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Jim McCrory

It's lonely here, so I write. but why?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 9 Oct 2024, 10:45

Image courtesy of Ryan Hutton at Unsplash


I suppose it must have been the late summer of 1962, Telstar by the Tornadoes had been playing on the radio. I spent the summer days on the idyllic Island of Bute on Scotland’s west coast. We had a rural cabin. It had no running water or electricity. My job was to fill up the water containers from the communal well. Cows would cautiously approach and stare. The smaller calves would shuffle through for front-row viewing. I found their curiosity compelling.

At dusk, we would light paraffin lamps to illuminate the nights. My father would read children’s books borrowed from the library: Chinese Folk Tales, Heidi and 1001 Nights. We were all ears as we ate freshly made pancakes with homemade jam and washed down with small glasses of sweet stout. The lamp caused a sibilant sound as it burned up kerosene. It flickered and fostered sleepiness. It finally slumbered for the evening, and we would retire.

I lay there in my bed watching the stars cascading through the window; all of them. And I wondered if the Chinese farmer boys, or the Bedouin shepherd boys or the milk maids in the Swiss mountains were seeing and feeling the sense of awe that I felt in my heart as the universe entered in.

At dusk, I lay there in my bed watching the stars cascading through the window; every one of them and I was filled with a sense of awe in my heart as the universe entered my room.

*

Childhood memories like that visited me often and reminded me of my spiritual awareness from an early age, albeit in my own childish way.

I had an ache to know who created the stars, the moon, and the beautiful island that was so distant from my industrial town where idle men lingered on street corners like characters from a Loury painting. Where post-war tenements blocked natural light. Where unkempt dogs savaged through bins for scraps. Where it always seemed, there was better places to be raised.

Years later I read the following verse from the Bible,

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,

    the moon and the stars, which you have ordained;

what is man, that you think of him?

    What is the son of man, that you care for him?

— Psalm 8:3, 4.

I live on Scotland's west coast where the Atlantic winds bend me but the colours make me young. I am  working in a book with a working title, On Being Human which juxtaposes my life with biblical wisdom. It's a way of expressing my thoughts regarding the more positive side of life including my Christian beliefs. I am a non-denominational Christian. I don't like the world I'm living in and I write to improve the world by creating my own vision of what humans should be.

Don't be shy; tell me why you came today and what makes you return. It's lonely here.





  



 

 



  



 

 



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Jim McCrory

In some mysterious way, the universe was expecting us

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 5 Oct 2024, 09:33

https://unsplash.com/@nasa


In some mysterious way, the universe was expecting us.

 

The universe, vast and incomprehensible in its scale, seems almost inexplicably fine-tuned for life. From the delicate balance of gravitational forces to the exact properties of atoms, the conditions that permit life are staggeringly precise. But what compels the universe to produce the components perfect for life?

Consider the concept of fine-tuning in cosmology. The universe operates within a narrow range of physical constants that allow for the existence of life as we know it. One such constant is the gravitational constant (G), which governs the force of attraction between masses. The number "N," approximately 10^36, describes the ratio of the strength of gravity to the electromagnetic force between atoms. If this number were even slightly smaller or larger, the universe would either collapse under its own gravity or expand too rapidly for stars and galaxies to form. Without these structures, life would not exist. The fine-tuning is so precise that any deviation in this gravitational force would render the universe inhospitable.

Now, consider Planck's constant (h), which dictates the behaviour of particles on the quantum level. Even a minuscule variation in this constant would radically alter the behaviour of atoms and molecules, potentially preventing the stable formation of matter itself. Likewise, if the speed of light (c) were altered, the balance between energy and matter would shift, destabilizing the processes that allow stars to burn and planets to form. These constants are not arbitrary; they fall within an incredibly narrow range, and any fluctuation would make the existence of complex life impossible.

Then there are you and I. The human body, composed of trillions of cells, relies on molecular and atomic interactions so complex that they defy chance explanation. What compels the molecules within us to assemble into intricate structures like the eye, the brain, or the nervous system? Evolutionary biology provides part of the answer, but even within that framework, we are left in awe of the staggering complexity. Consider the formation of the human eye—a process that requires the precise coordination of proteins, enzymes, and DNA to form a functioning organ capable of receiving and processing light. The probability of these processes arising by pure chance is astronomically low.

Moreover, we must consider not only the physical structures but also the phenomenon of consciousness. What compels our brains to produce minds capable of self-reflection, language, and abstract thought? No other creature on Earth possesses the capacity for moral reasoning, artistic expression, or the ability to contemplate its own existence. Neuroscience has begun to unravel the biological mechanisms behind consciousness, yet the "hard problem"—why we have subjective experiences at all—remains elusive. Why do we admire flowers, landscapes, and beauty? Why can we learn any language from birth? These abilities suggest that there is something more than mere survival at work. It all makes little sense unless someone—or something—knew we were coming.

This leads us back to an age-old question: why does the universe exist in such a way that life, and particularly human life, is possible? While science can describe how the universe operates, it struggles to answer why these conditions exist in the first place. The remarkable precision of these constants, coupled with the emergence of intelligent life, suggests purpose, a design, or at the very least, a deep mystery.

 

Consider the words of an ancient shepherd boy, contemplating the heavens thousands of years ago:

"When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have ordained, what is man, that you think of him? What is the son of man, that you care for him?" —

 Psalm 8:3,4

The Psalmist's awe reflects our own modern wonder. In an era where science has revealed the vastness of the universe and the delicate balance that sustains life, we are still left grappling with the same fundamental questions. The cosmos does not need to be this finely tuned, yet here we are, marvelling at its beauty and complexity. Perhaps, as the Psalmist suggests, we are more than accidental by-products of the universe. Perhaps we are here because the universe was, in some mysterious way, expecting us.

 


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