Personal Blogs

Why Does Matter Become Aware?

'Consciousness is not simply a biological curiosity.

It is a window through which we glimpse something of our Creator.'

One morning, as on so many mornings before, I walked along the beach. For half an hour the rhythm of my footsteps kept time with the waves while my mind wandered freely. I found myself quietly shaping the next chapter of my book, turning over sentences before they ever reached the page. My thoughts then drifted to my children and grandchildren, and I prayed for each of them. Afterwards, almost without noticing, my mind returned to Isaiah 53, a chapter I had read carefully before leaving the house. Certain phrases lingered with me, inviting me to look again, to think more deeply about the remarkable prophecy of the suffering servant.

As I walked, another thought emerged, one that seemed to gather together everything that had occupied my mind that morning.

What a remarkable gift consciousness is.

We take it so completely for granted that we rarely stop to consider its mystery. Every day we wake into a world already alive with awareness. We remember yesterday, plan for tomorrow, admire beauty, wrestle with difficult questions, feel compassion, experience grief, imagine possibilities that have never existed, and lift our thoughts towards God in prayer. Consciousness is the silent companion of every moment of our lives, yet it remains one of the greatest mysteries in existence.

How does matter become aware?

The question sounds simple, but it reaches into the deepest foundations of reality. The human brain is composed of ordinary matter. It consists of atoms and molecules obeying the same physical laws that govern every grain of sand beneath my feet and every wave breaking upon the shore. Carbon atoms are no different whether they exist in a rock or within a living brain. Oxygen does not suddenly acquire thoughts because it becomes part of a human being. Every component of the brain behaves according to the laws of chemistry and physics.

Yet somehow, from this extraordinary arrangement of matter, emerges a person.

Not merely an organism reacting to its surroundings, but someone capable of reflecting on the past, anticipating the future, composing music, writing poetry, falling in love, mourning loss, searching for truth, and asking questions about eternity. We possess an inner life. We do not merely exist; we know that we exist.

Modern neuroscience has made astonishing progress in understanding the brain. Scientists can identify which regions become active when we recognise a face, solve a mathematical problem, or recall a childhood memory. They can observe electrical activity sweeping across networks of neurons and describe many of the biological processes that accompany our thoughts.

Yet none of these discoveries explains the central mystery.

Why should any of these physical processes be accompanied by subjective experience at all?

Why is there something it feels like to see the colour blue, hear a violin, smell the sea air, or remember the voice of someone we have loved? Why does kindness move us? Why does beauty bring tears to our eyes? Why do certain passages of Scripture speak so deeply to the human heart?

No scientific theory has yet answered these questions. Philosophers often refer to this as 'the hard problem of consciousness'. It is one thing to explain behaviour; it is quite another to explain awareness itself.

For the Christian, however, consciousness is not an embarrassing gap in scientific knowledge waiting eventually to be filled. It is one of the great signposts pointing beyond the material world.

The opening pages of Genesis tell us that humanity was created in the image of God. Those words are often understood in terms of morality or responsibility, but they also reveal something profound about the nature of our minds. If the ultimate reality behind the universe is not blind matter but an eternal, personal, conscious God, then it is hardly surprising that creatures made in His image should themselves possess consciousness. Our ability to think, reason, create, love, worship and seek truth reflects, however imperfectly, the One who created us.

The alternative view asks us to believe that consciousness somehow emerged from entirely unconscious matter through countless blind physical interactions over immense periods of time. Yet this explanation leaves the deepest question untouched. Rearranging matter, however complex the arrangement becomes, does not explain why awareness should suddenly appear. Complexity may explain what the brain does; it does not explain why there should be an inner world at all.

Indeed, consciousness seems strangely out of place in a purely material universe. Our minds continually reach beyond survival. We ponder justice, beauty, goodness and eternity. We are captivated by music that serves no obvious evolutionary purpose. We devote years to mathematics simply because its elegance delights us. We stand beneath a star-filled sky asking questions that have no immediate benefit for our survival.

Ecclesiastes captures this uniquely human condition with remarkable simplicity: 'He has also set eternity in the human heart' (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

That verse has always fascinated me. It suggests that we carry within us a longing that the material world cannot satisfy. We are creatures who instinctively look beyond ourselves. We hunger for permanence in a world where everything seems temporary. We ask not only how things work but why they exist at all.

As I continued walking, I found myself thinking about the morning itself. A few moments earlier I had been silently praying for my family. Before that I had been reflecting on Isaiah's astonishing prophecy of the Messiah. Soon afterwards I found myself marvelling at consciousness itself. None of these thoughts was necessary for survival. They arose because I am not simply a biological organism responding to stimuli. I am a person capable of reflection, memory, imagination and worship.

That capacity seems to me to be one of God's greatest gifts.

It also explains why so many of humanity's highest achievements seem to point beyond the material world. Mathematics appears to exist independently of us, waiting to be discovered rather than invented. Music possesses a structure that resonates deeply within the human soul. Beauty moves us in ways that cannot be reduced to chemistry. Love, hope, forgiveness and moral courage all belong to an invisible world that nevertheless shapes everything visible.

Perhaps these are not isolated mysteries at all.

Perhaps they are different expressions of the same reality.

If the universe was spoken into existence by the divine Logos, as John's Gospel declares, then reason itself is woven into creation. If we are made in the image of that rational Creator, then our own ability to understand, discover and appreciate truth is not an accident but part of our design. The remarkable harmony between the human mind and the intelligibility of the universe begins to make perfect sense.

By the time I reached the end of my walk, the tide had advanced a little further onto the shore. The waves continued their endless rhythm, entirely unaware of their own beauty. The gulls wheeled overhead without contemplating the sky through which they flew. The stones beneath my feet neither remembered yesterday nor anticipated tomorrow.

But I did.

I remembered those I love. I prayed. I reflected upon Scripture. I marvelled at the existence of my own thoughts. I asked questions about God, truth and eternity.

For me, that is one of the strongest pointers towards the existence of God. Consciousness is not simply a biological curiosity. It is a window through which we glimpse something of our Creator. We are able to know because He knows. We are able to love because He first loved us. We are able to seek truth because all truth ultimately finds its source in Him.

Perhaps the greatest mystery is not that I possess a brain, remarkable though it is. The greater mystery is that through that brain I can recognise beauty, search for meaning, worship my Creator and ask the question that science still cannot answer:

Why does matter become aware?

What Happens When Europe Loses its Compass? 

Having lived for nearly seven decades, I have watched profound changes take place in Western society. Apart from the warnings found in Bible prophecy, few works have struck me as deeply as Friedrich Nietzsche's Parable of the Madman. It remains one of the most haunting and, in many respects, one of the most prophetic passages in modern philosophy.

Although Nietzsche did not lament the 'death of God' from a Christian perspective, he possessed the intellectual honesty to recognise what such a cultural shift would mean. When the madman rushes into the marketplace crying, 'God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him,' the crowd responds with laughter. They fail to grasp that the death of God is not a declaration of freedom, but the collapse of the moral framework that had shaped Western civilisation for centuries. Nietzsche understood what many around him did not: a vacuum never remains empty.

Much of Western society today bears witness to the force of his warning. As Biblical morality has gradually lost its place as the cultural foundation, many of the assumptions that once held society together have weakened. In the parable, the madman asks whether we can feel the 'breath of empty space' and whether the world has grown colder. Those words continue to resonate. When belief in a transcendent source of truth fades, moral language itself begins to lose its foundation. Ideas such as dignity, responsibility, virtue and purpose, once grounded in the belief that humanity is created in the image of God, increasingly become matters of personal preference.

Nietzsche believed that the removal of God from public consciousness would eventually lead to nihilism. Not overnight, but gradually. Disbelief would give way to indifference, indifference to uncertainty, and uncertainty to the erosion of shared meaning. The madman asks, 'How shall we comfort ourselves?' Yet lasting comfort cannot be manufactured by human effort alone if there is no reality beyond ourselves. In the absence of a transcendent moral authority, societies inevitably construct their own moral systems. History suggests that such systems often compete with one another, shift with public opinion, and struggle to provide a stable foundation.

Much of contemporary culture reflects this uncertainty. Morality is increasingly seen as something we create rather than discover. Identity is viewed as something we construct rather than receive. Purpose is often treated as a personal project rather than a gift. Once Biblical morality is removed as the reference point, questions that were once regarded as settled become endlessly negotiable. Truth becomes individual, morality becomes fluid, and certainty becomes increasingly elusive.

Nietzsche also foresaw that societies which abandoned God would search for substitutes. Political ideologies, social movements and visions of utopia would attempt to occupy the place once held by faith. Yet none of these substitutes could fully provide what a transcendent moral source had supplied. At their best they offer temporary direction; at their worst they become idols that demand absolute allegiance. Whether or not every modern problem can be traced to this shift is open to debate, but it is difficult to ignore the widespread struggles with loneliness, anxiety, fragmentation and the search for meaning that characterise so much of modern life.

From a Biblical perspective, none of this is unexpected. Jesus' parable of the wise man building upon the rock and the foolish man building upon the sand illustrates what happens when foundations are neglected. A civilisation that removes God from its centre eventually finds itself standing on unstable ground. Without a transcendent Lawgiver, morality becomes vulnerable to changing opinion. Without a Creator, the unique value of every human life becomes increasingly difficult to defend. Without divine purpose, the deepest longings of the human heart remain unsatisfied.

What makes Nietzsche's parable so remarkable is that he recognised the consequences without embracing the solution. He did not believe in the Christian God, yet he understood that belief in God had sustained the moral imagination of the West. His words were not written as a celebration but as a warning. More than a century later, they read with astonishing relevance.

If that diagnosis is correct, the remedy will not be found in yet another ideology or a revised moral philosophy. It will be found in recovering what was abandoned: the recognition that morality is not self-created, meaning is not self-invented, and humanity cannot redefine itself indefinitely without losing something essential. Scripture teaches that we bear the image of God. When we return to the One whose image we bear, we rediscover not only who He is, but who we are.

Until then, I cannot help thinking of the madman's final image. While the crowds continue with life as though nothing has changed, the sound echoing in the distance may indeed be, as Nietzsche imagined, 'the noise of the gravediggers'—not merely burying God, but quietly burying the moral foundations of the civilisation that forgot Him.

"Dieu a voulu se rendre connaissable à ceux qui le cherchent,

 et caché à ceux qui ne le cherchent pas.

 Il y a assez de lumière pour ceux qui ne désirent que de voir,

et assez d'obscurité pour ceux qui ont une disposition contraire."

Blaise Pascal

God Hides Things

When my children were young, we had a Surprise Day. We would strategically place gifts hidden throughout the house and watch their excitement hunting for the packages with their name on it.

After almost half a century of reading the Bible, one conclusion has gradually become impossible for me to ignore; God hides things. Not to deceive us. Not to keep us at a distance. But to draw us deeper.

I first noticed this in the way Scripture reveals the Messiah. The Old Testament is full of hints, patterns, symbols and promises that seem almost ordinary until the light of Christ falls upon them. Then passages read a hundred times suddenly come alive. What once appeared disconnected is seen to belong to a single, beautiful story.

It is one of the reasons I have become increasingly selective about devotional reading. I have worked through many daily devotionals over the years, but I often find myself disappointed when they become collections of anecdotes, motivational stories or personal reflections only loosely connected to the biblical text. Those things have their place, but increasingly I simply want someone to lead me straight into Scripture itself.

One devotional that has done exactly that is With All Your Mind and Heart by Seth Postell. Rather than treating each passage in isolation, Postell traces the Bible's unfolding narrative, showing how events, themes and images echo one another across the centuries. He helps readers notice what was always there, but so easily overlooked.

One example particularly stayed with me.

In his reflection for July 21, he drew attention to Peter's denial of Jesus in John 18. Peter denies his Lord three times while standing beside a charcoal fire (John 18:18). It is a painful moment that most readers remember well.

Yet after the resurrection, another charcoal fire appears.

When the disciples return from a night of fishing, Jesus is waiting for them on the shore. The only other charcoal fire mentioned in John's Gospel has been deliberately placed there (John 21:9). It quietly transports Peter back to the darkest night of his life.

Then comes another striking repetition.

Three times Jesus asks Peter, 'Do you love me?'

Three times Peter answers.

Three denials.

Three affirmations.

The failure is not ignored. It is redeemed.

That is the sort of detail I love discovering. It is not shouted from the page. It waits patiently for the attentive reader. Once seen, it becomes almost impossible to forget.

It reminds me of Proverbs 25:2:

'It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.'

That verse reaches far beyond Bible study.

Imagine God placing mathematics, music, gravity, DNA, galaxies and beauty into creation—not to frustrate humanity, but to invite exploration. Every scientific breakthrough, every mathematical discovery, every new glimpse through a telescope or microscope may simply be another gift waiting to be unwrapped.

Perhaps this is why so many mathematicians speak of discovering mathematics rather than inventing it. The patterns were already there. The relationships already existed. Human beings did not create the Fibonacci sequence or the value of π any more than Newton created gravity. They uncovered realities that had patiently waited for someone to notice.

The same is true of music. Long before anyone carved the first crude flute or stretched strings across a wooden frame, the mathematical relationships that make harmony possible already existed. Humanity discovered them because they had first been woven into creation.

Scientists, then, are not creating reality.

They are uncovering it.

Like archaeologists brushing dust from an ancient mosaic, they reveal what was always there.

For the Christian, this transforms discovery into something much richer than the accumulation of knowledge. It becomes an act of wonder. An act of humility. Even an act of worship.

Paradise itself will not be an end to discovery, but its true beginning. If God is infinite, then the exploration of His wisdom may never be exhausted. Throughout eternity there may always be another truth to uncover, another beauty to behold, another glimpse of the mind that spoke the universe into existence.

God hides things.

Not because He delights in keeping secrets. But because He delights in being found.

And every discovery, whether in Scripture or in creation, is another invitation to know Him a little more.

Scientists are not creating reality.

They're opening presents.

“He has given signs of Himself, visible to those who seek Him, and not to those who seek Him not. There is enough light for those who only desire to see, and enough obscurity for those who have a contrary disposition.”

Blaise Pascal

' If the universe is nothing more than an accidental

 collision of particles,

why should it be governed by elegant laws at all?’

It was this mystery that captivated the Nobel Prize-winning physicist Eugene Wigner in his celebrated essay The Unreasonable Effectiveness of Mathematics in the Natural Sciences. Wigner was not writing as a theologian. He simply confessed his amazement that mathematics should fit the physical world so extraordinarily well. Again and again, ideas developed by mathematicians with no practical purpose later became indispensable in explaining the universe. It was, he wrote, a gift we neither understand nor deserve.

His question remains one of the deepest in science: Why should the universe be mathematical at all?

The mystery grows when we realise that many branches of mathematics were created long before anyone knew they would describe reality. Complex numbers, matrix algebra and non-Euclidean geometry were once regarded as little more than intellectual curiosities. Then, almost unexpectedly, they became the very language of quantum mechanics and Einstein's theory of relativity. It is as though mathematicians had been discovering pieces of a map before anyone realised there was a country to which it belonged.

For the Christian, Wigner's puzzle does not remove mystery, but it does point in a meaningful direction.

The opening chapters of the Bible do not portray creation as the accidental outcome of blind forces. They speak of wisdom, intention and order. 'The LORD by wisdom founded the earth.' That single sentence contains an entire worldview. The universe is not merely powerful; it is intelligible. Behind its beauty lies reason. Behind its laws lies a Lawgiver.

This also helps explain another remarkable fact. Not only is the universe ordered, but the human mind is capable of understanding that order. We can trace the path of distant planets, calculate the age of stars and predict eclipses centuries before they occur. Why should creatures made of dust possess minds able to read the grammar of the cosmos?

The Christian answer is that both the universe and the human mind share the same Author. We are able to think God's thoughts after Him, not because we are divine, but because we bear His image. Our reason is a small reflection of His infinite wisdom.

Imagine finding a key washed up on a beach. At first it seems an ordinary piece of metal. Then, miles inland, you discover a door that it opens perfectly. You would never conclude that the key and the lock came into existence independently by accident. Their correspondence points to a common designer.

In much the same way, mathematics is the key, and the universe is the lock. Their astonishing fit invites us to ask whether both arose from the same rational Mind.

Of course, mathematics does not prove the existence of God. Equations cannot compel faith. But they do raise questions that materialism struggles to answer. If the universe is nothing more than an accidental collision of particles, why should it be governed by elegant laws at all? Why should those laws be expressible in a language conceived by human minds? Why should beauty, simplicity and symmetry so often lead scientists to the truth?

These are not proofs. They are signposts.

Johannes Kepler, who discovered the laws of planetary motion, believed he was 'thinking God's thoughts after Him.' Isaac Newton regarded his work as uncovering the orderly craftsmanship of the Creator. Far from seeing science and faith as enemies, many of its pioneers viewed scientific discovery as an act of worship, a way of tracing the fingerprints of divine wisdom across creation.

Perhaps this is why wonder never disappears from genuine science. The deeper we peer into the universe, the more intelligible it becomes, and the more astonishing that intelligibility appears. Every successful equation answers one question while quietly asking another.

Why is there such deep harmony between the human mind and the world it seeks to understand?

Proverbs answers with remarkable simplicity. The heavens were established by understanding.

Wigner called the effectiveness of mathematics unreasonable. Scripture calls it wisdom.

Perhaps they are describing the same reality from different sides of the mountain.

The Fibonacci sequence

The Fibonacci sequence is a pattern of numbers in which each number is the sum of the two before it.

It begins:

0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89...

For example:

• 1 + 1 = 2
• 1 + 2 = 3
• 2 + 3 = 5
• 3 + 5 = 8

The sequence was introduced to Europe by the Italian mathematician Leonardo of Pisa (Fibonacci) in the 13th century.

It appears surprisingly often in the natural world:

• The arrangement of leaves on stems.
• The spiral patterns of sunflower seed heads.
• Pinecones and pineapples.
• Some shells and hurricanes form spirals closely related to Fibonacci numbers.

One reason the sequence fascinates mathematicians is that as the numbers grow larger, the ratio of one number to the next approaches 1.618..., known as the golden ratio. This proportion appears in geometry, architecture, art, and many natural growth patterns.

For many people, the Fibonacci sequence is a striking reminder that beneath the apparent complexity of the universe lies an elegant mathematical order.

    'Does the road wind up-hill all the way?'

 'Yes, to the very end.'

Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti

There is a folder of mine that contains the most influential poems that I find not only moving, but encouraging as we wage war with this life.  Life is an uphill struggle from birth to death. But what if this life were all there is? What if there were no reward beyond our struggles? The question is especially significant for Christians. As the apostle Paul wrote, "If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied" (1 Corinthians 15:19). Christina Rossetti's Up-Hill explores precisely this question through a simple dialogue that gradually unfolds into one of the finest Christian meditations on life's journey.

The poem begins with a question almost everyone has asked:

     'Does the road wind up-hill all the way?'

The answer is disarmingly honest:

     'Yes, to the very end.'

Rossetti offers no comforting illusion that life eventually becomes effortless. The uphill road symbolises the whole of human existence. Every person, whether rich or poor, believer or sceptic, must climb through disappointment, illness, temptation, grief and loss. The Christian life is not an escape from suffering but a pilgrimage requiring perseverance.

The traveller then asks:

     'Will the day's journey take the whole long day?'

The guide replies:

     'From morn to night, my friend.'

The "day" represents an entire lifetime. Childhood is morning, adulthood the brightness of noon, and old age the coming evening. Life has a beginning and an end, reminding us to use our days wisely because our time is limited.

Naturally, the traveller begins to think about what lies beyond the end of the journey.

     'But is there for the night a resting-place?'

The answer comes with complete certainty:

     'A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.'

The 'inn' is one of the poem's richest symbols. It represents the eternal home prepared by God for His people. Death is not presented as an empty abyss but as the doorway to rest, recalling Christ's promise that He has gone to prepare a place for those who belong to Him.

Yet another fear remains.

     'May not the darkness hide it from my face?'

Again, the guide reassures:

     'You cannot miss that inn.'

Even when death seems dark and uncertain, God's faithful guidance will not fail. The destination depends not merely on the traveller's ability but on the certainty of God's promise.

The traveller next wonders whether he will be alone.

     'Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?'

The answer is deeply comforting:

     'Those who have gone before.'

The Christian joins a vast company of believers who have already completed the journey. None of us walks an untrodden path.

The traveller's anxiety has almost disappeared, but one final concern remains.

      'Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?'

The answer is wonderfully tender:

     'They will not keep you standing at that door.'

The afterlife is not reluctant to receive God's faithful people. The pilgrim is expected, welcomed and invited inside. The image beautifully reflects Christ's promise that those who belong to Him will be received into the Father's house.

Rossetti then gives meaning to the struggles endured along the way.

     'Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?'

The guide replies:

     'Of labour you shall find the sum.'

Nothing done for God is wasted. Every act of faithfulness, every sacrifice, every unseen kindness and every burden patiently borne will one day reveal its full value. The Christian's labour is never in vain.

The poem ends with one final reassurance.

   'Will there be beds for me and all who seek?'

The guide answers:

     'Yea, beds for all who come.'

There is room for every weary traveller who arrives by faith. The final image is not one of fear but of welcome, peace and rest.

The brilliance of Up-Hill lies in its simplicity. Each question gives voice to a universal human fear: Is life always this difficult? Will I reach the end? Will I lose my way? Will I be welcomed? Rossetti answers every anxiety with quiet confidence. She neither romanticises suffering nor denies it. Instead, she reminds us that while the road is steep, it leads somewhere. Beyond the final hill lies not oblivion, but home. For that reason, Up-Hill remains one of the most beautiful poetic expressions of the Christian hope ever written. And so., I return it to the precious folder of poems that never can be forgotten.

In the same way, it is better to go to a funeral
 than a celebration.
Why? because death is the end of life’s journey,
and the living should always take that to heart.

Ecclesiastes 7:2

The Voice Bible

The Silence Between the Stones

On fine mornings, when the weather allows, I sometimes walk up to the local graveyard, sit on the bench and write.  It may seem an unusual place to seek inspiration, yet few places are as peaceful. The wind moves quietly through the weeping willow, birdsong drifts between the headstones, and names carved into stone remind me that every life, however busy or important it once seemed finish their journey here.

There is something deeply calming about such places. They seem to hold the silence of sleeping souls awaiting God's promised renewal. Whether that image is entirely accurate or simply the language of a reflective mind, I cannot say. It may be no more than a passing thought, when  'passing' is the appropriate word in a graveyard.

One thing is certain. Cemeteries ask questions that shopping centres, football stadiums and television screens rarely do. They remind us that our days are numbered and quietly ask what sort of people we are becoming before our own names are engraved in stone.

Many people pass through life scarcely giving the afterlife a thought. Others assume that when death comes, they will simply drift into paradise, almost as though eternity were a prize handed out without question. Somehow they imagine that beyond death the gates simply open because, after all, they were reasonably decent people; a subjectively fluid term.

Yet that expectation has never sat comfortably with me.

If a person has never wanted to know their Creator, never desired His ways, never learned to love sacrificially, never delighted in serving Him, why would they suddenly find eternal joy in a world where God is at the very centre? Paradise is not merely a beautiful location. It is life lived in perfect fellowship with the One who made us.

If paradise is truly to be paradise, would it not need to be inhabited by people whose hearts have been shaped for such a place? Otherwise, before long, it would begin to resemble the very world from which we long to escape.

That thought often brings me to Psalm 15. It is one of those psalms that deserves to be read slowly, especially among weathered gravestones.

'LORD, who may dwell in Your sacred tent? Who may live on Your holy mountain?'

The psalm does not answer by describing a person's wealth, education, achievements or popularity. Instead, it describes character. It speaks of the one who walks blamelessly, speaks truth from the heart, keeps promises even when it is costly, refuses to slander others, rejects corruption and honours those who fear the Lord. These are not the qualifications for earning God's favour; they are the marks of a heart being shaped by knowing Him.

As I sit among those silent stones, Psalm 15 reminds me that faith is not a golden ticket tucked into a pocket. It is a life slowly transformed by the God we have come to love. Eternal life is not simply about living for ever. It is about becoming the sort of person who would feel at home in God's presence.

Perhaps that is why a graveyard is such a fitting place to read Psalm 15. It strips away illusions. It reminds us that our appointment with death is certain, while our opportunity to grow in faith, love and holiness belongs to today.

The gravestones do not preach, but they do testify. They whisper that life is brief, character matters, and every one of us must eventually answer the psalm's opening question:

'Lord, who may dwell in Your sacred tent? Who may live on Your holy mountain?'

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

Part 2:  Don't Leave Your Child Alone with Life's Biggest Questions

After writing Don't Leave Your Child Alone with Life's Biggest Questions, I found myself reflecting on something said by Dr Mark Gornik, pastor, theologian and missiologist on the Jesus: Gamechanger Series. He observed that Christian mission is not something that begins only in distant countries or unfamiliar cultures. It begins much closer to home. Sometimes our nearest mission field is the person sitting across the kitchen table.

That thought stayed with me.

When many Christians hear the word 'mission', they picture crossing oceans, learning new languages or travelling to places where the Gospel has scarcely been heard. Those callings remain important. Yet before we look to the ends of the earth, we should look around our own homes.

Our sons and daughters are growing up in a culture that often feels increasingly foreign to Christianity. The greatest distance is no longer measured in miles but in ideas. A child may sleep under our roof, eat at our table and share our surname, yet quietly become a stranger to the Christian worldview. The surrounding culture is constantly discipling them. Every day they absorb messages about identity, purpose, truth, relationships and morality. If those messages are never discussed, they can slowly shape a life without anyone noticing.

That is why the kitchen table matters.

For generations it was where families talked. Children asked questions, parents shared stories, and wisdom passed naturally from one generation to the next. Today those conversations are easily crowded out. Televisions remain on, headphones go in, phones appear beside every plate, and family members retreat into separate digital worlds. We have never been more connected electronically, yet meaningful conversation can become surprisingly rare.

Yet it is often through ordinary conversations that extraordinary things happen.

Children rarely announce, 'I'd like to discuss the meaning of life tonight.' Their questions emerge indirectly. A news story about suffering. A friend who no longer believes in God. A lesson at school. A video on social media. A relationship that has gone wrong. A death in the family. These moments are not interruptions to family life. They are opportunities for it.

Parents sometimes worry that they do not have all the answers. Neither did I when I was asking my own questions as a teenager. But children do not need parents who know everything. They need parents who are willing to search with them. There is something deeply reassuring about hearing a mother or father say, 'That's an excellent question. Let's explore it together.'

The Christian faith has never feared honest enquiry. Jesus welcomed questions. The Psalms are full of them. The prophets wrestled with them. The apostles reasoned, debated and persuaded. Christianity invites both heart and mind because it claims to be rooted in reality.

Our culture often assumes that faith and reason are opponents. They are not. The great Christian tradition has always encouraged thoughtful belief. From Augustine to C. S. Lewis, from Blaise Pascal to John Lennox, Christians have argued that loving God includes loving Him with our minds.

If we fail to have these conversations at home, someone else will gladly have them for us. Social media influencers, celebrities, podcasts and algorithms are already shaping how our children think. Some offer wisdom. Many offer confusion. Almost all compete for their attention. Silence at home does not leave a vacuum. It simply hands the conversation to someone else.

Looking back to that lonely Christmas Eve in Glasgow, I realise what I longed for was not simply information but companionship. I needed someone willing to sit with me as I wrestled with life's deepest questions. It took years before I found people who did exactly that.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts parents can give.

Not perfection. Not polished speeches. Not all the answers.

Just a chair at the kitchen table, an open Bible, an open mind, and enough love to say, 'Let's think about this together.'

Mission begins there.

livetreemedia.com.au/jesus-the-game-changer

“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

Does Death Have the Final Word?

One morning, my wife and I set out for Loch Lomond, drawn by the dual promise of celestial splendour and dawn's first light breaking over the rugged highlands. It's our Smultronställe; the place for joy, reflection and nostalgia.  Our trip was spurred by something more urgent than mere wanderlust—my diagnosis with terminal cancer, which has sharpened our focus on seizing the moments that remain.

Loch Lomond isn't just a place of natural beauty; it's a sanctuary where each vista and shifting cloud seems orchestrated to remind us of life's transient, precious nature. As the night sky surrendered to sunrise, I felt a profound connection to the Creator, an assurance that despite the uncertainties of my health, there remains a greater plan at work.

During our visit, the echoes of "Loch Lomond" filled my mind—the haunting lyrics about parting ways, taking different roads through life and beyond. "O you'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland before you." The song, a poignant anthem of farewell, resonated deeply, reflecting our current crossroads. It was as if the high road was my impending journey beyond this life, while the low road was the here and now with my wife.

This melody, which has always stirred the soul, now underscored our experience with its profound symbolism. It wasn't just background music; it was a narrative woven into the fabric of our visit, a narrative about love, parting, and the passages we all must navigate. My thoughts wandered into the Bible character Job who delt that death was pending and asked rhetorically, “When a man dies, will he live again? All the days of my hard service I will wait, until my renewal comes.” There goes the answer; a period in the future described as renewal.

Standing there, with the dawn light washing over the loch and mountains, I was struck by a mix of grief and gratitude. Grief, for the days that will be no more, and gratitude for the immeasurable beauty and joy that have filled my days. Each moment by the loch was a moment stolen back from fate, a declaration that even in the face of life's end, we can find reasons to cherish and celebrate.

Our journey back home was quiet, reflective. We spoke little, but our hands found each other often, a silent language of support and mutual strength. The road, both literal and metaphorical, stretched out before us, each mile a step towards whatever awaits.

As we navigate this chapter, the lesson of Loch Lomond remains with us: to embrace each day with vigour, to find solace in nature's embrace, and to love fiercely in the face of the unknown. Even as I consider the roads we take—the high ones and the low—the journey is as beautiful as it is heart-breaking, filled with the promise of love’s enduring presence.

And the song: (4) RUNRIG - Loch Lomond (Live In Balloch) Full Version - YouTube

Checking Out of the Dark Place: When God Finds Us 

In view of the interest in the previous blog. Let's follow it up. Augustine of Hippo records in his autobiography a period when his life descended into darkness. He was enslaved by lust, ambition and pride. Although his mother, Monica, had nurtured him in the Christian faith, he repeatedly postponed committing himself to Christ. He knew the truth, yet he could not bring himself to live by it.

The decisive moment came in a garden in Milan around AD 386.

Overwhelmed with despair, Augustine threw himself beneath a fig tree and wept. He cried out to God, asking how long he would continue living as he was. Then he heard what sounded like the voice of a young child—he never knew whether it was a boy or a girl—chanting over and over:

'Take up and read. Take up and read.'

Taking this as God's answer to his prayer, Augustine picked up a copy of Paul's letters that was nearby and opened it. His eyes fell on these words of Romans 13:13–14,

'Let us behave decently, as in the daytime, not in carousing and drunkenness, not in sexual immorality and debauchery, not in dissension and jealousy. Instead, clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the desires of the flesh.' (BSB).

Augustine later wrote:

'No further would I read; nor did I need to. For instantly, as the sentence ended, it was as though the light of confidence flooded into my heart and all the darkness of doubt was dispelled.'

That moment changed everything. Augustine abandoned his former life, was later baptised by Ambrose, and went on to become one of the most influential Christian thinkers in history.

I have had a similar experience like that of Augustine’s that I have shared in earlier blogs and I think of Augustine because many people today also leave religion, though for very different reasons. Some are swept along by the atheistic spirit of the age, where belief in God is quietly pushed aside. Others leave because they have escaped a controlling religious environment. They expect freedom, yet discover an unexpected emptiness. Years of fear, guilt and manipulation do not disappear overnight. Manipulative religious groups can leave deep marks on the heart.

Yet the Bible never asks us to place our faith in an organisation.

When some people questioned the Apostle Paul's message, they did not simply accept or reject it. They searched the Scriptures to see whether what he said was true. Far from condemning them, Luke says they were 'more noble' because they examined the evidence for themselves (Acts 17:11). Today we have both the Old and New Testaments to do exactly the same.

There is another moment that has always struck me. After many people stopped following Jesus turned to the Twelve and asked, 'Do you want to go away as well?' Peter answered, 'Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life' (John 6:68).

Notice what Peter did not say, 'Where shall we go?' He asked, 'To whom shall we go?'

That difference matters.

Christianity is, before anything else, a relationship with a Person. Congregations can encourage us, teach us and walk beside us. They are important. But they are not the destination. Jesus is. As he himself said, 'I am the way, and the truth, and the life.'

History is filled with people who walked away from God only to discover that he had never stopped pursuing them.

The nanotechnologist James Tour has spoken openly about dismissing Christianity as a young man until someone simply invited him to listen to a passage of Scripture. It changed his life. You can watch him relate the moment this happened in the following link:

Jewish scientist (James Tour) makes the greatest Jewish discovery!!

If you have left a religion or unaware that God is seeking you. Search the Scriptures with an open mind. Ask honest questions. Read the Gospels again. Follow the evidence wherever it leads.

The God who met Augustine beneath a fig tree still meets people today. Sometimes all it takes is the willingness to take up the Book—and read.

My Conscience is Tormenting Me

He had just woken up and stepped outside to breathe the afternoon air. Then, in a moment that would change everything, he saw her, a woman, naked and unaware. He knew enough to turn away. But he didn’t. And that choice, simple yet devastating, unravelled his life.

His error led to darker sins. And in the aftermath, he suffered as few ever have. Alone, he whispered, “Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight…” Psalm 51:4.

Who was he speaking to, if no one was there to hear? It was God. The man was King David—the same shepherd boy who felled Goliath with a sling, the poet who wrote, “The Lord is my shepherd.” But now, he was broken. Not by physical pain, but by the torment of a conscience he could not silence.

There’s a chilling verse in Obadiah 4: “Though you soar like the eagle and make your nest among the stars, from there I will bring you down.” There is no escaping God’s judgment. And conscience is one of the ways He speaks—quietly, privately, away from the crowd.

You might find it hard to believe, but that inner voice is an act of love. When you no longer hear it, consider yourself lost.

But why does it hurt so much?

Imagine a world where no one felt guilt. No sting of shame. No uneasy tug when lying, stealing, or hurting someone. Imagine that the whisper— “This is wrong”—simply went silent.

At first, it might feel like freedom. No more sleepless nights over harsh words. No weight of regret. No need to say, “I’m sorry.” But soon, that world would turn dark.

Without conscience, the heart would grow cold. It’s conscience that slows the hand before it strikes, softens the word before it wounds. It’s the quiet reminder that others feel as deeply as we do. Without it, people would chase advantage and pleasure, and no voice would call them back.

Families would crumble first. Promises would mean nothing. Marriage vows would break the moment desire shifted. Parents might neglect their children without a flicker of guilt. Children might abandon their parents with the same cold ease.

Then the sickness would spread. Friendship would become a game of use and convenience. Business would be ruled by greed. Governments, unchecked by moral restraint, would become machines of control. Law would lose its meaning—because conscience gives law its moral weight. Without it, fear—not justice—would be the only thing keeping people in line.

Art would change too. Think of classics like Dickens novels where justice reigns, but with no restraint on conscience, there is no justice.  No one would write about forgiveness, redemption, or sacrifice—because no one would feel the ache of wrongdoing or the beauty of mercy. Music and poetry might still entertain, but they would no longer move.

And the human face—our eyes, our expressions—would slowly empty. When the inner life dies, the outer one fades with it.

We might tell ourselves this world would be efficient: quick to punish, quick to advance, free of hesitation. But it would be unspeakably lonely. Conscience may trouble us, but it also connects us. It’s the bridge that lets one human heart understand another’s pain.

C.S. Lewis once wrote, “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains.” If that voice were gone—if God, no longer spoke in the secret places of the mind—we wouldn’t just lose morality. We would lose the very sense of being human.

So yes, conscience can hurt. But it is also mercy. It keeps the soul alive. It reminds us that right and wrong are not inventions of society, but echoes of something higher—something holy—calling us to live as we were meant to.

A world without conscience might be quiet on the outside. But inside, it would be a silence too terrible to bear.

David's Sin: 2 Samuel 11

 "We are not confined to our own happiness.

 We are able to live, however briefly, inside someone else's."

All Things Considered; How Good To Be Alive 

     “How are you, Jim?”

     "Well, I have neuroendocrine cancer in three organs. The tumours have begun developing again, so instead of PRRT I am now on chemotherapy. This week I suffered an episode that ended with an emergency admission to hospital."

If I answered the question truthfully, that would be my reply.

Instead, I usually say, "All things considered, it's good to be alive."

Some people send a message afterwards. Others never do or only to invite me to a meeting.  Some disappear into the background of life as though nothing had been said. It leaves me wondering whether "How are you?" has ceased to be a question at all and become little more than a polite sound we make before moving on. However, there are genuine comforters that come into my life.

Perhaps that says something about our age.

We have never had more ways of communicating, yet genuine human attentiveness seems increasingly scarce. We have learned how to acknowledge one another without necessarily engaging with one another. We can ask after someone's welfare without really wanting to know the answer.

Empathy costs something. It requires time. It requires emotional investment. Sometimes it requires us to step into another person's pain, knowing there is nothing we can do to fix it. It is easier to keep the conversation light, to exchange pleasantries, and carry on with our own concerns.

Yet those who are suffering notice the difference.

They remember the friend who asked a second question. They remember the person who texted the following day. They remember the quiet visitor who simply sat with them. They remember those who did not rush past their pain.

Cancer has taught me many things, but one of them is this: people seldom remember the perfection of our words. They remember whether we cared enough to remain present.

"How are you?" is a beautiful question—if we are willing to stay long enough to hear the answer.

Postscript

"The living, the living—they praise you, as I am doing today."

— Isaiah 38:19

Bible from BSB public domain

Let Me Tell You About West Highland Way

The West Highland Way has that rare gift of making you feel both tested and blessed. There are long stretches where the feet complain, the weather changes its mind, and the pack feels heavier than it did in the morning. But then comes a view across a loch, a shaft of light on the hills, the smell of pine after rain, or the sudden companionship of a fellow walker, and something in the soul rises again. The body may be tired, but the heart is mysteriously enlarged.

One of the joys of such walking is the people you meet along the way. On the West Highland Way, as on the great trails of the world, strangers become companions for a few minutes, a few miles, or sometimes much longer. You meet people from different countries, cultures, languages, and stories, all drawn by the same desire to be outside, to breathe, to see, to keep going. There is something deeply human about that. A path can become a small meeting place for the nations. Boots muddy, faces weathered, accents varied, but the same shared delight in the hills, the forests, the coastlines, and the open sky.

These days, many of the programmes I watch are hiking-in-nature videos. Speaking entirely for myself, I find them deeply therapeutic. That led me to wonder whether there was any evidence of a secondary therapeutic lift from watching others walk the great trails of the world. And, sure enough, there seems to be good evidence that watching nature videos — including hiking through natural landscapes — can bring real benefits.

Research in psychology and neuroscience has suggested that even virtual exposure to nature can reduce stress and anxiety, lift mood, support attention, and calm the body. Studies have found that watching nature scenes can lower stress hormones, improve emotional wellbeing, reduce heart rate and blood pressure, and awaken feelings of gratitude, connectedness, and happiness. But remember, there is human nature there. I have met many wonderful people on these trails I still hold close to my heart. Also, I have met people and wished we had exchanged emails and later regretted not doing so. But, as the expression goes, the owl of Minerva flies at dusk.  Of course, watching a mountain path on a screen is not the same as feeling the stones under your own boots or the rain on your face. But it is not nothing either.

Perhaps that is why these videos help me. They remind me of places I have walked, places I still hope to walk, and places I may now only visit through the eyes and footsteps of others. They allow me to travel at the pace of a human being rather than the pace of a machine. They bring me, in some small way, back into the healing company of natural creation.

And maybe that is part of the gift. Even when illness narrows the road, beauty still finds ways of reaching us. Sometimes it comes through a Scottish spring morning. Sometimes through a Norwegian railway line. Sometimes through memories of the West Highland Way, where the path bends north, the hills open, and people from all over the world walk together beneath the same generous sky.

The body may have its limits. But wonder, thankfully, can still travel.

How Did You Meet?

My wife and I are often asked how we met. To answer that, I must take you back to a sad event in my life.

It was close to the end of 2010, and I had lived through one of the most difficult years of my life. Earlier that year my wife had died after suffering from several tumours, including in the brain and lymph gland. Her death did not simply leave a space beside me; it changed the atmosphere of everything. The house became a witness to absence. Chairs, cups, rooms, familiar corners — all of them seemed to know what had happened.

There is a particular kind of silence that follows bereavement. It is not ordinary quietness. It has weight. It waits for you when you open the door. It follows you from room to room. I would come home and feel not only that someone was missing, but that part of the meaning of my own life had gone with her.

In those months, I found myself doing small things simply to keep moving. I would take trips to Silverburn Shopping Centre, sit with a coffee, watch people passing by, and then return home. There was no great pleasure in it, but there was a little relief in being among the living. Strangers carrying shopping bags, families talking, children laughing, couples walking side by side — life was going on all around me, and I was sitting there like someone looking at it through glass.

In April of that year, I had been scheduled to travel to Norway with a young friend. I had looked forward to it, perhaps hoping that distance might do what words could not. Then the flight was cancelled because of the Icelandic volcanic eruption. In the scale of world events, it was simply a cancelled flight, but in my own private world it felt like another door shutting. Even the skies, it seemed, had closed.

I took a trip to London, hoping to escape the loneliness of an empty house. London has its own pulse, its crowds, its noise, its endless movement, and I thought perhaps it might carry me for a while. But grief is not easily left behind. It travels with you, sits beside you on trains, walks with you through streets, and waits beside your bed at night. I returned home unrefreshed, still hollow, still going through the motions. I was alive, yes, but there were days when I felt more like a man continuing out of habit than out of hope.

The Jehovah's Witnesses annual convention was approaching, but I could not face attending it in Perth, Scotland. That may sound strange to someone else, but grief alters the shape of familiar things. Places you once managed easily can suddenly feel overwhelming. I held back, hoping I might attend a foreign convention later that year. At one point, I was ready to book Thailand, but a French friend advised me to stay away from Bangkok. He felt it would not cheer me up. Perhaps he saw something in me that I could not fully name myself. The only convention left was in Manila.

The Philippines had already lived in my imagination in a small but bright way. I had often watched a missionary video which featured a Filipino dance called Tinikling, and it had fascinated me. There was something alive in it — quickness, rhythm, grace, joy and a sense of innocence.  I had also met many Filipinos in Rome when visiting friends there, and I had found them to be genuinely lovely people: warm, kind, open-hearted, and easy to love. So, in October that year, I set off for Manila, somehow, I might feel human again.

Then came the first day of the convention.

A Filipino sister sat nearby with her friend. She was extremely shy, and yet there was something about her presence that reached me. It was not dramatic. It was quieter than that. Gentler. I offered to share a meal that evening, and from that small, ordinary invitation something began. We still have the image of that day outside the assembly location with our convention lapel cards on.

It is strange how life can turn on such a modest moment. One day you are sitting in the ruins of your own sadness, wondering how the heart can go on beating with so much missing from it. Then someone enters the scene quietly, almost shyly, and suddenly the world is not quite as empty as it was before.

We kept in touch. Because I was self-employed, I had the freedom to travel, and I returned to the Philippines six times in one year. Each journey seemed to gather light. The loneliness that had pressed so heavily on me began to loosen. I felt anticipation again. I felt laughter rising from places I thought had gone silent. I felt that strange, almost unbelievable happiness that comes not because sorrow has vanished, but because joy has dared to stand beside it.

There were moments when I could hardly believe the turn my life had taken. After so much heaviness, happiness felt almost shocking. I had not merely found company; I had found warmth, colour, tenderness, and the possibility of a future. It was elating in the deepest sense — not shallow excitement, but the feeling of being lifted from an inner darkness into air and sunlight.

And so, the rest is history, as they say.

Sadly, not everyone shared my happiness. For what reason, I never stopped to ask. Maybe some people are uncomfortable when grief does not end in permanent ruin or they expect sorrow to obey their timetable, or happiness to ask their permission before returning. But life has taught me that peace is precious. There are times when we must quietly withdraw from those who would rob us of emotional stability.

After grief, you become more careful about who is allowed near your inner life. You learn that not every voice deserves a place in your heart. You learn to move towards those who bring calm rather than confusion, kindness rather than judgement, and warmth rather than suspicion.

Looking back, I see that happy moments do not always arrive loudly. Sometimes they come after a year of emptiness. Sometimes they appear in a far country, on the first day of a convention, in the shy presence of someone who could not possibly know what her kindness would come to mean.

Sometimes happiness returns almost shyly itself. It sits beside you. It shares a meal. It writes. It waits. Then, little by little, it teaches the heart to open again.

And when that happens, after the silence, after the loss, after the long rooms of loneliness, happiness is no small thing. It is a kind of resurrection.

So, tell me your own happy moment when you met your partner. Use the comments or email me privately at ,

when2aregathered@proton.me

[ Folk Dance Performance ] Tinikling