Personal Blogs

“Woe unto them that decree unrighteous decrees,

and that write grievousness which they have prescribed.”

— Isaiah 10:1

That’s Not How Political Power Works

Across the pages of the Bible runs a solemn and repeating pattern: rulers who make life difficult for God’s people may appear strong for a season, but their power never lasts forever. Kingdoms rise, governments harden themselves, leaders silence truth, and the faithful are pressured, mocked, imprisoned, or crushed beneath systems of fear. Yet again and again, scripture presents the same conclusion — earthly power is temporary, while divine justice remains.

Among all these rulers, Pontius Pilate stands as one of the clearest and most tragic examples.

Pilate was not remembered because he was exceptionally evil compared with history’s tyrants. He did not slaughter nations on the scale of emperors or conquerors. Instead, he represents something quieter and perhaps more dangerous: the leader who knows what is right but lacks the courage to defend it.

The Gospel accounts strongly suggest that Pilate recognized the innocence of Jesus Christ. He questioned Him personally. He declared publicly that he found no fault worthy of death. He understood that envy and political hostility were driving the accusations against Christ. Yet despite this knowledge, he surrendered truth to preserve political order and protect his own position.

Pilate feared unrest more than injustice.

That single decision sealed his place in history.

Throughout scripture, oppressive rulers often share this same blindness. Pharaoh hardened his heart against enslaved Israelites and watched Egypt collapse beneath judgment. Nebuchadnezzar II exalted himself in pride before being humbled. Ahab and Jezebel manipulated justice and destroyed innocent lives, only for ruin to follow their house. Again and again the Bible warns that rulers who oppose righteousness often mistake temporary authority for permanent security.

Pilate belongs to this pattern.

He sat in judgment over Christ believing he was protecting stability, but in truth he exposed the weakness of worldly power. Rome appeared invincible in his day. Its armies stretched across continents. Caesar’s authority seemed immovable. Yet the empire that condemned Christ eventually crumbled into history, while the name of Jesus spread across the earth.

That contrast is impossible to ignore.

Pilate washed his hands before the crowd as if responsibility could be removed through ceremony. Yet history remembered what the water could not erase. He authorized the crucifixion of a man he believed innocent because defending truth threatened his career and political peace.

This is why Pilate remains so relevant. He reveals that injustice is often carried forward not only by openly wicked men, but also by fearful men — men who compromise conscience for safety, approval, or position.

The pattern continues far beyond biblical times. History repeatedly shows leaders persecuting believers, suppressing truth, mocking faith, or placing unbearable burdens upon people seeking to live according to God. For a while such rulers often seem untouchable. Their systems appear permanent. Their voices dominate nations. Yet over time many fall into disgrace, collapse, isolation or historical shame.

The Bible’s message is not merely political; it is spiritual. God is portrayed as patient, but not blind. Power may delay consequences, but it cannot escape accountability forever.

Pilate himself seems to have ended in obscurity and disgrace. Historical traditions suggest he eventually lost favour with Rome after brutal actions in Samaria led to complaints against him. After being summoned back to answer before the emperor Tiberius, he disappears into uncertainty. Some traditions claim exile. Others say suicide. Whatever the precise details, the man who once wielded imperial authority vanished into the shadows of history.

Yet his name survived.

Not as a great ruler.

Not as a victorious governor.

But as the man who stood before truth incarnate and chose political survival instead.

That is the warning his story leaves behind. Leaders may command armies, shape laws, intimidate nations, and trouble the people of God for a season, but scripture repeatedly insists that no throne stands forever against righteousness. Human authority fades. Empires decay. Public opinion shifts like sand.

Scottish Family Party

The arrival of election leaflets has become one of the familiar rituals of modern Britain. Every few years they begin slipping through the letterbox in their bright colours and polished language, each one promising renewal, stability, prosperity, fairness, or change. The faces alter, the slogans evolve, but the underlying message remains much the same: trust us, and things will improve.

Yet as the years pass, many ordinary people cannot escape the feeling that the nation continues drifting deeper into confusion despite all the promises. Streets feel less safe than they once did. Communities seem more fragmented. Loneliness grows quietly behind closed doors. Anxiety, addiction, depression, and anger have become woven into everyday life. Governments come and go, but the deeper sickness remains untouched.

Last week, among the usual collection of campaign literature, there arrived a leaflet from a party I had never encountered before: Scottish Family Party. Whether one agrees with all of its policies or not is almost beside the point. What struck me was the simple use of the word “family.” In modern politics, family is often treated cautiously, almost apologetically, as though speaking of it too strongly risks offending the spirit of the age. Yet from a Christian viewpoint, family has never been a minor social arrangement. It is one of the foundations upon which healthy civilisation rests.

Christianity teaches that society is not held together merely by laws, markets, or political institutions. It is held together by moral bonds formed quietly over generations: fidelity between husband and wife, responsibility between parents and children, care for the elderly, sacrifice for others, and the slow shaping of character within the home. Before a child ever encounters the state, the media, or the workplace, they first encounter love, discipline, forgiveness, authority, and security — or the absence of them — within family life.

Much of modern politics seems preoccupied with treating symptoms while refusing to examine causes. We build larger systems to manage rising social disorder, yet rarely ask why disorder is increasing in the first place. We speak endlessly about economic policy, but far less about moral formation. We invest in programmes to deal with loneliness, crime, addiction, and fractured mental health, while often ignoring the collapse of stable relationships and the weakening of the family itself.

This is not to condemn those whose families have broken under hardship, betrayal, abuse, poverty, or grief. Many people carry wounds they did not choose. Christianity demands compassion before judgement. Christ Himself showed extraordinary tenderness towards the broken-hearted and those living amid failure and sorrow. But compassion should not prevent honesty. A civilisation cannot steadily erode marriage, weaken commitment, celebrate selfishness, and dismiss the importance of fathers and mothers without consequences eventually appearing throughout society.

There was a time when the family stood at the centre of community life. Elderly parents were cared for by their children. Fathers understood duty as something sacred rather than optional. Mothers were honoured for the immeasurable labour of nurturing the next generation. Children grew up surrounded by grandparents, cousins, neighbours, and church communities that reinforced moral expectations and offered stability. Imperfect though those times certainly were, there existed a stronger understanding that freedom without responsibility eventually becomes destructive.

Modern culture often encourages the opposite message. Personal fulfilment is treated as the highest good. Commitment is viewed as temporary. Relationships are increasingly fragile. Entertainment and technology consume attention while genuine human connection quietly weakens. The result is a society that possesses more convenience than ever before, yet often less meaning.

Politicians promise solutions to the resulting chaos, but governments are limited in what they can truly repair. The state can provide benefits, prisons, healthcare, regulations, and programmes, but it cannot manufacture virtue. It cannot legislate love into existence. It cannot replace the quiet moral education that once took place naturally within strong families and rooted communities. When those foundations weaken, governments expand endlessly in an attempt to compensate, yet the deeper emptiness remains.

Christians should also be careful not to place excessive hope in politics itself. No political party will redeem the nation. Elections matter, laws matter, and public morality matters, but spiritual decline cannot ultimately be solved through manifestos and campaigns. The problems of Britain — and indeed much of the modern West — are not merely economic or political. They are spiritual. A society that loses its sense of God eventually loses its sense of purpose, restraint, and even human dignity.

The Christian answer begins not in Westminster or Holyrood, but in repentance, faithfulness, and renewal of the heart. Strong societies grow from small acts of love and duty repeated over generations: parents remaining faithful to one another, children learning respect and responsibility, churches caring for the lonely, neighbours knowing one another, and ordinary people choosing sacrifice over selfishness.

Perhaps that is why the word “family” on a simple campaign leaflet lingered in my mind longer than the usual political slogans. In an age obsessed with systems, technology, and ideology, it quietly pointed back towards something older and deeper: the truth that civilisation is ultimately built not from government alone, but from the condition of the human soul and the strength of the bonds between people.

And once those sacred bonds begin to unravel, no amount of political management can fully hold a nation together.

Reference: Scottish Family Party

“The streets of London have their map, but our passions are uncharted.” — Virginia Woolf

There are lines in literature that feel less like sentences and more like small revelations. Woolf’s observation about maps and passions has always struck me that way — a reminder that the inner life refuses to be surveyed, measured, or neatly explained. We can chart the streets of a city, but not the hidden terrain of longing, fear, tenderness, or belonging. And sometimes it takes stepping into a landscape far from the city to realise how much of ourselves remains unmapped.

My wife and I were climbing Mam Tor in Britain’s Peak District at the weekend when this thought returned to me. The climb was sharp at times, the path busy with weekend walkers, and the ridge ahead opened like a long invitation. As we ascended, our conversation drifted to the question of what it means to be othered in British society — how easily people are placed into categories, and how those categories can harden into distance. I know that feeling. I was othered for leaving my religion. We spoke about the quiet ways people are made to feel out of place, and the equally quiet ways belonging can be restored. I see a sinister zeitgeist corrupting our feelings toward fellow humans and causing us, in the Christian paradigm, to fail in loving our neighbour as ourselves.

Somewhere along the ascent, we decided to do something simple: speak to the people walking beside us. Not as a project, not as a performance,  just as an act of human kindness. The hill was alive with voices: young Muslim women in head coverings, British-born lads with easy humour, Arab families wrapped against the sun, African students taking photos, Indian couples sharing snacks, a Lithuanian family as they sat on the grass. The diversity was not theoretical; it was right there on the path with us, breathing the same fresh air, taking in the same therapeutic view.

The conversations we had were small but vivid. One young girl caught me listening to her conversation and smiled. I jokingly said, “You cannot rant here.” Soon my wife and I were in conversation with these three Muslim girls about living in the moment and divine justice.

And so the day went. Nothing scripted. Nothing strained. Just the kind of encounters that happen when you meet people without armour, without assumptions, without the invisible lines that so often divide us.

As the landscape widened around us; the rolling hills, the long sweep of sky. Something in me loosened. The categories we had been discussing felt suddenly flimsy, like paper held up against the wind. Here we were, a collection of strangers from different backgrounds, different languages, different stories, all climbing the same hill for reasons we might never fully articulate. Woolf was right: our passions are uncharted. And yet, in moments like this, they seem to run parallel, as if some deeper current connects us beneath the surface.

At the summit, I smiled at four young Muslim girls sitting in a line that reminded me of those workers in New York having lunch in the heavens. Around me, people huddled for photos, shared flasks of tea, leaned into the landscape. There was a sense of camaraderie that didn’t need to be named. When we finally turned to leave, an Arab man stood nearby speaking into his phone. I caught his eye and smiled. He paused mid-sentence, smiled back, and in that brief exchange — no words, no explanations — the whole day seemed to gather itself into a single, quiet moment of recognition.

It struck me then that the map Woolf speaks of is not the one we hold in our hands, but the one we carry inside us — the one that tells us who belongs and who doesn’t, who is familiar and who is foreign. And perhaps the work of being human, or at least one part of it, is to redraw that map again and again, until the boundaries soften and the distances shrink.

Mam Tor didn’t give us answers. But it offered something gentler: a reminder that the world is full of people whose inner landscapes we will never fully know, yet with whom we share the same wind, the same path, the same fragile hope of being understood. And sometimes, all it takes to bridge the uncharted space between us is a smile returned on a stunning peak. As my wife and I drove back to Scotland and landed exhausted into bed, we prayed for the people embedded in our memory that day and in God’s grand eternal purpose.

"But in keeping with God’s promise,

we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth,

where righteousness dwells."

2 Peter 3:13

Gratitude Amidst the Stones

There are moments when the body feels like a quiet battlefield; when something unseen stirs beneath the surface and reminds you, gently but firmly, that life is fragile. Illness has a way of naming that truth. It arrived for me without ceremony, settling into three places at once, as though my own body had become a kind of Trojan horse. And yet, even there, life did not retreat.

At the beginning, there were careful words and cautious optimism. “We don’t use the word fatal,” the doctor said, and I have come to understand the wisdom in that. Life resists such final language. It continues, often stubbornly, in the face of uncertainty. Three years on, I find that the days are still full of ordinary rhythms, of quiet joys, of a gratitude that has deepened rather than diminished.

I think of this often when I walk through the Glasgow Necropolis. It rises above the city like a place set apart, where time feels both present and distant. On bright mornings, when the light softens the edges of thought, it becomes less a place of endings and more a place of perspective.

Among the stones, I find myself drawn not only to the length of lives but to their brevity. So many names belong to children, little lives scarcely begun, their years marked in small numbers that feel almost impossible to comprehend. They lived in harsher times, taken by illnesses that swept through like sudden storms. Their presence there is quiet, but it is not empty. I now understand why the Bible proverb in Ecclesiastes 7 says, “It is better to enter a house of mourning than a house of feasting.”

It is a strange grace to stand as an older man among the young who never grew old. Not guilt, but wonder rises, wonder at the sheer gift of years. Of all that has been lived: journeys taken, words written, faith questioned and found again, grief endured and softened. Life, in all its ordinary depth, reveals itself as something far more generous than we often notice.

In such a place, illness changes its shape. It no longer feels only like an ending waiting in the wings, but like a marker along the road; a reminder to look not only ahead, but also behind. However, many days remain, they are held alongside the many that have already been given. And that changes everything.

The questions that come are not neat ones. They drift through the quiet: what of those who never had time to choose, to believe, to become? And here, faith does not answer with certainty so much as with trust. The words of Christ linger: that the kingdom belongs to such as these. It is enough, perhaps, to believe that no life is misplaced, that mercy reaches further than our understanding.

Cemeteries carry a kind of equality. Every name rests the same, every story concludes in stillness. Yet for those who continue walking, there remains something extraordinary—time. Time not only as something passing, but as something full. Time to forgive, to notice, to love, to be thankful in ways that once felt unnecessary.

So, I keep walking. Not only through that city of the dead, but through each given day. Illness walks with me, yes—but so does gratitude. And so, in a quiet, steady way, does hope.

The Dream We Seem to Share

I woke at 6am this morning having something I felt I had to write about. It was about a trip I took this week and the people I met. There are places where something loosens in us before we quite understand why. I felt it this week in Oban, and more so on one of the small islands scattered beyond it, where land and sea seem to speak quietly to one another. I cannot say if it was the weather, or the softened cadence of those who live closer to the elements, but conversation came more easily there—between islander and visitor and tourist and visitor between strangers who, for a moment, did not feel entirely unknown.

It is as though such places carry their own steady rhythm. In cities, people pass through each other like shadows cast in haste, each life sealed behind invisible glass. But on the islands, people seem to move with one another, not as an effort, but as a condition of being. There are fewer layers to navigate, fewer roles to perform. A person stands before you not as a function, but simply as themselves—someone under the same sky, walking the same ground, breathing the same salted air.

The elements themselves seem to conspire in this quiet uniting. The breeze is not a backdrop but a presence. The shifting light, the sudden trickle of rain, the long silences between waves—these are shared experiences, not private inconveniences. When two people stand beneath the same settled sky, there is already something held in common before a word is spoken. It is a kind of unspoken fellowship, where connection does not begin with language but with noticing.

Time, too, feels altered. It stretches, not into emptiness, but into something more humane. There is less urgency pressing upon each moment, less demand to move on before something has had the chance to deepen. Conversations are not cut short by invisible clocks. They are allowed to breathe, to wander, to exist without purpose. And in that unhurried space, something truer often emerges.

There is also a quiet expectation, almost a moral one, that you will acknowledge another person’s presence. A nod, a brief word, a passing question—these are not gestures of politeness so much as recognitions of shared existence. To ignore someone would feel more unnatural than to greet them. And so, without quite realising it, you begin to fall into that rhythm yourself. You become more open, not by effort, but by exposure.

Yet it would be incomplete to say that this change belongs only to the place. Something within you shifts as well. The landscape does not merely surround you; it rearranges you. You begin to notice more and demand less. You become, perhaps, a little more willing to meet another person without the need to defend or define yourself. What emerges is a kind of relational clarity; where connection is no longer something to be achieved, but something that simply happens when presence is undisturbed.

And once you have known this, even briefly, the contrast with the guarded pace of busier places can feel almost jarring. You begin to sense how much of ordinary life is shaped by distance a distance carefully maintained, subtly enforced. The islands, in their quiet way, undo that distance.

The boundary between lives is thinner than we imagine, as though the stranger was never entirely separate, only waiting to be recognised. It was Walt Whitman I believe who wrote with a kind of trembling awareness: “ Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams...” It is a curious line, unsettling in its intimacy, as if he glimpsed something shared beneath the surface of all passing lives.

Perhaps that is what places like these awaken. Those who are drawn to beauty—to the quiet dignity of the earth’s finer places—often stand at the edge of a deeper recognition. It is not only that the world is beautiful, but that its beauty feels intentional, almost communicative. It does not seem like an accident one can easily dismiss. There is, woven into it, a suggestion of meaning, of design, of something that exceeds mere chance.

And alongside this is another quiet truth we carry: a reluctance to leave this world. Not simply out of fear, but out of a sense that we belong here, that there is something unfinished in our presence. It is as though the beauty we encounter is not only to be admired, but to be remembered; it points beyond itself.

The ancient writer of Ecclesiastes spoke of eternity being placed within the human heart, a strange and persistent awareness that we are made for more than the span we are given. And in the Gospels, Jesus Christ speaks to a dying man not of endings, but of arrival: “You will be with me in paradise.” It is a statement that does not argue, only invites.

So perhaps what is stirred in such places is not only a social ease, nor even a love of beauty, but a kind of homesickness for something we have not yet fully known. A shared dream, quietly carried, sometimes unspoken, yet recognised in moments of stillness; in a passing conversation, in a held glance, in the simple awareness of standing together under the same sky.

And for a moment, on a small island at the edge of the sea, it feels as though that distance between people, between longing and fulfilment, has narrowed, just enough to be felt.

“I was a great sinner, but I knew nothing of the Saviour.”

From Thief to Father of Orphans: A Book That Inspires

When I think about the life of George Müller, two Divine promises come quietly to mind:
“Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass”
and, “A father of the fatherless.”

They do not feel like decorations placed upon his story. They feel like its foundation.

My wife and I have been listening to The Autobiography of George Müller by George Müller at bedtime. It is not merely a life story. It reads like a quiet, steady testimony to what faith looks like when it is lived without compromise. The pages do not rush. They unfold. And as they do, they reveal a man who began in moral ruin, yet became a vessel through which countless lives were sustained, guided, and transformed.

Müller does not hide his beginnings. He writes with disarming honesty about his youth as a liar, a thief, and a manipulator. He recounts stealing money from his father, deceiving others, and living without any real sense of God. At one point he reflects, “I was a great sinner, but I knew nothing of the Saviour.” That simple admission sets the stage for everything that follows. His life is not built on natural goodness, but on intervention. Grace enters, not as a vague idea, but as a force that changes direction.

The turning point comes quietly. Müller attends a small prayer meeting almost by accident. There is no dramatic spectacle. No thunder. Yet something shifts. He later writes, “I had not been long in the room when I felt something of the power of the Lord.” This moment becomes the seed of a lifelong conviction that God is not distant. God acts. God hears. God provides.

What makes Müller’s story especially compelling is not only that he believed this, but that he tested it repeatedly. He resolved early in his ministry that he would depend entirely on God for provision. He would not ask people for money. He would pray and trust that needs would be met. This decision was not theoretical. It became the foundation of his work with orphans.

When Müller began caring for children in Bristol, the need was overwhelming. Poverty, disease, and abandonment marked the lives of countless orphans. Yet he refused to operate by ordinary methods. Instead, he leaned into prayer with a kind of steady, almost stubborn trust. Again and again, at the very point of need, provision arrived.

One of the most well-known accounts illustrates this clearly. The orphanage had no food. The children were seated at the table. There was nothing to eat. Müller prayed, thanking God for the meal that had not yet come. Within minutes, a baker knocked at the door. He explained that he had been unable to sleep and felt compelled to bake bread for the children. Shortly after, a milk cart broke down nearby, and the milk was given to the orphanage before it spoiled.

Müller never dramatizes these events. That is part of their power. He records them plainly, almost quietly. “The Lord helped us again,” he writes. Or, “We were not left without help.” The restraint in his tone makes the accounts more convincing, not less. There is no attempt to impress, only a careful record of what he believed God had done.

Throughout the book, a pattern emerges. Need arises. Prayer follows. Provision comes. It does not always come quickly. Sometimes there are delays that test patience and deepen reliance. Müller reflects, “The Lord’s time is always the best time.” This theme runs like a quiet thread through the narrative. Faith is not presented as a means of control. It is a posture of trust, especially when circumstances seem uncertain.

His work with orphans grew beyond anything he could have planned. What began with a handful of children expanded into large orphan houses that cared for thousands over the course of his life. Yet Müller remained consistent in his principles. He kept detailed records, not to boast, but to demonstrate that God had been faithful.

Another striking element of his life is his commitment to Scripture. Müller did not treat the Bible as background material. It was central. He once wrote, “The vigour of our spiritual life will be in exact proportion to the place held by the Bible in our life and thoughts.” This conviction shaped not only his personal devotion, but also the environment he created for the children under his care. They were not merely fed and clothed. They were taught to know God.

Observers of Müller often remarked on his calmness in the face of pressure. One contemporary noted that he possessed “a peaceful confidence which nothing could disturb.” This was not indifference. It was the result of a life practiced in trust. He had seen provision come too many times to doubt its source.

What makes the story deeply moving is the contrast between his beginning and his legacy. The boy who once stole without remorse became a man who gave without hesitation. The young man who deceived others became one who insisted on truth in both word and action. His transformation was not sudden perfection. It was steady change, shaped by dependence on God.

Müller himself never claimed credit. He consistently pointed away from himself. “I seek the will of the Spirit of God through or in connection with the Word of God,” he wrote. His emphasis remained fixed. The work was God’s. He was only a servant.

There is also a quiet challenge in his life. To refuse to ask for help and rely solely on prayer can seem impractical. Yet Müller did not present his life as a rule for all, but as a demonstration. He wanted to show that God could be trusted in real and practical ways.

In this sense, the book becomes more than biography. It becomes an invitation. It asks whether faith is merely spoken or truly lived. It raises questions about reliance, about patience, and about the unseen ways provision may come.

By the end of the narrative, the scale of Müller’s impact is undeniable. Thousands of orphans were cared for. Countless prayers were recorded and answered. Yet the most lasting impression is not the numbers. It is the quiet consistency of a life shaped by trust.

The Autobiography of George Müller leaves the reader with a sense of stillness rather than excitement. It does not overwhelm. It settles. It reminds us that transformation is possible, even from the lowest beginnings, and that faith, when practiced daily, can become something solid and enduring.

Müller’s life stands as a testimony that God’s work often unfolds in ordinary moments. A prayer whispered. A need acknowledged. A provision received. And through these small, repeated acts, a former thief became a guardian of the vulnerable and a witness to a faith that continues to speak long after his time.

And that is why those words linger. He committed his way to the Lord, and in time, became a father to the fatherless.

Psalms quoted in opening paragraph:  Psalm 37:5 and Psalm 68:5.

A Letter to the Little Girl from Hjo

Some memories don’t fade the way others do. Most slip back into the soft blur of lived days, but a few remain strangely luminous, as if they were waiting for us to notice something in them.

It was 1996 when my family and I were exploring Sweden. In the town of Hjo, Västra Götaland,  we took a small pause on a long drive from Gothenburg to Stockholm. The square was quiet, washed in that gentle Scandinavian light that makes everything feel slightly suspended, peaceful,  as though time itself has taken a breath.

You appeared without ceremony—twelve, maybe thirteen—and sat beside us on the benches as if you had always belonged to our little travelling world. You didn’t speak, but your silence wasn’t empty. It had a kind of restless gravity to it, the sort that doesn’t come from boredom alone but from a deeper longing, the human ache of wanting to be seen by someone, even strangers who would be gone in minutes. There was something lighthouse-like about you: solitary, steady, standing where no one else stood. Not broken, not dramatic—just quietly apart.

I’ve wondered about you ever since. Were you simply curious? Were we the most interesting thing to happen in your sleepy town that day? Or did you recognise, in some instinctive way, that people sometimes need each other without knowing why? We got up eventually, unsure of the etiquette of such a moment, and left without saying a word. You stayed behind on the bench, swallowed again by the silence of Hjo, and yet you never really left.

It’s strange how certain strangers take root in us. Perhaps it’s because they reveal something we didn’t realise we were carrying. You became a mirror of sorts—a reminder that loneliness is not a private condition but a shared inheritance, that all of us at some point sit beside others hoping to be acknowledged. You showed me that even the smallest encounters can carry the weight of something eternal when they brush against a tender place in us.

Some philosophers say meaning arrives not in grand events but in the interruptions—those brief, inexplicable crossings of paths that ask nothing, explain nothing, yet leave us changed. You were one of those interruptions. A fleeting presence that whispered something about the human condition: that we are all wandering through our own little towns, hoping someone might sit beside us for a while.

And so, you remain, the lonely girl from Hjo, not as a mystery to be solved but as a quiet symbol of how lives touch and shape one another without ever knowing it. You became part of my story in a way you’ll never be aware of, and perhaps that is the most human thing of all—that we leave traces in places we never meant to, simply by being who we are for a moment in time.

The Kingdom Is Not Preached by One Voice Alone

I was walking along the harbourside this morning; one of those quiet, necessary routines to keep the body steady and the mind from drifting too far. It was there I was stopped by an evangeliser, gentle in manner, who asked how I was keeping. I knew, having once stood where he stood, how the conversation would unfold. It did not take long.

“You know, we are the only ones who are preaching God’s Kingdom.”

It is a confident claim. But confidence does not make something true.

I felt compelled to play the Devil’s advocate and answer plainly, as truth must prevail in such discussions: “No, you’re not.” Not out of hostility, but out of honesty. Before such a statement can stand, it must first define its terms. What does it mean to “preach the Kingdom”? If it means proclaiming God’s reign, calling people to repentance, and sharing the hope of Christ, then the claim quickly begins to unravel under even light examination.

Across the world today, there are roughly 420,000 to 450,000 foreign missionaries. These come from Catholic, Protestant, and various independent traditions. Some estimates place the number at around 445,000 currently active. That alone challenges the idea of exclusivity. These are not silent figures; they preach, teach, translate, build, and live out their message in cultures far from home.

And this is only the present moment—a snapshot.

Missionary work has been continuous for nearly two thousand years, stretching back to the early Church. The numbers have not remained static. In the 1980s, there were around 250,000 missionaries; today, that figure has grown significantly. Some serve for decades, others only briefly, but over time the accumulation is substantial. While no exact figure exists, a reasonable conclusion is unavoidable: across history, the number of those sent out to preach has reached into the millions, not merely the hundreds of thousands.

The difficulty in counting them only strengthens the point. Definitions vary—some count only foreign missionaries, while others include local evangelists. Records, especially before the modern era, are incomplete. Thousands of independent mission organisations operate without centralised tracking. Roles overlap: pastors, aid workers, and evangelists often carry out the same essential task under different titles.

Even beyond formal missionary work, the witness continues. Evangelical churches across the world maintain a steady presence—on streets, in communities, and increasingly online. They preach, invite, and disciple, drawing people from both local neighbourhoods and distant nations.

So, the claim that only one group preaches God’s Kingdom does not hold. It is not supported by history, by numbers, or by the lived reality of the global Church.

The truth is quieter, and perhaps more humbling: the message of the Kingdom has never belonged to one organisation. It has been carried—imperfectly, persistently—by countless voices across centuries. Not one stream, but many. Not one witness, but a multitude.

And that, I think, is closer to the shape of things as they really are.

He then said, “Ah, but they teach the Trinity,” which missed the point of the original claim about the exclusivity of preaching the Kingdom. That latter point regarding the Trinity I will take up soon, keeping in mind that I am only playing the Devil’s advocate dear reader.

References

Barrett, D. B., Johnson, T. M. and Crossing, P. F. (2001) World Christian Trends, AD 30–AD 2200: Interpreting the Annual Christian Megacensus. Pasadena: William Carey Library.

Johnson, T. M. and Zurlo, G. A. (2023) World Christian Encyclopedia, 3rd edn. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

Pew Research Center (2011) Global Christianity: A Report on the Size and Distribution of the World’s Christian Population. Washington, DC: Pew Research Center.

World Evangelical Alliance (2022) State of the Great Commission Report. Available at: https://worldea.org (Accessed: 17 April 2026).

Center for the Study of Global Christianity (2024) Status of Global Mission. Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary. Available at: https://www.gordonconwell.edu/center-for-global-christianity/ (Accessed: 17 April 2026).

“I see the spectacle of morning from the hill-top…

with emotions which an angel might share.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson —

Our Borrowed Hour

Wherever I travel, I’m struck by how people greet the sunrise. I’ve never been to Vietnam, but I’ve long admired a quiet custom there—kept mostly by the elderly, or by those who have learned the worth of stillness. They rise before the world fully wakes and go out to meet the day. They call it đón bình minh—to welcome the sunrise.

It isn’t a ceremony. Nothing is arranged or announced. It belongs to rhythm, to return, to something that needs no explanation. Each morning, the same small pilgrimage: to the edge of water, to a familiar bench, to an open horizon that asks nothing and gives everything.

Before dawn, the world stirs gently. Doors open without sound. Bicycles drift through dim streets. Footsteps move with quiet intention. People make their way to riverbanks, lakesides, temple courtyards, hilltops. In Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City, they gather while the sky is still undecided, holding its breath in shades of grey.

No one rushes. There is nothing to catch, nothing to miss. They arrive as though returning to a place that has been waiting.

Some sit low to the ground, steady and unhurried. Some stand with hands folded behind them, gazing outward. Others lean into stillness, against a railing or a tree. The air is cool, suspended between night and day.

There is a line in the Runrig song In Search of Angels that lingers long after the music fades: “This one horizon in our borrowed hour.” It recognises that what we are given is brief, and yet, in its briefness, somehow sacred—not because it lasts, but because it is shared. Because we stand within it together, even for a moment.

Perhaps that is the heart of it: a borrowed hour, a shared horizon.

Movements are slow and deliberate—stretching, breathing, gestures that feel older than memory. A few soft words exchanged, or silence that says more. Tea poured. Coffee steaming into the fading dark.

And then, without ceremony, the light begins.

There is something quietly existential in this waiting—not restless, not questioning, simply aware. The sun will rise whether anyone watches. The day will begin without permission. Time will continue, indifferent to who stands at its edge.

And still, they come.

Not to change anything, but to be present at the moment it changes. To stand in that narrow crossing where what has been slips away and what will be has not yet arrived. For a few minutes, the world seems to pause—not empty, but held. As if something unseen gathers the hours and sets them gently in motion again.

In the rising light, there is a quiet reassurance. Not loud, not declared—felt. That the world is not unheld. That the turning continues with purpose. That someone, somewhere beyond our seeing, keeps faith with the morning.

For farmers, the light calls them to labour. In the cities, it marks the last breath before noise returns. But for those who stand and watch, it becomes something else—a recognition that this moment, like all moments, will pass, and is no less sacred for its passing. “This one horizon in our borrowed hour.”

And so they stand within it.
Not trying to keep it.
Not asking it to stay.
Only receiving it as it is given—
another sunrise,
another beginning,
another quiet assurance that the light will come again.

Going Home

I woke yesterday morning as though I had never quite returned from sleep. Not rested, not renewed—just carried over, like a body moving out of habit rather than will. Cancer has a way of doing that. It does not always shout; sometimes it dulls, softens the edges of being until you feel less like a person and more like a shadow rehearsing the motions of one.

I walked for half an hour, thinking movement might call me back into myself. But even then, there was that strange distance—as though I were watching someone else walk ahead of me, someone I was meant to recognise. The world was there, but I was not fully in it. There are days like that, when energy is not the problem so much as presence.

Later, I sat and read Rip Van Winkle, a story I had been meaning to return to. You probably know it—Rip, careless and drifting, falls in with the wrong company, drinks too much, and sleeps through decades. When he wakes, he assumes it is the same day. But nothing answers to him anymore. Faces are unfamiliar. Home does not receive him as it once did. It is not just time that has passed—it is belonging that has slipped away.

It struck me, perhaps more than it should have, that the story is not really about sleep, but about identity. About how quietly it can dissolve when the threads that hold it—place, people, memory—are loosened. Rip does not just lose years; he loses the context that made him himself.

By the afternoon, still heavy with that same inward fog, I put on Runrig’s Final Concert at Stirling Castle, namely, The Last Dance. There is something about Runrig that reaches into places words alone cannot. As the first part closed with “Going Home,” a flock of geese passed overhead on the screen—winging their way somewhere certain. It felt almost too deliberate, too symbolic to ignore. The instinct of return, written into them. No hesitation. No doubt.

I found myself envying the songwriters. For them, home seems anchored—Skye, the Hebrides, a landscape that holds memory in its bones. Even when they leave, they are still oriented toward something. There is a direction to their longing.

I noticed a woman near the front of the crowd—a German lady perhaps. Her face held something close to tears. I wondered where home was for her. Or if, perhaps, she was feeling that peculiar ache—the Germans call it Ferwweh—a longing not for where you’ve been, but for somewhere you have never known, yet somehow miss all the same. Runrig has a way of awakening that. A kind of homesickness without a map.

I was adopted as a child. My new family moved often. Places came and went before they could settle into anything solid. I attended four primary schools before high school. And so, like Rip stepping back into a world that no longer fits, I sometimes feel that “home” is not something I can return to, only something I circle around. Recognisable, but never quite mine.

Perhaps that is what it means, in an existential sense, to be homeless—not without shelter, but without a fixed centre. To live with the quiet question: where do I belong, when belonging itself has no stable ground?

And yet, even in that, there is something shared. A recognition that many of us are, in our own ways, wandering between versions of home—remembered, imagined, or hoped for. I’m sure the longing itself is a kind of home. Not solid, not certain, but real enough to feel. Ò, cho mealltach.

Going Home by Runrig: Going Home

Image by Copilot

We cannot control every influence that touches our children.

But we can shape the fire they sit beside.

Against the Drift: How Parents Can Reclaim Their Children

In my January 11 post of this year, I spoke of something simple, almost old-fashioned: families reading or listening together. I mentioned Rob Parsons’ book A Knock at the Door as something worth gathering around—whether read aloud or listened to in the quiet companionship of an audiobook. I suggested, too, the creation of that gentle, Danish sense of hygge—warmth, nearness, shared stillness.

But what I had in mind was deeper than atmosphere.

There is, if we are honest, a slow drift taking place. Not dramatic, not always visible, but steady. Children absorb more than we realise—through media, through conversation, through the subtle shaping of what is normal. Spend a little time listening—not instructing, just observing—and you begin to notice it. The tone of speech has sharpened. There is more impatience, more edge, more casual harshness than there once was. Fifty years ago, the language of the home, though far from perfect, often carried more restraint, more gentleness. Something has shifted.

And children, almost without knowing it, are carried along by that current.

This is why what we place before them matters so deeply. Stories are not neutral. Words shape the inner world. Books that cultivate empathy, fellow feeling, quiet courage, and spiritual awareness act almost like a counterweight. They steady the heart. They soften what the world hardens. That is why I occasionally draw attention to recommendations—not as a pastime, but as a quiet form of resistance.

There is something almost unbearable in the opening lines of George Müller’s life story. Not because it is outwardly dramatic, but because it is so quietly destructive. A boy, entrusted with opportunity—with education, with provision beyond his years—turns inward instead of upward. And in doing so, he wounds the very heart that sought his good.

He himself later wrote, with disarming honesty, that he had been “a thief, a liar, and a deceiver.” Not once, but repeatedly. That word matters. This was not a single lapse, but a forming of habit. Small acts, perhaps, but together they shaped a direction. One can picture the moment his father discovered the hidden money—counting coins, testing suspicions, finding what had been concealed. It is a simple domestic scene, yet heavy with sorrow. A trust broken quietly, but deeply.

And the deeper sadness lay not only in the boy, but in the atmosphere around him. Religion, in that household, became a means of advancement rather than transformation and bared lightly on what Godly devotion was. So, Müller would later reflect that he was being prepared for the ministry “for the sake of a good living,” not for the sake of God. And so, the outward structure was there, but the inward life was not.

Without that inward turning, everything else sharpened the wrong edge. He studied, yes, but he also drifted. He read what dulled his conscience, formed habits that deepened his carelessness, and moved further into a kind of moral numbness.

Perhaps the most piercing moment comes with the death of his mother. While she lay dying, he was unaware—absorbed in cards late into the night. And even after her passing, there was no awakening, no immediate grief, only further wandering. It is difficult to read without a kind of quiet ache. Not simply because he sinned, but because he did not feel.

And that, in many ways, is the greater danger for our own time.

Not always open rebellion—but numbness. A dulling of the inner life. A loss of tenderness.

And yet—this is not where his story ends.

What makes Müller’s life so compelling is not the darkness of its beginning, but the depth of its change. The boy who stole and deceived became a man marked by integrity, compassion, and an extraordinary dependence on God. In his later work with orphans, he refused to ask for financial support, choosing instead to trust entirely in prayer. The life that once took became a life that gave.

He would later say that the great turning point came when his heart was truly affected—when he began to read Scripture not as a duty, but as a living word. “I saw that the most important thing I had to do,” he wrote, “was to give myself to the reading of the Word of God and to meditation on it.” Something softened. Something awakened.

He did not simply improve. He was changed.

And this is where the quiet encouragement lies for us, especially within the life of the family.

If a child can drift, he can also be drawn back. If a heart can grow dull, it can also be made tender again. But this does not happen by accident. It happens through what we place before them, what we model, what we make space for.

To gather a family around a book, or an audiobook, may seem like a small act. But it is not small. It is formative. It is, in its own way, a gentle reclaiming of ground that would otherwise be lost. It creates not only warmth, but attention. Not only closeness, but shared reflection.

And perhaps more than anything, it reintroduces a different tone—a language of patience, of compassion, of inwardness—that slowly reshapes the atmosphere of the home.

We cannot control every influence that touches our children. But we can shape the fire they sit beside.

And sometimes, in that quiet circle—listening together, thinking together, feeling together—the drift begins, almost imperceptibly, to reverse.

The Autobiography of George Muller

Autobiography of George Muller by George Müller | Goodreads

“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound,
but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.
So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”
— John 3:8 (ESV)

The Freedom of Being Truly Seen

There is a trembling need in every human soul that no creed, policy, or borrowed certainty can satisfy. Beneath all our questions and weariness lies an ache for something real, personal, eternal, something like the wind, unseen yet unmistakably felt. I found myself in that place some years ago, standing in the quiet where the soul finally admits its hunger.

If you’ve left a high‑controlled religion, or if you’re searching for truth with empty hands, you already know this ache. You’ve felt the pull of something truer than the system you were given. Perhaps you felt imprisoned,  not because you lacked devotion, but because the structure around you left no room for your soul to breathe. You spun and strained, trying to find a centre that didn’t collapse beneath you.

And here is the liberating wonder: Jesus, the One appointed as judge, looks not at your labels or your pedigree or your ability to impress others. He looks at your heart; the place where the Spirit’s wind stirs.

Cornelius in Acts 10 is a witness to this. A Roman centurion, a Gentile, a man every religious insider would have dismissed. Yet God saw him. his sincerity, his reverence, his quiet goodness. Into his ordinary life came a radiant message: “Your prayers and your acts of compassion have come up as a memorial offering before God.” That was enough. Cornelius was already known. Already loved. Even Peter had to let his assumptions fall away as he realised, “God has shown me that I should not call anyone impure or unclean.” Cornelius had no credentials except a willing heart — and that was more than enough for God.

This is the way of Jesus. He meets you where your humanity is most tender, in your longing for authenticity, in your hunger for something enduring in a world of shifting sands. When He calls Himself “the way, the truth, and the life,” He is speaking to that deep ache for a centre that does not move.

Strip away the noise, the fear of men, the pressure to conform, and what remains is a simple desire: to be seen, to matter, to touch the eternal. And Jesus answers that desire with a promise: “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away.” He looks into the hidden places — the wounds, the fears, the unspoken longings — and welcomes you as you are. Not into a system that suffocates conscience, but into a friendship that frees it. Into a life that transcends the brittle rules of men.

When you embrace that invitation, you begin to taste what John called “the light of life,” a light that reaches into every dark corner and whispers that you were never alone. That light tells you that your honesty matters more than perfection, your trust more than having all the answers, your desire to do good more than your ability to perform. Even your aching questions matter, because they reveal a heart still alive.

Stepping away from control is not stepping away from Christ. It is stepping toward Him — toward a life grounded in your own lived experience of His presence. Many who walk this path describe a dizzying freedom. I know the ache for devoted Christian community; I’ve searched for it too. But in the meantime, I pray without fear. I read Scripture as if receiving a personal letter. I find Jesus in quiet, ordinary places — around the dinner table, under the stars, in whispered hopes and tears. And in the Christians I meet along the way, the ones Christ sends with words that meet my need at just the right moment.

This is what it means to live by the Spirit, to let the wind move you, even when you cannot trace its origin or predict its path. So take heart. Wherever you are on your journey, whoever you are, Jesus already sees you — not through suspicion or legalism, but with deep, tender compassion. You do not need to earn what was freely given. You do not need to hide the fragile parts of your soul. You do not need to chase a polished image of religious acceptability.

You were made for more. You were made for Him. And when you lean into that deep, soul‑level hunger — that quiet pull toward what is real and good ; you will find Him already leaning toward you, already guiding you, already breathing life into your steps. That is salvation. That is belonging. That is the wind of the Spirit, carrying you where you need to go.

“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”
— John 3:8 (ESV)

“Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version (ESV), copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.”