard.  You see, the world will be filled with narcissistic, money-grubbing, pretentious, arrogant, and abusive people. "

2 Timothy 3: 1,2.

The Voice Bible

We’ve all heard the story; it captures something about the negative part of human nature. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Narcissus kneels by a still pool and becomes entranced by his reflection. The youth who once spurned all others now burns with love; not for another human being, but for the image shimmering back at him. He cannot eat, cannot sleep, cannot leave. His passion becomes his prison, and he withers beside the water’s edge. It is a story two thousand years old, yet it feels written for our century. We are surrounded by people gazing into their own reflections, not in forest pools, but in screens and curated feeds. And like Narcissus, mistaking the image for the self.

In recent conversations, I have heard concern from parents about the world their children are growing up in, a world where the commandment “love your neighbour as yourself” has been reimagined into “love yourself above all.” It is not only the young who are caught in this tide; people of all ages are being shaped by a culture that prizes the performance of the self over the substance of the soul. The question is no longer “Who am I becoming?” but “How am I appearing?” And the difference between those two questions is the difference between becoming a person and becoming a brand.

This is what I meant by a “brittle love of the image rather than the person.” When love is directed at the image, the version of us that is polished, public, and approved, it becomes fragile, easily shattered by criticism, age, or failure. It depends on applause. It isolates us from others and from our own depths. But when love embraces the person, despite being flawed, fearful, and unfinished, it roots itself. It allows grace, growth, and genuine connection.

The Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky understood the consequences of self-love untethered from moral reality. In Notes from Underground, his nameless narrator exposes the rot beneath rational egoism; the belief that humans will act in their self-interest and that this is enough to build a just society. Left unchecked, self-interest turns inward and festers. The Underground Man becomes spiteful, paralysed, and deeply alone, sneering at the very freedom he cannot bear to use. His tragedy is not merely that he loves himself too much, but that he loves himself wrongly. Cut off from others, from goodness, from any truth larger than his own wounded pride, people eventually see through him.

Jean-Paul Sartre took the analysis further. He called it bad faith: the self-deception of playing a role to escape the weight of freedom and responsibility. We construct identities, the dutiful employee, the clever contrarian who fabricates stories to gain attention, the glamorous influencer, and then hide inside them. We mistake the mask for the face.

In our time, the phenomenon is everywhere. Online, especially, performativity reigns. The curated persona stands in for a soul. We “build” ourselves in pixels, carefully selecting what the world sees, while the deeper self, the one capable of repentance, compassion, and transformation, remains unexamined and often unknown.

This turn inward is not limited to the narcissistic individual. It is cultural and systemic. Modern societies have elevated the individual to the status of ultimate authority. Authenticity is prized above all, yet too often it is confused with mere self-expression. Without a higher standard, truth, goodness, God, authenticity becomes another word for self-assertion. And when the self is treated as the final reference point, love loses its proper order. It turns inward and devours itself.

The Christian tradition has long warned against this inversion. Paul’s description of the “last days” speaks of people being “lovers of self” (2 Timothy 3:2), a phrase that names not healthy self-respect but disordered love. Love, to be whole, must be rightly ordered: God first, neighbour second, self-third. When that order is reversed, when self-rises above God and neighbour, the results are isolation, fragility, and spiritual emptiness — all the things we see multiplying in our anxious, image-saturated age.

There is a way back. Psychology hints at it in the concept of self-compassion — a humble, honest care for oneself that acknowledges weakness and seeks growth. Faith names it more fully: loving ourselves not as idols but as creatures made in God’s image, fallen yet redeemable. Such love is neither brittle nor boastful. It does not depend on applause. It does not shrink from truth. It anchors us in reality and frees us to turn outward — toward God, toward others, toward a life larger than ourselves.

The mirror still beckons. The temptation to fall in love with our reflection remains. But beyond the pool’s surface lies a deeper calling: to love not the image, but the person; not the mask, but the soul; not the fleeting projection, but the enduring child of God. Only then does self-love cease to be a prison and become instead the beginning of wisdom.

*****

The Voice Bible Copyright © 2012 Thomas Nelson, Inc. The Voice™ translation © 2012 Ecclesia Bible Society All rights reserved.

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The Classical Pulse From the Billy Joel Songbook

My wife and I are walking down Buchanan Street, heading for the train home. We have just been to Elio Pace: The Billy Joel Songbook concert at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. It was an electric show, with adrenaline running on steroids from the start with quiet moments and fascinating story telling. The music was enhanced by the full house of the appreciative audience from seven years old and upwards.

     My wife asked, “What was your favourite part?”

     “That section where he stripped down some Billy Joel songs and showed the link to classical music — I could have listened to that all night.”

So, Elio, if you’re reading this, how about a show where you take modern songs and reveal their classical roots? Just you and the piano. I’ve put it on my imaginary bucket list now.

My cancer affects my memory, so I cannot recall the exact songs now, but what Elio Pace does on his tours is more than entertain; he opens doors. Behind the crowd-pleasing hits and singalong choruses, he invites us to listen deeper — to hear the centuries-old architecture beneath the surface of songs we thought we knew.

Uptown Girl, not just a bouncy, finger-snapping pop song; but slowed down and reimagined, it reveals the poise and balance of a Mozart minuet. Billy Joel himself once said, “Uptown Girl could’ve been a Mozart piece,” and in Pace’s hands, the claim felt less like a boast and more like a quiet truth.

Then there is This Night. I’ve listened to that song many times over the years, but I had never realised its chorus was lifted almost note for note from the second movement of Beethoven’s Pathétique Sonata. It’s not just an homage; it’s a dialogue across centuries. Joel didn’t merely borrow from Beethoven; he wove that melancholy lyricism into a new story, blending the emotional world of 18th-century Vienna with the language of the modern songbook.

Even songs without explicit classical quotations revealed their lineage once Elio placed them in context. Scenes from an Italian Restaurant, with its shifting movements and recurring motifs, plays like a miniature symphony, unfolding in acts rather than verses. And So It Goes, stripped of ornament, carries the stillness and purity of a Schubert lied. One by one, Pace peeled back the layers, showing how the tools of melody, harmony, and structure, tools that shaped the works of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, still shape the music of our time.

ELIO PACE - Scenes From An Italian Restaurant - 'The Billy Joel Songbook® Live' (Official Video)

I left the concert thinking about continuity, how art transcends its moment, how a melodic shape born two centuries ago can slip quietly into a modern song and feel as alive as ever. Beneath all our reinventions, there is a shared grammar of beauty, a yearning for order and meaning that hasn’t changed. Joel knew that. Pace revealed it. And in that revelation, he reminded us of that popular music and classical music are not worlds apart but chapters of the same story.

As we turned the corner onto Gordon Street, the city lights reflected in the pavement reminding me it was late. And in my quiet thoughts,  I felt grateful for what I had just heard, not just the songs themselves but the invisible thread that connects them to something larger, older, and enduring. Maybe that’s why I hope Elio Pace takes up my imaginary request one day. Because hearing that connection spoken aloud, in music older than memory and newer than today, is a reminder that beauty never really disappears. It simply changes its clothes and carries on singing.

In our evening prayer, my wife and I thanked our creator for the gift of music.

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Kindness Revealed by Cancer

One of the quiet revelations of a terminal cancer diagnosis is how it rearranges the way people see you , and how they behave. Those once distant or distracted often disclose a hidden gentleness, as if some curtain has been pulled back and a softer light now fills the room.

Hormone therapy, designed to build a barricade around the disease, carries its own peculiar burdens: flashes of irritation, forgetfulness that blurs the edges of thought, intrusive reflections that won’t be stilled, and a bone-deep laziness born of a body waging war with itself. A strange “why bother?” attitude can settle in, uninvited.

And yet, even as the body falters, the world around begins to hum to a different rhythm. Doctor’s surgeries, hospital corridors, consulting rooms, even casual encounters on the street, seem to shift into a gentler register, as if an unseen conductor had raised his baton and signalled a new movement. Life, unchanged in its structure, suddenly breathes with grace.

Strangers offer more of themselves than expected. Acquaintances once on the periphery step forward with unwavering loyalty. Professionals who might once have hurried through their routines pause, listen, and offer more than mere duty. The world, in all its ordinariness, takes on a tender hue.

Of course, not everyone changes. Some glide through life as if behind glass, fixed on their own path, unmoved by the suffering of others. But perhaps they serve a purpose too, their indifference sets the stage on which kindness shines more brightly. The fabric of the world is no different; it is our awareness that deepens, revealing compassion woven invisibly into its threads.

A terminal diagnosis, then, is not only a herald of fear or sadness. It is also a vantage point granted to few — a place from which we see life as it truly is: selfish and luminous, flawed and astonishingly kind, brutal and breathtakingly beautiful.

“What a person desires is unfailing love.” — Proverbs 19:22 (NIV)

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Is There an Evil Presence in Your Life?

There are seasons in life when we sense, like a chilly wind slipping under the door, that an evil presence is near. It may not come with horns or pitchforks, but it wears a human face, sometimes one that was once familiar. It might be someone we grew up with, someone we loved, or someone who once stood close beside us. Yet beneath their charm lies something darker: a manipulative nature, an unforgiving heart, a taste for vengeance, and a chilling absence of empathy. They lie without shame, slander without hesitation, and delight in seeing wounds that never heal. Jorden Peterson mentioned that "You invite spirits to posses you when you dwell on your rage." Wether literaly or metaphoricaly, the end result is the same, an evil chill is there.

We try to distance ourselves, to build boundaries and reclaim peace, but their presence lingers like smoke in the air. Even after we shut the door, they plot behind it. Even when we walk away, their shadow seems to follow. And the question arises from somewhere deep inside: What can we do?

Psychologists tell us about that people with sociopathic traits are often masters of deception. They wear masks so convincingly that others see them as charming, trustworthy, even admirable. That thought is sobering. Evil does not always shout. It often whispers. And it rarely announces itself as evil.

The Bible is unflinchingly honest about such realities. It tells us that “Satan masquerades as an angel of light” (2 Corinthians 11:14) and warns us to be “sober-minded and watchful” because “your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8). Evil’s most effective disguise is often righteousness itself. Like Judas among the disciples, those intent on harm can walk beside goodness and still betray it.

Throughout Scripture, faithful servants of God faced malicious people who schemed against them. David, hounded by Saul’s jealousy and betrayal, poured out his anguish in the Psalms:

“Deliver me from my enemies, O my God; protect me from those who revolt against me. Deliver me from those who work evil and save me from bloodthirsty men.”
— Psalm 59:1–2

David did more than cry out — he entrusted his situation to God. That is the turning point in all such battles. Evil wants us consumed with fear and bitterness, but faith calls us higher. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” he writes elsewhere. “The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” (Psalm 27:1).

The psychologist Carl Jung observed that “one does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.” To deal with evil, we must first recognise it for what it is. Denial is dangerous. Naming it, calling manipulation, vengeance is the first act of reclaiming power.

But recognition is not enough. The second act is release. We do not have to carry their darkness inside us. We do not have to let their malice define the boundaries of our lives. That is why forgiveness, though difficult, is not weakness but liberation.

Forgiveness does not mean reconciliation with someone who continues to harm. It does not mean pretending their evil does not exist. It means handing over the burden of vengeance to God — “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord” (Romans 12:19) — and choosing not to let their hatred colonise our hearts.

There is, too, the quiet wisdom of common sense. Evil thrives in secrecy and silence. When we speak honestly to trusted people, seek counsel, and do not isolate ourselves, its power diminishes. Setting firm boundaries, seeking professional help if needed, and building a circle of genuine, loving people are not acts of fear but of faith.

We turn our gaze toward the One whose presence is stronger than any evil presence we may face. “The light shines in the darkness,” John writes, “and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). Even in the shadow of betrayal or slander, there is a greater light — and in that light, no darkness can remain for long. The darkness may prowl and whisper, but it will not prevail. Not when you stand in the light.