Personal Blogs

"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

Every morning, as the first light filters through the curtains, I rise with a sense of joy, even though a shadow looms over me—one cast by the sword of Damocles, ever-present after a cancer diagnosis. Yet, despite this, I experience a peace and satisfaction that comes not from circumstance, but from the deeper places of life. As I rise, I embrace the quiet moments I have with my Creator, taking time to read from the Bible, pray, and reflect in silence. This sacred time is a wellspring of joy, a touchstone of stability in the face of life's uncertainties.

In those moments, I feel connected to a purpose beyond myself—a divine assurance that whatever challenges come, I am not alone. This time alone with God is my joy, a reminder that there is meaning even in the hardest days. For me, it is an anchor that keeps me grounded, a gentle whisper that life’s purpose is not defined by the trials we face but by the grace with which we respond to them.

Following this sacred time, my second source of joy is writing. Writing is my refuge and my expression, a way to channel the thoughts that arise during my moments of reflection into something tangible. I strive to focus my writing on the gentler, more positive side of life—the beauty of kindness, the warmth of human connection, and the joy of making the world a better place. In a world that often feels marred by negativity, I find solace in telling stories that inspire hope and evoke the quiet joy of simple living.

Today, my wife and I are meeting a friend from Estonia, a kindred spirit we met in Slovenia, and this prompts me to reflect on a Slovenian word that carries profound meaning: Töörõõm. This untranslatable word is a beautiful expression of joy, one that highlights the essence of fulfillment derived from meaningful work. The literal translation of Töörõõm is “work joy,” but it encompasses so much more. It refers to the satisfaction, contentment, and peace that arises when one pours themselves into a task—whether that be a job, a project, or an endeavor—with love and care.

It’s a joy born not of the end result, but from the process itself, the journey of giving your best in the service of something that matters. In many ways, this concept resonates with my own sense of ikigai, a Japanese word that means "a reason for being." It’s the convergence of what you love, what you’re good at, what the world needs, and what you can be paid for. When all these elements align, the result is not just a career or a calling, but a life lived with purpose. This idea, akin to the Slovenian Töörõõm, captures the joy that comes from living a life of meaning, a life dedicated to what is worthwhile, and a life that can find joy in every small action, no matter the outcome.

In my own life, Töörõõm manifests in many ways—through my morning routine with God, my work as a writer, and even in the quiet moments spent with loved ones. It is the joy of knowing that what I do each day, whether it’s writing a few lines, sharing a conversation, or simply being present for someone, has meaning. It’s the contentment that comes from knowing that the work, whether big or small, is done with sincerity and purpose.

As I reflect on this joy, I find that it extends beyond work. It seeps into relationships, into small acts of kindness, and into the appreciation of nature’s beauty—whether it’s the first rays of light in the morning, the sound of birds chirping outside, or the laughter shared between friends. The joy of Töörõõm is the recognition that our work, and our lives, are connected to something greater, something that transcends the mundane and the difficult.

Today, as I meet our friend from Estonia, I am reminded of how these moments of connection are part of a larger tapestry. This joy is found not in the absence of suffering, but in the presence of purpose. As we gather, share stories, and laugh, I am reminded that the moments of joy in life—those quiet, unassuming, and sometimes fleeting moments—are the ones that carry the deepest meaning. It is through these connections and these small acts of living intentionally that we find our ikigai, our reason for being.

In a world often overshadowed by fear and uncertainty, it is in the pursuit of joy through meaningful work, through connection, and through reflection, that we find our way. And, as I reflect on the joy of Töörõõm, I realize that joy is not something we seek in grand achievements or in the absence of trials. It is found in the quiet satisfaction of living a life aligned with purpose, no matter the challenges that lie ahead.

"He who digs a pit will fall into it, 

and he who rolls a stone will have it roll back on him." 

                                                                                                    Proverbs 26:27

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Clan McRouge and Clan MacGris: A Fable

In a dense forest nestled between two hills, two fox clans lived on either side of a wide river. The Red Foxes occupied the eastern hill, while the Gray Foxes lived on the western one. Both clans were clever and resourceful, but their mutual distrust had grown over the years. Each feared the other would cross the river and claim their territory.

One day, the Red Foxes discovered how to spark fire using flint and dry grass. At first, they used it to keep warm and ward off predators, but soon their leader, Hector, had another idea.

"If the Gray Foxes ever threaten us," he announced, "we can use fired torches as weapons." He showed his clan how to make flaming bundles and hurl them across the river. "They won't dare come near us if they know what we can do."

When word of this reached the Gray Foxes, their leader, Toxo, decided they needed fire too. With much effort, they learned to ignite their own flames. Toxo declared, "If the Red Foxes think they can burn us, we’ll burn them first."

Now both clans possessed the power to destroy each other. They stockpiled dry wood and practiced throwing their fiery missiles across the river. Tension filled the air, and the once-vibrant forest became a place of unease.

One dry summer — a unique occurrence in Glen Geddon, a small ember from the Red Foxes’ practice ignited a patch of grass by the river. The flames leaped across the water to the Gray Foxes’ side, where their firewood piles caught alight. Panicking, the Gray Foxes retaliated, hurling their own flaming bundles back at the Red Foxes.

The blaze spread rapidly, consuming trees, burrows, and nests. Both clans fled to the barren outskirts of the forest, watching in horror as their homes were reduced to ashes.

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When I was a member of a religious group, I always thought I was doing Jesus a great injustice by just adding the tag “In Jesus Name” as if Jesus was not listening. The question of whether Jesus wants us to pray to Him or only to the Father or both, is one that has puzzled Christians for centuries. It touches on the nature of prayer, the relationship between Jesus and the Father, and how believers are invited to approach God. Looking at the Bible, we find some illuminating insights that can guide us. 

When Jesus taught His disciples about prayer, He pointed them to the Father. The Lord’s Prayer, for instance, begins with the words, “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name.” It’s clear that Jesus wanted His followers to direct their hearts and minds to God the Father, emphasizing a close and personal relationship. This prayer, often seen as a model for all Christian prayer, places the Father at the centre. 

But then, Jesus also says something remarkable in the Gospel of John:

“…whatever you ask in My name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If you ask Me for anything in My name, I will do it.” (John 14:13-14).

This passage suggests that Jesus Himself is involved in answering prayer. He doesn’t simply pass the request along to the Father; He takes an active role, showing His authority and unity with God. 

This dual focus—the Father as the one to whom prayers are directed and Jesus as the mediator—runs through much of the New Testament. Paul, for instance, calls Jesus the "one mediator between God and men” (1 Timothy 2:5). In other words, Jesus isn’t just a passive figure in our prayers. He is the bridge that connects us to the Father, ensuring that our prayers are heard and answered according to God’s will. 

Interestingly, there are moments in the Bible where people pray directly to Jesus. One important example is Stephen, one of the early disciples. As he was being stoned, he cried out, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit. Falling on his knees, he cried out in a loud voice, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” (Acts 7:59). In that desperate and sacred moment, Stephen turned to Jesus, acknowledging Him as the one who could receive his soul. Similarly, Paul describes pleading with the Lord—likely Jesus—about a "thorn in the flesh" that tormented him, asking for relief (2 Corinthians 12:8-9). These moments show that prayer to Jesus has a strong precedent in Christian practice. 

Of course, some Christians feel strongly that prayer should only be directed to the Father, following Jesus’ example. They argue that Jesus’ role is to intercede on our behalf, rather than to be the recipient of prayer.  

So where does that leave us? It seems that the Bible leaves room for both approaches. Jesus taught us to pray to the Father, and yet He also invited us to ask in His name, promising that He would act. Moments like Stephen’s prayer to Jesus or Paul’s pleas remind us that Jesus is not only our mediator but also the Lord who hears and responds. 

Finding the balance is up to each individual, but the ultimate motive is to bring glory to the Father and honour to Jesus whom every knee will bend to.

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 There was a man in the land of Us, 

whose name was Job. That man was blameless and upright, 

and one who feared God, and turned away from evil. 

Job 1:1 (WEB)

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You just know you are in for a good ride when you read that introduction to The Book of Job. 

I’ve often wondered how Job, a man who lived long before the written Word of God as we know it, could possess such deep knowledge of worship, morality, and faithfulness. The Bible describes him as “blameless and upright” (Job 1:1), someone who shunned evil and held fast to his integrity even in the face of unimaginable suffering. Where did this understanding come from? It’s a question that invites both speculation and reflection.

Job’s story likely takes place during the time of the patriarchs, a period when people relied on oral traditions to transmit their knowledge of God. Long before Moses brought down the tablets of the Law, the stories of creation, the flood, and God’s dealings with humanity would have been passed down from generation to generation. Perhaps Job grew up hearing these accounts around a fire, internalizing the lessons of reverence and obedience to the Creator. He might have known of Adam’s fall, Noah’s faith, or even Abraham’s extraordinary encounter with God. While there is no direct evidence that Job and Abraham ever met, I wonder if their lives might have intersected, or if news of Abraham’s covenant with God travelled far enough to reach Job’s ears.

But what strikes me most about Job is that his understanding of God seems to go beyond stories or traditions. It feels deeply personal, as though carved into his very soul. When I read Job’s speeches, his words are not mere recitations of what he’s been told—they’re profound insights born from observation, reflection, and, I suspect, a direct relationship with God. Perhaps he looked at the same stars I often gaze at on a clear night and marvelled at the power behind them. Romans 1:20 reminds us that God's invisible qualities are evident in creation, leaving no one with an excuse not to recognize His existence. Did Job see the same evidence of a Creator in the heavens, the mountains, and the life around him? I believe he did.

There’s another possibility that lingers in my mind. What if God revealed Himself to Job in ways not recorded in Scripture? The Bible hints at other individuals, like Melchizedek, who worshipped the one true God apart from Abraham’s lineage. Job might have been part of a faithful remnant who sought God with all their hearts and were guided by His Spirit. It’s humbling to think that, even without a Bible to turn to, Job knew what it meant to be faithful. His life exemplified the kind of righteousness that comes from walking closely with God.

Still, I find myself drawn to Job’s humanity. He was not a man of abstract ideals; he lived his faith in the everyday. He rose early to offer sacrifices on behalf of his children, just in case they had sinned. His awareness of sin and the need for atonement resonates with themes later formalized in the Bible. Where did he learn this? Perhaps it came from an intuitive understanding of God’s holiness, nurtured by his sincere devotion.

I also wonder if Job’s suffering sharpened his knowledge of God in ways peace and prosperity never could. In his anguish, Job wrestled with the profound questions of existence: Why do the righteous suffer? Where is God in the storm? Yet, even as he questioned, he never let go of his faith. “Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him” (Job 13:15). These are not the words of a man relying on second-hand knowledge. They come from a heart that knows and trusts its Maker, even in the darkest hour.

As I reflect on Job’s life, I am reminded of how privileged we are today. We have the Bible, centuries of theological insight, and the living example of Jesus Christ to guide us. Yet, I sometimes wonder if we, with all our resources, have the same depth of faith as Job. His unwavering devotion, born out of limited knowledge but boundless trust, challenges me. It makes me pause and ask: Do I truly live as someone who knows God, or do I merely know about Him?

Job’s story is a reminder that God has always made Himself known to those who seek Him. Whether through creation, conscience, or divine revelation, He ensures that His truth is never out of reach. Job’s faith wasn’t the product of chance; it was the fruit of a heart attuned to the Creator. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all: that even in a world without written scriptures, Job found God because he sought Him with all his heart.

I’d like to think Job’s life speaks across the ages, whispering to us in our modern complexity: Seek, trust, and hold fast, for the God who revealed Himself to Job is the same God who reveals Himself to us today.

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"Il n'est pas de coussin si doux que la conscience nette."

A French Proverb

A while back, I published a blog titled "Conscience: Why Do You Torture Me?" I woke up the next morning to find it had drawn in more visitors than any post I'd ever written. Readers from Vietnam, China, the Arab Emirates, Singapore, the United States, and countless other places had tuned in. This surge in interest led me to a sobering conclusion: people everywhere wrestle with a troubled conscience, struggling to regain the happiness they’ve lost along the way. Sometimes, the path to relief can be straightforward. Other times, it demands deep self-reflection and change.

In English, the word sorry spans a wide range of emotions, from apologizing for bumping into someone in a supermarket to making amends for more serious missteps. For trivial errors, it’s a reflex, often devoid of meaning. But for deeper wrongs, it’s not always enough. English lacks a single word that carries the weight of the Mandarin 对不—a term that not only conveys regret but also a sense of profound accountability and genuine self-examination. It’s no wonder that, as the song goes, “sorry seems to be the hardest word,” especially when we’re admitting we’ve deeply hurt someone. Pride, fear of vulnerability, arrogance, and shame often create barriers to true repentance.

Consider a powerful example: a man once revered for his humility, who rose to prominence but fell prey to his desires. One day, he saw a beautiful woman and became obsessed, even though she was married. Using his power, he arranged for her husband to be sent to the front lines of battle, ensuring his death. With the obstacle removed, he took the woman as his own, seemingly unmoved by the harm he had caused.

This man was none other than the Hebrew King David. His misdeeds were brought to light by a brave acquaintance who shared a poignant story: "Once upon a time, a poor man owned a single ewe lamb. He cherished this lamb—it slept in his arms, ate at his table, and became part of his family. But a wealthy king, with thousands of sheep, wanted to prepare a meal for a guest. Instead of using one of his own, he seized the poor man’s beloved lamb for his feast."

King David, listening intently, became outraged. The tale stirred a deep empathy in him, and he declared that the man who committed such an act deserved to die. At this moment, the acquaintance revealed, "You are that man."

The story shattered David’s self-deception. It forced him to see himself as others saw him, bringing him to his knees in a moment of crushing remorse. He wept, realizing he had wronged both God and those he was entrusted to protect. David’s epiphany echoes through the ages as a testament to the power of accountability and genuine repentance—a reminder that, sometimes, saying “sorry” isn’t just an apology; it’s a commitment to change.

For those interested, the full account is in 2 Samuel 12 in the Bible. It’s more than a tale of guilt; it’s a story of enlightenment, showing that when we truly see the harm we’ve done, it’s then that we can find the courage to make amends.

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                                            Drawing Boundaries in a World of Labba-Labba

Privacy is a cornerstone of human dignity, yet many people, while guarding their own secrets, fail to extend the same respect to others. In Jamaican Patois, labba-labba captures the concept of idle gossip, a harmful habit that often violates this dignity. For Christians, respecting privacy is integral to loving one’s neighbour, yet gossip erodes trust, exploiting personal details for entertainment or judgment rather than honouring another's boundaries.

The Bible cautions against gossip, as in Proverbs 11:13: "a gossip betrays a confidence, but a trustworthy person keeps a secret." To respect privacy means recognizing that not everything we’re curious about is ours to know. When we engage in labba-labba, we reduce others to topics, disregarding their feelings and trust. But at the same time, make us persons that are to be treated with caution since we cannot be trusted. This can lead to lives of loneliness on our part.

Christ’s example teaches us to practice humility and empathy, allowing people to open up on their terms rather than prying. Genuine interest supports others without intruding, while guarding privacy builds an environment of respect. As Christians, we can model this by choosing silence over gossip, becoming trustworthy protectors of each other's dignity. In doing so, we create a culture where respect and love are the true measures of interest. Think in teams of the positive side of the proverb where we read "a trustworthy person keeps a secret."

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"Two things fill the mind with ever-increasing wonder and awe, 

the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me"

In Immanuel Kant’s famous words above, we find a truth both stirring and profound. Kant identifies the night sky and the sense of morality as two things that reveal the vastness and the mystery of our existence. But he also implies something more: both the cosmos and the moral compass inside us speak of an origin greater than ourselves. The order in the universe and the sense of right and wrong within us do not come from us, yet they define us. For me, this is one of the reasons I believe in objective morality—a moral law that is not subject to individual preference or societal consensus but is embedded in our being, given by a moral lawgiver.

As a young boy, I often found myself awestruck by the stars. Looking up from the small garden in my Scottish neighbourhood, I wondered what it all meant, feeling an inexplicable sense of reverence for the vast stretches of stars, each seemingly unchanging yet moving in perfect order. It was my first encounter with something beyond the everyday, a humbling reminder of my smallness. I could not have articulated it then, but I sensed that the stars spoke of something powerful and intentional. Later, when I began studying the Bible, I found words for that feeling. Scripture tells us, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1). The universe, both grand and orderly, seemed to bear witness to something beyond itself—something beyond me.

At that time, I also began experiencing the pull of another kind of law, one I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to: the moral law within. No one had to tell me that some things were wrong—hurting others, taking what wasn’t mine, dishonouring my parents; they all seemed wrong before I knew why. Even without knowing God, my conscience spoke with a clarity that required no outside approval. But unlike the laws of nature, the moral law demanded something from me: it required my response. Over time, I came to understand this law not as a collection of cultural rules but as something embedded within me, pointing to a higher standard that existed beyond human opinion.

Reflecting on Kant’s words, I find that both the heavens and the moral law point us in the same direction. The stars obey physical laws, while we are subject to moral ones. Just as the planets follow their orbit in accordance with the laws of gravity, so, too, do I believe we are called to follow a moral law written into the fabric of our being. If gravity and physics testify to the order of the natural world, then the moral law testifies to the order that should govern our hearts.

For many people today, the idea of objective morality is a stumbling block. Our culture values individual freedom and autonomy, and people often believe that morality is relative or subjective. Yet even in the most liberal societies, there is still an understanding of justice, kindness, and fairness. Certain principles—like the value of human life, or the wrongness of murder and betrayal—transcend cultures and religions. To me, this universal understanding points toward an objective morality, a standard that is unchanging regardless of circumstances or opinion.

The need for objective morality became real to me in times when I saw profound injustice or felt the ache of someone else’s suffering. If morality were simply a construct, then every moral outrage would be nothing more than a personal irritation or an arbitrary preference. But my conscience tells me otherwise. When faced with injustice, I know that something greater is being violated, something more than just my own feelings. The injustice itself, the wrong, exists independently of how I feel about it. It is not a construct, but a reality that demands a response, whether we like it or not.

 For me, objective morality is not only real but necessary. Without it, there would be no ground for judgment, no reason to expect others to act justly or kindly. Without it, we could not cry out against injustice or celebrate goodness, because those ideas would lack substance. My belief in objective morality affirms that life, dignity, and integrity are not simply useful or preferred; they are good because they reflect the nature of the One who made us.

To believe in objective morality is also to believe that there is a purpose for human beings beyond survival or pleasure. Our moral sense points us toward something—or Someone—who has written His laws within us. Like the stars that proclaim His power, the moral law within us whispers of His nature: just, loving, and pure. To ignore this inner law is, in a way, to ignore our very selves.

Perhaps this is why Kant’s words resonate with me so deeply. They remind me that both the starry heavens and the moral law are not ours to control; they are there to be observed, to humble us, and to remind us of something greater. Both reveal that we are part of a created order, called to live not for our own desires but in response to the truth placed within us. And it is this truth—the objective reality of right and wrong—that I believe points us home.

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“Love is the only reality, and it is not a mere sentiment.

 It is the ultimate truth that lies at the heart of creation.” – Rabindranath Tagore

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You will find then everywhere. In your congregation, family, school and workplace. Narcissists are nothing new. They can be traced all the way back to the Garden of Eden, where the serpent tempted Eve with the promise, “You will be like God.” That same spirit of pride—the original sin—caused Satan’s fall and continues to weave its way into human hearts. When Jesus was tempted in the wilderness, the devil made his intentions clear: he wanted worship. “Away from me, Satan!” Jesus responded, refusing to engage further. He didn’t waste time in debate, knowing that doing so would only play into Satan’s hands. 

As Christians, we’re called to humility—the very opposite of narcissism. But life often places us face-to-face with people who thrive on pride, manipulation, and control. These interactions can be draining, even damaging, if we’re not careful. Recognizing the signs early can help us avoid unnecessary conflict and protect our hearts from their influence. 

Narcissists often come across as confident and charismatic at first. They might even seem like the kind of people you’d want to follow or admire. But over time, certain patterns emerge. They talk endlessly about their accomplishments and seek admiration rather than offering genuine interest in others. They twist situations to their advantage, dismiss others’ feelings, and crave constant validation. When something goes wrong, they’re quick to shift blame, never owning up to their mistakes. 

It’s easy to get caught in their orbit, especially if you don’t notice these behaviours early on. I’ve learned this the hard way. Years ago, I tried to resolve a misunderstanding with someone who, in hindsight, clearly exhibited narcissistic tendencies. No matter how calmly or reasonably I approached the situation, they turned every conversation into a battle for control. By the end of each exchange, I felt drained and unheard. I see now that engaging with them only fed their need for attention and dominance. 

Proverbs 26:4 offers a bit of timeless wisdom: “Do not answer a fool according to his folly, or you yourself will be just like him.” Arguing with a narcissist is like wrestling with quicksand. The more you struggle, the deeper you sink. They aren’t interested in understanding or resolution; they thrive on conflict and the attention it brings. 

So how do we respond as Christians? Jesus’ teaching to “love your enemies” doesn’t mean we have to let ourselves be mistreated. Boundaries are crucial. Protecting your heart is an act of stewardship, as Proverbs 4:23 reminds us: “Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” Sometimes that means limiting your exposure to people who drain your emotional and spiritual energy. 

When confrontation becomes unavoidable, it’s important to speak truth with love. But I’ve found it’s equally important to know when to stop. Endless debates with someone who won’t listen lead nowhere well. Instead, I pray for discernment, asking God to help me navigate difficult relationships with grace. 

And then there’s the hardest part: leaving justice in God’s hands. Romans 12:19 reminds us not to seek revenge but to trust God to set things right. It’s tempting to try and “fix” the situation or make the narcissist see the harm they’ve caused, but that’s not always our role. 

At the same time, these encounters can be humbling. They remind me that I’m not immune to the pull of pride. Jesus’ parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector in Luke 18 is a sobering reminder of this. The Pharisee’s boastful prayer mirrors the spirit of narcissism, while the tax collector’s humble plea— “God, have mercy on me, a sinner”—reflects the posture we should strive for.  When dealing with narcissists, it’s wise to set firm boundaries and avoid getting pulled into their games. But we should also pray for them, that their hearts might soften and turn toward God. And through it all, we can follow Christ’s example—standing firm in truth, refusing to be drawn into prideful traps, and choosing humility and love over conflict. 

"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."
– Aesop

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The dark winters in Govan, exacerbated by tenements that reached the heavens—at least, that’s how it seemed when you were only ten years old—made life thick with gloom. The lamplighters had made their visit, so we hung around the close to keep warm and dry, stretching out the night with friends.

We heard joyful singing somewhere along the dockside of Copeland Road and went to investigate. It was the local church. Lured by the promise of cakes and drinks, we wandered in. We were given a songbook or song sheets and ushered into a pew.

We were soon caught up in the joyful spirit as we sang something like, 

“G double O D, Good, G double O D, Good.

I want to be more like Jesus, G double O D, Good.”

Afterward, we received home-baked cakes, drinks, and an invitation to the meeting the following week. But we were kids and soon forgot the kindness of strangers.

It was just a moment in time, but that song and evening, like the Northern lights that emerge from time to time, dance a joyful dance in my head.

“Were not our hearts burning within us as He spoke with us on the road 

and opened the Scriptures to us?” — Luke 24: 32, BSB.

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Dilsoz: The Warmth of a Heart That Heals

Since the days of my youth, I've been drawn to language and its power to shape our experiences. Certain words resonate deeply, capturing emotions or ideals we often struggle to express. Dilsoz, a word from Tajikistan, is one of those treasures. It describes a person with a heart warming presence, someone who instinctively uplifts others and leaves them feeling understood and comforted. I’ve met only a handful of people like this in my life, and each left an indelible mark. They’ve shown me a vision of the person I wish to be—a presence that heals simply by being there.

Being Dilsoz is more than mere kindness. It’s a deep, intuitive empathy, a gift for seeing unspoken needs and responding with genuine care. True people with the quality  don’t necessarily use grand gestures; often, they comfort with a simple word, a look, or a quiet presence that offers solace. When I think of this quality, I recall friendships that have carried me through challenging times—friends who had an almost instinctual ability to comfort. They became models for how I hope to engage with others, radiating the kind of warmth that quietly heals.

I’ve tried to nurture this quality in myself, though I’ve realized that empathy isn’t a skill that can be practiced through rigid techniques. It’s an art of knowing when to step forward and when to hold back. Sometimes, it’s about simply sharing in silence or sensing when words are unnecessary. True comfort comes from an understanding beyond platitudes, from an open heart that speaks when words can’t.

The memories of those rare, compassionate people continue to shape me. They knew when to sit in silence, when to ask the right questions, and when to share words that untangled the knots within. There’s a subtle difference between showing up and showing up in a way that opens the heart and witnessing it first-hand has been a gift.

Living up to the ideal of this rich concept  isn’t about fixing others’ problems or wearing a constant smile. It’s about showing up with understanding and an unguarded heart, being willing to share a bit of someone else’s burden. The essence of Dilsoz lies in offering comfort without conditions, in carrying warmth that touches others’ lives. I’m grateful to have known it—and I hope, in some way, to share it.

"But I am alive, bearing witness to the beauty of this evening, 

to my own fragile existence within it. 

And perhaps that’s all I can do—to walk gently away from  this good night,

with reverence for the delicate weaving of days that form the fabric of a life well-lived."

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My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle. Job 7:6, BSB.

As I sit on the beach, watching the sun sink low over the horizon at Milarrochy Bay on the banks of Loch Lomond. I can’t help but feel the quiet ache that accompanies such beauty. It’s the kind of ache that speaks in whispers, a bittersweet voice that reminds me how fleeting everything is; the day, the night, life.

 The warm colours streaking the sky—burnt orange, deep lavender, soft pink—hold a kind of dignity in their transience, as if they’re saying goodbye while also offering one last gift. There’s something melancholic in the way the light fades, giving way to night, each day marking the relentless passage of time. I cant help but be reminded that it is the Creator's way of asking us to reflect on what we are doing with life.

I often think about Job’s lament, “My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle.” His words resonate more deeply as I grow older, as though he’s describing not only his own life but the quiet dread we all feel as time slips away faster than we can grasp. I imagine the weaver’s shuttle moving back and forth, each swift motion a day in my life, threading together a fabric of moments that I can only half remember. I blink, and a week is gone, blink again, and a year. The days string together so quickly that I’m left wondering if I truly inhabit each one or simply brush past it, distracted by all the demands and routines that have accumulated over the years.

This feeling—this existential ache—wasn’t always with me. In my younger days, time felt expansive, as if I could luxuriate in it, waste it even, with no fear of loss. In former days, time  stretched before me like a Highland landscape. But now, as each day is drawn through the loom, it feels as though my moments have grown shorter, tighter, more urgent. My calendar fills up; my children are adults; my parents are long gone; my friends and I find ourselves gathering less frequently, all scattered by the demands of life and the quiet surrender to routines that we didn’t choose but somehow accepted along the way.

Evenings like this, as the sun descends, confront me with the reality of my own finitude. I know, intellectually, that time’s passing is inevitable, a fact that no one can escape. Yet there’s a difference between knowing this and feeling it. When I was younger, the sun setting was just a part of the natural rhythm. Now, it’s a reminder that I’m further along the road.

What lies behind me is fixed, unchangeable, and what lies ahead feels like a dwindling reserve of days that I’m desperate not to squander.

It’s odd, though, how this awareness brings a strange, unexpected sweetness to my days. There’s a richness in seeing things as they are, in acknowledging that I won’t be here forever, —at least not for now. And perhaps, in these fleeting, golden moments, there’s an invitation—a call to slow down, to savour the colours before they’re swallowed by darkness, to live not with the naïve presumption that tomorrow is guaranteed, but with the humble gratitude that today is a gift.

In the end, maybe it’s enough to simply be present, to stand in awe of the sunset, feeling that melancholy pang as the light fades, as the shuttle slips through one more time. But I am alive, bearing witness to the beauty of this evening, to my own fragile existence within it. And perhaps that’s all I can do—to walk gently away from  this good night, not with despair, but with reverence for the delicate weaving of days that form the fabric of a life well-lived.

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"If conscience leads you to shadowed paths, take heart; prophets trod there first."

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Many people who leave a religious group due to frustration with leadership find themselves on a complex, often circular journey. The need for connection is so strong that it pushes them toward another group with the same underlying dynamics they were trying to escape. Though they initially experience relief and freedom in leaving, it’s not long before they’re drawn to a new organization, one that seems, on the surface, to promise everything the old one failed to deliver. But over time, they start noticing familiar patterns—rigid rules, expectations of conformity, or flawed leaders who still claim special authority over others and, the constant solicitation of money.

Leaving a group that once shaped your life is no small thing. It leaves a profound void, and that emptiness can be overwhelming. Yet, even as they start with hope in this new community, many realize they’re re-living an old story, hoping this time it will end differently. They desperately want to be part of a group where they can be themselves, but that desire often leads them to overlook red flags. They might find themselves rationalizing behaviours or doctrines they initially disagreed with, telling themselves that it’s different this time. Slowly, they realize they’ve ended up back where they started.

Perhaps most ironically, those who join these new groups often become obsessed with their old ones. For some, leaving doesn’t mean freedom; it only transforms the struggle. Instead of focusing on new beliefs or practices, they spend countless hours denouncing the group they left. It becomes almost a Sisyphean task—forever rolling the stone uphill as they bash their former faith over the head, recounting every flaw, every wrong, in endless detail. Rather than moving on, they become locked in a cycle of resentment and critique, investing more energy in tearing down their past than building up their present. It’s as if they can’t resist the urge to keep proving—to themselves or others—that leaving was justified, that they were right to reject what they once held dear.

The Bible speaks to this tendency. Psalm 146:3 reminds us, “Do not put your trust in princes, in human beings, who cannot save.” This wisdom holds true whether we’re following leaders within a religious group or in our personal lives. When we place too much trust in human leadership—whether that’s the leaders we left or the new ones we’re following—disappointment is almost guaranteed. We risk becoming bitter, lost in a perpetual cycle of anger and frustration. Yet, Jesus’ teachings offer a different path. Throughout his ministry, he repeatedly warned against putting spiritual dependence on flawed human authority. Instead, he emphasized a direct relationship with God, describing himself as the way to God.

In leaving one group for another, many people compromise their beliefs simply to belong. They ignore the subtle ways their conscience twinges, just to keep that sense of connection. But Christ calls his followers to a deeper kind of independence, saying, “And do not call anyone on earth ‘father,’ for you have one Father, and he is in heaven” (Matthew 23:9). True belonging isn’t about abandoning one’s convictions for the comfort of conformity; it’s about finding strength in a personal relationship with God that doesn’t depend on any human mediator.

Being around others who share similar beliefs can provide encouragement and support. But joining a group with an unquestioning mindset, expecting them to fulfil all our needs, is a recipe for repeated disappointment. When people place their trust in God above any human leadership, they are free to engage in community with balance, knowing that their faith isn’t contingent on any one group or leader.

Perhaps the path forward is this: to approach every community with an open yet discerning heart. Instead of depending on human leaders to guide every step, we can rely on our personal relationship with God without the need for a spiritual middleman.

Breaking the cycle of dependency on flawed human leadership means taking to heart the truth that true spiritual strength doesn’t come from groups or leaders. It comes from a relationship with God that allows us to connect with others without compromising our convictions. It’s this kind of connection that truly liberates, lifting us out of the endless task of justifying our past and enabling us to look forward to a faith that is free, genuine, and deeply rooted. Instead of endlessly battling the shadows of our old beliefs, we can step forward in peace, confident that God walks with us—our ultimate guide, our ever-present friend.

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Part 2

Finding God in the Quiet: Embracing Solitude

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” Psalm 23:4

Leaving a religious organization can feel like stepping into a void, a place where the familiar structures of support and community fall away, leaving us alone with our thoughts and questions. It’s a journey that often brings a mixture of relief and pain, freedom and fear. You may have hoped for warmth, compassion, and a reflection of God’s love, only to find the harsh reality of human imperfection. And now, as you look around, you might feel as though you’re on the outside looking in, wondering where to turn next. Yet in this solitude, even in the shadows, you may find something quietly transformative waiting.

The Bible gives us story after story of individuals who found themselves in the darkness, far from the comfort of home or the embrace of community. They, too, walked a lonely path, but it was there—in the quiet, empty spaces—that they came closest to God. Think of Joseph, imprisoned unjustly, or Moses, who spent decades in the wilderness after fleeing Egypt. These are men who knew isolation deeply, who wondered if anyone else understood. And yet, it was in these shadowed seasons that they encountered God in profound ways, ways that perhaps would not have been possible in the busy rhythms of community life.

C.S. Lewis, no stranger to questions of faith and doubt, once he compared it to God’s megaphone.” He believed that pain and solitude, however unwanted, often work as tools that deepen our spiritual lives. He once wrote, “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” Lewis knew that these experiences have a way of stripping us down to our essentials, making us aware of how deeply we need God—God alone, free from the trappings of institutions and expectations.

For those who have left religious communities, this solitude can feel jarring, even desolate. You may feel the loss of shared rituals, the absence of familiar faces, or the awkwardness of unlearning old beliefs to discover faith anew. Yet, like the biblical figures who found God outside the city gates, beyond the temple walls, there’s a beautiful, quiet strength in this moment of solitude. Here, where you are free from others’ interpretations, judgments, or expectations, you have the opportunity to experience God in a raw, personal way, unfiltered by anyone else’s lens.

Elijah, the prophet, also experienced something similar. After standing up against the prophets of Baal, he fled into the wilderness, alone and exhausted, ready to give up. But it was there, in the silence of the wilderness, that God didn’t come in a great wind, or earthquake, or fire—He came in a whisper. Elijah’s story shows us that God doesn’t abandon us in our wilderness. Sometimes, He’s closer than we ever realized, present in ways that only the quiet and the solitude can reveal.

There’s comfort in knowing that when we find ourselves in these shadowed places, we are in good company. For the apostles, it was often in prison cells or lonely stretches of desert that they wrote some of their most stirring words, finding strength in the assurance that even in their trials, nothing could separate them from God’s love. The Apostle Paul, isolated in prison, wrote that he had “learned the secret of being content in any and every situation.” His words are a reminder that this peace, this closeness with God, isn’t tied to our external circumstances or surroundings but to something much deeper within.

Leaving an organization doesn’t mean leaving behind the possibility of finding God; if anything, it opens up new ways of seeing and experiencing Him. In the absence of structured routines, we have the freedom to discover what a relationship with God truly looks like—perhaps in long, solitary walks in nature, or in quiet mornings with scripture, or even in simple, heartfelt prayers whispered in the quiet of night.

And yes, the dark places can be disorienting but remember Lewis’s words about darkness: “I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.” When we’ve been in the dark, the smallest light becomes all the more precious, and we begin to see God not as a distant deity, but as the One who walks beside us, even when no one else does.

So if you find yourself alone, walking away from a community that once shaped your life, take heart. You are not abandoned, and you are not truly alone. This may be your wilderness, but as the stories of scripture reveal, the wilderness is often where God does His deepest work within us.  And as you gravitate towards this solitude, you may find, as those before you have, that this is the very place where God’s voice becomes clearest, His love most evident.

It’s a hard journey, yes, but you may find that in losing the crowd, you’ve gained something even greater—a direct and personal encounter with God. And one day, when you emerge from this season, you may see that it was here, in the quiet, that you grew roots of faith stronger and deeper than you ever imagined.

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“I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense,

 reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.”  —   Galileo Galilei

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In a world brimming with religious organizations, each claiming to know the exclusive way to God despite their ever changing beliefs and failed prophecies. It’s easy to forget a simple truth that Jesus shared: "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me" (John 14:6). This statement challenges the idea that any institution can monopolize access to God. Jesus’ invitation is personal and direct, calling each of us to reflect on what he actually taught, rather than blindly following an organization’s rules.

If you’re part of a religious community, it can be helpful to step back from routines and doctrines to spend time alone with the Gospels. Ask yourself, “What does God and Jesus require of me?” Instead of assuming truth is dictated by a group, this question brings us closer to Jesus’ teachings in their purest form. It encourages us to assess if our lives align more with Christ’s message than with any institutional practices.

Religious organizations can offer community and support, but sometimes they place themselves in a role that only Jesus was meant to fill. Statements like "There is no salvation outside the church" can shift our trust from Christ to an institution. Jesus never taught that salvation came through human organizations. His call was to follow him, to love God with all our heart, and to love our neighbours as ourselves. When organizations claim exclusive access to salvation, they risk creating barriers to the relationship Jesus offers freely.

Some groups also teach that we shouldn’t question “divinely guided” leaders. Yet, Jesus himself questioned religious authorities when they neglected justice, mercy, and faithfulness (Matthew 23:23). He encourages us to seek truth, to carefully examine teachings. By spending time with his words directly, we gain the clarity to discern what’s right, even if that means questioning those in authority.

In the Gospels, Jesus connects with people uniquely, responding with empathy and guiding each person toward truth. This shows that he meets us wherever we are, whether we’re confident or uncertain. We don’t need permission from an organization to seek him directly or to ask what he really requires of us.

Taking time away from religious groups can help us reassess our spiritual priorities. Jesus’ teachings emphasize compassion, humility, and forgiveness over strict adherence to rules. Warnings about “bad associations” can sometimes make us overly judgmental, cutting off opportunities to love our neighbours as Jesus commanded. Instead, Jesus welcomed people from all walks of life, showing what it means to love unconditionally. Reading about his actions, we can refocus on what God truly asks of us: compassion, not exclusion.

Jesus’ message offers freedom from unnecessary burdens. When organizations suggest that blessings depend on complete dedication, it can imply that God’s love is conditional. Yet Jesus teaches that God’s love is a gift, not something we earn. He calls us to love God sincerely and to follow him with open hearts, offering peace and joy instead of a rigid list of achievements.

Some teachings can make us overly dependent on an organization, discouraging us from trusting our own conscience. But Jesus calls us to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength (Mark 12:30). By immersing ourselves in his words, we gain a clearer understanding of his will, one that goes beyond any organization’s guidance.

Taking a break from religious routines to focus on Jesus’ teachings can be freeing. It allows us to examine our spiritual lives honestly and to let go of fears instilled by human organizations. Reading the Gospels with fresh eyes, we hear Jesus’ words anew.

When we ask, “What does God and Jesus require of me?” we may be surprised by the simple, compassionate answer. Jesus calls us to follow him, to seek truth, and to love others—not out of obligation, but as a response to his grace. Organizations can support us, but they should never replace the personal relationship that Christ invites us to have. In seeking Jesus alone, we find the way, the truth, and the life that brings us to God.

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