Personal Blogs

“As we look out into the universe and identify the many accidents of physics and astronomy that have worked together to our benefit, it almost seems as if the universe must in some sense have known that we were coming.”

Freeman Dyson

Image kindly provided by Antoine Dautry (@antoine1003) | Unsplash Photo Community

A professor of maths  once mused that mathematics seems to exist outside space and time. Numbers do not wear out. Equations do not decay. The Pythagorean Theorem, like a star in a cloudless sky, shines just as brightly in the mind of a child today as it did among ancient Greek philosophers. Why is it that 2 + 2 equals 4—not just here, but anywhere, always? And why can this abstraction—unseen and untouchable—describe the ticking of atomic clocks and the spiralling arms of galaxies?

It is a question that mathematics itself cannot answer.

Mathematical truths are often treated as self-evident, but that assumption doesn’t explain their existence. Where did the truths come from? They are not physical. You cannot trip over the number two on a walk through the forest. You cannot bake “addition” in an oven. And yet, these invisible constructs govern everything from the flutter of a sparrow’s wing to the orbit of Jupiter. The universe obeys them—not because we’ve imposed them on it, but because they were already there.

That, to me, suggests more than order. It suggests intention. Perhaps we are not inventing mathematics at all. Perhaps we are discovering it, like explorers who stumble upon a world that was already drawn into the map of existence.

This insight forms the beating heart of intelligent design. The idea is not that science should be replaced with religion, but that the coherence and beauty of natural laws—especially those so immaterial and exact as mathematics—point to a rational origin. As the physicist and devout Christian Johannes Kepler once said, in discovering the laws of planetary motion, he felt he was “thinking God’s thoughts after Him.”

From a biblical standpoint, this makes sense. Genesis does not describe a chaotic, senseless cosmos but a world created by a logos—a word, a reason, a mind. The opening of John’s Gospel echoes this: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God...” That word, logos, is the same root from which we get “logic.”

C.S. Lewis pointed out that humans became scientific not in spite belief in God, but because of it. Belief in a rational Creator gave them reason to believe the world could be understood. The laws of nature are not simply “there”; they reflect a Lawgiver.

Without such a mind behind the math, we’re left with mystery upon mystery. Why does math work? Why can something so abstract describe a universe so concrete? Why is it not otherwise? As Einstein asked, “The most incomprehensible thing about the universe is that it is comprehensible.”

It is here that intelligent design offers not a scientific formula, but a philosophical and theological explanation: because it was designed to be understood. Because behind the symbols and the logic, there is a mind. A person. A Creator who speaks in the language of order, and who invites us to understand—not just the equations of the world, but the heart behind them.

So yes, 2 + 2 equals 4. Not just as a rule, but as a whisper. A quiet voice pointing beyond time and space to the One who wrote the rules in the first place.

“This world is but a canvas to our imagination.”

Henry David Thoreau

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Imagine That!

One of the strangest things about being human is that we can suffer over things that aren’t real. We cry at the death of a character in a novel, even though we know they never lived. We lie awake at night rehearsing arguments we’ll never have, with people who aren’t in the room. We fall in love with an imagined future and grieve when life turns out otherwise. No other creature does this. A dog doesn’t weep at the idea of not going on that cruise advertised on TV. A robin doesn’t dream of flying to the moon.

But we do. We live in the what if, the maybe, the someday. We are builders of castles in the air—and mourners when they collapse.

It’s a strange gift. Our imagination gives us art, poetry, worship, science fiction, hope. I recall doing my master’s in creative writing and specialising in essays. One of my tutor marked assignments got me an incredibly high mark and the essay just fell out of my imagination just like that. Many writers and songwriters have had similar experiences. It seems the imagination can produce the goods when one concentrates.

I recall trying to memorise the periodic table and after two hours it was done. I just took an imaginary road trip and related certain elements to the places I passed.

In our imagination we build cathedrals, write symphonies, and spark revolutions. It lets us long for justice and picture peace before either exists. But it also burdens us with fear. We panic over possible diagnoses before the test results are in. We hold grudges for things never said but fully imagined. We construct entire identities around old wounds, building echo chambers in our heads where the past is always speaking.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live like the sparrow in the hedge, responding only to what is. No dread of the future. No mourning of the past. No mental reruns. Just now—the glint of the sun, the rustle of a leaf, the instinct to fly.

But that’s not the life we were given. Instead, we are creatures of memory and forethought, bound by what was and drawn forward by what might be. Our pain often comes not from what has happened, but from what we think could happen—or should have.

And yet… our greatest joys come from the same place. The hope of reconciliation. The dream of a better world. The sense that something greater lies beyond what we see.

That’s the paradox: we are the only species that suffers from imagination, and the only one saved by it.

We imagine God. Eternity. A new beginning. These are not mere illusions. They are signposts, suggesting that we are made for more than mud and molecules. The ache for something beyond may be the best evidence that we are meant for something beyond.

It is strange to be human. Strange and beautiful. We are haunted by the unreal yet often healed by it too. Our minds are theatres, sanctuaries, and sometimes prisons. But even in our darkest thoughts, a flicker of light persists: the ability to imagine a way out. A way forward. A way home.

Rather, as it is written:

“No eye has seen,

no ear has heard,

no heart has imagined,

what God has prepared for those who love Him.”

But God has revealed it to us by the Spirit.

Ephesians I:9,10. BSB.

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The Trustworthy Life

 If your closest companion, your mate, a long-time friend, or a  family member were asked to rate your trustworthiness on a scale of one to ten, what score might they give you? And if they were someone known for their honesty, not one to flatter or withhold truth out of politeness, how might their answer sit with you?

It’s a sobering thought, but also a sacred one.

We live in a world where trust is a rare and precious currency. To be counted trustworthy is not a sentimental compliment, but a statement of character. Trust is the foundation of all meaningful relationships, and when it is broken, the cost is heartbreak, silence, and distance. As the Psalmist prayed in humility and self-awareness: "Set a guard, O Lord, over my mouth; keep watch at the door of my lips." (Psalm 141:3) Our words, especially when spoken in confidence or anger, can shape or shatter someone's view of the world—and of us.

Among the many words for betrayal in the languages of the world, the Japanese Uragiri stands out. It literally means “cutting from behind.” What an image. You trust someone enough to walk ahead, to expose your back, believing they’ll guard it, not wound it. But some will. Whether in workplaces, families, or religious communities, there will always be those who whisper behind closed doors, who twist your words, who reveal what was shared in sacred confidence.

Perhaps the deepest wound of betrayal is not merely the breach of trust, but the silence in which it is committed; the lack of presence to defend oneself, to clarify, to correct. There is something cruel in being judged in absence, misrepresented in whispers. Psalm 41 gives voice to that pain:

"My enemies say with malice: 'When will he die and be forgotten?'
My visitor speaks falsehood; he gathers slander in his heart;
he goes out and spreads it abroad…
They imagine the worst for me: 'He will never rise again.'" (Psalm 41:5–8)

These ancient words still echo in our modern wounds.

Yet not all is lost in the face of betrayal. There is hope. There is healing.

One of the wisest things we can do is to become the kind of person we ourselves wish we could trust. Someone who keeps confidences as sacred, who does not need to be told “don’t repeat this” because integrity is second nature. Someone who chooses dignity over drama, and compassion over gossip.

There are people in my past who never got close to knowing me—not because I was aloof, but because they had not earned my trust. And perhaps that’s the quiet wisdom life teaches us: you cannot share your soul with those who do not treasure it. We are not here to harden or to hide, but to love. And to love well, we must learn when to open our hearts, and when to guard them.

Trust is not a soft virtue; it is a strong one. It is forged in honesty, humility, and the ability to keep another’s story safe. And those who live trustworthy lives not only gain the respect of others—they gain the deeper dignity of self-respect. They sleep with a clear conscience. They speak without hidden agendas. They love without fear of betrayal, because they themselves would never betray.

So, if the question stings— “What mark out of ten would they give me?”—treasure the sting. Let it be a wake-up call, not a condemnation. A call to step into maturity, into grace, into a trustworthy life.

Because in the end, a life of trust is more peaceful. It’s more human. It’s more like Christ.

"Many walk around with faces like the Lewis Chessmen—ancient, unmoving, locked in a sort of permanent despair."

I woke this morning with the feeling that the Vikings had just raided. The latest study shows that Britain is at the bottom of the class when it comes to joy—and the world’s press, from the Arab world to India and the West, seem to gloat in our misery.

But did we really need a study to tell us what we already feel? Thick gloom hangs over the land. Many walk around with faces like the Lewis Chessmen—ancient, unmoving, locked in a sort of permanent despair.

So how do we console ourselves?

Here’s my answer: grab your backpack and head for something exciting—like a long walk. Try the West Highland Way or the Pennine Way or follow any trail near you. Meet the world out on the footpaths and rediscover the joy that’s quietly waiting in nature. It’s not about money or status. It’s about connection.

Look at the Philippines and Indonesia—both top of the global joy charts. Having travelled to the Philippines, I can tell you what their secret is: social connection and spirituality. But I tell you, the gloom will only deepen if we stay in that cycle of social media and the cyber hive. It’s time for a radical shift. Go out there and see why many from around the world visit our nature.

Step outside. Breathe. Talk to a stranger. Meet the many tourists who come to our shores to experience our landscapes. We have something special here.

But there’s something even deeper behind the joy factor: spirituality. Many of the happiest countries in the study are places where belief and hope still live at the heart of the culture. There’s a quiet revival happening—especially among the young. More and more are returning to churches, particularly young men. Figures like Jordan Peterson and various online thinkers are sparking something—a light in the gloom.

If you've never opened a Bible, why not give it a try? Start with the Gospel of Matthew. You might be surprised by how much it speaks into our modern fog.

In the end, joy isn’t something the world hands you. It’s something you choose to seek. Sometimes, it begins with lacing up your boots, turning off your phone, and walking out into something bigger than yourself.

"What happens when we sever the roots that nourished us?

 A tree doesn’t collapse the day it’s cut. It stands for a while. 

But then, it fades. The fruit stops. 

And one day, it falls."

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They’re coming.

From the east and the south, through shattered cities and weary camps, countless souls are heading West. They’re not chasing only comfort or calm, they’re drawn by something subtler. Something you can’t quite see, like the warmth of firelight flickering just out of sight. It’s more than opportunity they seek; it’s a way of living. A way that, whether we say it or not, was shaped long ago. By the Bible.

Even now, when faith is often muted or moulded to fit modern tastes, the pulse of Christian scripture still runs deep beneath our cultural skin. Believer or not, we walk through a world that echoes something holy.

Look close at our laws and you’ll spot ancient wisdom beneath the legal lingo. “Do not murder.” “Do not steal.” “Don’t bear false witness.” These aren’t just lines carved in stone—they’re the spine of our justice. We punish violence. We guard the truth. We honour promises. What’s now codified in law once lived in hymns and homilies.

The West, for all its flaws, tried to build on that base. Hospitals began as acts of mercy. Universities like Harvard and Oxford sprang from a hunger to know God and serve society. Our instinct to care for the sick, the outsider, the poor. This didn’t grow from pragmatism, but from the radical idea that every human bear God’s image.

Yet today, many hold that the cosmos is cold and empty. No truth. No purpose. No obligation. But in such a world, why care? Why forgive? Why show mercy when no one's keeping score?

Altruism isn’t so easily pinned to evolution. It doesn’t fit the model of survival first. Still, it endures like a stubborn echo from another place. We give. We grieve injustice. We send aid across oceans. Some even lay down their lives. What moves us, in a world that claims meaning is myth?

Something deeper stirs us. A memory hidden in our culture’s bones. Like a tune from childhood, the Bible hums through our values, even when we think we’ve tuned it out.

Just listen: we still speak of grace, of purpose, of redemption. We say someone “redeemed themselves,” barely pausing to feel the weight of that word. Even our calendar counts from Christ. Our holidays, our language, our rhythms, they bear His imprint.

And we shouldn’t be embarrassed by this legacy. We should cherish it. Because the justice we pursue, the compassion we show, the dignity we assume—these aren’t givens. They were learned. Fought for. Fed by generations of spiritual discipline.

Of course, the West’s story has ugly shadows. Hypocrisy. Empire. Bloodshed. These truths must be faced. But they don’t erase the good. Christian faith sparked abolition. It birthed aid missions. It fuels hope still. In hearts that rebuild, forgive, and begin again.

And so, the question: What happens when we sever the roots that nourished us? A tree doesn’t collapse the day it’s cut. It stands for a while. But then, it fades. The fruit stops. And one day, it falls.

We are in that waiting time. The season of slow withering. We want the fruit but not the root. Justice, without the Judge. Peace, without the Prince. The kingdom, but not the King.

But freedom alone isn’t enough. We crave meaning. We want to believe that love is more than brain chemistry, that pain has purpose, that goodness is no fluke. That longing, it’s not weakness. It’s a sign. A hint that we were made for more.

Maybe that’s why they come. Not just to flee, but to arrive. To taste the fruit of a tree they didn’t plant but somehow know.

A tree whose leaves still heal.
A tree with roots in forever.

"He has shown you, O man, what is good. 

And what does the LORD require of you but to act justly, 

to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?"

Micah 6:8

"The disciple whom Jesus loved."

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Throughout my life, I’ve let go of friends, not with bitterness, nor in haste, but with the slow, certain pull of time and truth. There’s a kind of mourning in it, a quiet ache, yet also a breath of renewal, it’s like walking out of a room that has grown too small and breathing in wide, open air.

When I was younger, friendships came easily. A shared laugh, a nearby desk, a common hobby — those were enough, or at least they seemed so. But as the years slipped by, I found that companionship alone could not fill the deeper spaces of the heart. Real friendship, I realized, isn’t just about enjoying someone’s presence; it’s a shared loyalty to something larger than ourselves, notably truth, goodness and  loyalty to the things that still matter long after the laughter fades.

C.S. Lewis once said, in The Four Loves, that friendship is born when one soul says to another, “What! You too? I thought I was the only one.” It’s that glimpse of a common truth, a shared vision, that binds people deeper than circumstance ever could. And when that shared glimpse fades — or was never truly there — even the easiest friendships eventually wither.

Even in a Christian life, where love for all is our call, not every bond is meant for intimacy. Love is owed to everyone; closeness is a stewardship. Even Jesus, loving with a perfect heart, drew nearer to some more than others. Among the Twelve, there was John — “the disciple whom Jesus loved” — a quiet closeness Scripture hints at but does not fully unfold. Jesus loved them all. Yet with John, there was something different: a deeper resonance, a knowing beyond words.

I think of that often, when I feel the pull to step closer to some and quietly part from others. It isn’t a failure of love; it’s honouring the rare gift that true friendship is: a joining of hearts chasing the same light.

Some friends I left behind because our paths no longer bent toward the same truth. Some ties were nothing more than nostalgia wrapped in the illusion of love. Others slowly showed a dissonance too deep for even kindness to bridge. In letting them go, I’ve made space for what is real, companions who hunger for the same kingdom, whose eyes are softened by the same mercy.

There’s no anger in it, only gratitude for the good memories, and for the clearer path ahead.

I’ve come to believe we are shaped by those we walk with. And as the years gather behind me, I find I have less patience for those who tread lightly over sacred things. To love all is a command; to choose friends with care is a sacred task.

“The pain of youth becomes the story of age.”
Victor Hugo – Les Misérables 

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It’s a pleasant spring morning in Scotland. I’m giving my legs a shuffle and feeling my heart pumping life force around my body. It’s the Clyde Walkway, and I figure I’ll do a ninety-minute walk before picking up a new guitar in Glasgow.

Apparently, the man walking on my left comes from the same town I grew up in until I was fourteen. He goes on to tell me the most bizarre story.

     “I’m at school one morning.” (Isn’t it strange, how we speak of the past in the present?)

     “What school?” I ask.

     “St Gerard’s, in Govan,” he replies, then continues. “After school that day, I go to the Plaza to see The War Wagon.”

     “Oh, I saw that! Wasn’t the movie shown with it The Perils of Pauline? Goodness, I had a teenage crush on Betty Hutton. My pal Dec and I went to see it three times in one week,” I say.

     “So, after the movies, I go home—and guess what?” he says.

     “What?”

     “No one’s in. They did a runner. Moved.”

     “Get away.”

     “Sure. I knock on the neighbour’s door, and they tell me the removal lorry came and took everything away that afternoon.”

     “So, what did you do?”

     “I call my grannie, and she tells me they’ve moved from Govan to Pollok.”

     “What happened next?”

     “I have no money, so I walk it—from Govan to Pollok. And when I got home, it was just like another day. My mother said, ‘How was school today?’”

While we walked, a silence descended as I tried to take all this in. I think kids were tougher back in the day. But that depends on the time, place and guardians. "The past was a different country, they did things differently there" the author wrote.

But then I asked my fellow walker, “So what was the story? Why didn’t you know you were moving?”

     “I must have just forgot they told me we’d be moving that day.”

     "Sure, give them the benefit of the doubt; it's the right thing to do."

And each man will sit under his own vine and under his own fig tree, 

with no one to frighten him. For the mouth of the LORD of Hosts has spoken.

 - Micah 4:4

Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@todddesantis

I asked my wife recently what her happiest childhood memory was. Without hesitation, she said, "Playing in my grandparents’ garden back in our little village in the Philippines." I saw that memory come alive again just this weekend. As she bent down among the flowerbeds, bedding new plants with quiet joy, her face glowed with the same peace I imagined she felt as a child. There was something sacred about it.

It brought me back to a thought I explored in a previous blog—the idea of redesigning life on earth. Despite the fractures of this world, despite its often hopeless state, there are still oases of healing. Why is it that we experience deep psychological and physical restoration when exposed to nature? Science points to hormones, neural pathways, circadian rhythms. But I think it’s simpler than that: we were made for a garden.

This was God’s original plan—for us to cultivate the earth, to walk with Him in a place of harmony. But something broke. The emergence of selfishness and evil shattered that sacred space. And yet, deep within, the longing remains.

It’s no coincidence that we are drawn to beauty, to peace, to the natural world. Who hasn’t at some point prayed the Lord’s Prayer and glossed over the words, “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven”? Or heard Jesus' words to the criminal on the cross: “You will be with me in Paradise.” These are not vague hopes. They’re promises—a return to the garden.

And maybe that’s what our longing really is: an ache for Paradise.

I’ve felt this longing since I was a boy. I remember the moment it took hold. My music teacher had introduced us to the haunting, soul-deep compositions of Edvard Grieg. As the first notes of Morning played, I was no longer in the classroom. I was somewhere else—somewhere vast and wild, where mist clung to mountains and fjords cut deep into the earth like ancient wounds of beauty. I was ten years old, but I felt something I couldn't name: a kind of homesickness for a country I had never seen.

Later I would learn the German word Fernweh—a deep longing for a faraway place, especially one you’ve never been. That word has stayed with me because it captures something I’ve never quite shaken. Even now, when I hear Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite, something stirs. I feel the tug of mountains I’ve never climbed, forests I’ve never wandered, and air I’ve never breathed but somehow know in my bones. It’s as though that music opened a door in me, revealing a home I’ve yet to find.

Strangely, this ache is not unique. It’s deeply personal, yes—but universally human. We are creatures of longing.

I often wonder—if I moved to Scandinavia, would I still feel the same ache? Or would I miss the rugged coastline of Scotland, the wild Atlantic winds, the place I’ve called home for decades?

Perhaps the truth is that we belong to that redesigned society we pondered on in the previous blog. Maybe Fernweh is a reminder that we have roots scattered across the earth, planted by stories, by melodies, by memories passed down or inherited in ways we can’t explain. My own surname is Celtic, with threads tied to the old Norse. Who’s to say that somewhere deep in the psyche, those ancestral echoes aren’t still at work?

And maybe that’s where the spiritual meets the personal. Could it be that this longing—whether for gardens or fjords, tropics or tundra—isn’t about geography at all? Maybe it’s a longing for the world as it was meant to be. Maybe it’s the soul’s way of remembering Eden.

My friends and I often discuss God’s future plans. Will the faithful go to heaven or remain on earth? Could Paradise be somewhere not yet revealed? I don’t claim to know. But one thing I do believe: in that place, wherever it is, we won’t feel homesick.

Because home, in its truest sense, isn’t just a place. It’s the fulfilment of every yearning we’ve ever had. It’s the sound of Grieg’s mountains, the scent of a grandmother’s garden, the quiet joy of planting something beautiful in the soil. It’s the world made whole again.