Personal Blogs

You need to turn from your past,

and you need to pray

 that the Lord will forgive

 the evil intent of your heart.

—Acts 2:22

The Voice Bible

Tom Buchanan from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald stands out as a figure given to evil—racist, adulterous, arrogant, and proud. He believes in his own superiority, though it is ultimately superficial and performative. He ruins lives yet remains unrepentant and blind to his own moral decay. But this is only fiction, right? And yet, behind every story there are truths played out by the human race. 

There’s a quiet sorrow in living a life that feels off-course. You may not admit it out loud, but something gnaws at you in the early hours or when you’re alone with your thoughts. Perhaps you’ve carried anger too long. Perhaps you’ve nurtured resentment, or worse, justified it. You might even feel the world owes you something, a debt for your pain, your struggle, your story.

But what if that belief is untrue?

What if, deep down, you’ve been hiding from something more difficult to face: the harm you’ve caused, the mistakes you’ve buried, the sense of entitlement you never earned? Maybe a parent overindulged you, perhaps with good intentions. But somewhere along the way, you came to believe that others should bend to your desires, that your pain justified badness. That your privilege was proof of worth.

But true worth isn’t inherited. It isn’t given. It’s forged, by how we treat others, how we respond when we are wrong, how we grow from the truth instead of running from it.

And the truth is this: you cannot be happy while hiding from yourself.

The world does not owe us peace when we have withheld it from others. It cannot gift us joy when we trade in bitterness. And worst of all, we cannot stand tall before God while clinging to a heart that harbours hatred, manipulation, or unrepented harm.

But this is not the end. This moment—right now—can be the beginning of something far better.

You were made for more. Not for secrets, not for self-deception, not for a shallow sense of superiority. You were made to love and be loved. To be at peace with God and at peace with your neighbour. And yes, even to forgive yourself once you’ve truly faced what needs to be faced.

The Bible says God is near to the broken-hearted (Psalm 34:18). That includes those broken by their own doing. It is not weakness to weep for what you’ve done, it’s the first step to becoming whole.

You cannot rewrite your past, but you can change your course. You can own your wrongs. You can apologize, even if forgiveness isn’t granted. You can stop blaming others and start becoming the person you were always meant to be.

This journey requires humility. It requires honesty. But it also offers something incomparable: peace of mind, and the quiet joy of a life lived right.

Don’t wait for the world to change. Change your heart. Change your path. And you will find that happiness, the real kind, the kind that holds up even in storms, has been waiting for you all along.

God has not given up on you. Don’t give up on yourself. Today is a good day to begin again.

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Verse quoted from The Voice Bible Copyright © 2012 Thomas Nelson, Inc. The Voice™ translation © 2012 Ecclesia Bible Society All rights reserved.

"A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius,

and do not harm the oil and wine." — Revelation 6:6 (BSB)

A Quart of Wheat for a Denarius

L. P. Hartley once wrote in The Go-Between, "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."
We like to think we've moved on. In our modern age of data, satellites, and instant answers, we walk with the confident gait of the enlightened. We scoff at ancient rituals and mock the gods of the past, shaking our heads at how gullible people once were. But are we so different?

There is a god that has followed us through the ages.
Mamona (מָמוֹנָא), the Aramaic term from long ago, still breathes beneath our economies and ambitions. It doesn’t ask for incense or chanting—it demands loyalty through greed, shortcuts, deception, and exploitation.
We see its influence in the trader who overcharges, the builder who cuts corners, the salesman who promises what he cannot deliver. It's there in the man who robs his own grandmother of her savings, in the corrupt politician whose pockets are full while his conscience is empty, in the corporations lobbying against climate action while the planet burns.

Mamona—money, wealth, greed—has become more than currency. It is a spirit. A force. A false god.
No wonder it’s listed among the great powers that corrupt. No wonder Revelation paints a chilling picture of its grip:
"A quart of wheat for a denarius..."—a day’s wages for a single meal—while the wealthy plead, "Do not harm the oil and wine."
The poor are left to starve; the rich fear for their luxuries.

Is it any different today? We switch on the news and see children with hollow eyes and empty bowls, their faces swarmed by flies. Meanwhile, markets fret over fine wine and artisanal produce. We live in a world where food is a commodity, not a right, and Mamona is the name we dare not speak.

But it’s not too late to think again.
What if we turned our backs on this false god? What if we loosened its grip on our hearts and lifted our eyes to something higher—compassion, justice, mercy? What if, instead of guarding the oil and wine, we poured it out for others?

The past may be a foreign country. But the future is ours to shape. Let us not bow to Mamona. Let us choose love.

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Whoever cares for the poor makes a loan

 to the Eternal;

    such kindness will be repaid in full 

and with interest.

Proverbs 19:17

The Voice Bible

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The Currency of Kindness

I’m sitting in my car tonight and  watching people come and go, as a young man holds out his cup, hoping for a little help. He isn’t drunk or high. That’s clear. But as evening begins to settle, there’s an urgency in his voice — a quiet desperation — as he tries to gather the £20 or so he needs for a bed in the hostel before nightfall.

It’s 31 degrees in Scotland today — a rare, baking heat — and he’s been sitting there for hours in the blistering sun. Some passers-by drop coins into his polystyrene cup. Others walk past, eyes averted. But it’s not enough. You can see the despair in the lines etched on his face.

We so easily make excuses: “He’s probably an addict,” we say, or, “It’s their own fault.” And just like that, we talk ourselves out of compassion. But tell me — if someone is willing to sit for hours in that heat, humbling themselves for the chance of a bed and a shower, how can we justify walking by?

Many young people find themselves in desperate situations through no fault of their own. Life can unravel quickly. A home lost. A relationship broken. A support system gone. Sometimes, all that stands between someone and despair is a kind stranger.

We don’t give to feel good, albeit we do. We don’t give for that adrenalin rush; we don’t give to obtain kudos from God. We give because we are part of a human race that has the quality of selfless love. But in that act of unselfish love, God is in our debt. Try and get your head around that promise from God.

Whoever cares for the poor makes a loan to the Eternal;
    such kindness will be repaid in full and with interest.

Proverbs 19:17

The Voice

The Voice (VOICE)

The Voice Bible Copyright © 2012 Thomas Nelson, Inc. The Voice™ translation © 2012 Ecclesia Bible Society All rights reserved.

“Human beings are members of a whole,
In creation of one essence and soul.
If one member is afflicted with pain,
Other members uneasy will remain.”
—Saadi Shirazi

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These words by the Persian poet Saadi have echoed across centuries and cultures for a reason. They offer a clear and enduring truth: to be human is to be bound to others. Not by preference, but by nature. We belong to one another.

In this shrinking world, where a crisis in one country can ripple instantly across continents, his image of humanity as one body is not poetic exaggeration. It’s reality. What one person suffers, the rest of us should feel. Not out of sentimentality, but out of shared essence.

We often speak of the world as a global village. But Saadi reminds us it’s not just a village of trade, travel, and technology; it’s a village of souls. And within it are people who deserve our love and compassion, not because they’re familiar, but because they’re human.

This kinship crosses all lines. The child in Gaza, the grandmother in Glasgow, the teacher in Tehran, we are connected. When one part of the body is wounded, the rest cannot be well. Paul expressed the same truth in his letter to the Corinthians: “If one part suffers, every part suffers with it.”

This is the essence of moral life: feeling for others as for us. It’s not about grand gestures. It’s about refusing to grow indifferent. About seeing others not as strangers, but neighbours. Not as burdens, but brothers and sisters.

To be human is to remember we are not islands. We are a village.
And in that village, love is not optional.
It is the pulse of a living soul.

The Parable of the Good Samaritan

One day an expert in the law stood up to test Him. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

“What is written in the Law?” Jesus replied. “How do you read it?”

He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind,’ and ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

“You have answered correctly,” Jesus said. “Do this and you will live.”

But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

Jesus took up this question and said, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead.

Now by chance a priest was going down the same road, but when he saw him, he passed by on the other side.

So too, when a Levite came to that spot and saw him, he passed by on the other side.

But a Samaritan on a journey came upon him, and when he saw him, he had compassion. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him.

The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Take care of him,’ he said, ‘and on my return I will repay you for any additional expense.’

Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

“The one who showed him mercy,” replied the expert in the law.

Then Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

Luke 10: BSB

For the eyes of the LORD roam to and fro over all the earth,

to show Himself strong on behalf of those whose hearts are fully devoted to Him. 

2 Chronicled 16:9

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The Moral Issue Behind Evil

Why does God allow evil? It’s a question that echoes through time, across cultures and creeds, and finds a voice in every broken heart. But perhaps it's the wrong question. Perhaps we should be asking: What does evil reveal?

Take your teenage son or daughter. At home, they may be polite, devout, and upright. But what about when they’re alone? Or out with friends, away from your watchful eye? Sometimes, only in your absence will their true character emerge. You might never know who they really are unless you could observe them incognito.

And that, perhaps, is how it goes with God.

There’s a verse in Scripture that says, “For the eyes of the LORD roam to and fro over all the earth, to show Himself strong on behalf of those whose hearts are fully devoted to Him. ” (2 Chronicles 16:9). This is not the surveillance of a tyrant but the quiet attentiveness of a Father; one who chooses, for a time, to allow freedom. Why? Because only in freedom can love and loyalty be real.

We are on a level playing field. There is no visible hand of God reaching into every moment to stop the liar, the thief, or the tyrant. And in that “absence,” something holy is taking place: our loyalty is being tested. Not just yours or mine, but humanity, past, present and future. The same moral test that was once laid before our first parents in Eden still lingers. The serpent’s whisper wasn’t a contest of strength, it was a question of loyalty. “Did God really say…?” was not a call to arms, but a challenge to trust.

It was the same with Job. The accuser didn’t say, “Let’s see who is stronger—God or me.” That’s easy. Strength can be measured in a moment. Arm-wrestle a man and you’ll soon find the stronger one. But say, “I am more loyal, more honest, more faithful than you,” and suddenly the proof takes a lifetime. This is the moral question at the heart of our suffering: Will we remain loyal to a God we cannot always see, touch, or understand?

This is the drama of life—not played out in cosmic battlefields but in quiet acts of courage, hidden faithfulness, and the refusal to betray love even in darkness. The Apostle Paul touched on this when he wrote ” For the creation was subjected to futility, not by its own will, but because of the One who subjected it, in hope (Romans 8:20). Not by accident or chaos, but by design. This futility, this ache we feel for justice and peace and permanence, is not without purpose. It sharpens the soul. It exposes the heart. And it makes space for faith.

God does not want robotic worship or coerced allegiance. He wants to know, do we love Him even when we don’t see Him? Will we walk the right path when no one is looking? Will we remain true in the desert, not just in the garden?

There will come a time when the hidden things are brought into the light, when the testing ends and the eyes of the Father meet ours again. Until then, we live in the tension—between absence and presence, doubt and faith, struggle and hope. But this life is not without meaning. It is the proving ground of the heart. The battle is not about power—it never was. It is about love. About loyalty.

And love that endures when it would be easier to walk away. that is the kind of love that lasts forever.

Bible verses from the BSB Bible.

Too Young to Choose It

The '70s were the birth of the supermarkets. Safeway, the American chain, was expanding into Scotland. I worked the night shift at Paisley Road West while wondering what choices to make in life. One evening, we had a new employee. 

The night shift procedure was routine: pull out the pallets of stock, spot them in the appropriate aisles, price and pack the items. By the time the stock was cleared—around 3 a.m.—the weariness of the night overwhelmed us. The numbing fatigue was exasperated by the gentle rhythm of the David Bowie song on the radio: “You're too old to lose it, too young to choose it.”

“Okay, you two, start washing the floor,” the night manager said to me and the new boy.

“What part?” the new boy asked.

“All of it,” the manager replied.

The new boy took in a panoramic view of the floor and asked, “All that?” with a look of disbelief.

“All of it,” the boss repeated.

“I’m out of here. I’m getting my jacket.”

He walked into the darkness. A few moments later, he banged on the plate-glass window and shouted, “You’re all a bunch of losers!”

We all turned away and got on with the work, singing “You’re a rock and roll suicide” to the chorus of Bowie’s song. I then mused over the remaining hours: What will I do with my life?

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A Prayer in Govan

One Saturday being at a loose end whilst my wife was working, I went walking through Govan, tracing the steps of my childhood with that odd blend of nostalgia and ache. Fourteen years of early life were lived here, and though the skyline has shifted, and the shops have changed hands, no Curley’s, no Woolworth’s and no Modern Bookshop. The later, a sanctuary for a child escaping through poverty and a sense of adventure in comics.

The bones of the place remain familiar. It was one of those quiet, reflective strolls—no agenda, just memory. Drawn by the stillness of the place, I wandered into the grounds of the old church at Govan Cross to see the ancient stones, artifacts of history.  I wasn’t even sure if the church was still functioning or simply a monument to what once was. It had that solemn presence old churches carry—stone thick with prayers, weathered by time.

I didn’t expect to meet anyone, but within minutes I was in conversation with three strangers—a woman from Peru, a woman from the United States, and a man who, after listening quietly for a while, mentioned he was the minister of the Govan Free Church.

We spoke for a little while—of this and that, life, place, belonging. Somewhere in that natural flow of conversation, I shared my health condition—neuroendocrine cancer, and how it had taken a stealthy toll, spreading to other organs. I hadn’t intended to go there, but sometimes the truth just slips out when the company is kind.

There was no dramatic reaction. Just quiet listening. Eyes that didn't flinch. A nod of understanding.

Sometime later, I heard from someone that the minister had taken my name to their weekly prayer meeting and he had prayed for me.

It moved me more than I can say.

There’s something profound about that kind of gesture. In a world that’s often loud and fast and transactional, it was a moment of pure human kindness. Unasked for. Unobligated. Offered anyway in an act of Christian love.

Prayer, after all, is not just words spoken into the air. It’s an act of care. Of pause. Of bringing someone else's name before God with reverence and hope.

That day in Govan, the town of my boyhood gave me more than memory. It gave me grace. In the form of strangers. In the form of a prayer.

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When Time Grows Precious

A terminal diagnosis has a strange way of shifting your perception of time. It no longer feels abstract or abundant but becomes a delicate currency, something to be spent with deliberate care. In this altered reality, every conversation and interaction carries more weight. I’ve found myself reassessing who I spend time with—not from resentment or selfishness, but from a quiet understanding that my time is no longer open-ended.

This shift in priorities hasn’t gone unnoticed. Some interpret my decisions as cold or dismissive. Others offer unsolicited judgments. That hurts. What’s often misunderstood is that these choices come from a place of clarity, not cruelty—from a desire to spend my remaining time meaningfully, not performatively.

One of the most unexpected consequences of receiving a terminal diagnosis is the sudden reappearance of people from the past. Faces I hadn’t seen or heard from in years are now at my doorstep, in my inbox, or on the end of a tentative phone call. Some arrive with good intentions. Others seem unsure why they’re here. All carry something unresolved.

It would be easy to dismiss these encounters with cynicism—to view them as guilt offerings or panic-driven gestures. And yes, guilt often plays a part. I see it in their eyes. They remember a kindness I once offered or a conversation we never finished. My illness brings that memory into sharp focus, and they reach out, perhaps to ease their conscience more than to comfort me.

Fear plays its role, too. Illness is a powerful mirror. For those who have drifted away, my situation becomes a reminder of their own mortality, a push to tie up loose ends. Some want closure. Others want a more graceful goodbye than the silence they left behind. I understand that impulse, even if it sometimes feels like a transaction.

Then there are the unspoken rules—the social cues that say you must call, must send flowers, must offer a visit. These gestures often come with kindness, but not always with connection. They follow a script, a way of saying “I did my part.” I’ve appreciated them, truly, but they don’t always land where they were intended.

Still, I’ve learned not to judge too quickly. Guilt, fear, obligation—these are not flaws so much as evidence of our humanness. We’re all fumbling our way through relationships, trying to get it right while living with what we got wrong.

What matters now, more than motivation, is presence. Are you here with me, now, honestly? Or just passing through to check a box on your inner list of regrets?

As for me, I’ve chosen to invest in the relationships that feel mutual and real. Time, for me, is no longer a renewable resource. So I offer it where it can be received, where both hearts are present and open.

This doesn’t mean I’ve closed the door to everyone else. It just means I’ve chosen to keep it open only to those who walk in with sincerity and stay awhile—not out of habit or duty, but because they truly want to be there.

If there’s one thing I’ve come to believe deeply, it’s this: We all need to be thoughtful about how we spend our time and with whom. For those facing a terminal illness, that choice becomes sharper, but the principle applies to everyone. Life is short even when it’s long.

And for those who feel moved to reconnect, I would simply ask this—don’t come out of guilt, or to ease discomfort. Come because you want to. Because you care. Because you’re ready to listen, to share, and to be fully here.

Relationships, like time, are fragile. But in their fragility lies their beauty. When they’re honest, when they’re generous, when they’re free of pretence—they carry us, even through the hardest days.

 “When a man stops believing in God he doesn't then believe in nothing, he believes in anything.”
—G.K. Chesterton

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“What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun?”

A madman rushes into the marketplace in broad daylight holding a lantern, crying, “I seek God! I seek God!” The bystanders, products of the Enlightenment, sneer. They ask if God is lost or perhaps hiding. Their mockery betrays their confidence: they no longer believe He’s there to be found.

Then the madman turns, and his voice cuts through the laughter.

“We have killed him—you and I. All of us are his murderers.”

He doesn't mean God has literally died, but that belief in Him has been dismantled—dissected by scientific pretension, secularism, and philosophy. Not by accident, but by intent. Humanity, having outgrown the need for the divine, has slain its own foundation.

Yet Nietzsche isn’t cheering. The madman isn’t rejoicing; he is in mourning. For with the death of God comes the collapse of everything once tethered to Him: purpose, morality, transcendence. “What were we doing,” he asks, “when we unchained this earth from its sun?” With that severing, we no longer know which way is up. The world spins, and we spin with it—unmoored, unanchored.

Nietzsche foresaw a crisis not of belief but of meaning. His words are less a dismissal of religion than a lament that modernity has not reckoned with what it has lost. People still speak of right and wrong, of love and justice, as if these remain untouched by the death of their source. The madman’s anguish is not madness, but clarity—a prophetic voice in a culture that doesn’t yet understand its own emptiness.

In later works, Nietzsche attempts to sketch a path forward. He speaks of the Übermensch, the Overman, who must now create meaning in the void. But the shadow of God lingers, and meaning, once severed from the transcendent, begins to collapse under its own weight.

More than a philosophical curiosity, the Madman scene is a warning. The lantern he carries isn’t just a symbol of lost faith—it’s a question burning through the centuries: What happens to humanity when it loses its sense of the divine?

We may now be living in the answer.

A generation drifts in the aftermath. After decades of secular progress, something has gone missing. Many feel it like a ghost in the room. Anxiety, depression, loneliness, and addiction rise—not just as medical conditions but as existential signals. The soul, it turns out, cannot be medicated.

Science and progress have given us extraordinary tools, but not the answers to the oldest questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What is good? What lies beyond death?

We are told to follow our hearts, live our truth, chase success, embrace pleasure. But many are quietly turning away from the noise. The marketplace is losing its grip. In corners of the West, in the quiet of living rooms and the hearts of young couples, there is movement. Some call it a revival—not loud or fanatical, but slow, searching, sincere.

The same lantern is being lit again, not in madness but in longing. Young men, especially, are among those returning. They have grown up in a culture where roles are blurred and purpose elusive. In place of fathers and mentors, algorithms and ideologies have offered substitutes that cannot bless or affirm. The Christian congregations, once dismissed, now appears to some as a sanctuary of coherence—a place where order, calling and purpose still reside.

These aren’t conversions driven by fear, but by thirst. The soul is drawn to meaning the way a body is drawn to water. Christianity, with its rhythms of grace and groundedness, offers not a retreat from reality, but a reawakening to it.

And so, the madman may not have been mad at all. His cry still echoes, not as an obituary for God, but as a diagnosis of our age. In his grief, there was truth. And in that truth, perhaps, a strange kind of hope. For the God we declared dead was never absent. We had only turned away.

Now, in scattered places, people are turning back.

We know we can vanish.

And we know we can return.

I left This World and Returned

I was rolled into the pre-op theatre, the ceiling tiles above blurring slightly as the trolley moved. A nurse checked my details and, checked the place and the mark the surgeon left where the incision would take place. Soon, this surgeon would enter my innermost parts; the parts I have not visited. The mask over my face and the nurse asked me to count to ten. I got as far as four. Then nothing.

What is time in this place I moved to. I woke and like Rip Van Winkle, I didn’t know what day, month, or year it was. Was I dead? Is this the place the Bible character Job referred to as the "renewal"; I don't think so, I don't want to leave like the antelope. Go back to sleep like the sloth more likely.

It wasn’t like sleep, where you slowly come to the surface of your dreams and swim back toward the shore of consciousness. This was more like a door that had slammed shut, a vault in my brain. When it opened again, time itself had been rewritten.

They had pressed the pause button on my brain. It closed down. No dreams, no nightmares no nothing. 

What modern medicine calls anaesthesia is a marvel of science, yet it remains, in some ways, a mystery. General anaesthetic doesn’t simply lull you into rest. It shuts down awareness, sensation, memory, and time. Unlike natural sleep, where the brain cycles through phases and dreams, anaesthesia induces a kind of artificial void—a medically induced coma. It is deliberate, controlled unconsciousness. And in that state, the self disappears.

The drugs work fast. Inhaled agents like sevoflurane or intravenous ones like propofol travel to the brain and begin switching things off—like a janitor switching off lights in a tall building and the lights going out one floor at a time. The cerebral cortex and the thalamus, the parts of the brain responsible for thought, perception, and awareness, are silenced. The hippocampus, the memory-keeper, is blocked from recording anything. The networks that give rise to pain, fear, and movement are unplugged. The result is a total absence of experience.

And yet, we trust them to bring us back.

Waking from anaesthesia feels like being rebooted. The body awakens before the soul quite catches up. For a moment, you’re a blank page, your mind fumbling for the first word of a sentence. There is no sense of having rested. Just a gap. A cut in the filmstrip of memory.

It’s a strange thing—to know that someone, somewhere, has held your life on pause. It humbles you. You realise just how delicate the machinery of self is, and how easily it can be suspended.

But what strikes me most is the trust we place in others when we go under. We give ourselves over, unconscious, and defenceless, to the care of hands we barely know. In that moment, the body becomes a vessel tended by others, and the self—whatever it is that makes me me—disappears into silence.

And then, it returns. Slowly. Unevenly. Like a sunrise after a long night with no stars.

I’m grateful for the science that made that possible. Grateful, too, for the mystery of it—for the reminder that consciousness is both gift and grace. We go through life assuming continuity, thinking of ourselves as uninterrupted. But every so often, someone presses pause, and we are reminded: we are not machines. We are fragile, luminous flickers of being, entrusted to one another.

And when we come back from the void, blinking in the theatre lights, we know something we didn’t know before.

We know we can vanish.

And we know we can return.

Therefore everyone who confesses Me before men, I will also confess him before My Father in heaven.

Matthew 10:32.

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Should We Feel Free to Examine the Religion We Were Taught?

There comes a time in many people’s lives when a quiet, persistent question rises to the surface: Is what I was taught about God, Christ  and truth really true? It can be an uncomfortable question, one we might push aside for years, even decades. Yet when it comes, it often brings with it not just a crisis of faith, but a crisis of identity, belonging, and relationship.

For some, like me, the cost of this questioning has been high. My own journey led to estrangement from family, people I love deeply, but who could not accept my departure from the religious path they still walk. It is a pain that leaves no visible scars but cuts deep all the same. So, the question becomes more than academic: Should we feel free to examine the religion we were taught—even when doing so risks losing everything? This is not about religion. It goes deeper. This is about loyalty to God and Christ which reach far beyond religion; a religion which is in a state of constant updates and flux.

Psychologists describe what’s known as cognitive dissonance—the mental discomfort experienced when holding two conflicting beliefs. For those raised in tightly bound religious communities, beginning to question core doctrines can feel like betrayal, not only of God but of family and self. The inner voice of inquiry is often met with a chorus of guilt, shame, and fear and we remain physically in, but mentally out in order to please others.

What’s more, the fear isn’t always irrational. In many religious contexts, dissent is met not with curiosity but condemnation. The cost isn’t just internal—it’s relational. Parents, siblings and adult children may interpret your doubts as rebellion. Friends may withdraw, go silent. In these moments, the exile is not metaphorical. You feel it in every unanswered message, every family gathering you’re no longer invited to.

Yet psychologically, asking questions is a sign of maturity. It shows that we are taking responsibility for what we believe. Faith inherited is not the same as faith owned. Questioning, in the deepest sense, is not rejection—it is seeking. It says, "I want to know the truth, not just believe it because I was told to."

To question your religion is, in many ways, to face the void. When you remove the scaffolding of inherited belief, what remains? For a time, it may feel like nothing. There’s a disorienting space where answers used to be. But in that space, something sacred can happen—an authentic search.

Existentially, 

 this is where the deepest human questions live: What does it mean to be good? What is the purpose of life? Is there a God—and if so, what is He really like? These questions cannot be silenced forever. Even if the answers are difficult, even if they cost us everything, they are worth pursuing. As Kierkegaard said, “The greatest hazard of all, losing oneself, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all.”

Leaving a religion doesn’t just affect you; it reverberates through every relationship formed within that faith. This is especially true in high-control religious groups, where identity and loyalty are fused tightly with doctrinal conformity. To question is to unsettle the equilibrium. To walk away is to disturb the system.

And yet, must we always bear the responsibility for others’ reactions to our honesty? Is it truly love to pretend in order to maintain peace? Jesus himself warned that his message would divide families (Matthew 10:34-36). Sometimes truth drives a wedge not because we wield it like a weapon, but because it reveals who is truly willing to love us unconditionally.

Ultimately, for those of us who still believe in God and Christ, the final authority must be the Bible—not tradition, not religious hierarchy, and not the expectations of others. The Bereans were called “noble” because they examined the Scriptures daily to see if Paul’s teachings were true (Acts 17:11). Jesus rebuked the religious leaders of his day not for lack of faith, but for placing human traditions above God’s word (Mark 7:6-9).

We are commanded to test every spirit (1 John 4:1), to work out our own salvation with fear and trembling (Philippians 2:12), and to be transformed by the renewing of our minds (Romans 12:2). These are not passive acts. They require courage, discernment, and above all, honesty.

So, should we feel free to examine the religion we were taught? Not only should we—we must. The freedom to question is not a threat to true faith; it is the soil in which real conviction grows. Yes, the cost can be high. You may lose relationships, social belonging, even the image others held of you. But in return, you gain something that cannot be taken away: a faith that is your own, anchored not in fear or inheritance, but in truth and conscience before God. And why would family, fellow Christians and former friends not rejoice in my action to follow scripture? Why indeed.

And for me, though it has cost dearly, I can say this: the path of integrity, even when lonely, is the only one I can walk. I trust the God who sees the heart and holds every tear. I follow Christ, who never condemned the seeker, but always made space for the honest question.

Some thoughts to ponder on:

John 6, Colossians 2, Matthew 10

Nothing eventful happened on April 2, 1956—except that I was born. My mother passed me on to another family just a few weeks later. So, I was adopted. And so, sometime that April, I found myself in a makeshift cradle, a drawer with four people staring down at me. Two older girls and a middle-aged couple who would become my new family, for reasons I still don’t fully understand.

My new home was a tenement in Govan, overshadowed by the towering shipyards that dominated the skyline. From our third-story window came the sounds of riveters, the pounding of angry hammers, and the erratic sizzle of torches flaring like fireworks as they sculpted metal into majestic vessels. The reasons for my arrival in that household remain a mystery, obscured by time and tangled threads of secrecy.

Govan, in those days, was a claustrophobic maze of crumbling tenements. The buildings leaned close, conspiring to shut out the light, leaving the streets as drab and shadowed as sepia-toned photographs from the Victorian era. In narrow side streets, stray dogs roamed freely while vermin scurried in the darkness, always foraging for scraps. Life there was governed by the harsh economics of survival, a place where razor gangs, loan sharks, and corner pubs shaped the rhythm of daily existence. Ambition struggled to breathe in that stifling atmosphere, and every corner whispered of escape, of a better life elsewhere.

Decades later, during a routine dental visit, I came across Avril Paton’s painting Windows to the West. It struck a deep chord, transporting me back to a winter’s day in my ninth year. Full of youthful curiosity, I had crossed the Clyde with friends, eager to explore Kelvin’s Museum. But as boys do, we wandered off track and into an old, condemned tenement.

Windows In the West by Avril Paton and the story behind one of Glasgow's most iconic paintings - Glasgow Live

Lost in the adventure, we meandered through Glasgow’s West End until dusk crept in, catching us unawares on Saltoun Street—the very one Paton captured in her painting. Though her inspiration came from a blizzard in 1993, her depiction mirrored my own memory. I peered into warmly lit windows and saw families gathering for meals, decorating for Christmas. Two old men, mirror images of each other, dozed beneath their moustaches. The scene stirred something in me—a longing, a recognition of something missing in my own life.

If I could name what was absent in my early years, it was a sense of home—stability, warmth, belonging. Paton’s image of Saltoun Street, transformed by snow, became a metaphor for my own fleeting joys and the elusive permanence I had yearned for since childhood. As the snowflakes in her painting settled, so too did my thoughts, revealing a life woven from threads of adventure, displacement, and an enduring search for a place to truly call home. A weight I have carried all my life.

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

Coffee, Music, and a Quiet Admiration

Sometimes, when I sit down with a coffee, I turn on YouTube and listen to one or two pieces of music. It’s a quiet ritual, a kind of modern sobremesa for the soul. One of my favourites is a small Filipino Christian family whose channel I stumbled across by chance. Their music is eclectic—ranging from gospel harmonies to gentle folk tunes to rock presented in warmth and sincerity. You can feel the unity, the love, and the joy of simply making music together.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlIUwQ46AZo

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot