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Jim McCrory

Are you physically in, but mentally out ?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 2 Nov 2024, 19:56





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

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



Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Jim McCrory

Embracing the Overlooked: A Journey from Marginalization to Compassion

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 2 Nov 2024, 19:22



 “There is still Jonathan’s son, who is lame in both feet.” — 2 Samuel 9: 3, BSB.


Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot



Embracing the Overlooked: A Journey from Marginalization to Compassion


There are countless reasons why individuals may find themselves marginalized in society: disabilities, being a foreigner, being different, being an autistic person that lead to misunderstandings, loneliness, and many other unique challenges shaped by personal circumstances.

Mephibosheth, the son of Jonathan, lived with a disability. The Hebrew text describes him as “lame.” His story begins tragically when his caregiver, upon learning of King Saul and Jonathan’s deaths, flees in haste and accidentally drops him, resulting in untreated injuries to his legs or feet (2 Samuel 4:4).

later in 2 Samuel 9, King David seeks to honour someone from King Saul’s family. He approaches Ziba, a former servant of Saul, who mentions, “Jonathan has a son who is disabled,” without naming Mephibosheth.

When Mephibosheth meets King David, he humbly refers to himself as a “dead dog,” feeling completely worthless. In response, David comforts him, saying, “Do not be afraid, I will certainly show you kindness for your father Jonathan’s sake. I will restore to you all the land of your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table.”

This powerful story illustrates grace and restoration: someone who was forgotten and marginalized is given a place of honour and belonging at the King’s table. Its message is profoundly relevant today, especially regarding faith and the inclusion of people with disabilities and other marginalized experiences. Jesus simply said, “Come to me!” Have you ever brought your pain to Jesus? Why not?

As Christians, as humans, we have a responsibility to care for the marginalized:

Marginalization can take many forms, such as stripping a person of their identity by making them invisible, ridiculing, blaming, humiliating, or embarrassing them. Let us strive to embrace and uplift those who are often overlooked.









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Jim McCrory

The Price of Whispers: Finding Freedom From Idle Gossip

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“If anyone thinks he is religious without controlling his tongue, 

his religion is useless, and he deceives himself.”

James 1: 26, CSB.





Why do people gossip? For some, its simple curiosity, an attempt to piece together another's story. Others gossip to elevate themselves, reasoning that if they can highlight someone else's shortcomings, they’ll somehow appear superior. Some people gossip simply to belong, thinking it will help them fit in with a crowd. For others, it’s even darker—a tool to hurt, to control, or to destroy. Regardless of the reason, each motivation reveals something about the person and, sadly, often drives away true friendships.

James 1:26 in the Bible offers a striking perspective on this: “If anyone thinks he is religious without controlling his tongue, his religion is useless, and he deceives himself.” This isn’t just a suggestion for those in faith communities but a guiding principle for anyone who wishes to live with integrity. The unrestrained tongue, always ready to spark the next bit of scandal or critique, damages not only those it targets but the one who wields it. The cost? Genuine relationships. True friendships thrive on trust and understanding, but gossip is like termites gnawing away at the foundation of that trust.

If you find yourself in a setting where gossip is the common currency—whether it’s family gatherings, social groups, or even online—consider how it's shaping the atmosphere around you. Sometimes, walking away from that toxicity is the only way to keep your integrity and peace intact. Yet, distancing yourself can be difficult, especially when the gossiping voices are those of friends, family, or respected colleagues. Still, remember that staying true to yourself and avoiding the urge to participate is a quiet but powerful act of defiance.

It’s worth taking a moment to reflect on your own conversations. Ask yourself, “Have I, knowingly or unknowingly, hurt someone by gossiping?” If so, consider making amends. Remember that the words we let loose can either build up or tear down—and rebuilding is never as easy as walking away.

In a world that’s all too ready to listen to gossip, let’s choose instead to listen to each other’s stories with empathy and kindness, keeping “speak no evil” as a guiding light. By doing so, we make space for friendships that are genuine, built not on shared whispers but on shared respect. After all, true friends don’t need to trade secrets—they’re far too busy building each other up.

 

 

 

 

(Scripture quotations marked CSB have been taken from the Christian Standard Bible®, Copyright © 2017 by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Christian Standard Bible® and CSB® are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers.) 

 

 


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Jim McCrory

Searching for Meaning in a God Forsaken Society

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 30 Oct 2024, 19:53

 

“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, (BSB).



Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot



Searching for Meaning in a God Forsaken Society

I have often had discussions on God and what the essence of being human is in a world wherein advances in science and technology seem limitless.  The most pressing challenge we face today isn’t technological; it’s deeply human. It’s the question of what it means to live meaningfully, to seek purpose beyond the self, and to navigate a moral framework amid a society where truth seems as fluid as olive oil. We find ourselves grappling with a moral drift that runs parallel to a rise in mental health crises among young people—depression, substance abuse, a lack of hope. The heartbeat of humanity, grounded in shared values, seems to fade as we distance ourselves from any notion of universal truths or an absolute moral law.

This shift has not happened overnight. In The Abolition of Man, C.S. Lewis critiqued an educational system that dismisses the need for “objective values,” a rejection that ultimately strips people of their capacity to feel deeply and discern right from wrong. When we choose to see all values as relative, we lose not only our perception of life’s purpose but also of what it means to be a human that adds to this world’s value. It’s a road towards becoming, as Lewis wrote, “men without chests”—people with sharp intellects yet lacking in conviction and moral courage. In today’s youth, we see this crisis unfold vividly: a rising generation plagued by an inner emptiness that no achievement or digital connection can fill.

Friedrich Nietzsche's Parable of the Madman foreshadowed what happens when a society “kills” God—when it removes the transcendent values that have served as humanity’s compass for millennia. In the parable, the madman proclaims that “God is dead,” not with jubilation but with a haunting hopelessness, as he grasps the gravity of what humanity has undone. Without a divine or moral centre, he warns, we have unmoored ourselves from any ultimate purpose. We wander in a cold, indifferent universe, bereft of meaning.

What Nietzsche foresaw is visible all around us. If God, or any transcendent standard, is dead, then purpose and worth are inventions, mere illusions we construct to comfort ourselves. And yet, like the madman’s audience, we find ourselves at a loss—drifting, disillusioned, clinging to “freedom” that feels more like captivity to our own desires. As humans, we crave meaning and community; without these, despair fills the gap. For young people today, this often manifests as anxiety, depression, addiction. Without a moral law, they are left searching for their identity and value in transient sources—social media validation, achievements, substances. Each of these offers a fleeting escape, a momentary illusion of significance that dissolves all too quickly, leaving them adrift again.

The cost of abandoning objective values becomes clearer when we examine its effects on society. In abandoning moral absolutes, we risk not only personal despair but also a disintegration of the fabric that binds us. Lewis feared this “abolition of man” would strip away our humanity, leading to a society where people are treated as manipulable resources rather than dignified beings. When values are subjective, people become tools for someone else’s agenda, and a culture of use and exploitation thrives. The inherent worth of the individual is overshadowed by what one can provide or achieve.

To be human, truly human, is to recognize that we are more than mere biochemical reactions, more than products of our environment. It is to live with the awareness that there is a “Tao,” as Lewis put it—a universal moral law that holds us accountable and dignifies us as moral agents. This moral framework has been the foundation of great cultures and movements throughout history, fuelling acts of compassion, justice, sacrifice, and courage. When we remove this foundation, we may gain momentary freedom from constraints, but we lose a far more profound freedom: the freedom to know ourselves and our purpose.

We are being with a capacity for conviction and compassion. The path forward, then, is not simply a return to old traditions or rules for their own sake, but a rediscovery of our human purpose and dignity. Perhaps it is time for each one of us to recognise, as the madman did, that in abandoning moral truths we have also abandoned the most essential parts of ourselves. To truly live is not to exist in an aimless world, but to seek and revive that heartbeat of humanity within us—to cultivate values that can guide us, unite us, and ultimately restore us to the fullness of what it means to be human. We need to return to God.


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Jim McCrory

What relevance does a 2000 year old book have on my life today?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 30 Oct 2024, 11:25


"But there is a God in heaven who reveals secrets..."

Danial 2:28, (BSB).




Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot 

Yesterday morning, a fellow writer asked me a question that echoed through my mind long after he had gone: “How can a book that was written 2,000 years ago have any relevance today?” It’s a question, I imagine, that many people are asking, especially in a world where change is constant, where technology propels us forward at breakneck speed, and where the wisdom of ages past can seem, at first glance, like an echo too distant to hear clearly. But this question made me pause, not because I doubt the answer, but because it’s something I’ve reflected on countless times myself. In fact, so much of my own journey—my writing, my very outlook—has been shaped by the quiet, steadfast wisdom of the Bible.

It strikes me that the Bible, if one takes the time to sit with it, isn’t merely a book of rules or history or moral directives; it’s a living, breathing conversation about life’s deepest mysteries. Written by people who, like us, struggled, doubted, hoped, and loved, it speaks to the universal questions of the human heart: Why are we here? What does it mean to be truly human? What does God, in all His vastness, expect of us? These are questions that transcend time, and it’s in the Bible that I find not only answers but a path to walk and a companion to walk with.

If I could condense the essence of the Bible’s wisdom into a single heartbeat, it would be love—an all-encompassing, all-reaching love. “You must love God with your whole heart, mind, and strength,” we are told. To me, this is the call to a life of devotion, not out of a sense of duty, but out of a desire to know the One who created us, the source of our being. This love isn’t confined to feelings or words; it’s about embracing God with all that we are—our thoughts, our dreams, our will. And this call to love God is bound together with a second command: to love our neighbour as ourselves. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Yet, in this directive lies a challenge that reaches into every aspect of our lives, asking us to become selfless, compassionate, and wholly engaged with others.

When I look around, I see how these paradigms play out in daily life, far removed from the world of the ancient Near East but still as relevant as the air we breathe. Loving God with everything we have can mean different things depending on where we are in life—it might mean forgiveness, or it might mean trusting when we can’t see the outcome. It might mean courage in the face of loss, or humility when pride beckons. But no matter what, it requires that we let go of our self-centeredness and see the world as His, as a place infused with His presence and purpose.

Loving our neighbour as ourselves—that’s the part that meets us on the street corners of our lives, in the eyes of strangers, in the stories of people we might otherwise pass by. This is the challenge that asks us to give up bitterness, to see past divisions, and to act with kindness even when it feels inconvenient. And as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to realize that the Bible’s words on loving others aren’t a plea or a suggestion—they’re a defining trait of what it means to be human, to be truly alive. Because when we love others, when we allow ourselves to see each person as valuable, as someone who, like us, is wrestling with life’s uncertainties, we reflect a little of God’s own love back into the world. It’s here that we come closest to the essence of life, to becoming the kind of person whom God considers worthy of the life He promises. Some would say these principles are ideals, too lofty for a world as complicated as ours, where love often seems a fragile thing, battered by selfishness and fear. But that’s why I believe the Bible remains as relevant as ever—it’s not calling us to be perfect in a world that isn’t; it’s calling us to be faithful. It recognizes our imperfections, meets us in our weaknesses, and offers us a way to live that transcends our flaws. To me, that’s the Bible’s enduring gift: it offers a vision of humanity that goes beyond what we are, pointing to what we can become.

In my own life, I’ve found that these ancient words are not only guidance but also solace and strength. They don’t tell me what the future holds in detail, but they assure me that it’s in God’s hands, that our lives are part of a story much larger than our own. The Bible is a book for seekers, for the broken-hearted, for those who long for answers but are willing to live with mystery. It’s a book that, despite its age, has the remarkable ability to speak to the most contemporary of questions and offer wisdom as fresh as the morning.

So, as I reflect on that question, “How can a book that was written 2,000 years ago have any relevance today?” I find myself grateful. I am grateful for the wisdom of those who came before me, who wrestled with God, who wrestled with themselves, and whose words still echo in my own life. I am grateful for the reminders to love God fully and to love others generously. In a world that feels increasingly fractured and uncertain, this love isn’t just relevant; it’s revolutionary. It reminds me that, no matter the passage of time, the most essential truths remain timeless.













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Jim McCrory

Are you Sulking?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 29 Oct 2024, 08:01

My little children let’s not love in word only, 

or with the tongue only, but in deed and truth.

                                                                                      —    I John 3:18



Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot


Justified indignation—a “huff”—often arises when we feel overlooked, dismissed, or hurt, particularly by family and friends whose opinions matter most to us. It’s natural to retreat in frustration when we sense that our contributions, emotions, or boundaries aren’t valued. A huff signals, even indirectly, that something important has been missed. In close relationships, this can be especially painful. A family member’s offhand remark, a friend’s neglect, or the feeling of being undervalued in shared responsibilities can turn small incidents into deep-seated grievances.

But as the saying goes, “There are two sides to every story.” What seems like a needless huff may, in reality, be the last straw after repeated misunderstandings. Perhaps the friend didn’t know they’d hurt us, or the family member has struggles we haven’t seen. Realizing this perspective should soften our judgments. However, some people become trapped in a cycle of negativity, where each slight compounds into a narrative of constant offense, and they find it hard to lift themselves from this mindset. Left unchecked, this outlook can isolate them from the very people they want to feel close to, replacing connection with resentment.

Here, the guidance in Matthew 18 proves invaluable. When Jesus spoke of confronting someone directly with our grievances, he advocated for open and honest communication. This approach invites understanding rather than division, healing rather than bitterness. For example, rather than retreating into a huff over a friend’s neglect, we could express, kindly but clearly, how their actions impacted us. Such a conversation not only resolves misunderstandings but strengthens relationships through mutual respect and humility.

A huff may feel like a reclaiming of dignity, but if left to fester, it risks becoming a habitual barrier between us and those we love. Jesus’ teaching reminds us that our relationships thrive when we confront issues compassionately and avoid letting offense calcify into lasting bitterness. In the end, justified frustration should lead us to a place of growth, not resentment. By applying empathy and striving to understand each other’s perspectives, we build connections with family and friends based on respect, forgiveness, and compassion—the hallmarks of a truly fulfilling life together.



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Jim McCrory

Some Thoughts on Plagiarism and Finding Your Voice

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 29 Oct 2024, 06:36

 

 "A few years back, while working on my Creative Writing EMA, I took a leap and penned a personal essay that flowed from a place I didn’t even know was there. The result was a rush of joy and accomplishment—capped off by an incredibly high mark that made it all the more rewarding."

                                                                             ---- The author 




 Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

 

 

Plagiarism is copying someone else’s work and presenting it as your work. It is a complex issue rooted in more than just dishonesty—it is an obstacle that ultimately undermines a writer’s potential for genuine creativity and self-discovery. In a world increasingly driven by content creation, the stakes are high. With the rise of paid writing opportunities and platforms that reward originality, the temptation to plagiarize lingers. However, understanding the consequences of plagiarism, not only in ethical terms but also in the context of personal growth, reveals why it is so essential to resist.

Plagiarism is fundamentally an act of theft. By copying another person’s ideas, words, or structures, the plagiarizer robs not only the original creator of their due credit but also themselves of the chance to develop their own voice. Writing, at its best, is the magical flow that is found in the excitement of discovery and personal accomplishment. Every essay, article, or post should be an exercise in articulating one's unique perspective. This process requires wrestling with thoughts, shaping them into coherent ideas, and refining one’s voice through trial and error. Those who shortcut this process by borrowing from others may never encounter their true voice because they’re not pushing their creative boundaries.

In the digital age, plagiarism takes on new dimensions. On social media, for example, reposting or rephrasing someone’s words without attribution has become surprisingly common. With algorithms that reward virality and engagement, it’s easy to see how tempting it is to take credit for a resonant thought or popular post. Yet this too is plagiarism, and it reflects a hollow form of self-expression. Just as in traditional writing, social media plagiarism prevents the user from contributing anything truly original to the conversation, reducing their presence to a collection of borrowed thoughts.

 

Writing platforms that pay for articles and incentivize high engagement amplify this problem. The pressure to produce can create a temptation to rely on others’ ideas or even to regurgitate content, rather than formulating something new. But while the temptation to plagiarize may be understandable, it’s a path that comes with heavy costs. Many platforms and search engines, including Google, have become increasingly effective at identifying and penalizing plagiarized content. Google’s search algorithm, for instance, actively lowers the rankings of plagiarized articles, pushing them further down the search results or even delisting them altogether. This means that far from gaining visibility, a plagiarized article is more likely to be buried, reaching fewer readers and diminishing its value to both the writer and the platform.

Moreover, platforms that pay for original writing often have strict anti-plagiarism policies, and detection tools make it relatively easy to identify copied content. A writer who attempts to plagiarize risks more than a poor Google ranking—they may find themselves banned from reputable platforms or discredited in the eyes of potential employers. Given the reputation damage and opportunity loss, the short-term gain of copying is far outweighed by the long-term repercussions.

Perhaps the most insidious consequence of plagiarism is that it stifles growth. Writing is a skill, one that develops only with practice, self-reflection, and courage to take creative risks. By relying on others’ work, a plagiarist avoids these challenges and, in doing so, halts their own journey toward authenticity. Without grappling with the labour and joy of creating something uniquely theirs, a writer forfeits the chance to find their true voice that is overtly their own.

In a world that celebrates originality, plagiarism offers a hollow shortcut. It may provide a fleeting sense of accomplishment or recognition, but it ultimately deprives the plagiarist of their opportunity to grow, express, and connect genuinely. By avoiding plagiarism and embracing the slow, often difficult process of authentic creation, writers can find not only success but also the fulfilment that comes from realizing and sharing their unique voice with the world.


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Jim McCrory

Chemla and Compassion: "I Have Committed a Terrible Sin"

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 28 Oct 2024, 11:29


Image of the ancient Stool of Repentance practice found in many ancient congregations was generated with the use of Chat GPT and does not reflect anyone dead or alive.

Image generated with the assistance of ChatGPT


"If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the assembly. 

If he refuses to hear the assembly also, 

let him be to you as a Gentile or a tax collector."

Matthew 18:17 (WEB).


"If he refuses to hear them, appeal to the Church

and if he refuses to hear even the Church, 

regard him just as you regard a Gentile or a tax-gatherer."

Matthew 18:17 (Weymouth New Testament).




Chemla and Compassion: Rediscovering Mercy in Modern Christianity

We have come a long way in Christian congregations in dealing with sin, or, have we?  In reflecting on mercy, the Aramaic word Chemla provides a beautiful foundation. This ancient term from Talmudic texts embodies a compassionate kindness that flows not from obligation but from pure benevolence. It’s mercy extended not based on merit but as a gift, a gesture rooted in a generosity that goes beyond what is earned. In a world quick to judge and condemn, Chemla reminds us of the value in sparing judgment and offering kindness to those who may not “deserve” it. This sense of undeserved compassion finds its echo in the teachings of Jesus, especially in Matthew 18, where he lays out a path for dealing with interpersonal offenses—a path that focuses not on retribution but on restoration.

Matthew 18 emphasizes the unique worth of each person, particularly when they are in a vulnerable position. Jesus begins by stressing a deep responsibility to protect others from harm. In verse 6, he warns of the gravity of causing someone to stumble, illustrating the serious duty we hold to uphold one another’s well-being. This responsibility extends not only to protecting others from physical harm but from the emotional and spiritual damage that harsh treatment or judgment can inflict.

When Jesus addresses how to handle wrongdoing, he diverges sharply from the “cancel culture” or public humiliation we often see today in the press and media. Rather than exposing faults in a public forum, Jesus teaches us to approach the individual privately in verse 15. This private meeting is an act of compassion; it respects the person’s dignity and offers them a chance for redemption without the weight of public disgrace. It’s a step grounded in mercy, meant to open the door for healing and reconciliation.

If this first private attempt fails to bring understanding, Jesus offers a next step that is, again, full of gentleness: involving one or two other people. This approach is not intended to coerce or shame but to bring supportive witnesses, creating a space where understanding can grow without escalating tension or fostering resentment. The goal remains restoration, with all parties working together to preserve the individual’s dignity and support them in finding their way back. This approach stands in stark contrast to religious practices that employ harsh, procedural punishments. 

There’s something uniquely powerful in this way of handling sin that resists judgmental tendencies. Unlike religious methods that may rely on public penance or social isolation to correct, the pathway Jesus outlines is marked by patience and a commitment to mercy. Forgiveness, he reminds us, is not to be limited. In his conversation with Peter, he illustrates the boundless nature of mercy with his “seventy times seven” response, a call to forgive endlessly with no "question of the person's repentance " . Mercy, in this sense, becomes an ongoing commitment to view others through a lens of compassion, seeing their worth rather than their faults.

Even when efforts to reach reconciliation fail, Jesus does not abandon the path of mercy. Only after every attempt has been made does he suggest involving the larger community, the congregation,  and even then, not as a means to ostracize or condemn. Instead, the community’s involvement serves as a final collective effort to restore the individual. Rather than casting someone out, this step is a last, loving appeal unlike the formal stool-of-repentance- type of judgement. 

Matthew 18 offers us a different kind of road map for addressing wrongs. It’s a path steeped in the spirit of Chemla, that divine compassion that doesn’t judge but offers undeserved kindness. How different our communities could be if we followed this example, holding onto mercy as our guide, letting compassion outweigh condemnation, and valuing each person’s dignity even in their lowest moments. It’s a vision of mercy, not just as a response to sin, but as a way of life.



"Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission."


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Jim McCrory

Good Morning, Germany: A Reflection on Waldeinsamkeit

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 27 Oct 2024, 10:25


Image Generated with the assistance of Microsoft Word



Good Morning, Germany: A Reflection on Waldeinsamkeit

Good morning, Germany. As I begin my day here in Scotland, I’m thinking of you and one of your beautiful words—Waldeinsamkeit. There’s something hauntingly comforting in that word, like a whisper in the forest or the scent of pines after the rain. Waldeinsamkeit—that quiet solitude we feel in the depths of the woods, a kind of peaceful loneliness that is really not lonely at all. It is a feeling I often find here in the west of Scotland, where I can step out of everyday noise and into the vast, green embrace of nature.

Living on Scotland’s west coast means I’m close to a world of islands, places that lie just beyond the familiar shoreline, calling with their rugged paths, hidden beaches, and the allure of wild seclusion. In these islands and along the mainland’s isolated footpaths, I often spend my days walking, exploring, and sometimes camping under a starlit sky. There’s something profoundly therapeutic about being in the wilderness, away from everything but the essentials of life. The trees, the wind, the sound of waves meeting rocks—these are my companions, voices of the natural world that don’t speak but communicate a deep and abiding calm.

Waldeinsamkeit is not an emotion we easily pin down in English. Perhaps it’s because it comes with a sense of reverence, of standing within a creation so grand that you feel, paradoxically, both small and part of something immense. I feel a bit closer to God in these moments—an appreciation not only of the world around me but of my place within it. It’s a reminder that, despite life’s rush and routine, I am part of this living planet, this gift given to us to nurture, cherish, and truly experience.

And yet, for all the solace of solitude, there’s an undeniable joy in the unexpected encounters along the way. Sometimes, when I am far from the familiar, a stranger’s face or a friendly greeting makes the day’s journey complete. These brief meetings feel like gifts, as though the wilderness itself orchestrates a moment of connection just when it’s most needed. Perhaps it’s the shared experience of being out there, beyond the bounds of ordinary life, that makes people more open, even a little kinder.

I have many fond memories of the strangers I’ve met on these paths—people who, in sharing a moment, became a part of my story, however briefly. In fact, come and say hello in the box below, I would love to here from you.


There’s a beauty in this mix of solitude and shared experience, like a dance between silence and laughter. I believe it’s a balance that gives life depth, allowing us to step away from the world to find peace within, only to return and share that peace with others.

Germany, thank you for Waldeinsamkeit. Though I may live far from your forests, your word captures something very close to my heart. Here in Scotland, with its windswept islands and secluded paths, I experience my own version of that peaceful solitude and know that I am truly, wonderfully, and divinely alive.

The highest heavens belong to the LORD, but the earth He has given to mankind.

Psalm 115:16 BSB




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Why Faith Can Blossom Outside the Boundaries of Organized Religion

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 27 Oct 2024, 05:37

John said to Him, “Teacher, we saw someone else driving out demons in Your name, and we tried to stop him, because he does not accompany us.”

“Do not stop him,” Jesus replied. “For no one who performs a miracle in My name can turn around and speak evil of Me. For whoever is not against us is for us.--- Mark 9:38, 39 (BSB).



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There he was, sulking like a spoiled child. Jonah, the prophet of Nineveh, sitting in the shade, bewildered at the extent of God’s mercy. Though he was called to deliver God’s message, Jonah seemed to believe that Israel held exclusive rights to Divine favour. God’s compassion, in Jonah’s mind, was limited by borders and membership—far from available to a foreign and ‘undeserving’ city like Nineveh. But God didn’t see it that way, and the story of Jonah reminds us just how much bigger God’s love is than our narrow perspectives. Today, we might ask ourselves a similar question: Have we convinced ourselves that our specific group has exclusive access to God’s Favour?

Jonah’s struggle is our struggle, especially when we forget that God’s love has always reached beyond any group, church, or denomination. The truth is that God’s compassion is universal, transcending boundaries we might set. Jonah's sulking reveals the frustration some may feel when they see God working outside their expected parameters. Yet, God’s response is simple: “So should I not care about the great city of Nineveh?” (Jonah 4:11). We, too, might ask ourselves whether our ideas of belonging in God’s family are generous enough.

Some Christians today have found their faith thriving outside the boundaries of traditional institutions, embracing a relationship with God that’s rich and personal, even without the formal structure of a religious group. They have experienced transformation and peace in the quiet of their hearts. Just as Cornelius, a Gentile, received God’s Spirit before baptism into the faith (Acts 10:44-48), these modern believers remind us that God’s Spirit moves freely, beyond the limitations of organizational membership. Jesus himself highlighted this in John 4:23-24 God’s approval, we see, has more to do with a sincere, heartfelt relationship than a place on any formal registry.

Religious institutions often serve to guide, teach, and support, but sometimes their policies or doctrines create an unintended exclusivity that clouds the gospel’s open invitation. Christianity, when it truly follows Christ’s message, is an open call to God’s love, which is extended universally. As soon as we forget this, we risk becoming a reflection of the Pharisees Jesus warned about in Matthew 23:13, who locked the door of the Kingdom in others' faces with their rigid rules. In the parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus further challenged his listeners to look beyond their own groups. The Samaritan—an outsider to the Jewish religious world—is lifted up as an example of mercy, while religious figures were conspicuously absent in compassion. Jesus reminded them, and us, that God’s favour doesn’t have an exclusive membership.

Today, God’s love is just as present among people who never set foot in a church as it is within those who do. Some seekers may be quietly studying, praying, or reflecting, drawn to God in ways that formal structures cannot measure or regulate. Take, for example, individuals in places where Christianity is restricted or those who feel isolated from religious institutions for personal reasons. Many of them, like Jonah’s Ninevites, have felt God’s mercy in ways that cannot be defined by institutional belonging. Psalm 145:18 tells us, “Yahweh is near to all those who call on him, to all who call on him in truth.” (WEB). It doesn’t mention being part of a certain group; it speaks of God’s closeness to all who reach out sincerely.

When we place conditions on God’s mercy, implying it’s reserved only for those within our specific group, we limit the very essence of God. God’s love is not confined to human-made structures but is poured out freely to any heart that seeks Him. Jonah was asked to realize this, as were the Pharisees, and we, too, are reminded to do the same today. God is not partial; His mercy extends to the whole world, embracing anyone who seeks Him with a sincere heart.

If you’ve felt God’s love in ways that are outside of an established religion, know that you are not alone. God hears those who worship Him in truth and sincerity, wherever they may be. If you’d like to discuss this more personally, please reach out:  when2aregathered@proton.me

Faith can indeed flourish in ways unregulated by human organizations yet cherished by God. Together, let’s strive to follow a faith rooted in God’s expansive love, rather than our own limited ideas of belonging.


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What's This Inside My Head Nudging me When I Do Bad?

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…holding on to faith and a good conscience, 

which some have rejected and thereby shipwrecked their faith.” — I Timothy 1:19 (BSB).


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I was over in Rome a few years back. One evening I was having a meal with friends. One of them visited local prisons to Bring The Christian message to inmates. One of the prisoners who had been a member of the mafia confessed that he had taken many lives and asked "Will God ever forgive me?" This was troubling his conscience deeply; a sign that an outside influence was at work in his inner conscience.

This resonated with me. C.S. Lewis had much to say  on divine influence,  especially his idea of a “controlling power” that speaks within rather than through what we see. Lewis proposes that a higher power could not reveal itself as another physical fact in our universe but would instead press on us from within, gently urging a response we cannot ignore.

Lewis' analogy of a house speaks to this. Just as a house’s builder does not reside within the walls, the divine, if real, would reach us differently, nudging us through a sense of direction we feel yet cannot see. What Lewis suggests is that this inner prompting should “arouse suspicions.” Why do we feel a pull toward qualities like love, truth, or kindness? Despite the noise of daily life, this inner voice seems to keep calling, a steady influence that does not easily fit within a material worldview.

Moments exist when I have ignored this voice. I sometimes let pride and my own ideas drive me, leaving me with a feeling of unease. Ignoring this guidance unsettles, like losing footing. The voice within, though quiet, presses back, drawing attention to a deeper alignment needed. It reminds me to pause, to listen, and to reconnect with what feels right and true.

For me, Lewis’ framing of this inner influence is an invitation. If we all have this inner voice that points us to something greater, it might be our most important clue that there is more than just ourselves in play. This prompting asks us to trust, to let it shape how we live and act, rather than being merely a vague feeling.

In following this quiet nudge, I feel we find something of lasting worth—not our own goals but a peace that comes from something, or Someone, who knows us fully.


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The Writer’s Compass: Ditch the Adjectives

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 25 Oct 2024, 19:00




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I used to love adjectives. Really love them. “Bring it on,” I would say. I’d sit down to write and deck out every noun with a cluster of descriptors standing proud like Terracotta Warriors, convinced they made the writing more alive, more compelling.

As I started taking my craft seriously, I noticed that adjectives plunge the story into a pool of treacle where one has to trudge through to get to the other end. I’d re-read my own work and find a tangled mess that obscured the theme. I cringed! Slowly, I started trimming the excess, pruning adjectives here and there, until I could see the clean lines of clarity.

Consider: “Hillwalking in Scotland is a breathtaking journey through mist-laden valleys, rugged, craggy peaks, and expansive, heather-strewn moorlands, where ancient stone cairns and shimmering lochs lie under ever-shifting, silvery skies.”

It’s not happening, is it?

Now consider: “Hillwalking in Scotland is a journey through misty valleys, rugged peaks, and open moorlands, where stone cairns and quiet lochs lie under shifting skies.”

It’s an improvement, but we are not quite there. If there is mist, it is early morning, and the loch is quiet anyway. All cairns are stone, all peaks are rugged, all moorlands are open.

Now consider: “Hillwalking in Scotland is a journey through valleys, peaks, and moorlands, where stone cairns and lochs lie under shifting skies.”

Thirty-two words down to twenty words with no loss of completeness. I kept stone cairns in because the sentence scans better.

There’s also something about simplicity that gives power to a sentence. Where adjectives are not competing for attention.  

Once I started ditching adjectives, I noticed my writing moving faster. No longer was I walking through treacle. Sentences started to flow like Beethoven’s Pastoral.

 


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Wisdom For a Fragmenting World

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 27 Oct 2024, 08:22

 

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing, there is a field. I will meet you there.”

Rumi



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The Arab word Taarradhin (تراض) caught my attention recently. It means compromise, but with a depth that speaks of mutual satisfaction, where both sides walk away with dignity intact. It’s not about winning or losing but understanding—something rare and precious in today’s world. This word reminds me of Rumi’s line.

Rumi knew that life is not always about right and wrong. Sometimes, it’s about stepping into that middle ground where we let go of our need to be right and simply meet one another as humans. In a world that often pits us against each other, Taarradhin invites us to let go of pride and embrace humility, to seek healing instead of victory.

How often do we cling to our positions, imagining that peace can only be found through triumph? Yet the greatest resolutions come when both sides walk away unbroken, when we choose understanding over stubbornness. Compromise isn’t weakness—it’s courage. It’s the quiet strength of seeking connection over division.

As I look around, I see a world that feels increasingly divided. Social media fuels conflict, news cycles highlight only the most extreme positions, and people argue with a fervour that often seems more about proving their point than listening to anyone else. We are driven by a need to be right, a need to win. But in the noise of it all, we’ve forgotten that there’s a space in between—a space where Taarradhin lives.

What would happen if, instead of fighting to be heard, we fought to understand? If we could meet in that field beyond our judgments, where the goal isn’t to convince or to conquer, but simply to connect. This isn’t an easy ask. It takes humility to step away from our firmly held beliefs, to put aside our pride, and to meet someone with a heart open to understanding. But isn’t that where true progress happens?

When we let go of the need to win, we make space for something deeper—something that leaves us all a little more whole. And isn’t that the point? Life is less about being right, and more about learning to walk alongside one another, even when we disagree.


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What Are the Advantages of the Open University MA in Creative Writing?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 25 Oct 2024, 11:24


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 What Are the Advantages of the Open University MA in Creative Writing?

 

Embarking on a master’s degree in creative writing, particularly through the Open University, offers a unique blend of benefits that enrich the writing journey. As someone who has travelled this pathway, I can attest to the advantages of this program, especially its focus on various writing forms and the opportunity to specialize in one’s preferred genre. The Open University stands out by providing a flexible learning environment, access to experienced writers, and the chance to engage deeply with one’s craft.

One of the most compelling aspects of the  MA in Creative Writing is the exposure to diverse writing forms that may not be covered in undergraduate programs. While my undergraduate studies laid a solid foundation in creative writing, it was the MA that introduced me to the richness of various essay forms, such as personal and polemic essays. These genres allowed me to explore my voice and opinions in ways I had not considered before. The personal essay, in particular, gave me a platform to weave my life experiences with broader themes, allowing for both introspection and connection with readers. Similarly, the polemic essay challenged me to engage with controversial topics, honing my argumentative skills while fostering a deeper understanding of the world around me. This exploration has not only enriched my writing but has also helped me develop a critical lens through which to view my own narratives and those of others.

 Another significant advantage of the Open University is the choice it offers in specialization. Students can tailor their experience according to their interests, whether in fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction, or scriptwriting. This flexibility empowers writers to dive deeper into their chosen genre, enabling them to produce a substantial project that showcases their skills and creativity. For me, this meant focusing on creative non-fiction, a genre that resonates deeply with my experiences and aspirations. The opportunity to work towards a substantial project not only solidified my understanding of the genre but also helped me develop the discipline required to see a large body of work through to completion.

While the traditional university setting has its merits, the Open University presents a compelling alternative, blending academic rigor with practical experience with the ease of working from my home. One of the most enriching aspects of my journey was learning from professional writers and published tutors who brought their real-world experience into the classroom. Their insights were invaluable, providing guidance that extended beyond theory into the practicalities of the writing life. Moreover, our consultations with an expert in publishing and copyright law added another layer of understanding, equipping us with essential knowledge about the industry that many writers overlook. These interactions not only boosted my confidence in my writing but also prepared me for the complexities of navigating the literary world.

In weighing the pros and cons of pursuing an MA in Creative Writing through the Open University versus relying solely on books and self-study, the value of community and mentorship becomes evident. While books provide foundational knowledge and inspiration, they often lack the interactive element that a university setting offers. The feedback from peers and tutors creates a dynamic learning environment that fosters growth and innovation. Engaging with others passionate about writing not only inspires but also challenges us to push our boundaries and refine our voices.

Finally, earning a professional qualification has proven to be a moral booster in my writing journey. The sense of accomplishment that comes with completing a rigorous program under the guidance of experienced professionals cannot be understated. This qualification not only legitimizes my efforts but also instils a sense of pride and motivation to pursue further opportunities in the literary world. It serves as a testament to the hard work and dedication that writing demands, reinforcing the belief that we are part of a larger community of writers striving for excellence.

In conclusion, the Open University MA in Creative Writing offers a rich tapestry of experiences that can enhance a writer’s journey. The exposure to various writing forms, the opportunity to specialize in one’s passion, the guidance of seasoned professionals, and the encouragement from a supportive community combine to create an environment ripe for creative growth. For those willing to engage deeply with their craft, the advantages of this program are both substantial and transformative, laying a robust foundation for a fulfilling writing career.

One of the most compelling aspects of the Open University’s MA in Creative Writing is the exposure to diverse writing forms that may not be covered in undergraduate programs. While my undergraduate studies laid a solid foundation in creative writing, it was the MA that introduced me to the richness of various essay forms, such as personal and polemic essays including access to published writers material in these forms.  These genres allowed me to explore my voice and opinions in ways I had not considered before. The personal essay, in particular, gave me a platform to weave my life experiences with broader themes, allowing for both introspection and connection with readers. Similarly, the polemic essay challenged me to engage with controversial topics, honing my argumentative skills while fostering a deeper understanding of the world around me. This exploration has not only enriched my writing but has also helped me develop a critical lens through which to view my own narratives and those of others.

Another significant advantage of the Open University is the choice it offers in specialization. Students can tailor their experience according to their interests, whether in fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction, or scriptwriting. This flexibility empowers writers to dive deeper into their chosen genre, enabling them to produce a substantial project that showcases their skills and creativity. For me, this meant focusing on creative non-fiction, a genre that resonates deeply with my experiences and aspirations. The opportunity to work towards a substantial project not only solidified my understanding of the genre but also helped me develop the discipline required to see a large body of work through to completion.

While the traditional university setting has its merits, the Open University presents a compelling alternative, blending academic rigor with practical experience. One of the most enriching aspects of my journey was learning from professional writers and published tutors who brought their real-world experience into the classroom. Their insights were invaluable, providing guidance that extended beyond theory into the practicalities of the writing life. Moreover, our consultations with an expert in publishing and copyright law added another layer of understanding, equipping us with essential knowledge about the industry that many writers overlook. These interactions not only boosted my confidence in my writing but also prepared me for the complexities of navigating the literary world.

In weighing the pros and cons of pursuing an MA in Creative Writing through the Open University versus relying solely on books and self-study, the value of community and mentorship becomes evident. While books provide foundational knowledge and inspiration, they often lack the interactive element that a university setting offers. The feedback from peers and tutors creates a dynamic learning environment that fosters growth and innovation. Engaging with others passionate about writing not only inspires but also challenges us to push our boundaries and refine our voices.

Finally, earning a professional qualification has proven to be a moral booster in my writing journey. The sense of accomplishment that comes with completing a rigorous program under the guidance of experienced professionals cannot be understated. This qualification not only legitimizes my efforts but also instils a sense of pride and motivation to pursue further opportunities in the literary world. It serves as a testament to the hard work and dedication that writing demands, reinforcing the belief that we are part of a larger community of writers striving for excellence.

In conclusion, the MA in Creative Writing offers a rich tapestry of experiences that can profoundly enhance a writer’s journey. The exposure to various writing forms, the opportunity to specialize in one’s passion, the guidance of seasoned professionals, and the encouragement from a supportive community combine to create an environment ripe for creative growth. For those willing to engage deeply with their craft, the advantages of this program are both substantial and transformative, laying a robust foundation for a fulfilling writing career.

However, it is only as good as what you do with it and this is one of the reasons I blog daily; to keep the muscles working.


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Tapeinophrosune, I Like That Phrase

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:22




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By nature, I withdraw from proud, self-righteous people—traits we all encounter, both in others and ourselves.

I once knew someone who often began a sentence with, “Well, you wouldn’t know this, but…”

Whether it's the Pharisees of Jesus’ day or modern attitudes, the same patterns emerge: judgment, superiority, and control. While I get frustrated when I see these traits in others, I’ve had to acknowledge them in myself.

The Pharisees were religious leaders known for strictly following the Law of Moses. They believed they were society’s moral benchmarks. But Jesus saw through their façade. In Matthew 23, He called them “whitewashed tombs”—clean on the outside, but dead inside. Fixated on rules, they missed the heart of the law: mercy, justice, and love. Their self-righteousness wasn’t about honouring God; it was about preserving their status.

Reflecting on that, I see how easily I can slip into similar patterns. The Pharisees clung to their beliefs out of fear—fear of losing control, of being wrong, of being exposed. When I get caught in self-righteousness, it’s often rooted in that same fear. I may hold onto my ideas or principles, not from conviction, but to avoid vulnerability and admitting I don’t have all the answers.

Self-righteousness often starts with good intentions. We want to live rightly and honour our beliefs. But when it turns into comparing ourselves to others, it shifts. Instead of focusing on personal growth, we look down on those who don’t meet our standards. The Pharisees mastered this, using their strict rule-following to judge others.

So, how do we handle self-righteousness—in others and ourselves? The instinct is to meet judgment with judgment, but that only deepens the problem. When I feel self-righteous, I try to step back and ask, “What am I afraid of? Why do I need to feel ‘better’ than someone else?” Understanding the fear or insecurity behind self-righteousness helps me approach others with more empathy and less anger.

Jesus set the example in how He dealt with the Pharisees. Yes, He called out their hypocrisy, but His aim was to wake them up, not shame them. When I encounter self-righteousness, I try to follow that approach—challenging where necessary, but with the goal of healing, not tearing down. Of course, I must be careful not to become self-righteous in the process! That’s where Jesus’ words about removing the plank from my own eye before addressing someone else’s speck (Matthew 7) come into play. I must check my heart first.

Setting boundaries is also crucial. Sometimes, despite all the grace and patience I can offer, people won’t change. In those moments, it’s okay to step back. Jesus did this with the Pharisees too, withdrawing when they refused to listen. Protecting my peace and spiritual well-being means knowing when to engage and when to let go.

The cure for self-righteousness, in myself or others, is humility. Paul wrote to the Philippians, using the Greek word tapeinophrosune—literally "to make the mind low." It’s a beautiful metaphor for humility, the antidote to self-righteousness: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or empty pride, but in humility consider others more important than yourselves” (Philippians 2:3).

Recognizing that none of us has it all figured out is okay. Rooting out self-righteousness takes time. True righteousness isn’t something I can earn or enforce; it’s a gift of grace. When I embrace that, I can live with more freedom and less judgment—both towards others and myself.





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Are You Feeling Lonely, Without Friends, What Can Help?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:23

"One wants to be love, failing that, admired… 

One wants to inspire some sort of sentiment. 

The soul recoils from a void and desires contact at any price."

Hjalmar Söderberg — Doctor 



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 “A friend loves at all times.” 

—Proverbs 17:17

 

Friendship has always been one of life’s greatest gifts, but it’s also one of the most fragile. It’s built on a foundation of trust, and once that foundation is shaken, even in the slightest, the bond can falter. I learned this lesson the hard way some years ago when a trusted friend betrayed me. I had been warned by others that this person was saying unkind things behind my back. Hearing such news stung deeply, and it taught me an invaluable lesson: trust is sacred. From that moment on, I became far more cautious about whom I confide in.

Friendship, at its best, feels effortless—a natural connection between two people. But as effortless as it may seem, it requires careful attention. There are unspoken rules, codes of conduct if you will, that keep a friendship healthy and enduring.

One of these rules is taking an interest in your friend's world, even if it’s unfamiliar to you. A friend of mine, for instance, had an interest in politics  and politics has never really grabbed my attention. Yet, over the years, I’ve come to view it as a learning opportunity. By asking questions and engaging in conversations about a subject that matters to him, I demonstrate that I value his interests. It’s a reminder that being a good friend often means being a good listener.

That said, shared interests form the heart of many friendships. Common ground—whether it’s a love for books, poetry, hiking, or faith—creates a natural space for connection. Those shared passions build a foundation for conversations that can go on for hours, fostering a deeper understanding of each other.

 But friendship isn’t just about shared hobbies; it’s about affirming one another. One of the simplest, most powerful acts in friendship is to offer genuine praise. What is your friend good at? Tell them. I’ve found that saying something like, “I really appreciate our friendship,” can make a lasting impact. We often assume our friends know how much we care, but speaking those thoughts aloud strengthens the bond.

Trustworthiness, though, remains the bedrock of any true friendship. Going back to my earlier story, one of the quickest ways to lose a friend is through gossip or betrayal. People want to know that their confidences are safe with you, and that you won’t slander or criticize them behind their back. Friendship requires sincerity. In a world so quick to judge, be the one your friend knows they can rely on, not just in word, but indeed.

Speaking of reliability, it’s an essential quality in any meaningful relationship. Imagine being invited to a friend’s gathering and bailing at the last minute because something more appealing came up. Or worse, making a habit of cancelling plans. That’s a sure-fire way to erode trust ( see Psalm 15:4). Friendships, like all relationships, involve sacrifices. If you’re only in it when it’s convenient for you, the friendship will wither. I remember a friend who would always wait for me to pick up the tab when we went out for coffee. He also borrowed money and never paid it back. Over time, I realized that this wasn’t friendship—it was exploitation. Friendship must be reciprocal, a two-way street. Otherwise, it ceases to be friendship at all.

We all falter from time to time. None of us is perfect, and inevitably, we will disappoint our friends. When that happens, it’s essential to apologize—and not the half-hearted “sorry, but...” that often sneaks in an excuse. Just say “sorry” and own the mistake. Admitting fault requires humility, but it’s precisely this humility that deepens the bond. We connect most deeply when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable and show our imperfections. By humbling ourselves, we remind our friends that their feelings and well-being matter more than our pride.

Friendship, much like life itself, is filled with small, everyday moments that test our character and challenge our hearts. It demands sincerity, humility, and trust—qualities that make us better not just as friends, but as human beings. So, if you’re wondering how to nurture a friendship, it starts with something simple: be the kind of friend you would want for yourself.

And perhaps most importantly, as Proverbs says, “love at all times.” For it is in loving—flawed and imperfect as we are—that the true secret of friendship lies.


“A friend loves at all times.” 

—Proverbs 17:17

 

 

 


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Follow Me, I'm Lost: Thoughts on Human Wisdom

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:25


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"Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help."

Psalm 146:3 KHuman beings have an innate desire to follow others, especially those perceived as wiser, more capable, or even divinely inspired. But Psalm 146:3 offers a crucial reminder: "Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help." History repeatedly shows us the pitfalls of placing blind faith in leaders—whether political, religious, or intellectual—who are, like all of us, fallible.

The Trap of Groupthink

One of the most dangerous aspects of human behaviour is our susceptibility to groupthink. The irrationality keeps when desire for concord within a group overrides critical thinking. Groupthink leads to irrational decisions because individuals suppress dissent, overlooking flaws in favour of consensus. It is not by accident that many of  disastrous decisions in history—from failed economic policies to misguided wars—were made by leaders surrounded by groups too focused on agreement rather than wisdom.

The Myth of Competence

There is a dangerous tendency to assume that if an idea is supported by professionals—whether academics, politicians, or religious leaders—it must be valid. Yet some of history’s gravest mistakes have been made by those considered experts in their field. Religious groups, for instance, have repeatedly predicted specific dates for apocalyptic events, claiming Divine guidance. These prophecies have failed to materialize, but followers often persist, trusting in the authority of their leaders being guided by God despite the evidence to the contrary and the principle found at Deuteronomy 18:21-22.

Similarly, political leaders, often surrounded by well-credentialed advisors, have made disastrous decisions based on flawed economic theories. The recent trade wars waged by global superpowers were the result of leadership blinded by a belief in their own righteousness, backed by an echo chamber of experts. The consequences were dire: economic collapse, widespread suffering, and a loss of trust in institutions.

Misguided Science and the Illusion of Certainty

Even in the realm of scientific inquiry, there is no consensus on foundational theories. Theories of evolution, for example, vary significantly: gradualism, punctuated equilibrium, and others propose differing paths of species development. These contradictions highlight the limits of human understanding. All these theories cannot be true, yet many are accepted as plausible, reflecting the uncertainty and imperfections in our collective knowledge.

 Lessons from History: Humility Over Certainty

The greatest catastrophes arise when we stop questioning and assume that collective agreement equates to truth. Whether in politics, science, or religion, history teaches us that leaders who project absolute certainty are often the most dangerous. Jesus rebuked the Pharisees not because they lacked knowledge, but because they believed themselves to be above reproach. Their certainty blinded them to their own failings, much like today’s leaders who surround themselves with sycophants, promoting only ideas that conform to their preconceptions.

True wisdom begins with humility, recognizing the limits of our own knowledge. Psalm 146:3 advises us not to place ultimate trust in human leaders, no matter how intelligent or authoritative they seem. Humans are fallible, prone to error, and susceptible to the corrupting influences of pride and groupthink. History confirms this, revealing that even the most respected leaders and experts can lead us astray.

Conclusion

The path to wisdom lies not in blind faith or in following leaders who claim certainty but in seeking truth with humility. Whether in science, politics, or religion, we must always question, reflect, and recognize that humans—even the most intelligent among us—are prone to error. Only God’s guidance, as Psalm 146:3 reminds us, is infallible. So, when someone says, "Follow me, I know the path” , stop and think.

 


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Essay: The Tsundoku of a Lifelong Reader

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:26

“Our Earth is degenerate in these later days; there are signs that the world is speedily coming to an end; bribery and corruption are common; children no longer obey their parents; every man wants to write a book and the end of the world is evidently approaching.” - Anonymous.


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 I have always loved books. Not always for the right reasons, if I’m being honest. As a youth, I subscribed to a Reader’s Digest collection of beautifully bound classics. Red and gold for Shakespeare. Royal blue and gold for Dickens, Thomas Hardy, and Thackeray. These books stood proudly on my shelves, pristine, their spines uncracked, for all to see and perhaps to admire.

It wasn't about reading them, though. Looking back, I recognize that it was all about identity. I wanted to be perceived as scholarly, literate—a person well-versed in the literary arts. But the truth was, I hadn’t read a single one. I was practicing what the Japanese call Tsundoku: the art of acquiring books with no immediate intention of reading them.

Fast forward to 2023, and my collection has grown exponentially. I now have around 500 books, a mix of academic, biography, fiction, and creative writing. Some I cherish dearly and would never part with: Quicksand by Henning Mankell, The Devil’s Delusion by David Berlinski, Tell It Slant by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola, David Copperfield, and my all-time favourite, The Count of Monte Cristo. But what of the others? I must admit that many have not held my attention long enough to be read past the first few sentences, much less the first chapter.

It’s not that they aren’t worthy of reading, but life is short. If a book doesn’t grip me by the first paragraph, it’s likely to be returned to the shelf. Sometimes it’s the epigraph that holds me captive instead. I still remember the arresting line from Tomas Tranströmer in Mankell’s Quicksand that pulled me in. Or the brilliant opening from The Catcher in the Rye, with Holden Caulfield’s iconic voice: “If you really want to hear about it...” How can you not be drawn in by that? It’s all in the voice, the attitude, the cynicism. It's about the way the words mirror a mind in motion, one that refuses to settle for the ordinary.

And then, of course, there’s The Count of Monte Cristo. I revisited it recently, as if to justify to myself why it’s earned a permanent place in my collection. The first few lines alone are a masterclass in storytelling: “On February 24, 1815, the lookout at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the arrival of the three-masted Pharaon, coming from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples...” Instantly, a world of mystery and intrigue unfolds. Who are the people on these vessels? What tension is already at play beneath the ordinary? The names of exotic places like Smyrna and Trieste pull us into a world of adventure, far removed from the Victorian reader’s daily life—and mine too.

That is the beauty of reading, when I get around to it. There is no shortage of justification for why I haven’t read everything I own. Some books, I tell myself, I will get to eventually. Others are like reference points I return to in bits and pieces. And yet, there’s the part of me that acknowledges an attachment to these books beyond their content. They give my library a certain aesthetic, a kind of gravitas that I still find hard to part with.

It’s funny, though. While I’ve long since let go of the need to be seen as a scholar of the literary arts, there’s something about the act of owning books that keeps the illusion alive. Even when they remain unread, their very presence on the shelf says something about who I want to be—or who I think I am.

Perhaps that’s the heart of Tsundoku. It’s not just about the unread books themselves, but the relationship we have with them—the identity they allow us to project, the comfort of knowing they are there, waiting for us. Even if, deep down, we know we may never get to them all. And I think that’s okay. There’s a richness in knowing that the potential of a new story is always just within reach, even if I choose to appreciate the journey through those first few lines.


"And by these, my son, be further warned: There is no end to the making of many books, 

and much study wearies the body"

 Ecclesiastes: 12:12






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Cherishing What Matters Most: Some Thoughts on Matthew 18

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 28 Oct 2024, 09:49


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As an ardent viewer of All Creatures Great and Small, the beloved series that continues to captivate audiences worldwide, I find myself reflecting on one particular trait shared by the characters: a deep and abiding love for animals. Whether it's sheep, goats, alpacas, or even the humble tortoise, both farmers and vets show a profound tenderness and care toward their creatures. This reverence for animals is woven into every episode, just as it is in the pages of James Herriot’s books.

Yet, as much as this love for animals warms our hearts, it also raises a deeper question: do we as humans sometimes cherish animals more than our fellow man? This thought struck me during a recent reading of the Bible, particularly as I lingered on Matthew 18, a chapter that emphasizes the importance of how we treat one another. It made me realize that, in many religious organizations, these principles are often overlooked or misapplied.

Matthew 18 centres on the value of the individual, underscoring that each person must be protected, especially in moments of weakness. Verse 6 is clear—there is a severe responsibility to shield our fellow man from harm. But it’s in verses 15 to 17 that we see the roadmap for how to handle interpersonal conflict in a way that protects dignity rather than shames.

When someone wrongs us, Jesus' counsel is not to publicly humiliate them or cancel them, as we often see in today’s world of harsh judgment. Instead, verse 15 encourages us to approach the individual privately, in the spirit of compassion. The goal is always to protect, to show mercy, and to extend the opportunity for redemption. The process isn’t about escalating punishment; it’s about restoration.

Even when the sin is more severe, the same principle applies. The aim is to guide the individual back to their senses, not through coercion, but by appealing to them with mercy. If private efforts fail, Jesus instructs us to bring along one or two others, not to enforce judgment, but to persuade gently. This is a far cry from the cold, procedural punishments many may have experienced—there’s no 'Stool of Repentance,' no back-row ostracism. Forgiveness is to be immediate and full, even if repentance takes time.

In fact, even if someone relapses into their faults, Jesus' words to Peter are profound: “Not seven times, but seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22). This radical call to forgive reflects the boundless mercy we are to extend to one another. The process isn't about humiliation or public disgrace. It's about love, mercy, and godly compassion.

Of course, there are times when a person remains unrepentant despite every effort. Only then, after every avenue of mercy has been explored, are we told to involve the broader congregation. Even in these cases, the goal is not to cast someone out but to lovingly allow the community to intervene and seek restoration.

As I reflect on these verses, I can't help but wonder how different our communities might be if we followed this path more closely. If we cherished our fellow man with the same tenderness we show our animals, offering mercy, patience, and forgiveness without limit—wouldn't that be a more Christlike way to live?




 

 


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Why Must I Write? An apologia pro vita sua!

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:29

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There is a beautiful piece of cinematography in Nikita Mikhalkov’s movie Urga, where one is presented with a vast panoramic field of golden wheat. There’s movement in the distance. The image gets closer and closer and slowly coming into focus. It’s accompanied by the sound of rumbling hooves and snorting. Wafts of agitated crop dust float in a state of suspended animation hasten the suspense. The screen centres on the focal point, Gombo, the protagonist, a vigorous Mongolian equestrian shepherd.

The scene acts as an apt metaphor for the personal essay. One begins with something out of focus. A word like ‘nostalgia.’ A sentence like ‘It happened like this.’ A quote like Soderberg’s ‘People want to be loved, failing that admired…our soul seeks connection at any price.’ An image like Avril Paten’s painting, Windows in the West and a journey begins. I have no maps for this journey. I have no coordinates. Just the loose excursions of my mind. My reader joins me on the pilgrimage on this track,  this road, this highway to seemingly nowhere, but the scenery is interesting, occasionally captivating.  It’s worth the effort.

It’s an image of what’s going on in my head, albeit a glass darkly. But the process of pen to paper sparks a chemistry that is leading to a place. The place appears and disappears in a literary eclipse. We appear lost, but in the large vat of editing, the destination emerges.

 Like a camel on the road to Kathmandu, the personal essay can take the load I have to pack on. My memoirs, musings, my angst, the loose excursions of my mind, peculiarities and fears, my worldview, and philosophies. The introduction to the personal essay was like bursting out of prison and finding a voice for all I have to say. I was free.

Writing is more than just telling a good story. Motives for writing change. In this year of 2024, I write because I’m dying. Well, not in the immediate sense. At some point in the past, Thanatos took my measurements, and the gown is being prepared. But is pending mortality a justifiable reason for writing? Yes, if I wish to be remembered. Yes, if I desire those memories to be wholesome and just. Allow me to explain.

Apart from the obvious, there is a great unjust disadvantage the dead have over the living. The dead cannot defend themselves. Unlike the characters in Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s novel, The Dirty Dust, the faithful departed cannot express their opinions about what goes on in the land of the living.

There’s a story told in my family about a relative who was long gone before I was born. He had the reputation of being a rogue. One day a salesman was going from door to door selling wares from a suitcase. When he went to Freddie’s door, Freddie took his suitcase and closed his door in the man’s face. The man knocked on the door frantically asking for his possessions. And here’s where the story grows as tall as Jack’s beanstalk: When the man peeped through my relative’s keyhole shouting for his case, my kinsman sprayed hairspray in the man’s eye leaving him jumping up and down in pain. The cherished family myth is resurrected and embellished every year at family gatherings when I was a child . But myth, it is.

Identity is a concept we hold dear. Through life we have some control over it, but not a monopoly. We have a psychological assessment of self. We know if we are kind or a narcissist. We are painfully aware if we are low in self-esteem. We can create a wholesome view of ourselves by good actions or a negative view by a wrong course in life. But our ultimate reputation lies in the hands of society, our friends and family who succeed us. Our personal assessment dies when we die. Then, like it or not, others can raise cupboard skeletons that are figments of corrupt imaginations. Therefore, I write to leave stories and essays that surreptitiously reveal who I am. An apologia pro vita sua, you might say.

Every time I put pen to paper, I ask myself, who am I. I’ve never discovered that answer. Upstairs in my vaults I’m a youth. That has never changed. My friends feel the same. So, it’s not madness. I have gained some wisdom. Not much though. I still make emotional decisions. I’m spontaneous and I have made some disastrous financial decisions in the past few decades.  Yet my body tells me something different. I can have a conversation with that inexperienced other me. I’m not sure if we use words are we exchange instant thoughts, but we communicate with each other. But then Adolescent and I disagree. He thinks I should have done better in life. I think he never had the chances. Home was never Green Gables and then there’s the nature/nurture divide thing. No divide with me. I was awarded the full bhuna as we say in Glasgow. Below average intelligence and home was never exactly a sanctuary of human kindness. So, how can anyone cast dispersions before you know the whole story. The youth and I both agree.

"And I say to you that every careless word that they will speak,

 men will give an account of it in day of judgment. 

For by your words you will be justified,

 and by your words you will be condemned.”

Matthew 12:36







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Sabbath Thought For the Day

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:31



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Negotiating life as a Christian in today’s world is like driving on a potholed road; there are so many pitfalls. Avoiding aggressive speech, anger, resentment, hate, erotic images in advertising, and spiritual apathy to mention some. Decisions, both great and small, must be prayerfully negotiated.

Just the other day, well not really —it was years ago, that I read Psalm 119:133 that read something like “Fix my footsteps in your saying that no hurtful things domineer over me.” Wow! It bounced out the page. I like the way the Amplified Bible renders the verse,

Establish my footsteps in [the way of] Your word;

Do not let any human weakness have power over me

[causing me to be separated from You].

It’s a verse I find deep comfort in and is part of my daily prayer. In a world full of sinful noise, it speaks to me on a profound level. God and Christ through the Spirit can fill our mind with reminders that warn of potential potholes that may alienate us from the Divine.

I’m reminded of Peter who was forewarned by Jesus of one of these furrows when he said, “Before a cock crows…” What happened? Peter found himself denying Jesus three times and found himself hung out to dry.

C.S Lewis wrote “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pain.”

Thankfully, Peter rubbed himself off and regained his balance. But can I tell you a secret dear friend? It is better to be spoke to than shouted at.

Take time to listen to God. Personally, I rise in the morning before my wife. I make some tea whilst she is dreaming of palm trees and the Mediterranean life a thousand miles away from our fixed 59 degrees north and I have my moments with God in gentle whispers.



“Scripture quotations taken from the Amplified® Bible (AMPC),

Copyright © 1954, 1958, 1962, 1964, 1965, 1987 by The Lockman Foundation
Used by permission. lockman.org


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When There's Tension in the Room: Some Thoughts on Empaths

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:32


And they have sat each under his vine,

And under his fig tree,

And there is no one troubling him

Micah 4:4



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There’s a moment when the atmosphere shifts—subtle to most, but unmistakable to me. The air thickens, emotions fill the space, and I feel them as if they’re my own. Unspoken words hang like storm clouds, simmering frustrations quietly churn, and the German word Weltschmerz—the pain of the world—takes hold.

This is life as an empath.

For those of us with finely tuned emotional senses, we don’t just witness others' feelings; we absorb them. When tension fills the room, it engulfs me before anyone speaks. My instinctive reaction is to withdraw, to escape the invisible burden pressing down. For years, I thought this response was something to suppress, but I’ve come to understand it’s a core part of who I am.

Yet, being an empath is often misunderstood. In religious settings, where compassion should prevail, I’ve frequently encountered the dismissive phrase, “You’re too sensitive.” This form of gaslighting dismisses genuine emotional awareness as a flaw rather than recognizing its value. Bible principles are sometimes misapplied, used to invalidate emotions rather than support them, as if being attuned to others' pain is a stumbling block rather than an opportunity for deeper connection.

Sensitivity is both a gift and a challenge. It allows me to connect with people in profound ways, feeling their joys, sorrows, and fears—even when they try to hide them. But that same sensitivity makes me vulnerable to discord. When tensions rise, I bear the brunt of emotional turbulence—whether it’s anger, frustration, or resentment.

I’ve learned to respect the need to step away—not to abandon others, but to protect myself. There’s no shame in leaving an emotionally charged room to regain balance. Staying in such an environment only drains my strength. Sensitivity, while a strength, can become overwhelming when exposed to too much negativity.

For a long time, I envied those who seemed untouched by tension, able to brush off conflict or remain indifferent. But I’ve come to accept that my sensitivity is part of who I am. It enables me to offer comfort when it’s needed most or to understand someone’s pain without them having to speak.

I no longer apologize for who I am. Sensitivity isn’t a defect; it’s a way of seeing the world more clearly. Walking out of a room full of tension isn’t about avoiding people—it’s about restoring my peace so I can continue offering empathy in a world that so often needs it. In this broken world, only God’s future Kingdom will bring the ultimate restoration. Thy Kingdom come.


 

 

And they have sat each under his vine,

And under his fig tree,

And there is no one troubling him,

For the mouth of Jehovah of Hosts has spoken.

Micah 4:4


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The Silent Ache of Rejection

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 23 Oct 2024, 20:04


The Silent Ache of Rejection

One day in primary school I noticed many of my classmates had an invitation to a girl’s birthday party. During the break, I found the girl and asked her, “Can I have an invitation?”

She was with her friends, and she sung “Bum, bum, bubble-gum, my mother said you cannot come?”

Growing up with a feeling of rejection is like harbouring a secret shame you do not want anyone to know. It surfaces constantly into childhood moments: when you're overlooked in friendships, uninvited to get-togethers or dismissed by those closest to you. Even as you grow older, the ache surfaces in the hard wiring of the mind, often unspoken but always present. It’s only when I started talking to friends and strangers, I realized how universal this feeling is. Like a camel on the Silk Road, we walk through life carrying this concealed burden shaped not by ourselves, but by a world where selfishness and competition overshadow compassion and connection. And in a society where strength of character prevails, the right to be vulnerable loses out.

Rejection comes in many forms, school, friendships, workmates and family, creating a sense of low self-esteem that shapes how we see ourselves. Society often teaches us that love and acceptance must be earned, leading to a deep-rooted insecurity. This world, broken as it is, encourages us to believe we need to mould ourselves to fit others’ expectations, but in doing so, we lose personal identity.

Yet, this experience of rejection isn’t new. Imagine the scenario, you are a woman. In the search for love, you have moved from one partner to another. In a society that looks down on such, you don’t want to be seen in public, so you leave your home to do your chores when the town rests. One night, a stranger comes along and offers you something that changes your life John 4: 1-42 https://biblehub.com/john/4.htm

 

During Jesus’ time, religious rejection in the form of fear of shunning was an anxiety inducing fear as it is today. The Pharisees held significant influence, using the threat of expulsion from the synagogue to control the people. To be expelled, disfellowshipped, shunned or other shaming protocol, meant losing not only spiritual but also social belonging. Jesus never participated in this cultural pressure. In John 9:22, we see the parents of a man healed by Jesus who were afraid to acknowledge Jesus for fear of being ostracised. Even the Jewish hierarchy figures like Nicodemus who believed in Jesus were afraid to openly confess their faith (John 12:42-43), playing out how deeply the fear of rejection ran.

But Jesus offered refreshment In Luke 6:22, He spoke directly to the rejected, saying they were blessed when others shunned them for following him. He offered an open-armed-welcome that transcended human approval, inviting people into a love that didn’t require denying oneself. In scripture, if truth be told, we meet a strange cast of characters that would be considered to be odd: John the Baptist; Matthew, a tax collector, and no doubt loner in view of his career; Elijah; Elisha; Jonah, and many more. But they all had one thing in common; they loved God and God loved them.

For those of us who’ve felt the sting of rejection, this message is profound. It reminds us that we aren’t defined by the world’s standards or by the rejection we’ve experienced. Instead, we are loved and accepted by God. In a world that often feels fractured and indifferent, this truth offers a sense of belonging that nothing else can.

Ultimately, the ache of rejection points us to something more profound, a lifelong long craving for connection and love that this world will never satisfy. And while rejection may shape parts of our narrative, it doesn’t define us. We are invited into a love that is constant, where we are already enough.


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Good Morning Germany! I Like Your Word Fernweh

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:33


You open your hand,

    and satisfy the desire of every living thing



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I was only a boy when my music teacher introduced me to the hauntingly beautiful music of Edvard Grieg. It was the kind of music that reaches deep into your soul and stirs something ancient and unnameable. Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite, especially Morning and In the Hall of the Mountain King, carried me far away, beyond the confines of the classroom, into a place where mountains stretched endlessly toward the heavens and fjords cut through the earth like jagged wounds of breath-taking beauty. That day, I was struck by a peculiar feeling—a homesickness for Scandinavia, as if I had lived there in some other time. I felt, with an intensity that has stayed with me all my life, that I was born in the wrong country.

The Germans have a word for this: Fernweh. It translates as a kind of homesickness but can have a twist. Instead of pining for a place you've been, it describes a longing for somewhere you've never visited. It's the pull of an unfamiliar land that somehow feels more like home than the ground beneath your feet.

As a boy, I couldn’t have understood Fernweh in such terms, but I felt it keenly. It was as if Grieg’s music unlocked a door within me, leading to a distant, mist-shrouded land I had yet to see but already loved. The ache that came with it was as real as homesickness, a longing so profound that it almost felt like loss. To this day, when I hear Grieg’s compositions, that sensation returns—a yearning for mountains I’ve never climbed, forests I’ve never wandered, and the crisp, cold air of Scandinavia that I’ve never breathed but know in my bones.

This feeling isn’t unique, though it is deeply personal. Whilst reading at the dentist yesterday, I read about the story of Pablo the Penguin from Disney’s The Three Caballeros fascinated me. Pablo, living in the icy expanse of Antarctica, dreams of warmth. He builds a little boat and sails toward the tropics, yearning for sunshine and palm trees. But once he reaches the warm seas of his dreams, something unexpected happens. He feels homesick. He misses the icy winds of Antarctica, the very place he had been so desperate to leave behind.

Pablo’s story resonates with me because it captures the paradox of longing. We yearn for something different, something distant and elusive, and yet, when we reach that place, there’s a chance we might long for the familiarity of where we began. I’ve often wondered if I would feel the same if I lived in Scandinavia. Would my heart still yearn for those fjords and snowy landscapes, or would I find myself pining for the rugged coasts and rolling hills of Scotland?

Like Pablo, I’ve come to understand that homesickness, whether for a place we know or one we imagine, is part of the human experience. It speaks to a deeper truth about us: we are creatures of longing. We seek out beauty, peace, and belonging, sometimes in distant lands or in the melodies of foreign composers. But this longing is often as much about the journey as it is about the destination.

For me, Scandinavia is a place where my soul feels it belongs, even though my body has only been there a few times. The mountains and fjords I dreamed of as a child feel as real to me as my own home. I wonder if this is because there is a part of us, perhaps, that has roots in many places. Some of those roots are nurtured by the landscapes we live in, while others are stirred by the music we hear, the stories we tell, or the dreams we dream. Additionally, my surname is Celtic where a rich history of Scandinavian connection once waved over these landscapes. Who knows if this rich connection is still impeded in our psyche.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Fernweh truly is: the recognition that we belong not just to one place, but to many. It is the ache of knowing there are pieces of ourselves scattered across the world, waiting for us to find them, in countries we’ve never visited, in melodies we’ve never heard, and in the hearts of people we’ve yet to meet.

Pablo may have longed for the warmth of the tropics, only to miss the cold of Antarctica, but perhaps that’s the nature of longing itself. It moves us forward, reminding us of the places that call to our souls, while always leaving room for the pull of home—wherever that might be.

My friends and I got to talking about God's future plans. Will faithful humans go to heaven or earth? Could the future Paradise that Jesus spoke of be somewhere that has not been revealed to us yet.? I am not sure. But one thing is sure: we will not be homesick.

You open your hand,

    and satisfy the desire of every living thing.

Psalm 145:16 WEB


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Good Evening Kazakhstan! I Love Your Word Tattimbet

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A friend asked me, “Who is your favourite character in a book, Jim?

     “Oh dear, that’s like choosing which child is your favourite. But let me see, there is Bruno in Striped Pyjamas, and Aslan in The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, There is  Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and there is Joe in Great Expectations…”

     “Your favourite, Jim?”

     “Okay, Prince Myshkin.”

     “Prince who?”

     “Prince Myshkin. Dostoevsky’s The Idiot.”

     “Why him?”

     “He was too good for this world.”

*****

All my life I’ve been captivated by stories that highlight kind characters. Perhaps because they have qualities that I aspire to but have failed many times. This is why I like this word Tattimbet in the language of Kazakhstan. It embodies not just being a nice human but being a source of comfort to others. I grasp onto the word because we have no equivalent word in English that has that depth. Go back and consider the books I mentioned; all the protagonists embodied this quality. We could add many more: Beth in Little Women. Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, Samwise Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings, Miss Honey in Matilda, Jean Valjean from Les Misérables, Ma Joad in The Grapes of Wrath and who couldn’t forget Ann Shirley in Anne of Green Gables.

Don’t you think it strange that if we are in a universe that is aimless, we are drawn to kindness? Kindness, love and self-sacrifice have no place in an evolutionary world, but contrary to majority opinion, The ark of the universe bends towards goodness.

So, tell me your books that capture the spirit of Tattimbe?


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