Personal Blogs

Do you love me?

Many years ago, I watched the film Fiddler on the Roof. One scene has stayed with me ever since. Tevye’s wife, Golde, suddenly asks him a question after many years of marriage: “Do you love me?”

The question catches Tevye off guard. In their tradition marriages were arranged, and love was rarely spoken about openly. To him, the answer seems obvious. He begins listing all the things he has done for her over the years: working hard, providing for the family, sharing the burdens of life. Surely these things demonstrate his love. But Golde is looking for something more than a list of duties fulfilled; she longs to hear words of appreciation.

Her question reveals something deeper. What she really wants is recognition expressed aloud—something that acknowledges the bond between them. The moment becomes tender and reflective, leading into the gentle song Do You Love Me? where the two cautiously explore feelings that had long been assumed but never spoken.

The scene captures something deeply human. We live not only by actions but also by words. A kind word can lift the spirit in ways that practical service alone sometimes cannot. Most people do not seek constant praise, yet sincere appreciation has a quiet power. It reassures us that we are seen and valued.

Unfortunately, the opposite can also be true. Some people carry with them a kind of gloom—an atmosphere of criticism or coldness. It may appear in sharp remarks, dismissive attitudes, or simply a lack of warmth. Such negativity can weigh heavily on those around them. Where appreciation is absent, discouragement often takes its place.

Gratitude, by contrast, has a remarkable effect on human well-being. It can increase happiness, strengthen relationships, and even lessen feelings of depression. One reason for this is simple: gratitude shifts our attention. Instead of focusing on what is missing or imperfect, it turns our gaze toward what is present and good.

Literature offers many poignant reflections on this theme. In Middlemarch by George Eliot, we encounter the quiet suffering of Dorothea Brooke. I recall cringing, I mean really cringing as I watched a certain scene play out. Dorothea is an intelligent and idealistic young woman who longs to dedicate her life to meaningful work and moral purpose. Believing she can contribute to something intellectually significant; she marries the scholar, Edward Casaubon.

Yet her hopes gradually fade. Rather than welcoming her devotion and assistance, Casaubon becomes defensive and distant. Dorothea’s generosity, intelligence, and willingness to serve are not only unappreciated but subtly resented. The marriage becomes a place where her gifts remain largely unseen.

Her story reveals a quiet tragedy: the sincere desire to contribute, combined with the pain of feeling that one’s efforts do not matter. Eliot writes with deep sympathy for such people—those whose goodness is genuine but easily overlooked in the ordinary patterns of life.

In reality, many people experience something similar. Those who are thoughtful, generous, or humble do not always attract attention. Louder personalities or rigid social expectations can overshadow quieter virtues. Yet the absence of recognition does not diminish the value of those qualities.

From a Christian perspective, kindness and appreciation are not merely social niceties; they reflect something deeper about the way human life is meant to be lived. In Galatians 5:22–23 we read:

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”

Here kindness is described as something that grows naturally in a life shaped by God’s Spirit. It is not forced or artificial. It emerges from a heart that has learned to see others with compassion and respect.

A quiet thread runs through these reflections from Golde’s simple question, to Dorothea’s unnoticed devotion, to the biblical call toward kindness.

Gratitude does more than acknowledge a good deed. It recognises the dignity of the person who offered it.

In this way, a few sincere words can do something remarkable: they affirm the quiet worth of a human soul

The Big Question: Who Are God and Jesus? 

I have been observing how different Christian religions interpret the identity of God and Jesus in Scripture. Recently, one young person seemed deeply troubled by the subject, and that stayed with me.

This is not a matter I approach lightly. I have prayerfully considered it each morning for months, followed by Bible reading and research. But let me say at the outset: I have no axe to grind. I am a non-denominational Christian who takes my relationship with God seriously. I am not trying to defend a religious organisation, nor am I looking to attack one. I simply want to understand what Scripture actually says.

And perhaps that is where we should begin: not with labels, not with inherited arguments, but with the Bible itself.

“Let Us Make Man in Our Image”

We first encounter a striking statement in Genesis, when God moves to create mankind:

“Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.”
— Genesis 1:26

Who is God speaking to when he says, “Let us make man in our image”?

Some Christians see this as an early indication that there is plurality within God’s own identity. Others understand God to be addressing the heavenly court — angelic or heavenly beings who are present before him, as we see in passages such as 1 Kings 22:19–22 and Isaiah 6:1–8.

What cannot be overlooked is the next verse:

“So God created man in his own image.”
— Genesis 1:27

The speech is plural — “Let us make” — but the act of creation is singular: “God created.” Genesis does not explain the mystery in full. It gives us something to think about, but not a complete doctrinal formula.

When I read that humanity is made in God’s image, I naturally think about the qualities God desires to see reflected in us. Galatians 5:22–23 describes the fruit of the Spirit as:

“Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”

Looking around at humanity, we can see traces of these qualities — sometimes beautifully, sometimes imperfectly, and sometimes sadly obscured. Yet their presence reminds us that human beings were created with the capacity to reflect something of God’s goodness.

The Bible Is Clear That There Is One God

Whatever conclusion we reach about Jesus, we must begin with the Bible’s firm witness that there is one God.

Moses declared to Israel:

“Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one.”
— Deuteronomy 6:4

Through Isaiah, God says:

“I am the first and I am the last; besides me there is no god.”
— Isaiah 44:6

And again:

“I am the LORD, and there is no other, besides me there is no God.”
— Isaiah 45:5

These verses leave no room for the idea of two rival Gods, or a collection of separate gods competing for worship. The faith of Israel was founded upon the worship of the one true God.

Therefore, when Christians speak about Jesus in exalted or divine terms, they must still explain how Jesus relates to the one God revealed in Israel’s Scriptures.

Yet the Old Testament Is Not Entirely Simple in Its Language About God

Although the Old Testament teaches that there is one God, it sometimes describes God’s presence and activity in ways that are richer than we might first expect.

God creates through his word:

“By the word of the LORD the heavens were made.”
— Psalm 33:6

God’s Spirit is active in creation:

“The Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.”
— Genesis 1:2

God’s Wisdom is described in remarkably personal language in Proverbs 8, present before the created world and rejoicing in God’s work.

God also speaks about his Name dwelling among his people, and in Exodus 23:20–21 he speaks of an angel who bears his Name and must be obeyed.

None of these passages, by themselves, proves the later Christian doctrine of the Trinity. But they do show that within the Old Testament, God’s own presence, Word, Wisdom, Spirit and Name can be spoken about in profound and sometimes mysterious ways.

That matters when we later come to the New Testament and read what it says about Jesus.

Jesus Is Clearly Distinct from God the Father

There are many passages in the New Testament where Jesus is plainly distinguished from God.

Jesus prays to the Father:

“Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.”
— Mark 14:36

In prayer, Jesus refers to the Father as:

“The only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.”
— John 17:3

Jesus also says:

“The Father is greater than I.”
— John 14:28

After Jesus’ death and resurrection, Peter preached:

“Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with mighty works and wonders and signs that God did through him.”
— Acts 2:22

A few verses later, Peter says:

“God has made him both Lord and Christ, this Jesus whom you crucified.”
— Acts 2:36

Paul similarly writes:

“There is one God, and there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.”
— 1 Timothy 2:5

And throughout his letters, Paul often writes of “God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ,” distinguishing between them.

These verses cannot honestly be dismissed. Jesus prays to God. Jesus obeys God. Jesus is sent by God. Jesus receives authority from God. Jesus even speaks of “my God” after his resurrection, as we find in Revelation 3:12.

Therefore, Jesus cannot simply be identified as the same person as the Father. Scripture preserves a real distinction.

Yet Jesus Is Also Given an Astonishingly Exalted Place

At the same time, there are passages where Jesus is described in language that places him extraordinarily close to God’s own identity, work and glory.

The opening words of John’s Gospel are among the most important:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
— John 1:1

John does not say that the Word was the same person as the God he was “with.” There is distinction. Yet he also says that the Word “was God.” Then, in John 1:14, we are told:

“The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

John is clearly speaking about Jesus.

Later in the same Gospel, after seeing the risen Jesus, Thomas says to him:

“My Lord and my God!”
— John 20:28

Jesus does not rebuke Thomas for saying this.

Another deeply important passage is Philippians 2:5–11. Paul says that Christ existed “in the form of God,” yet willingly humbled himself, taking the form of a servant and becoming obedient unto death. After this, God highly exalted him and gave him “the name that is above every name,” so that every knee should bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.

What makes this especially significant is that Paul appears to draw upon Isaiah 45:23, where every knee bows before the LORD himself. Yet Paul applies this honour to Jesus, while still concluding that this brings glory “to God the Father.”

That is the tension we repeatedly meet in Scripture: Jesus is distinct from God the Father, yet he is spoken of in language that belongs remarkably close to God.

“One God, the Father” and “One Lord, Jesus Christ”

Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 8:6 deserve careful attention:

“Yet for us there is one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist.”

A reader might initially think Paul is separating Jesus from the one God entirely. Yet there is something deeper happening here.

The Jewish confession of one God in Deuteronomy 6:4 speaks of the LORD as the one God of Israel. In the Greek Old Testament, the divine name is regularly represented by the word “Lord.” Paul now speaks of “one God, the Father” and “one Lord, Jesus Christ,” while associating both with creation and human existence.

This does not erase the distinction between Father and Son. But it does mean that Jesus is not treated merely as an ordinary prophet, teacher or heavenly messenger.

What Does “Firstborn of All Creation” Mean?

One of the most discussed passages in this entire subject is Colossians 1:15:

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.”

Some readers understand “firstborn” to mean that Jesus was the first being God created. From that viewpoint, Jesus is exalted above all other creation, but is still himself created.

Others point out that in the Bible, “firstborn” can refer not only to birth order, but also to rank, inheritance and supremacy. For example, in Psalm 89:27, God says of David:

“I will make him the firstborn, the highest of the kings of the earth.”

David was not literally the firstborn son in his family. The title described his supreme position.

The verses immediately following Colossians 1:15 are therefore very important:

“For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible… all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”
— Colossians 1:16–17 (Cautionary note, one Bible says “All other things” Other does not appear in the Greek texts).

That is extraordinary language. Christ is not merely said to exist before other things. All things are said to have been created through him and for him, and to continue holding together in him.

It is understandable that some readers see the word “firstborn” as suggesting subordination or derivation. But it is equally understandable that others see the surrounding verses as placing Christ on the Creator side of the divide between Creator and creation.

An honest reading must allow the whole passage to speak.

“All the Fullness of Deity Dwells Bodily”

Colossians continues with another remarkable statement:

“For in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily.”
— Colossians 2:9

This is one of the strongest passages in the New Testament concerning Jesus’ identity. Paul does not merely say that Jesus was inspired by God, represented God, or received power from God. He says that the fullness of deity dwells bodily in him.

Yet even here, the verse does not say that Jesus is the Father. The New Testament maintains distinction while still giving Jesus an exceptionally high identity.

Hebrews Chapter One: A Son Unlike Any Other

Hebrews 1 gathers together some of the most striking statements about Jesus in all of Scripture.

The Son is described as:

• the heir of all things;

• the one through whom God made the world;

• the radiance of God’s glory;

• the exact imprint of God’s nature;

• the one who upholds all things by his powerful word;

• the one seated at the right hand of the Majesty on high.

The chapter then applies several Old Testament passages to the Son.

The Son is called God’s Son from Psalm 2:7.

The angels are commanded to worship him.

Words from Psalm 45 are applied to him:

“Your throne, O God, is forever and ever.”
— Hebrews 1:8

There is debate about how this line should be translated. Many understand it as God addressing the Son as “O God.” Others argue for the rendering, “God is your throne.” That debate should be acknowledged fairly.

But Hebrews does not stop there. In Hebrews 1:10–12, words from Psalm 102, originally addressed to the LORD as Creator of heaven and earth, are applied to the Son:

“You, Lord, laid the foundation of the earth in the beginning, and the heavens are the work of your hands.”

That is remarkable. Hebrews distinguishes between God and the Son, yet it applies Creator-language and divine honour to the Son.

Verses Commonly Emphasised by Those Who Reject the Trinity

Those who do not accept the Trinity often draw attention to passages such as these:

• John 17:3, where Jesus calls the Father “the only true God.”

• John 14:28, where Jesus says, “The Father is greater than I.”

• Mark 13:32, where Jesus says the Son does not know the day or hour.

• Acts 2:36, where God makes Jesus “Lord and Christ.”

• 1 Corinthians 15:24–28, where the Son finally subjects himself to God, so that “God may be all in all.”

• Revelation 3:12, where the risen Jesus repeatedly speaks of “my God.”

These verses strongly support the distinction between Jesus and the Father. They speak of obedience, dependence, received authority and subjection.

A serious Christian cannot simply brush these texts aside.

Verses Commonly Emphasised by Those Who Accept the Trinity or a Divine Identity for Christ

Those who believe Jesus shares in the divine identity often point to passages such as these:

• John 1:1–3, where the Word is with God, is called God, and is involved in the creation of all things.

• John 8:58, where Jesus says, “Before Abraham was, I am.”

• John 20:28, where Thomas addresses Jesus as “My Lord and my God.”

• Philippians 2:6–11, where Christ exists in the form of God, humbles himself, and receives the honour described in Isaiah as belonging to the LORD.

• Colossians 1:15–20, where all things are created through Christ and for Christ.

• Colossians 2:9, where the fullness of deity dwells bodily in Christ.

• Hebrews 1, where the Son is described as the radiance of God’s glory and Old Testament passages about the LORD are applied to him.

• Titus 2:13 and 2 Peter 1:1, where the Greek wording is understood by many translators and scholars as referring to Jesus as “our God and Savior.”

These passages are equally serious. Jesus is not presented merely as a righteous teacher or a created servant carrying messages from God. He receives titles, honour, creative functions and worship that raise profound questions about his relationship to the one God.

Scripture Seems to Unfold the Question Gradually

The Old Testament begins with uncompromising devotion to one God.

Within that same Old Testament, God’s Word, Wisdom, Spirit, Glory, Name and heavenly presence are described in ways that prepare the reader for a deeper revelation.

The Gospels then present Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of God and the Son of Man. He forgives sins, claims authority over the Sabbath, calms storms, receives worship, speaks with unique authority and finally rises from the dead.

Paul describes Jesus in connection with creation, cosmic rule, divine glory and final judgment.

Hebrews speaks of him as the radiance of God’s glory and applies Old Testament language about the Creator to the Son.

John gives perhaps the clearest expression of all: the Word who was with God and was God became flesh and lived among us.

Later Christian doctrine did not create these difficult questions out of nothing. The questions arise from the biblical text itself. Christians tried to find language that preserved all of the scriptural evidence together:

• there is one God;

• the Father is God;

• Jesus is distinct from the Father;

• Jesus prays to, obeys and is sent by God;

• Jesus also shares divine titles, divine works, divine honour and divine glory;

• the Holy Spirit acts as God’s active and personal presence.

Whether one agrees with every later doctrinal formulation or not, the material that gave rise to the discussion is plainly present in Scripture.

A Small Illustration from the Mystery of Creation

At this point, someone may reasonably say, “But how can all of this be understood?”

That is a fair question. We are trying to speak about the identity of God and Jesus, not the identity of ordinary human beings. We are considering realities far greater than ourselves.

An illustration from science may help us approach the question with humility.

Scientists speak of quantum entanglement. Put very simply, at the smallest levels of creation, particles can be connected in such a way that they cannot be fully described independently of one another. Their relationship is real, even though it does not behave in the ordinary way our everyday experience leads us to expect.

More recently, researchers have reported evidence of quantum entanglement involving the quarks and gluons within a proton. A proton is one of the tiny building blocks found in atoms. In other words, even within something unimaginably small, scientists continue to uncover relationships and behaviour that are extremely difficult for the ordinary human mind to picture.

I am not saying that quantum entanglement proves the identity of God, proves the Trinity, or explains the relationship between the Father and the Son. It does none of those things.

My point is much simpler.

If the created world contains realities so strange and profound that even brilliant scientists struggle to describe them in everyday language, should we be surprised that the eternal God is not easily reduced to a simple human formula?

Psalm 8 says that mankind has been made “a little lower than the heavenly beings.” We are creatures, limited in understanding, looking toward the glory and mystery of the Creator.

That should not prevent us from studying Scripture carefully. But it should keep us humble.

Where Does This Leave Us?

For me, the honest conclusion is not that the difficult verses should be ignored, nor that only one group of passages should be allowed to speak.

Scripture contains language of distinction and subordination:

• Jesus prays to God.

• Jesus obeys God.

• Jesus is sent by God.

• Jesus receives authority from God.

• Jesus speaks of the Father as greater.

• Jesus calls the Father “the only true God.”

• The Son is ultimately subject to God.

But Scripture also contains language that includes Jesus in God’s own work, honour and glory:

• the Word was God;

• all things were made through him;

• Thomas calls Jesus “my Lord and my God”;

• every knee bows to Jesus;

• all things were created through him and for him;

• the fullness of deity dwells bodily in him;

• the Son is the radiance of God’s glory;

• Old Testament words about the LORD as Creator are applied to the Son.

Any honest reading must allow both sets of passages to stand before attempting to settle the matter doctrinally.

For the young person who seemed troubled, and perhaps for others who quietly carry similar concerns, I would say this: do not be frightened by the depth of the question. God is not dishonoured by careful reading, sincere prayer or humble searching.

We may not be able to explain the fullness of God’s identity as easily as we explain the identity of a human being. But perhaps that is to be expected. We are speaking about the living God, his eternal glory, and Jesus Christ, through whom the New Testament says all things came to be.

My own desire is not to win an argument. It is to remain faithful to Scripture, honest about what it says, humble about what exceeds my understanding, and grateful that God has made himself known through Christ.

The facts, as I understand them, are these: Scripture contains both subordination language and divine-inclusion language concerning Jesus. A sincere reader should not force one side into silence. We should read, pray, think carefully, and allow the full witness of Scripture to lead us closer to God.

Passages Mentioned for Personal Study

Genesis 1:1–27; Psalm 8; Psalm 33:6; Psalm 45:6–7; Psalm 89:27; Psalm 102:25–27; Proverbs 8; Isaiah 44:6; Isaiah 45:5, 23; Exodus 23:20–21; Deuteronomy 6:4; Mark 13:32; Mark 14:36; John 1:1–14; John 8:58; John 14:28; John 17:3; John 20:28; Acts 2:22–36; Romans 1:7; 1 Corinthians 8:6; 1 Corinthians 15:24–28; Philippians 2:5–11; Colossians 1:15–20; Colossians 2:9; 1 Timothy 2:5; Titus 2:13; Hebrews 1; 2 Peter 1:1; Revelation 3:12.

Science Note

The illustration concerning entanglement within protons is based on research publicised by Brookhaven National Laboratory in December 2024, reporting evidence that quarks and gluons within protons are subject to quantum entanglement. This illustration is offered only as an appeal for humility before mystery, not as a scientific proof of any Christian doctrine.

Does Christ Have Us on Airplane Mode?

“Wake up, O sleeper,
rise from the dead,
and Christ will shine on you.”
— Ephesians 5:14

The Lord having us on airplane mode is an unsettling truth: Christ does not shine on us because we are impressive, disciplined, or spiritually eloquent. He shines on us when we wake up.

We often speak as though God is hidden. Yet scripture tells a different story. God is not the distant one; we are the distracted ones. The bush still burns, but we pass by without removing our sandals. The whisper still speaks, but our lives are filled with too much noise to hear it.

We have become people of hurry, performance, and endless distraction. Our days are crowded with movement but starved of attention. We carry candles through broad daylight and then wonder why they seem so dim.

Even faith itself can become strangely familiar. The words lose their weight. The prayers become rehearsed. Congregation language hangs around us like wallpaper we no longer notice. We know the hymns, the creeds, the verses by heart, yet the heart itself can remain untouched.

The prophets warned of this long ago:

“These people honour Me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from Me.”

There is a terrible distance between the mouth and the soul. And often it is in that distance where God seems most silent.

The early Christian fathers called this condition acedia — not open rebellion, but spiritual exhaustion. A slow drifting. A weariness of the soul. It is the feeling of moving through holy things half-asleep, waiting for God to speak while ignoring the voice already calling our name.

It is like asking why our mobile never rings while it remains switched off. We approach God in a crisis and have him on Do not disturb when life goes well.

So, heaven has not fallen silent. Perhaps we have simply not given God our all.

Paul’s words are not merely a warning; they are an invitation.

“Wake up, O sleeper…
and Christ will shine on you.”

Notice the order. We do not shine first and then receive the light. We wake, and the light is already there.

This is the miracle of awakening: not merely that we begin to see God, but that we begin to reflect Him. Like windows thrown open at dawn, we catch a brightness that was waiting for us all along.

So why does God seem absent?

Perhaps He has already passed by countless times unnoticed: in the trembling beauty of trees in the wind, in the unexpected kindness of a stranger, in the ache that rises in you while watching a sunrise alone. Perhaps God has not stopped speaking. Perhaps we have forgotten how to listen.

The call of the gospel is not always toward spectacle, but toward awareness. Toward attention. Toward waking up.

And like sleepers slowly rising at first light, may we rise too — not because we are worthy, but because Christ has already shone His light upon us.

Then, in time, like windows catching the morning sun, we too may shine.

“If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain…”

Emily Dickinson

Are You a Deeply Sensitive Person?

About a year ago, I bought four lovely china mugs online for about twenty pounds. I do not drink alcohol, not even a glass of wine, but I do appreciate a good blend of tea. And a good blend of tea deserves a proper vessel to drink it from, don't you agree. Let's face it, you don't a good Scottish malt or a Château-Neuf‑du‑Pape out of a billy can so you? 

At first, I treated the mugs with great care. I would wash them separately from the ordinary dishes and handle them gently. But over time, I slipped into careless habits. I began leaving the china in the sink among heavier utensils, or reheating lukewarm tea in the microwave. One by one, the mugs cracked or chipped, and now only two remain. They are too fragile to survive neglect.

I often think people can be much the same. Some souls are made sturdy for rough handling, while others are more delicate by nature. Yet sensitivity is often spoken of as though it were a flaw. How many times have we heard the criticism, “You are too sensitive”? I have heard it throughout my life, usually from those who seem to have little understanding of empathy themselves.

 A relationship with a sensitive person can be deeply nourishing because sensitivity often comes with heightened awareness, emotional depth, and attentiveness to the inner lives of others. While sensitivity is sometimes treated as fragility, it can also be a quiet strength that enriches connection in ways that are easy to overlook.

One of the greatest advantages is emotional understanding. Sensitive people tend to notice subtleties — a shift in tone, tiredness behind a smile, the silence that means more than words. They often listen carefully, not merely waiting for their turn to speak. In close relationships, this can create a feeling of being truly seen rather than merely accompanied.

Sensitivity also often brings compassion. A sensitive partner or friend usually remembers pain because they feel it deeply themselves. That awareness can make them gentler in conflict and more thoughtful in daily life. Small acts of care like checking how you are after a difficult day, remembering meaningful details, offering comfort without being asked often come naturally to them.

There is usually richness in emotional intimacy too. Sensitive people are often reflective and sincere. Conversations may move beyond routine subjects into fears, hopes, memories, faith, beauty, loss, or meaning. This depth can create bonds that feel substantial rather than superficial. Even ordinary moments may feel more alive because they notice them fully.

Another advantage is loyalty of heart. Many sensitive people value trust profoundly because they themselves are easily wounded by carelessness or betrayal. When they love someone, they often do so earnestly and wholeheartedly. Their affection may not always be loud, but it is usually genuine.

Sensitivity can also deepen appreciation for beauty and humanity. Music, nature, kindness, literature, quiet moments, spiritual reflection, these things may carry unusual significance for them. Being close to such a person can help another become more attentive to life itself, slowing down enough to notice what is often rushed past.

Of course, sensitivity also requires tenderness and patience. Sensitive people may become overwhelmed more easily, withdraw after harshness, or carry emotional burdens quietly. But relationships are rarely strengthened by hardness alone. Often, the safest and most enduring bonds are built where two people learn how to handle each other with care.

At its best, a relationship with a sensitive person can feel less like living beside someone and more like sharing an inner world, one where empathy, depth, sincerity, and quiet understanding are allowed to matter.

“And be kind to one another, tenderhearted,

forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you.

Ephesians 4:32

NKJV

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

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Are You Hurting?

There is a tender image in the Psalms where David cries out to God and says:

“Put my tears in Your bottle.”
— Psalm 56:8

In David’s day, a skin bottle was precious. It held water for the journey through desert places. David was saying something deeply human: “Lord, do not let my sorrow be wasted or forgotten. Hold it close. Remember me.”

What comfort there is in that thought.

God does not stand far away from human grief. He does not dismiss trembling hearts or weary minds. Every tear shed in silence, every sleepless night, every ache hidden behind a brave face — He sees it all. The tears of the elderly who sit alone waiting for a phone call that never comes. The wife carrying the weight of a marriage grown cold and tired. The child wounded by cruel words. The man exhausted from loving an alcoholic parent.The love of your life who ends it all. The mother frightened by the path her addicted son has taken. The soul quietly breaking under anxiety no one else notices.

The world can be harsh. People forget gratitude. Families fracture. Trust wears thin. Life throws sudden stones into already burdened hands. There are valleys where human wisdom reaches its limit and no earthly comfort seems large enough.

Yet Scripture gives this gentle assurance: not one tear is unseen.

God gathers them as something sacred.

Not because suffering itself is good, but because you are precious to Him. Tears are language when words fail. They are prayers from the depths. And the Lord listens closely to broken hearts.

Sometimes we think faith means never struggling. But David — a man after God’s own heart — wept often. Elijah collapsed beneath despair. Job sat among ashes. Even Christ Himself wept.

When Mercy Runs Out of Time

In 1973, two social psychologists, John Darley and Daniel Batson, conducted a study with a title that immediately catches the eye: From Jerusalem to Jericho: A Study of Situational and Dispositional Variables in Helping Behavior. The title borrows from Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan, and the study asks a question as old as that story: why do some people stop to help while others walk by?

Darley and Batson did not take their research to a desert road in ancient Judea. They stayed on the campus of Princeton Theological Seminary, recruiting students training to become ministers. If anyone should stop to help a stranger, surely it would be them, or so we might think.

The setup was clever in its simplicity. Each student was asked to walk to another building to give a short talk. Some were told the talk would be on job prospects for ministers, while others were assigned the parable of the Good Samaritan itself. On the way, every student passed someone slumped in a doorway, coughing and groaning, a man clearly in need of help.

The crucial variable was time pressure. Some students were told they were already late. Others were told they were exactly on time. A third group was informed they still had a few minutes to spare. That small difference changed everything.

The results were stark. Of those in a hurry, only 10 percent stopped to help. Among those who were not rushed, 63 percent did. And the topic of the talk made surprisingly little difference. Whether the students were about to speak on the Good Samaritan or on ministry careers hardly mattered at all. Some students, on their way to deliver a sermon about compassion, stepped right past the man in need.

It is easy to smile ruefully at that, until the discomfort begins to settle in. Is this not us as well? How many times have we passed someone in need, not because we are cruel, but because we are preoccupied, distracted, or hurrying toward the next demand? The world may no longer insist on ritual purity as it did for the priest and Levite in Jesus’ story, but it certainly demands efficiency. And in that demand, something essential gets squeezed out: the ability to notice, to linger, to care.

What strikes me most is how weak personal disposition proved to be in shaping behaviour. Being more “religious” or inwardly spiritual did not make much difference. Even preparing a talk on the Good Samaritan was not enough to make someone act like one. That is a sobering thought. It suggests that moral character, by itself, can be surprisingly fragile. We like to believe we are guided by convictions, yet so often our actions are shaped by pressures, by schedules, by what feels urgent in the moment.

For people of faith, this raises uncomfortable questions. If theological training, spiritual reflection, and even preaching on mercy do not automatically lead to compassionate action, then what does? Perhaps the answer lies less in abstract belief and more in the rhythms of daily life. If we never leave margin in our days, if we are always rushing from one obligation to another, then the groaning man in the doorway becomes almost impossible to see.

Reading about this experiment feels a little like looking into a mirror. In the past, I was part of a religious group where there was always pressure to do more, achieve more, and give more. I often felt like a whirling dervish, spinning endlessly without rest. I can remember moments when I walked by, not always physically, but emotionally or spiritually. Times when someone near me needed help and I had the right words, yet not the time or presence to offer them. And perhaps that is one of the quiet tragedies of our age: not that we have stopped caring, but that we rarely slow down long enough to show it.

Yet there is hope hidden in these findings as well. If environment plays such a powerful role in shaping behaviour, then perhaps we can reshape our environments too. We can slow our pace. We can create breathing room in our lives. We can choose to look up rather than endlessly ahead. Helping behaviour often begins with something very small: stopping.

The road from Jerusalem to Jericho may have been short, but it revealed something profound about the travellers who walked it. Our own modern roads, crowded schedules, relentless alerts, endless tasks demanding attention, present the same challenge. Will we notice? Will we stop?

Darley and Batson’s study is more than an academic exercise. It is a quiet parable about human nature. Belief without action becomes little more than noise. Compassion without time remains only an intention. And still there are people in doorways, coughing, waiting, hoping that someone will care enough to arrive late.

Stylistic Choices in Henning Mankell’s Quicksand:

What It Means to Be a Human Being: A Critical Reading

 “Privacy is for the diary, and essays are for the reader”

Dinty Moore

I was first introduced to the personal essay in 2014 when I read Henning Mankell’s nonfiction work Quicksand: What It Means to Be a Human Being (Mankell, 2014). It was a watershed moment for me. I had a deep desire to write about my life, but I harboured mixed feelings about how interesting it would be. These essays introduced me to a different way of writing memoir.

Quicksand, Mankell’s final work before his death, covers the months following a terminal cancer diagnosis. My first impression was formed by the essay titles. Themes such as “The Raft of Death” and “Turning Time in a Different Direction” were captivating. Throughout the sixty-seven personal essays, Mankell explores fascinating facts, philosophy, environmental issues, and profound musings. The intimacy of his first-person active voice made me feel as though he had granted me the honour of sitting beside him while his wisdom and literary prowess unfolded.

Throughout the essays, there is a conspicuous lucidity and economy of syntax that functions as a stylistic default. The language is spare but strikingly beautiful. Like a seasoned poet, Mankell selects words carefully. Adjectives and adverbs are used sparingly. Strong verbs are often positioned towards the ends of sentences, while passive constructions remain minimal. He possesses an ability to crystallise complex concepts with remarkable clarity. These qualities were especially important to me. As an academic essayist in Social Psychology and English Literature, I often failed to achieve encouraging results because of a lack of clarity. “Too much verbosity,” one tutor kindly observed. Mankell’s work gave me confidence to pursue creative writing with renewed faith in my ability to write clearly while still captivating the reader.

The persona that Mankell projects throughout the sixty-seven essays is one that John Burnside of The Guardian describes as “serious” (Burnside, 2014). Mankell writes, “Your identity is formed when you decide your attitude towards serious questions. That is something known to everyone who has not forgotten all about their childhood” (Mankell, 2014, p. 14). This earnest tone possesses considerable merit because it faithfully reflects the gravity of the subject matter. However, seriousness should not be confused with gloom or despair. Essays dealing with terminal cancer, nuclear waste disposal, premature death, and humanity’s irrational choices could easily gravitate towards pessimism. Yet Quicksand is by no means the work of an author suffering from a Cassandra complex. Instead, despite what would be for many a debilitating diagnosis, Mankell maintains a positive and uplifting literary decorum.

“I’m in the middle of something,” he writes (Mankell, 2014, p. 8). This suspended state becomes crucial as an organising principle throughout the book. The title essay, “Quicksand,” establishes the motif that structures the entire work. In A802, I recall a reflective question asking readers to select three essays and explain what makes them essayistic. This prompted me to examine the title essay more closely. I broke it down into its principal components and scenes:

• the shrinking realisation that cancer is encroaching upon life

• the childhood discovery that death is a serious reality

• a memory of a village girl falling through ice and dying

• the community’s reaction to the tragedy

• the author’s fear of falling into quicksand

• the debunking of myths surrounding quicksand (Mankell, 2014, pp. 14–17)

These “essayistic” digressive forays arrive from multiple directions as Mankell “wheels and dives like a hawk,” moving in a seemingly discursive manner that is nevertheless masterfully controlled as he guides the reader towards a conclusion (Lopate, 1995, p. xxviii). Additionally, his use of narrative framing, including flashbacks and flash-forwards between his childhood and present self, creates narrative arcs that control pace, tension, and surprise.

The quicksand metaphor also becomes part of the hero’s journey. Just as the mythological qualities attributed to quicksand are exaggerated, cancer too will not overwhelm Mankell’s joie de vivre. He writes:

“Just as everything in my life has changed, a new morning brings with it a fresh challenge. I have to think about something other than my illness” (Mankell, 2014, p. 16).

Herein lies Mankell’s thematic approach: to think about something other than illness. As one New Statesman columnist observed, Mankell’s work is “unsentimental and devoid of any sense of being a victim” (Smith, 2016).

On initial reading, Mankell’s organisational structure appears deceptively simple: sixty-seven essays overtly or covertly connected to what it means to be human. However, closer inspection reveals layers of subtlety. There is considerable repetition linked to the quicksand motif: life is serious; life is survival; life is death; time is running out; moments are fleeting; fear, hope, and happiness coexist.

Beyond the quicksand motif, Mankell frequently revisits ideas from previous essays, reconsidering them from different perspectives and connecting them to broader themes. This led me to question one critic who described the essays as “fragmentary”; a closer reading would have disabused him of such an error (Khan, 2016). For example, in the early essay “The Future is Hidden Underground,” Mankell discusses the dangers of buried nuclear waste for future generations. Yet in essay sixty-six, “The Puppet on a String,” he reflects upon the discovery of a twenty-five-thousand-year-old body found in the Czech Republic. Beside the remains was “a doll. A marionette. A puppet on a string” (Mankell, 2014, p. 293). Mankell writes:

“When it was dug up, it sent a message from people living 25,000 years ago … The ancient puppet on a string tells us what being human has always entailed. I find it difficult to imagine a more touching and humorous greeting from people living just after an ice age. Those of us living today will not be sending puppets on a string into the future. Our legacy is nuclear waste” (Mankell, 2014, pp. 293–294).

Through repetition and the reintroduction of narrative strands, Mankell sustains thematic continuity while simultaneously surprising the reader with poignant new perspectives (O’Reilly, 2022). Although I have not yet applied this technique in a major project, I hope to adopt it in my final submission.

Mankell revisits aspects of life through a series of flashbacks that reveal lessons about what it means to be human; a journey structure stylistically suited to this work (O’Reilly, 2022). The reader gradually realises that Mankell is experiencing what Phillips describes as “enlarging one’s experience” as the prospect of oblivion forces him to confront a new stage of existence (Phillips, 2013, p. 389). This is equally true for the reader, as the themes explored possess universal resonance.

In his search for self-understanding, Mankell casts a wide net. In the essay “People Reluctantly on Their Way into the Shadows,” he develops an expository scene through a walk to observe a painting located in a church near his home. The painting, completed in 1770 and commissioned by Gustaf Frederik Hjortberg, depicts not only living family members but also children who had already died — a copy of which can be viewed online (Wikimedia Commons, 2022). The deceased children appear as ghostly figures: disembodied presences neither fully absent nor fully present. In the case of one child, only part of the forehead and one eye remain visible. Hjortberg believed that, although their brief lives on earth had ended, they should not be excluded from the family portrait.

Mankell carefully walks the reader through the scene before reflecting upon its implications. He writes:

“What is so touching is the reluctance of the dead children to disappear. I know of no other picture that depicts so vividly the stubborn determination for life to continue” (Mankell, 2014, p. 8).

In only a sentence or two, fluid in its elegant phrasing, vivid imagery, and emotional depth, an entire world of thought reveals itself. Mankell’s stylistic choices captivate the reader through strong narrative control, trustworthy authorial presence, and reflective engagement with the complexity of his subject matter (Williams, 2013, pp. 34–35).

I adopted a similar approach in an essay entitled “The Ship of Theseus.” I introduced the thought experiment of the Ship of Theseus as a metaphor for the continual renewal of the human body. The essay emerged while revisiting a place. Like Mankell, I wandered into metaphysical reflection. I stood in a once vibrant location that had become desolate of human life, though still alive in memory. I concluded:

“Like the Ship of Theseus, we are designed for a great voyage where the past will never return, but its joys will be eternally relived in the great renewal.”

“Upliftingly serious” may sound oxymoronic, yet it accurately describes several of the refreshing essays strategically placed amidst the book’s heavier themes. Essay fifty-two, “The Happiness Brought by a Rickety Lorry in the Spring,” recalls a childhood memory from a small village where “nothing unexpected ever happened” (Mankell, 2014, pp. 227–229). The narrative is simple yet captivating in its lucid prose:

“The outside world had come to visit me. It was like a greeting from a country and people beyond the endless forests that radiated out from the little valley with the freezing cold river where I lived” (Mankell, 2014, p. 226).

Here, Mankell contrasts the warmth of “radiated” with the harshness of “freezing.” He captures the intimacy of childhood wonder through the innocent declaration that “the outside world had come to visit me.” Such structural interludes create balance amid the more emotionally demanding material.

In his essay “Backtalk,” Richard Hoffman discusses memoir as a means of resisting societal manipulation. He writes:

“It may be that, in our moment, the impulse to write memoir, the marriage of the personal essay with dramatic narrative, stems largely from the overload experienced by writers driven back by the torrent of propaganda that attempts to shape a consensus through the media” (Hoffman, 2011).

In Mankell’s fifth essay, “The Future is Hidden Underground,” his ethical concerns emerge prominently. He writes:

“The first time I heard the word ‘onkalo’ was in the autumn of 2012.”

Onkalo is a Finnish word meaning cavity or cavern (Mankell, 2014, pp. 18–22). Mankell discusses Finland’s plans to bury nuclear waste deep beneath the earth — waste that will remain dangerous for one hundred thousand years. The article appears buried within a newspaper column surrounded by celebrity gossip. Mankell reflects upon humanity’s reluctance to engage seriously with matters extending beyond trivial concerns. In an interview, he described his role as correcting humanity’s irrationality (Louisiana Channel, 2012). Consequently, he uses the essay form to challenge reassuring narratives surrounding nuclear safety:

“How is it possible to store lethal waste for millennia when the oldest man-made edifices reach back only five or six thousand years?”

Here, Mankell’s humanitarian socialism informs the merging of personal reflection with broader political concerns (Phillips, 2015).

I similarly combined the personal with wider social concerns while exploring marginalised voices (O’Reilly, 2022). By coincidence, while visiting Cumbria and reflecting upon my assignment, I met a man named Chris in an outdoor café. Chris, who was on the autistic spectrum, was walking around Britain not by choice but because he had become homeless following domestic abuse. I found myself confronting my own assumptions regarding homelessness, realising that I had stereotyped homeless people as addicts or alcoholics. Like Mankell, I chose to combine personal reflection with broader social issues, particularly society’s reluctance — including my own — to respond compassionately to marginalised individuals.

Ultimately, there are notable limitations within Mankell’s work. There is considerable telling rather than showing, largely due to the infrequent use of dialogue. Characters can appear two-dimensional, while some essays feel underdeveloped. There is also limited self-disclosure. As Dinty Moore observes, “Privacy is for the diary, and essays are for the reader” (Moore, 2010, p. 9). The individual receiving the greatest attention is Mankell’s father, a small-town judge who questioned his son’s youthful decision to move to Paris and become a writer: “Who has ever heard of a sixteen-year-old author?” Beyond this, there is little discussion of Mankell’s personal relationships despite four marriages and several children. Such restraint may disappoint readers seeking deeper revelation within the personal essay (Lopate, 1995, pp. xxvii–xxviii).

Granted, Mankell writes with an acute awareness that time is running out; therefore, he lacks the luxury of endless rumination characteristic of earlier essayists such as Montaigne. This may partly explain the limitations of the essays. Given more time, Mankell may have approached the work differently.

In summation, Mankell’s stylistic choices are skilfully constructed to guide the reader through an uplifting and reflective journey. He refuses to allow cancer to rob him of the time that remains, instead adopting a serious yet hopeful outlook on the world. Ultimately, he leaves humanity with a message of cautionary hope.

Word Count: 2,365

References

Burnside, J. (2014) ‘Quicksand by Henning Mankell review – uplifting, serious reflections on what it means to be human’, The Guardian, 4 September. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/sep/04/quicksand-henning-mankell-review (Accessed: 11 March 2022).

Hoffman, R. (2011) ‘Backtalk: Notes Toward an Essay on Memoir’. Available at: http://richardhoffman.org/backtalk-notes-toward-an-essay-on-memoir/ (Accessed: 4 March 2022).

Khan, B. (2016) ‘Literature: “Quicksand”: Mankell writes about cancer’, The Lancet Oncology. Available at: https://www.thelancet.com (Accessed: 4 March 2022).

Lopate, P. (1995) The Art of the Personal Essay. New York: Anchor Books.

Louisiana Channel (2012) Henning Mankell Interview: My Responsibility is to React [Video]. Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khFcfrST5-M (Accessed: 4 March 2022).

Mankell, H. (2014) Quicksand: What It Means to Be a Human Being. London: Harvill Secker.

Moore, D. (2010) Crafting the Personal Essay. USA: Writer’s Digest Books.

O’Reilly, S. (2022) ‘Journey and theme’, in Block 3: Creative Nonfiction: Chapter 8 Advanced Structure. Milton Keynes: The Open University. Available at: https://www.open.ac.uk (Accessed: 12 March 2022).

O’Reilly, S. (2022) ‘Marginalised voices’, in Block 2: Creative Nonfiction: Chapter 4 Wider Issues/Engagement. Milton Keynes: The Open University. Available at: https://www.open.ac.uk (Accessed: 12 March 2022).

Phillips, A. (2013) One Way and Another. London: Hamish Hamilton.

Phillips, A. (2015) Late Night Live: Henning Mankell: A Tribute [Video]. ABC Radio National Australia. Available at: https://www.abc.net.au/radionational (Accessed: 2 March 2022).

Smith, A. (2016) ‘Henning Mankell’s Quicksand is a grave, yet intensely beautiful, book’, New Statesman. Available at: https://www.newstatesman.com (Accessed: 9 March 2022).

Wikimedia Commons (2022) ‘File: Gustaf Fredrik Hjortberg.jpg’. Available at: https://commons.wikimedia.org (Accessed: 12 March 2022).

Williams, B. T. (2013) ‘Writing creative nonfiction’, in Harper, G. (ed.) A Companion to Creative Writing. Wiley-Blackwell, pp. 24–39.

Walking the Dark Road

I once belonged to a religion that many now accuse of being high controlling. Whether that judgment is entirely fair or not, I cannot deny that among many of its people there existed a deep sincerity, even if I now believe that sincerity was often guided by fear, control, and misplaced certainty.

Today the organisation is haemorrhaging numbers, and I often find myself thinking about the lost sheep who have wandered from it. Not with condemnation, but with compassion. Because when a person leaves a religion that has shaped most of their life, they do not simply walk away from doctrine. They lose an entire world.

They lose friends, identity, structure, purpose and sometimes family. I say sometimes due to members compromising their own belief system and continuing to associate with their relatives who have left which raises questions about the “believers “sincerity in itself.

In that darkness, many desperately search for something to replace what has been lost. Some run toward internet personalities, bloggers, online movements, or communities of former members. Others swing violently toward scepticism or cynicism. The soul, stripped bare, reaches for certainty again because silence can feel unbearable.

Yet perhaps the dark place is not always an enemy.

C. S. Lewis once wrote of those seasons where God seems absent, hidden, or silent. But sometimes that hiddenness is itself a kind of mercy. A stripping away of noise. A dismantling of false foundations so that faith may finally stand upon Christ alone rather than institutions, systems, or human authority.

If a wounded believer rushes too quickly into another framework, another teacher, another rigid certainty, they may merely exchange one captivity for another. But in the lonely wilderness something deeper can happen. The soul begins, perhaps for the first time, to encounter God without the machinery of religious pressure surrounding it.

The Christian’s identity is not ultimately found in organisations, leaders, or labels. It is found in Christ.

Perhaps one of the most beautiful lines in all of Scripture is found in Epistle to the Colossians 3:3:

“For you have died and your life is hidden with Christ in God.”

There is a profound tenderness in those words.

The believer’s true life is hidden:

• hidden from the world’s understanding,

• hidden sometimes even from the believer’s own sight,

• protected in God,

• untouched by worldly status, recognition, or approval.

A Christian may appear weak, overlooked, uncertain, or afflicted. Yet their deepest reality is concealed safely within Christ Himself.

The world measures life by visibility:
success, influence, beauty, possession, power.

But God measures differently. He looks for union with His Son.

And hidden things are often safest with God. Seeds grow hidden beneath the soil before they ever break into light. Roots deepen in darkness before branches can bear fruit. Even Christ Himself passed through the hiddenness of the tomb before resurrection morning came.

Perhaps many who leave controlling religion feel as though they are dying. In a sense, they are. Old certainties collapse. Old identities crumble. But death is not always destruction. Sometimes it is preparation.

The wilderness can become holy ground.

Not every unanswered question needs immediate resolution. Not every silence means abandonment. Faith does not always begin with clarity; sometimes it begins with exhaustion, with grief, with sitting quietly before God having nothing left to defend.

And there, in that strange and painful emptiness, Christ often meets people most gently.

Not as a system.
Not as an organisation.
Not as fear.

But as Himself.

For those wandering in confusion after leaving the religion that once defined them, perhaps this is the hope worth holding onto: your life was never meant to rest securely in human structures. Human systems fail. Religious movements rise and fall. But the soul that is hidden with Christ in God rests in something eternal.

And what is hidden with God is never truly lost.

Scripture quotations are from the New English Translation (NET Bible®), copyright ©1996–2017 by Biblical Studies Press, L.L.C. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Who Is Jim McCrory?

Jim McCrory is a writer holding an MA in Creative Writing with distinction. His work focuses on reflective personal essays exploring Christianity, the existential, Christian apologetics, and the positive dimensions of being human.

He blogs on  The Open University and is currently working on a book titled Under the Stars: On Being Human.

A non-denominational Christian, Jim enjoys reading, hill walking, and meaningful human connection. Before being diagnosed with cancer in 2023, he volunteered with Age UK. He also studied English Literature at BA level.

We lives on Scotland's west coast where he discibes the the "colours of the landscape keep him young. "

Jim taught public speaking for many years and often shares one piece of advice above all others:

“Speak slowly, then people will see you have something important to say.

One of his favourate Bible accounts is found in  1 Kings 19 where Elijah waits for God on Mount Horeb. First comes a great wind, then an earthquake, then fire. But Scripture says God was not in them. But he finally comes what many translations call a “still small voice.”

Yet the Hebrew phrase means something closer to:

A sound of thin silence.

Not a loud revelation.
Almost silence itself.

“I will put my law within them, and on their heart, I will write it.”

—Jeremiah 31:33

The Unwritten  Code

I am reading Godforsaken by Dinesh D'Souza. One sentence in particular stayed with me:

“The atheist seeks to get rid of moral judgment by getting rid of the judge.”

Whether one agrees or disagrees with that statement, it raises an interesting philosophical problem worth thinking about.

One of the most common arguments against God is this: “There cannot be a God because there is too much suffering in the world.” At first hearing, the statement feels powerful and compassionate. Human suffering is real. War, disease, cruelty, and loss weigh heavily upon the world. But hidden inside the statement is an assumption that is rarely examined.

When someone says there is “too much suffering,” they are not merely describing pain. They are making a moral judgment. They are saying something is wrong. Yet if humanity is simply the accidental product of blind evolution, if morality is nothing more than chemistry and survival instinct, then on what basis can anything truly be called wrong?

Evolution, if you adopt the theory,  explains survival, not morality. It may attempt to explain why humans developed social cooperation, but it cannot explain why we feel certain acts are objectively unjust rather than merely inconvenient.

And yet we all instinctively appeal to some invisible standard beyond ourselves.

Consider something ordinary. Someone jumps the queue in a supermarket. Immediately people react: “That’s not fair.” But what exactly is “fair”? You cannot weigh fairness on scales or place it under a microscope. It is invisible, yet almost universally recognised. We appeal to it as though it exists independently of our opinions.

The same happens whenever we condemn cruelty or praise kindness. We speak as though there is a real moral law written somewhere deeper than personal preference. We do not merely say, “I dislike murder,” in the same way we might dislike olives or rain. We say murder is wrong. Truly wrong. Wrong even if a society approves of it.

This creates a dilemma for strict materialism. If human beings are only biological machines shaped by survival pressures, then morality becomes subjective — a useful social invention perhaps, but not ultimately true. In that case, terms such as justice, evil, dignity, and fairness lose their objective meaning. They become preferences rather than realities.

Yet most people do not live as though morality is subjective. Even those who deny God continue to speak in moral absolutes. They protest injustice, defend human rights, condemn oppression, and appeal to concepts such as equality and fairness. In doing so, they seem to rely upon a moral framework larger than themselves.

This does not prove God in a mathematical sense. But it suggests that our moral instincts point beyond biology alone. The existence of objective moral obligation may hint at a moral source — a lawgiver behind the law.

Ironically, then, the problem of suffering may not disprove God as easily as some imagine. In order to call suffering evil, we must first believe evil is real. And once we admit objective evil, we have stepped into the territory of objective morality.

The question then changes. It is no longer simply, “Why is there suffering?” but also, “Why do human beings possess such a deep and universal sense that suffering matters?”

That is worth pondering.

The Window of Complexity

I had my eye test today, and somewhere between the bright lights and the small talk, I decided to throw a spanner in the works. “How did this complex organ evolve?” I asked. My optometrist laughed. “Oh, don’t ask me.” I laughed too, but the question lingered. The eye is not something that simply happened. It is, in every sense, a window of wonder governed by the law of irreducible complexity. In other words, all its parts came together at once.

My wife studied optometry at university, and over the years our conversations have often circled back to that small, astonishing organ we each carry in our heads. The more I learn, the more I feel a kind of reverent awe. How something so delicate, so intricate, could exist at all is beyond me.

A friend of mine works in a hospital specialising in eye care. He tells me that no single consultant can master the whole organ. The eye is too layered, too complex. There are specialists for the retina, the cornea, the optic nerve, the macula, the vitreous humour, the muscles that move the eye, and the fragile balance of pressure and fluid that keeps it from collapsing. One small sphere, hardly larger than a ping‑pong ball, requires an entire army of experts — each peering into their own corner of its mystery.

And the eye does not work alone. It is not a camera feeding images to a passive brain. What we “see” is not simply what lands on the retina, but the brain’s astonishing act of interpretation. Light enters through the cornea, bends through the lens, touches the photoreceptors — and then the real wonder begins. Signals become electrical impulses, racing along the optic nerve, crossing and merging at the optic chiasm, where the brain knits two separate images into one. It fills in blind spots. It stabilises the world despite our constant, tiny eye movements. It recognises faces, reads words, interprets colour and depth — all in the blink of an eye.

The eye and the brain are not two systems. They are one continuous miracle.

And yet we are told that such an organ emerged step by step, through a series of small, random changes. I do not deny that living things adapt. But when I sit with the sheer complexity of the eye — its precision, its interdependence, its need for every part to work in harmony — I find myself quietly wondering. A retina without a brain is useless. A lens without a retina is meaningless. It is all or nothing. Remove one essential part, and the whole system collapses. This is the heart of irreducible complexity: some things cannot be assembled piece by piece. They must arrive as a whole.

Even Darwin admitted that the evolution of the eye “seems… absurd in the highest possible degree.” He later proposed a pathway beginning with a patch of light‑sensitive cells, but even that does not diminish the sense of wonder that rises when we confront the eye as it is — exquisitely tuned, impossibly delicate, and more complex than anything we have ever built.

For me, this wonder is not a rejection of science. It is a signpost pointing beyond it. A reminder that the world is not merely a collection of accidents, but a work of astonishing coherence and intention. When I look into the human eye — this living lens, this luminous window between the outer world and the soul within — I feel I am standing on holy ground.

There is a line in the Psalms that says, “I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” The eye is one of those wonders that makes me believe it. It is not only a tool for seeing; it is an invitation to look deeper — beyond the visible world, toward the One who gave us sight in the first place.