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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.

"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

“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.

"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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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

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

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

"Humans are like two primates fighting over a banana and wrecking the garden in the process."

$14 trillion dollars per year spent on war

Primo Levi, in his profound work The Drowned and the Saved, writes of what he called the "grey zone" within Auschwitz. At first glance, life in the prison camp might seem sharply divided into two groups: the persecuted and their oppressors. But the reality was far more complex. Levi wrote that one might expect to find some measure of solidarity among those who shared the same terrible fate, but instead, the camp was fractured by countless divisions. The enemy, he said, was not only outside but also inside, among the prisoners themselves.

Isn't it unsettling how, whether in the street, the classroom, the family  the workplace, or even in the extreme setting of a prison camp, humans so often seem driven to create barriers, foster hatred, and build walls of division?

I live in Scotland, and I see constant division between Scotland and England, Glasgow and Edinburgh, Celtic and Rangers and teenagers creating gangs and fighting other teens in nearby streets.

Despite sharing the same DNA, the impulse to turn against one another runs deep. Where does this darkness come from? I believe it springs from within—greed, selfishness, and hatred—all the qualities that degrade our shared humanity. Evil is the absence of Good.

There’s a story of an American Indian elder, Achei, teaching his grandson about life’s inner struggle.

"My child," he said, "there are two wolves fighting inside you. One is driven by greed, selfishness, hatred, and deceit. He is full of bitterness and anger."

"He is compassionate, humble, and selfless, full of love and good intentions."

The boy thought for a moment, then asked, "Achei, which wolf will win the fight?"

"The one you choose to feed," Achei replied.

This ancient wisdom echoes a profound truth found in Galatians 5:22-23, where the harvest of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-discipline.

In the end, we are all capable of both good and evil, but it’s up to us to decide which forces we nurture. Let us choose to feed the better wolf—the one that reflects the love and goodness we’re all meant to carry within.

We live in a deeply broken world, but we can all play our part until God's Kingdom comes.

God bless your efforts!

https://www.weforum.org/agenda/2021/02/war-violence-costs-each-human-5-a-day/#:~:text=Conflict%20and%20violence%20cost%20the%20world%20more%20than,a%20day%20for%20every%20person%20on%20the%20planet.

He “gives life to the dead and calls into being what does not yet exist.”

Romans 4:17

I am grateful for the use of the image provided by https://unsplash.com/@loukhs

I guess that you, like me, got the primordial soup theory served up to you? Oh boy—I can’t believe they are still serving this despite all we know, or more to the point, all we don’t know.

The idea was simple: life began billions of years ago in a warm pond filled with basic chemicals, and through a combination of chance and the right conditions, these chemicals formed the first building blocks of life. We were told this was how it all started, but as I grew older, I realized that this theory, despite being taught as fact, has never been conclusively proven. It’s a hypothesis, an educated guess, and yet it continues to be fed to people as though it explains everything.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg4DjvDYQXw&t=18s

But even then, deep down, I felt there was more to it. From an early age, I had this ache—a yearning to know who created the stars, not just how they came to be. I wanted to understand the why behind it all.

I remember being captivated by the night sky as a child, looking up at the stars and feeling a sense of awe. Who could have placed them there? What power could have brought such beauty into existence? The explanations I received in school didn’t seem to satisfy that deeper question. Science could tell me about stars burning millions of miles away, but it couldn’t touch the ache within me, that pull toward something—or someone—bigger.

It reminds me of a simple analogy: imagine walking along the beach and stumbling across someone doing the Romeo and Juliet thing on the beach—a heart shape etched into the sand. None of us would ever conclude that the wind or the waves just happened to carve that heart. We’d know, instinctively, that someone had drawn it. Design needs a designer. It’s such a simple truth, and yet, when we look at the far greater complexity of the universe, we often overlook it. If a heart in the sand points to a child’s hand, how much more should the intricate design of the cosmos point to a Creator?

As we learn more about life and the universe, the evidence of design becomes even more overwhelming. Consider DNA, for instance. It’s like a language—an incredibly complex code that determines everything about us, from our physical traits to how our bodies function. It’s far more advanced than any man-made software, and yet some still want to believe it happened by chance. Or take photon splitting, where scientists have discovered that when you split a photon into two, the behaviour of one photon is instantly mirrored by the other, no matter the distance between them. This phenomenon boggles the mind and speaks to the deep, interconnected complexity of creation.

The more we discover about the universe and life, the more intricate and finely tuned everything appears. Yet somehow, we’re expected to believe that all this complexity, all of this design, happened without a designer? It doesn’t sit well with me.

And here is where the problem exists for some. Society  is prepared to accept any theory other than God. Could that be that when you accept the God hypothesis, we have to do a deep down search of what all that implies? A responsibility, a change in life's pattern Romans 12:2.

But that may be too simple. Many have a genuine struggle because of human suffering, but neither do we want to throw the baby out with the bathwater and that's a subject best tackled by another forthcoming blog.

As a Christian, I believe the design we see in the world around us reflects God’s creative power. He’s the one who “calls into being things that were not,” as Paul writes in Romans 4:17. Science may offer insights into how things work, but it’s God who gives everything meaning. The stars, the galaxies, the intricate details of life—they all point to Him, the ultimate designer. And that ache I felt as a child? It was the beginning of my journey to know the One who placed the stars in the sky.

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The one who is gracious to the poor lends to^[ the Lord,

and the Lord  will repay him for his good deed.

 Proverbs 19:7 (New English Bible).

My wife asked me what was my happiest childhood memory?

It was the day my two friends came and asked if I was coming with them. It was a spring morning, and we took the ferry across to Kelvin to visit the museum.

We were there for several hours and on our return, we rubbed our tummies with hunger. A man said, ‘Here’s a half-crown, buy yourselves ice-cream.’

We jumped up and down singing ‘Chips, chips, chips!’ Then… we stopped…went silent. The man told us to buy ice-cream.

But he just smiled, and we jumped up and down again singing ‘Chips, chips, chips!’

And I would have to say, that was my happiest childhood memory; the day the kind man smiled and thought it was okay to buy chips.

     “We are faced with a moral issue,” the evangelist said

     “A moral what?” the man asked.

     “A moral issue. Let me illustrate: If I was to say I am stronger than you we could settle the matter easily. We could arm wrestle.”

     “Okay, what’s the point your making?”

     “A moral issue is a bit more complicated. I f I was to say that I am more honest than you, it would take our lifetimes to settle the matter. And so it goes with the human family in their relationship with the creator.”

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Bitachon  (Hebrew) refers to a deep spiritual trust and confidence in God that he is in control and that things will unfold according to divine will, regardless of what we observe around us.

*****

 As I sit and reflect on the meaning of the Hebrew word Bitachon—trust, confidence, or assurance in God—I am struck by how it resonates with my own journey. We live in a world filled with uncertainty, imperfection, and suffering. But for me, Bitachon is the reminder that there is a greater force at work, a divine assurance that, despite all appearances, God is in control. This trust is not a passive belief; it is an active posture of faith that steadies me, especially when the world feels chaotic and unjust.

I wasn’t born with an understanding of Bitachon. My path to faith began at 23, a time when I had parted ways with friends and was searching for something more—something that could give my life deeper meaning and purpose. I was seeking God, even if I didn’t fully realize it at the time. And through scripture, particularly through the lives of people like Job, I began to understand what it meant to trust in God’s overarching plan, even when that plan is obscured by suffering.

The story of Job in the Bible has always moved me. Job was a man who suffered for righteousness' sake, not because of anything he had done wrong, but because he was caught in a much larger moral issue. God allowed Job to experience deep loss, but even in his anguish, Job spoke of a future hope, a “renewal” of life (Job 14:14). This idea of suffering being undone, of renewal and restoration, is something I hold onto tightly. Like Job, I’ve seen suffering—not just in my own life, but in the lives of others. The key question for me has always been, “Why does God allow this?” And the answer lies, I believe, in the very essence of Bitachon: God is in control, even when we can’t see it.

Romans 8:20-23 provides another layer of understanding for me. In these verses, Paul speaks about the creation being subjected to futility, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay. This speaks to the imperfect world we are all born into—a world that groans as it awaits redemption. We are all on a level playing field, born into a society marred by imperfection and suffering. But the fact that we suffer does not mean that God has abandoned us. Rather, it means that we have the opportunity to seek Him, to prove ourselves worthy of eternal life, as Job did. God is always present, guiding the process, even when it feels like everything is unravelling.

The moral issue at the heart of our existence is something I’ve come to accept as part of God’s plan. It reminds me of an illustration I’ve often thought about: if I were to say that I am stronger than you, we could easily settle the matter by arm wrestling. The winner would be clear. But if I were to say that I am more honest than you, well, that’s not something we could determine in a single contest. It would take our entire lives to assess—through our actions, choices, and the way we navigate the challenges life throws at us. In the same way, God allows humanity to live out this moral dilemma, to prove through our lives whether we trust Him, whether we are honest, kind, and righteous. And that process takes time.

Bitachon assures me that no matter how overwhelming life’s moral dilemmas feel, God’s sovereignty remains unchanged. While we are given the freedom to make our choices, God remains in control, working all things together for good—even when it’s not immediately obvious. It’s easy to feel lost when looking at the history of humanity—the wars, the suffering, the injustice—but Bitachon reminds me that history is not without purpose. God’s hand has always been guiding the grand narrative, allowing space for humanity to prove its integrity, its honesty, and its worthiness of His eternal promise.

For me, Bitachon is a deeply personal trust in God’s plan. It means knowing that the suffering and imperfection of this world are not the final word. Like Job, I may experience trials and heartache, but I also hold onto the hope of renewal. And like Paul, I believe that all of creation is waiting in eager expectation for that final redemption. This trust sustains me, even when the world feels out of control, because I know that God’s control is never out of reach.

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 "Dragonfly catcher,

how far have you gone today

in your wandering?"

Chiyo-ni’s haiku speaks of a child catching dragonflies, capturing a tender moment of innocence and play. Yet, there’s an underlying sense of distance and loss, as she had lost her own child. Haiku often distill life’s most profound moments, rooted in nature and impermanence. For poets like Matsuo Bashō, the fleeting beauty of life opens the door to contemplation and what might come after. In his final haiku, Bashō reflects on the end of life with acceptance:

"On a journey, ill,

my dream goes wandering

over withered fields."

Bashō, like a wandering minstrel, found in nature the human condition. His "withered fields" evoke life’s end, yet his dream continues, suggesting a journey beyond. This resonates with my own reflections on the soul’s path.

Yosa Buson, too, captured the sorrow of life’s passing in his haiku:

"The end of it all,

and weeping, in the midst of

the flowers blooming."

Here, the blooming flowers symbolize life’s rhythm, while weeping hints at grief. Even in sorrow, nature’s persistence seems to suggest hope—perhaps life, in some form, endures.

Kobayashi Issa, having lost many loved ones, also wrote of life’s fragility and the yearning for something more:

"This world of dew

is a world of dew—

and yet, and yet..."

Life, like dew, is fleeting, but Issa’s "and yet" leaves room for hope—perhaps there is something beyond the transient world.

Santōka Taneda, who lived a wandering life, also embraced this tension. In one haiku, he wrote:

"My begging bowl—

accepts the falling leaves

of this life."

The falling leaves symbolize the passage of time and acceptance of life’s end. The bowl, a symbol of humility, receives life’s final offering, reflecting the importance of accepting what comes next.

These haikus, rooted in nature and impermanence, invite us to contemplate life’s continuity beyond the physical.

Haiku, in its ability to distil life’s most profound experiences into a few words, leaves room for the mystery of what lies beyond. As I walk along the shore in the early morning, watching the waves rise and fall, I find myself thinking of Bashō’s dream, wandering over withered fields. And like Issa, I carry with me that quiet "and yet," as I continue to reflect on life, death, and the hope that there is something more waiting on the other side. These poets covertly and with considerable discomfort  flew against the concept of Mono no aware.

"Do not marvel at this, but the hour is coming in which all those in the graves will hear my voice and come out; those who have done good to a resurrection of life..." John 5: 28.

The psychologist leaned in slightly and asked, “What’s the capital of Scotland?”

“Edinburgh, of course,” he replied.

His next question caught him off guard: “And when was the last time you shared a meal with friends?”

Suddenly, a warm reel of memories began to play in his mind—a slow, cosy film where laughter mingled with the scent of food, and time seemed to stretch in the glow of shared company.

On What it Means to Be Human — Jim McCrory

 Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@yvonnemorgun

But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; 

and none shall make them afraid:

 for the mouth of the Lord of hosts hath spoken it.

Micah 4:4 (KJB)

Sobremesa: The Art of Lingering in a Fast-Paced World

In a world that glorifies speed and productivity, where our days are measured in schedules and deadlines, the Mexican tradition of sobremesastands out like a quiet rebellion. It’s a word I didn’t grow up with, but one that resonates deeply with the quieter rhythms of life I’ve come to cherish over time. Sobremesa is not just the time spent at the table after the meal is finished, but the celebration of togetherness, the shared moments that linger long after the last bite has been taken.

Growing up in Glasgow, meals were often practical affairs. The city moved to the rhythm of its shipyards and industries, and meals mirrored that pace. Food, in my childhood home, was sustenance—something to keep the body going before the next task. Yet, tucked into those hurried moments were the seeds of something slower, something closer to sobremesa. There were nights when conversation stretched long after the plates had been cleared, and I would find myself drawn into the world of my parents’ memories, stories of their childhoods, and the hardships and joys that shaped them. I didn’t know it then, but those moments—the laughter, the sighs, the comfortable silences—were fragments of what sobremesa embodies.

It wasn’t until later in life that I experienced a more intentional version of this tradition. My wife and I began to cherish slow Sunday afternoons, particularly when visiting friends. We would linger over cups of tea, talking about everything and nothing, as time seemed to slow to a comfortable crawl. The conversation wasn’t about achieving something or checking off a task; it was about presence, connection, and the shared human experience. In those moments, I realized that the space after the meal—the sobremesa—was just as nourishing as the food itself.

And here’s the beautiful thing: no matter how often we gathered, no matter how many times we shared those meals, we never tired of it. There was always something new to discuss, some story to revisit or some laughter to be had. It was as if these moments with loved ones, this time spent together after the meal, was something infinite in its appeal. I suspect that even if we lived forever, we would never tire of sitting down to a meal with family and friends. The act itself, like sobremesa, never grows old because it taps into something eternal—our deep need for connection, for communion with others.

There is something almost sacred about this time. In a world where so much is transactional, sobremesa asks nothing of us but our presence. It invites us to be, rather than do. To share, rather than compete. In this space, stories are passed on, wisdom is exchanged, and relationships deepen. It’s a practice that reminds me of the spiritual dimensions of community—the importance of staying a little longer, of listening a little more carefully, of allowing time to unfold naturally without rushing to the next thing.

As I reflect on this, I think about how much we lose when we hurry through life. In the push for efficiency, we forget the richness of connection, the joy of simply being with others. Sobremesa offers us an antidote to this, a reminder that some of the most meaningful moments happen when we let go of the need to be somewhere else.

Perhaps that’s why sobremesa feels so timely and timeless to me. In a culture often focused on what’s next, it offers the gift of now. It’s an invitation to linger, to engage in the deep human need for connection. And in a world where so many are isolated, where divisions grow wider, sobremesa reminds us that the simple act of sitting together, of sharing a moment, can be one of the most profound ways to foster community.

It is in the lingering that we find meaning, in the small, unhurried moments that reveal the fullness of our shared humanity. In those extended conversations after a meal, we are reminded that we were never meant to go through life alone, but in communion with others—whether over coffee, or tea, or something as simple as the warmth of another person’s presence.

And maybe, just maybe, the world could use a little more sobremesa. Because if we were made to live forever, we’d still look forward to those meals, still find joy in the company of those we love, still cherish the conversations that flow long after the last bite is taken. Some things, it seems, are timeless.

"He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in their hearts..."  

Ecclesiastes 3:11

I was born and raised in the maritime city of Glasgow. Inevitably, it looks outward. And yet, where we travel shapes who we are inwardly.

Now, I am crossing over to the Island of Bute on the MV Bute, reading about the fascinating philosophical thought experiment known as the Ship of Theseus, first proposed by Plutarch. Theseus, the mythological hero, sailed from Greece to slay the Minotaur. After completing his task, he returned to Athens and left his ship to decay. Over time, carpenters gradually replaced each plank of the ship. This raises a question: which ship is the Ship of Theseus—the newly restored one or the old parts rotting on the beach?

Our bodies are not unlike that paradox. Red blood cells form, embark on an arduous journey through the grand rapids of our arteries, veins, and capillaries—facing proportionally life-threatening obstacles—only to sail into oblivion after their two-month voyage.

Skin cells decay, leading to weakening avalanches and shifting continental plates. They fall from their plateaus, aided by cascading water, gravitating toward terminal, anti-clockwise whirlpools before their second day ends.

Estimates vary, but the body replaces itself every seven to ten years. Like Plutarch’s thought experiment, this raises questions of identity and thoughts of eternity as I ponder the body’s self-renewal mechanism.

But here lies the paradox: neurons, those cells that drive the brain, remain with us, in some cases, for life.

Though I am advancing in years, there’s still a young man living inside me. I can call him up at any time to visit the places he once visited, meet the people he met, and relive the joys he experienced. This convinces me of an action God took before I was born:

"He has made everything beautiful in its time.

He has also set eternity in their hearts..."

Ecclesiastes 3:11 (World English Bible)