Personal Blogs

 "It is the Holy Spirit's job to convict, God's job to judge, and my job to love."

Billy Graham

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I'm in the middle of something; a kind thought you might say. I'm thinking of those religious meetings from the past where the discourse often focused on Armageddon, the imminent "last days," the last seconds of the last seconds, and the terrors of hellfire. All aimed at jolting the congregation into wakefulness. Yet, one must ask: why evangelize through fear? This was never the way of Jesus. He reserved his stern warnings for the Pharisees and religious leaders, those who wielded considerable influence and bore great responsibility.

Isaiah 41 speaks of the future messiah, painting a picture of gentleness: "A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out." This imagery is a crucial reminder for all who teach. Many who enter places of worship are like these bruised reeds—seeking solace, encouragement, and a gentle hand to guide and uplift them.

A wise teacher, whose lectures I cherished in my youth, once shared with me, “If you focus on building up and encouraging the congregation, everything else will fall into place.” His words ring ever true.

"A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out"  Isaiah 42:3.

"Why is there a deep hope within us that life does not end when we close our eyes to this life? 

Why are there concepts of Paradise, Heaven, a New World, Valhalla, Fiddler's Green, 

The Elysian Fields, Tian, Jannah, and many more? "

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 "Last Saturday, I visited the British Museum, and as I wandered among the artifacts, it was evident that the items found in graves, tombs, and burial chambers belonged to past humans who believed in an afterlife. In some instances, pharaohs and similar figures were buried with their servants, presumably so they wouldn't enter the netherworld without the convenience of having everything done for them.

However, a particular burial that caught my attention this week was a discovery in the Czech Republic due to its unusual contents. This Bronze Age burial, found accidentally near the town of Břeclav in South Moravia in 2021, included a unique artifact—a puppet-like figure with a ceramic head. Dating back approximately 4,500 years, the burial featured this puppet, which had a head mounted on what seemed to be a wooden body, though the wood has not survived the ages. The head was distinctively decorated with incised geometric patterns, suggesting it might have held cultural or possibly spiritual significance.

Yet, I can't help but wonder—archaeologists sometimes make mistakes as their conclusions often involve a degree of guesswork. Even if it's educated guesswork, considerable disagreement among scholars persists. My theory? Perhaps this puppet was how the individual earned a living and entertained. After all, who doesn’t enjoy a good puppet show? And what better way to tell future generations who he was?

But these burial practices raise some weighty thoughts regarding the human psyche; why is there a deep hope within us that life does not end when we close our eyes to this life? Why are there concepts of Paradise, Heaven, a New World, Valhalla, Fiddler's Green, The Elysian Fields, Tian, Jannah, and many more? Wherever you look in the world of cultures, there is a name for the afterlife.

The truth is, in God’s original purpose, mankind was given everlasting life. That was, until sin entered the mix and brought death through sin. Jesus came to release mankind who accept and believe in him to have the opportunity of life everlasting. That’s why he spoke to the repentant criminal on the cross and promised, “You will be with me in paradise.”

But returning to the burial practices, this discovery made me reflect on what I would want to be buried with. What could future generations learn about me from such items? Perhaps my writer’s notebook would be a fitting choice.

Now, what about you? What would you leave behind for future generations that would hint at your identity?"

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes,

and there will be no more death

or mourning or crying or pain,

for the former things have passed away.”

Revelation 21:4 (BSB).

"We laugh, we cry, we care about characters on screen, not because we forget they aren't real, 

          but because they evoke real emotions in us." — Anonymous.

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Whilst Sir Walter Scott took a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon, Li, a Business Studies student at Glasgow University, was on a road trip with friends to see the Glenfinnan Viaduct. That same year, Kioko, a middle-aged widow, boarded a flight from Tokyo to Canada. Years earlier, her mother had flown from Tokyo to Edinburgh.

Aside from the obvious differences, they all had something in common: they were on similar missions. Each was indulging in what psychologists call parasocial relationships—or unilateral relationships. Sir Walter Scott set off to visit the home of his literary hero, Shakespeare. Li and her friends were headed to the spot where the Hogwarts Express crossed the viaduct. Kioko was travelling to visit the home of Anne of Green Gables, and her mother had once journeyed to the city where the Bay City Rollers had grown up.

I am no exception. One late spring in 2017, my wife and I took a trip to Britain’s Lake District. While there, we decided to visit Grasmere, the village where Wordsworth had lived, and the subject of much of his poetry.

When we arrived, Grasmere was ghostly—eerily still despite the bright summer morning. We strolled through the small village and eventually arrived at Wordsworth’s cottage. Suddenly, a group of forty or fifty Indian visitors appeared—professors, literature teachers, poets, and literary enthusiasts. Having studied English literature myself, I was intrigued to know why they had travelled from Delhi, Kerala, Gujarat, and Hyderabad to make this pilgrimage to the home of their beloved poet.

Their schedule was tight, but I managed to speak with one man from Delhi—a poet. I asked him a question that has often occupied my thoughts: Why do we make such journeys to visit the places that inspired our favourite writers, poets, and fictional characters?

I deliberately used the collective “we,” as I, too, am caught in this curious psychological phenomenon. Yet, in our brief conversation, we merely danced around the question. I walked away with a lingering sense that the answer remained incomplete—unexplored.

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This past weekend, I found myself weaving through the vibrant tapestry of London’s bustling streets. Some carry with them a preconceived notion, whispered and widely accepted: that Londoners are a reserved bunch, particularly on the labyrinthine threads of public transport. Yet, my experience painted a different picture—a canvas filled with unexpected strokes of friendliness and openness.

It’s curious how a simple “hello” can thaw the frostiest of demeanours. Indeed, some individuals were tough shells to crack, a phenomenon not unique to this city but common wherever humans gather. The initial hesitation seemed rooted in issues of trust and security, but genuine interest and respect quickly bridged that gap, leading to warm exchanges and smiles that softened the sternest of faces.

I had been reading a companion of sorts—Edward Hirsch’s How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry. This isn’t your average introduction to verse. Hirsch dives deep, guiding the reader through the layers and rhythms of poetry.

One segment that particularly resonated with me was his exploration of Walt Whitman’s “To You.” In it, Whitman extends an invitation to the reader, a call to engage in the simplest yet most profound act of connection: conversation.

       “Stranger, if you are passing, meet me and desire to speak to me,
       Why should you not speak to me?
       And why should I not speak to you?”

Reflecting on these experiences, I am reminded of the essential truth that we often meet each other at our best when we are open to the world and to new interactions. As travellers and as humans, when we are removed from the everyday stresses and immersed in the joy of discovery, we find it easier to revel in the beauty each person has to offer.

Through the simple yet profound act of speaking to a stranger, I rediscovered the enduring power of human connection—a theme as timeless as any poem and as beautiful as any landscape. Whether in the heart of a bustling city or the tranquillity of the Highlands, it seems we are all just waiting for someone to extend a hand, open a dialogue, and connect. In doing so, we weave ourselves into a larger human story, one conversation at a time.

Interestingly, one of the most fascinating conversations took place 2000 years ago and someone recorded it:

Luke 24:13-35 NIV - On the Road to Emmaus - Now that same - Bible Gateway

Yet they say to God, ‘Leave us alone!

We have no desire to know your ways.'"

                                                           — Job 21:14

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This verse from Job offers a timeless reflection on the human tendency to turn away from the Creator. It speaks to an age-old struggle: the desire for independence, to walk our own path without guidance. And yet, this ancient mindset feels familiar in our modern world.

Friedrich Nietzsche tells the story of a madman who declares, “God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.” His words were not a triumphal cry, but a sorrowful warning. Nietzsche recognized that if we removed God from the heart of society, we would lose the moral foundation that provides meaning and stability. He foresaw a world where, without a shared sense of right and wrong, people might feel unmoored, uncertain of what truly matters.

Today, we live in a time when truth often feels subjective—shaped by personal views or cultural trends. While this flexibility promises freedom, it often leaves confusion in its wake. Without common ground, society wrestles with questions of fairness, justice, and integrity.

Yet, despite the desire for independence, the human heart still instinctively recognizes the need for justice. When someone is wronged—cheated, oppressed, or treated unfairly—they cry out for fairness. This reaction hints at something universal, something beyond cultural differences: a built-in awareness of moral order. As C.S. Lewis once said, we know a line is crooked only because we have an idea of what a straight line looks like. This deep sense of right and wrong reflects the moral imprint of a Creator who cares about justice and compassion.

Throughout history, humanity has struggled with the idea of surrendering to God's wisdom. The earliest biblical accounts describe this longing for autonomy—a desire to define good and evil on our own terms. People often seek fulfillment in success, pleasure, or material comforts. Yet, time and again, these pursuits leave the soul restless. The ache for something deeper remains.

Sometimes, this longing goes unnoticed until life’s challenges leave us feeling empty. Like the prodigal son, we may wander far in search of satisfaction, only to discover that what we truly need has been there all along. God does not intrude or force His presence upon us; He waits patiently, extending grace and a gentle invitation to come home.

When we look at the world around us, the consequences of living without that connection become clear. Injustice, division, and confusion often take root where compassion and truth wane. And yet, even in these difficult times, hope persists. God's love remains unwavering. Through the prophet Isaiah, He extends a tender offer: “Come now, let us reason together… Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” His call is not one of judgment, but of restoration.

As believers, we have the privilege of reflecting that love in how we live. Rather than pointing fingers or raising voices in frustration, we can quietly model lives of kindness, integrity, and peace. When our actions mirror God's grace, we become a living invitation for others to rediscover the hope that faith provides.

The question isn’t whether we can survive without God. History shows that societies can persist without shared moral anchors—but often at a cost. The deeper question is whether we can truly flourish without Him. The universal cries for justice, meaning, and love suggest we cannot.

And so, the invitation remains: to listen beyond the noise, to hear the gentle call of the One who has never left us. Even when the world says, “Leave us alone,” God’s patient, loving voice continues to whisper, “Come home.”

"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself."

The Brothers Karamazov

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I asked my doctor as I was leaving his surgery “What’s your favourite book of all time? "               

"Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” he answered.

One of mine, I write one of mine because choosing your best book of all time is like choosing your favourite child. It cannot be done.  

Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov is right up there. It is not merely a book—it is a profound exploration of humanity that delves into the depths of the soul with unflinching honesty and philosophical prowess. This masterpiece is a must-read for anyone looking to understand the complexities of human nature, morality, and faith. Here’s why this novel remains an essential classic and a compelling piece of literature that speaks across generations.

At the heart of the narrative is Alyosha Karamazov, a character whose life is a testament to the transformative power of faith. Alyosha’s commitment to Christian principles of love, humility, and selflessness drives him to help others around him, making him a beacon of hope and moral guidance in a tumultuous world. His interactions, especially with the children of the town and his own family, showcase how deep faith can lead to tangible acts of kindness. Alyosha’s character is beautifully drawn, serving as a moral compass not only to his family but also to us as readers, urging us towards introspection and betterment.

Contrasting sharply with Alyosha is his brother Ivan, a skeptic who challenges the very foundations of morality and faith with his intellectual inquiries and the famous "Grand Inquisitor" parable. This philosophical dialogue provides a stark examination of freedom, the nature of God, and the burden of free will. Ivan’s existential struggles and his debates with Alyosha frame a central theme of the novel: the eternal conflict between faith and doubt, belief and despair.

Dmitri, the eldest brother, offers yet another viewpoint, with his passionate and impulsive nature leading him through a series of moral and existential crises. His turbulent quest for meaning and redemption reflects the broader human struggle against our baser instincts and the search for a higher purpose.

Dostoevsky does not limit his exploration to Christian values alone; rather, he presents a rich tapestry of ideas, questioning and affirming various moral philosophies through his characters' lives and fates. His portrayal of each brother’s journey highlights a broader narrative about the struggle between faith, materialism, and intellectualism in modern society.

The richness of The Brothers Karamazov lies in its ability to provoke thought and dialogue about profound issues—morality, faith, redemption, and the meaning of life. Dostoevsky’s nuanced portrayal of each character’s struggle with these themes makes the novel a mirror reflecting the eternal moral dilemmas faced by all of humanity.

Reading The Brothers Karamazov is a journey through the complexities of the human condition. It challenges readers to question and reflect on their beliefs and the nature of their actions. It reminds us that the pursuit of a good life requires confronting and understanding the darkest corners of the soul and choosing a path forward in the light of those revelations.

Thus, before you leave this world, immerse yourself in the pages of The Brothers Karamazov. It offers not only a story but a life-changing experience—a philosophical guide that continues to resonate with timeless relevance, encouraging a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world we inhabit. This is a book that does not just belong to the past; it speaks directly to the heart of our present human experience.

"In our writing, as in our lives, honesty is the vessel through which truth navigates the turbulent waters of human experience." 

– Unknown

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Writing personal essays as part of a Creative Writing degree immerses you in an intimate exploration of your own existence. My master's journey at the end of the Covid pandemic was largely defined by these reflective narratives—scrutinizing who I was during a time when the world itself seemed introspective and isolated. The personal essay compels you to peer inward, constructing stories that resonate not just with your truth but with universal human experiences. Yet, this is merely the starting point.

Authenticity in writing about personal experiences isn't always straightforward. It involves more than narrating events—it requires transforming memories into meaningful connections that resonate with others. This often creates a tension between portraying the raw truth and adhering to literary standards like structure, voice, and technique, which must all intertwine with the story's emotional core. This balancing act can sometimes distance you from your own truth as you refine and tweak your narrative for artistic sake.

The vulnerability inherent in crafting personal essays was particularly pronounced during my master's program. The workshop environment, where personal revelations are dissected for improvement, adds layers of emotional complexity. It was challenging to distinguish between critiques of my writing and perceived judgments of my personal revelations. This blurring of lines between the writer and the person written about requires a robust emotional resilience to navigate.

Moreover, there was a constant pressure to excel, to craft essays that were not only insightful but also impressive. In the competitive arena of academic writing, it's tempting to amplify your narratives or select themes believed to have more impact. This could lead to performative vulnerability—sacrificing genuine emotional truth for the sake of peer recognition or academic validation.

Writing amidst the backdrop of a post-pandemic world, filled with grief, anxiety, and isolation, added another layer of complexity. The pandemic pushed us all to confront our inner selves, often in stark and raw ways. Writing during this time sometimes felt like an act of uncovering layers of myself that I was still coming to terms with. It was challenging to find the right balance between being close enough to these experiences to write authentically and distant enough to maintain clarity.

Despite these challenges, there was a profoundly human element to writing personal essays. It became a method of processing and reflecting on my personal history and the broader collective experiences during the pandemic. However, the continual delving into personal memories, especially those that are painful or unresolved seemed uncomfortable.

Navigating themes of identity within the diverse voices of a workshop sometimes highlighted my own complexities in ways that felt exposing. It was often difficult to discern whether I was writing for my own catharsis or to meet an audience's expectations shaped by their perceptions of my identity.

The personal essay remains a profoundly rewarding yet demanding medium in the academic setting of a Creative Writing degree. It not only provides a means to explore and make sense of one's life but also requires significant vulnerability, emotional labour, and an openness to introspect parts of oneself that might be uncomfortable. Yet, it is precisely these challenges that make it such a potent medium for connecting with others, offering a glimpse into our shared humanity through the stories we tell and the truths we unveil. My time writing personal essays during my master’s degree was not just an academic endeavour but a profound way of understanding the world and my place within it during an uncertain era.

"Whom did He consult to enlighten Him"

"My wife and I were reading Isaiah 40 this morning, and we thought how striking the words in verse 14 are. They could easily be brushed over if we were not closely reading:

'Whom did He consult to enlighten Him, and who taught Him the paths of justice?'

'Who has taught Him the right way?' It's about morality, the correct way, justice and fairness. Who can tell God what justice is? Abraham tried to probe this when he said, "Isn't the judge of the whole earth going to do what is right? Genesis 18:23-32. But, interestingly, God accommodated Abraham who was troubled about God's justice. 

I have a quote in my notebook I wrote 15 years ago that defines justice. It's by William Blackstone, an 18th-century British jurist:"

Well, as we would say in Glasgow, “That’s a belter of a concept!” Not to be swallowed quickly. So, what is it saying,

Blackstone suggests that the principles of eternal justice are fundamentally linked to the happiness of each person. It means that one cannot achieve true happiness without adhering to these moral and just laws. Conversely, if one follows these laws diligently, happiness will naturally follow. Essentially, it's saying that moral integrity and personal well-being are deeply interconnected, and living a just life leads to happiness.

These words struck me as if they'd been placed there for me to find. The notion of an eternal justice intertwined with human happiness seemed both simple and profound. Could justice truly be universal, something so intricately woven into the fabric of life that living in harmony with it brings us closer to joy? Definitely! Just try and skip the queue in Aldi or Tesco and you find yourself encroaching on other's happiness. But one day in the future when God's Kingdom rules, every human worthy of life will honour that universal justice administered by God and Christ.

Blackstone Reference ("Chapman's Cyclopaedia of Law, 1912, Vol 1, Page 88"). 

Joseph, who was renamed Barnabas by the apostles which meant son of comfort— Acts 4:3.

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A friend once asked me, "Who is your favourite character in literature, Jim?"

"Oh dear, that’s like  choosing a favourite child. But let me see, there's Bruno from Striped Pyjamas, Aslan from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, and Joe from Great Expectations..."

     "Your absolute favourite, Jim?"

     "Okay, it has to be Prince Myshkin."

     "Prince who?"

     "Prince Myshkin, from Dostoevsky’s The Idiot."

     "Why him?"

     "He was simply too good for this world."

All my life, I’ve been drawn to stories that feature inherently kind characters—perhaps because they possess qualities I aspire to, despite many personal failings. This is why I cherish the word 'Tattimbet' from the Kazakh language. It signifies not just being a decent person but being a source of comfort to others. There’s no equivalent word in English that carries the same depth.

Reflect on the books I mentioned; all their protagonists exemplify this quality. And we could list many more: Beth from Little Women, Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird, Samwise Gamgee from The Lord of the Rings, Miss Honey from Matilda, Jean Valjean from Les Misérables, Ma Joad from The Grapes of Wrath, and, of course, Anne Shirley from Anne of Green Gables.

Isn’t it peculiar that in a universe seemingly devoid of purpose, we find ourselves drawn to kindness? Kindness, love, and self-sacrifice seem out of place in a purely evolutionary world, yet, contrary to popular belief, the arc of the universe does bend towards goodness.

“Speak slowly son; then people will feel you have something important to say."

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"Many years ago, I was walking through a shopping centre with a friend when a girl shouted over, saying, 'Who are you with?'

     'Sorry?'

     'Who are you with? Where do you get your energy from?'

It turned out she was trying to sell me an energy contract for gas and electricity. I said to my friend, 'Wasn’t that rude? No hello or excuse me?'

     'Well, Jim,' my friend replied, 'don’t blame the girl. Young people today are exposed to soap operas and dramas where everyone is aggressive to one another.'"

On the other hand, many years ago when I was a young man of thirty, I gave a speech at a religious meeting and an old man as gentle as a dove approached me and complemented me for my speech and drawing on its strengths, then he imparted a piece of wisdom I never forgot. He said, "Speak slowly, then people will appreciate you have something important to say."

There is a quiet power in gentleness, a strength in softness that is often overlooked in a world that values volume and force. Proverbs 25:15 offers a striking paradox: "By patience a ruler may be persuaded, and a soft tongue will break a bone." At first glance, these words seem contradictory—how can something soft break something as unyielding as bone? Yet, in the wisdom of this proverb lies an undeniable truth: gentleness, when wielded with patience and wisdom, carries an influence far greater than force.

The Quechua word Urpi, meaning “dove,” reflects this truth beautifully. In Peruvian culture, urpi is more than just a bird; it is a term of endearment for someone of pure heart, someone whose kindness and peace shape the world around them. The dove does not conquer by aggression but by presence, by quiet persistence, by embodying peace in a way that disarms hostility. To be called urpi is not simply to be kind—it is to be a person whose spirit moves gently yet leaves a lasting imprint.

There is a deep connection between this ancient word and the wisdom of Proverbs 25:15. A ruler—a person in power—is not persuaded by shouting or brute force, but by patience. This patience is not passive, nor is it weak. It is the patience of someone who understands that words, when spoken with timing and wisdom, can shift even the hardest of hearts. Likewise, a soft tongue—words spoken with mildness and care—can break what seems unbreakable. Harsh words may force compliance, but gentle words can transform the heart.

Many have experienced this paradox in their own lives. A mentor whose quiet correction carried more weight than a rebuke, a loved one whose gentle wisdom lingered in the mind long after it was spoken. It is easy to dismiss meekness as powerless, but true meekness holds authority—not the authority of control, but the authority of truth spoken with love. When someone who is mild warns us, we listen. When they counsel us, their words penetrate because they are not spoken in anger or pride, but from a place of sincere care.

This is why Jesus himself described his followers as being “as shrewd as serpents and as innocent as doves” (Matthew 10:16). There is nothing passive about this balance. The innocence of a dove does not mean naivety, just as a soft tongue does not mean weakness. True gentleness carries with it a deliberate strength, a force that does not coerce but convinces, that does not demand but transforms. It is the slow-moving river that, over time, carves stone; the wind that, with patience, wears down the hardest rock.

There is a lesson here for all who seek to influence others—not through volume or intimidation, but through the quiet persistence of wisdom and love. In a world that rewards noise, be the person whose words are few but whose presence is weighty. In a world that equates dominance with power, be urpi, the one whose peace disarms, whose counsel lingers, whose gentleness transforms.

Note: 

All Bible verses from the Berean Standard Bible

"As they walked, Jesus wept."

The Voice, John 11:33.

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Is There a Place for the Emotionally Sensitive in Society?

At the weekend I met a lovely warm-hearted Nepalese couple. As usual is the case, when I meet friends from other cultures I find out the words that are unique to their society —— see my January 4 post Good Evening Bangladesh! What Will Our Journey Be? | learn1

In the Nepalese language and culture, there is a beautiful phrase: mano saano—which translates to "a small heart," referring to those who feel deeply, who are moved by the world in ways others are not. It is not a phrase of weakness but of recognition, an acknowledgment that some souls are more attuned to the joys and sorrows around them.

I have always been one of these people. From childhood, I felt the weight of the world in ways I could not explain. I would walk through a grave yard and feel the pain of the parents who lost their child a century ago. I  would sense the tension in a room before a word was spoken, absorbing emotions that were not my own.

 When I first heard about the Nepalese word mano saano, it resonated deeply—here was a concept that named the experience of having a heart that was more porous than most, one that could not help but feel.

But in a society that values resilience, efficiency, and rationality, what place is there for those of us with small hearts?

The modern world often feels like a race where sensitivity is a liability. We are expected to toughen up, to "not take things personally," to brush off slights and injustices as if they are trivial. Corporate culture prizes those who can detach, make decisions without emotion, and push forward without dwelling on the past. Social life, too, can be unkind to the sensitive—where cynicism is mistaken for intelligence and where expressing deep emotions is often met with discomfort or dismissal.

Yet, for the emotionally sensitive, detachment is not an option. We do not simply decide to stop feeling. We experience life in high definition, where every act of kindness or cruelty leaves a lasting imprint. The world tells us to be less sensitive, but to do so would mean to become less ourselves.

Being emotionally sensitive can feel like a burden. It means being easily overwhelmed by the pain of others, feeling the suffering in the world so acutely that it can become paralyzing. It means struggling with boundaries, as people who sense and soothe emotions often attract those who take advantage of their kindness. It can be exhausting to walk through life without the protective shell that others seem to wear so naturally.

And yet, despite the weight of sensitivity, it is also a gift. The world needs people with mano saano — those who care deeply, who notice the suffering that others overlook. They are the ones who sit with the grieving, who offer quiet kindness in a world too busy to care. They are the poets, the writers, the artists, the caregivers— the ones who give voice to emotions that others struggle to articulate.

Jesus himself was deeply sensitive, weeping at the suffering he saw, moved by the pain of the people around him. He did not harden himself against sorrow but embraced it, showing that true strength is not found in indifference, but in a love so deep it refuses to look away.

If there is a place for the emotionally sensitive in society, it is one that must often be carved out. It requires choosing environments where sensitivity is not dismissed as weakness but recognized as a strength. It means surrounding oneself with those who appreciate depth rather than fear it. It also means learning to set boundaries—to recognize that while sensitivity is a gift, it is not meant to be exploited.

The world may not always make space for those with small hearts, but that does not mean we must shrink to fit it. Instead, we must create lives that honour our depth of feeling, knowing that, in a world that often forgets to care, sensitivity is a rare and precious thing.

There may not be an easy place for the emotionally sensitive in society, but there is purpose. And sometimes, that is enough.

Reference

The Voice Bible. Ecclesia Bible Society, 2012. 

"When a man dies, will he live again?

All the days of my hard service I will wait,

until my renewal comes."

Job 14:14 (BSB).

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Friday afternoons during my school years carried a particular shade of gloom. The end of the week was marred by double periods of mathematics, an ordeal that felt as burdensome as spending a day nursing a case of spondylitis. To escape, my friends Sam, Tam, and I would hitch a ride on the short ferry from Govan across the River Clyde to Kelvin. Our sanctuary lay a brief walk away—the grand Kelvingrove Museum.

While my friends lost themselves among the haunting stares of the Dutch Masters—strange, lifelike eyes peering from gilded frames—I was drawn to a different kind of relic. Tucked away in the Natural History section was a tree stump, ancient yet undeniably alive despite its seven centuries. Running my fingers over its rings, I traced the history embedded in its wood, each groove whispering secrets like the static-laden tracks of a ’78 vinyl.

This Glasgow stump, however, is youthful by the standards of dendrology. Far from the bustling city, in the quiet of Europe’s forests, a Bosnian Pine has stood since A.D. 941, its roots digging deep during the age of Viking raids along Scotland's rugged coasts. This silent sentinel has withstood the ebb and flow of human history—the Reformation, the Renaissance, Hiroshima, the rise and fall of the Third Reich, even Brexit.

The march of time, relentless and unyielding, often brings me back to the resilience of nature compared to man’s relatively brief lifespan. A decade ago, the world mourned Lonesome George, the century-old Galapagos tortoise, reminding us of creatures like whales and turtles, whose lives span over 160 years, and jellyfish that dance close to immortality.

This reflection on time and survival inevitably conjures the poignant musings of Job, the ‘greatest of the Orientals’, who posed to his creator a rhetorical quandary only to resolve it himself: "If a man dies, will he live again? All the days of my hard service I will wait, till my renewal comes." (Job 14:14).

This age-old question of life beyond death is one we’ve all pondered. No one relishes the end of existence, and if our time must end, we yearn to know if there is something more beyond it.

Now, stepping into my sixth decade, mortality lingers close, yet my heart beats with the fervour of youth, desiring millennia like a giant sequoia. In this longing, I find a kinship with Job’s hope for renewal—a revival of spirit, if not of body, in the face of the eternal march of time.

"Stop judging by outward appearances, and start judging justly."

John 7:24

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It's a common human tendency to judge others based on past behaviours, holding onto those judgments as if they are indelible marks on a person's character. This perspective, while seemingly justified by past experiences, often fails to acknowledge the profound capacity for change that each person holds. Psychological concepts like confirmation bias, the fundamental attribution error, and conservatism bias illuminate why we might cling to outdated views of someone. These biases can cloud our judgment, leading us to overlook the evidence of personal growth and change.

Confirmation bias, for instance, prompts us to favour information that confirms our pre-existing beliefs. When it comes to personal relationships, if we've formed a negative opinion of someone based on past actions, we're likely to focus on behaviours that reinforce our view, ignoring any signs of change or improvement. Similarly, the fundamental attribution error can cause us to attribute someone's past mistakes strictly to their character, dismissing the circumstances that might have influenced those actions. Conservatism bias further entrenches these judgments, as we resist updating our beliefs even when new evidence suggests a person has changed.

This clinging to past perceptions not only stifles our ability to see others as they are now but also limiting our interactions to a narrow, often outdated narrative. It's here that the Biblical admonition to forgive becomes profoundly relevant. Forgiveness is not just an act of mercy towards others; it's a liberation for us. It allows us to shed the weight of past grievances and acknowledge the possibility of change, both in others and ourselves.

The concept of divine grace in Christianity deepens this discussion. Grace is fundamentally about unearned favour. It's the idea that we are given what we do not deserve. If we accept that grace is a gift freely given to us, it challenges us to extend the same grace to others. Recognizing that people are at various levels of maturity and that everyone is on a unique journey toward personal growth can help us hold our judgments more loosely.

When we apply this understanding, we see that everyone, including ourselves, is evolving. Someone who may have wronged us years ago might no longer be the same person today. Holding them in the prison of their past not only denies them the chance to demonstrate their growth but also prevents us from experiencing the fullness of our relationships. It locks us into a static view of a dynamic world.

In essence, embracing forgiveness and recognizing divine grace reflect our acknowledgment of human potential—the potential to grow, to change, and to move closer to the ideals we strive towards. In practical terms, this means giving others the chance to show us who they have become, rather than who they were. It means looking at our interactions as opportunities to witness the unfolding of each other's journeys, rather than as chances to confirm old biases.

Therefore, let us strive to approach each other with a spirit of grace and forgiveness, recognizing that each day gives us all a chance to be better than we were before. In doing so, we not only foster a more compassionate and understanding world, but we also mirror the very essence of what it means to live out our faith.