Personal Blogs

 Some years ago, my sister was sightseeing in Scotland. She saw an old man wiping tears from his eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Not really," he replied, "I'm looking at all this beauty and realize I won't live much longer to enjoy it."

The man was experiencing an existential crisis, seemingly resigned to the notion that death is final.

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It’s a strange set of affairs; Like the tearful old man, I love  to walk and explore nature in the fine places in Scotland that keep me feeling young. I’m a bit overweight but healthy and full of joie de vivre. There are so many places yet undiscovered. I haven’t been to the Outer Hebrides or north of Inverness. I have visited the Island of Islay on Scotland’s west coast, but with recent DNA connections revealing ties there, I need to return with fresh eyes. Yet, the doors are closing.

Just over a year ago, I underwent a series of medical tests. At the conclusion, I was invited in to discuss the results. I received unwelcome news: cells that had served me faithfully had turned rogue, causing a rebellion in my prostate, pancreas, and liver.

The consultant looked puzzled and said, "You seem very bravado about this?"

"Oh, I get all this," I replied. "But there’s a young man inside me who has walked with me all my life, I will still be around after I close my eyes"

I ask you, the reader—and I’m sure you know—but do you also feel that younger self with you throughout your life? This inner presence becomes more prominent as we age. May I share my thoughts on this?

Centuries ago, a wise man wrote the following:

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men…”

Those words are from Ecclesiastes 3:11 from The Berean Standard Bible and worded by  wise King Solomon speaks of a wisdom he received from God as a gift for faithfulness as a boy.

There are many theories out there I’m sure were the wise of this age speculate why I have a young man in my head and why eternity lives within, but no one, absolutely no one has any scientific evidence for why we have a rich inner lives dancing in our brains. Sure, they have unzipped the skull countless times, and they put it in jars and slice it like spam and study it under all their microscopic kits, but they only have theories, and theories come and go.

We have rich inner lives because we were built for eternity.

That morning, I was going to see the consultant, my wife and I, read Psalm 91:1,

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.”

 

After reading it, I said to my wife, “We are going to receive bad news today.” God was forewarning me before I got the results.

God has always spoke to us, but at certain times, there is that special voice that cannot be coincidence. No, there are 31,000 verses in the Bible, what’s the chances of opening the scriptures and that verse is staring at you? No, God spoke to us personally.

When Jesus said, You will be with me in Paradise, will it be better than the landscape I see before me in Scotland? Surely, without a shadow of a doubt.

Occam's Razor is a philosophical principle that suggests the simplest solution is often the correct one. It advises that when faced with competing hypotheses, one should select the one that makes the fewest assumptions. This principle is widely used in problem-solving and scientific theory evaluation to eliminate unnecessary elements and focus on what is most likely to be true.

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The question of Jesus' identity—whether he is God, the Son of God, God the Son, or God's son without a prehuman existence—continues to perplex and divide those from Christian backgrounds. This division often stems from unclear doctrinal teachings and a lack of consensus among religious scholars. Many believers, stemming from churches that teach the Trinity, find themselves confounded by the complexity of these theological positions.

The root of this disunity can often be traced back to biases among translators: Trinitarian translators interpret verses to support their views, Jehovah’s Witnesses introduce the Tetragrammaton into the New Testament were it wasn't present initially, and Unitarians promote a singular divine being. Therefore, when we pick up a Bible translation we are not getting a raw translation. This doctrinal disarray calls for a simplification of belief systems. Here, Occam’s Razor proves useful, suggesting that the simplest explanation tends to be the correct one.

Consider Jesus’ own words, which offer clarity on his relationship with God. When asked by his disciples about the timing of Jerusalem's destruction, Jesus replied, “But concerning that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only.” (Matthew 24:36). This statement clearly delineates a distinction between the knowledge of God and that of Jesus, suggesting that they are not co-equal.

Further evidence of their distinct roles is found in Jesus' position in the heavenly hierarchy. After his ascension, Jesus is described as sitting at God’s right hand, not on God’s throne—again indicating a difference in stature and authority. Moreover, Jesus himself said, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to Me.” (Matthew 28:18). The phrase "has been given" implies that his authority is derived from a higher power, namely God, which contradicts the notion of them being co-equal.

Nevertheless, it is critical to recognize Jesus' significant authority and role. As scripture attests, all authority has been conferred upon Jesus, and salvation is found in no other name. This grants Jesus a unique and exalted position, deserving of honour and obedience, albeit as one who is subordinate to the Father.

In pursuit of a clearer understanding, I encourage readers to study the Gospels, marking passages that detail Jesus’ relationship with God. This exercise might well lead you to similar conclusions.

Consider the implications of misinterpreting Jesus’ divine status. If one errs on the side of viewing Jesus as God and excludes the Father, the risk of idolatry emerges—a serious doctrinal misstep. Conversely, recognizing Jesus as God’s appointed king, while continuing to worship God, aligns with Jesus' teachings and the pattern he set during his earthly ministry. Therefore, the simplest and safest doctrinal approach is not only logical but also spiritually prudent.

 "The more I examine the universe and the details of its architecture, 

the more evidence I find that the universe in some sense

 must have known we were coming."

Freeman Dyson

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Raison d'être

I often walk and engage people in discussions. Sometimes general, more often existential.  During one discussion, I formed a solid friendship with one man, who asked me about the reason for life and existence. I asked him what he thought, and he said “reincarnation.”

“But don’t you think the Creator would have a more noble reason for man’s existence?” I asked. “Consider that we spend our entire lives gaining knowledge and wisdom. Consciousness is a miraculous construction that science still holds as one of life's great mysteries. Our thoughts, memories, and loves would all end if we were reincarnated back as a cockroach or some higher being. We would lose our identity?"

From my perspective, I fully believe our reason for living is indirectly explained by Jesus. When someone asked Him what the greatest commandment was, He replied:

“‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” (Matthew 22:37-40, BSB)

Consider that we live in an environment where love for God and neighbour is practiced by a minority. Many people’s reasons for living are to exploit others, gain wealth, have as much sex as possible, and look after themselves. But does this make people happy? True happiness comes from a life focused on God and neighbour. This was a theory fully explored by the Pew Research Centre in 2019: Are Religious People Happier, Healthier? Our New Global Study Explores This Question.

Are religious people happier, healthier? | Pew Research Center

Surely, we all want to be happy. We can spend the rest of our life going up purposeless paths or heed the Apostle Peter’s advice,

“God intended that they would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us.  ‘For in Him we live and move and have our being.” Acts 17: 27, 28. BSB.

Is it time to bow our heads and speak with the creator with a sincere heart rather than walking up empty lanes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"La vraie compassion, c’est d’aimer ce qui est inachevé en l’autre."

French Proverb

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In the realm of British football, there exists a notable player who remarkably navigated an extensive career without ever receiving a red card—a symbol of immediate dismissal typically reserved for foul play. This anecdote serves as a metaphor for life, where we find ourselves on a level playing field dotted with both clean and dirty players. This morning, I found myself contemplating the latter and was reminded of the French expression "esprit de l'escalier," or staircase wit. This phrase captures the peculiar frustration of thinking of the perfect witty retort only after the moment has passed, hinting, perhaps, at an underlying selfish motive.

Recently, a seemingly mundane interaction at the supermarket brought this concept to life in a different light. As I chatted with the young cashier processing my groceries, I was oblivious to the kind old woman in line behind me, who was observing our exchange with a smile of approval. It wasn't until I had completed my transaction and was leaving that I noticed her expression. After all, we are all damaged good and scars from dirty players, and we all need compassion.

This encounter lingered in my mind for days, her compassionate smile replaying like a comforting melody. It struck me then that I had missed an opportunity to extend my kindness to her as well. In that moment, I coined my own phrase: "compassion de l'escalier"—the realization of a missed opportunity to offer a kind word, coming to me only as I metaphorically descended the stairs of the moment.

From this reflective experience, I learned the importance of proactively offering kindness, whether through words or even a simple smile to a stranger. Life, much like a bustling supermarket, is filled with fleeting moments where kindness can be a beacon of encouragement. It's crucial to seize these opportunities before it’s too late, ensuring that our days are marked not by missed chances but by moments of shared humanity.

Note: The French proverb translated is  "True compassion is to love what is unfinished in the other person." It’s a beautiful sentiment about accepting and loving others for who they are, including their imperfections and unfinished aspects. Instead of only loving people for their strengths or their completeness, this quote emphasizes finding compassion for the parts of them that are still growing and evolving.

 

 

 "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ." 

Mahatma Gandhi 

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But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble, 

it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck 

and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.

Matthew 18:6 (BSB).

Has Your Religion Forgot What it Means to be Human?

In an era that cries out for understanding and unity, legalistic religions stand as silent monuments to a rigid past, where adherence to the letter of the law often eclipses the spirit of compassion and empathy. This stark contrast between the law and love is most poignantly illustrated in the teachings of Jesus, particularly in his interactions with the Pharisees and religious leaders of his time. Their practices and mindset offer a cautionary tale of how legalistic fervour can obscure the fundamental human values of empathy and justice.

The Pharisees, notorious for their stringent observance of the law, frequently clashed with Jesus over issues where legalism conflicted with mercy. One such instance is their rebuke of Jesus for performing healings on the Sabbath—a day when no work was to be done according to their strict interpretation of the law. In their eyes, the act of healing, an undeniable good, was subordinated to the sanctity of their legal codes. This prioritization of law over compassion reveals a troubling disconnection from the very essence of faith, which is to aid and uplift the vulnerable.

Moreover, the Pharisees' practices of shunning and exclusion starkly contradicted the inclusivity that forms the bedrock of many religious teachings. By labelling tax collectors, women, and Samaritans as sinners or unworthy, they not only marginalized these groups but also fortified barriers against them, thereby contradicting the profound biblical principles of forgiveness and acceptance. This exclusionary behaviour fosters a community that is insular and uncharitable, rather than open and understanding.

Such legalism also extended to the Pharisees' public demonstrations of piety. They prayed loudly at street corners and adorned themselves with symbols of devoutness, yet their actions were often hollow, devoid of the sincere faith that moves one to love unconditionally. Jesus decried this hypocrisy, highlighting a facade of religiosity that hid a core lacking in true spiritual substance. This disconnects between outward show and inward belief sows seeds of spiritual disillusionment, both among adherents and observers.

In adhering rigidly to the minutiae of the law, the Pharisees neglected more pivotal virtues such as justice, mercy, and faithfulness—qualities that Jesus emphasized as foundational to a life of faith. Their focus on trivial legalistic details at the expense of profound moral imperatives resulted in a practice of religion that was not only incomplete but often fundamentally misguided. They led others astray, not closer to spiritual truths but further into the labyrinth of legalistic dogma.

This historical reflection serves as a stern warning against the dangers of a legalistic approach to religion today. When laws become idols, and rules override mercy, religion loses its transformative power and becomes an agent of division and rigidity. Such an environment stifles the growth of genuine compassion and empathy, leaving adherents ill-equipped to navigate the complex moral landscapes of human existence.

Therefore, for those who find themselves in the confines of legalistic belief systems, it is imperative to revisit the core messages of their faiths—messages that likely advocate for love, compassion, and community over rigid adherence to dogma. Engaging with sacred texts like the Gospels, particularly with Jesus' words in Matthew 18, can illuminate the disparities between the spirit and the letter of the law, guiding believers back to a faith that truly enriches and fulfils the human spirit.

 

"We lose ourselves in books. We find ourselves there too." — Anonymous

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Finding Warmth in Stories: A Comfort for the Soul

In a world that often feels fragmented and hurried, stories can offer sanctuary—a place to rest, reflect, and reconnect with humanity. The power of literature lies not only in its ability to entertain but also in its capacity to reveal the profound warmth of human connection. Each of us craves this reassurance, and sometimes, it’s in the pages of a book that we find it most deeply.

Take, for instance, the whimsical wisdom of Precious Ramotswe, Botswana’s first female detective in The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith. Precious approaches every case with compassion and an unwavering belief in the goodness of people, reminding us that even in the most tangled of mysteries, kindness can bring clarity. Her story nudges us to look at our own lives and relationships with more grace, offering solutions not just through intellect, but through love.

Then there’s the delightful Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons, where Flora Poste, an unflappable young woman, brings light and order to the chaotic lives of her eccentric rural relatives. Through humour and tenacity, Flora shows that even the most dysfunctional family dynamics can be softened by persistence and warmth. Her journey reassures us that no matter how messy life gets, we can find beauty and purpose in the midst of chaos.

In Rachel Joyce’s Miss Benson’s Beetle, two unlikely companions embark on a seemingly improbable quest to find a rare beetle, only to uncover something much greater: the richness of friendship and the power of self-discovery. Their story is a testament to the idea that adventure isn’t about grand destinations but about the people who walk beside us along the way. In a world where we often feel pressured to "achieve," this tale whispers that connection and growth are the truest measures of success.

For those who find joy in humour, The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13¾ by Sue Townsend offers a charming glimpse into the life of a teenage boy navigating the absurdities of adolescence. Adrian’s earnest reflections and comedic struggles remind us of our shared humanity, bringing a light-hearted touch to even the heaviest of days. His youthful optimism teaches us to laugh at our own missteps and embrace the imperfections of life.

And then there’s The House in the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune, a modern fable about a caseworker tasked with evaluating a magical orphanage. Within its pages lies a world of acceptance and understanding, where even the most misunderstood individuals find love and belonging. This enchanting story speaks to the universal desire to be seen and valued, encouraging us to extend that same compassion to ourselves and others.

These books share a common thread: they celebrate the quiet, transformative power of human connection. They remind us that kindness, whether it’s shared with family, strangers, or ourselves, has the capacity to reshape our lives. In a time when division and isolation often dominate the headlines, these stories stand as beacons of hope, guiding us back to the heart of what it means to be human.

When life feels overwhelming, we can turn to these characters and their journeys. They remind us that warmth exists in the smallest acts—a gentle word, a helping hand, or even the bravery to simply be there for someone. Through their stories, we are encouraged to carry this warmth into our own lives, becoming the light that others might need.

So, as you turn the pages of these books, let their lessons seep into your heart. Let their characters remind you of the beauty that exists in connection and the courage it takes to embrace life’s messiness. And above all, let their warmth inspire you to pass it on. After all, we are all part of one grand, interconnected story—one where even the smallest act of kindness can make all the difference.

 "Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people."

Eleanor Roosevelt

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In The Wonderful Adventures of Nils by Selma Lagerlöf that I read well... way back in 1995, a compelling idea is presented: “The more things that come into your head, the more room there is for others.” 

This suggests that our minds grow with every new thought and idea we encounter, especially through reading. Reflecting on this, I recognize a pattern in my own life: the most challenging relationships I've had were often with people who do not read regularly.

My experiences have taught me that reading does more than fill our heads with information; it expands our ability to think and feel. Those who read often seem to understand others better and communicate more effectively. Their thoughts are like branches that reach out, connecting ideas and emotions in complex ways.

Conversely, I’ve noticed that people I've had the most difficulty relating to, don't read much tend to have a harder time dealing with complex ideas or understanding different viewpoints. But that's entirely my experience. Their conversations might lack depth, and sometimes, it seems the ones I have known  struggle to empathize with others. Empathy, after all, is something that reading nurtures quite well. Books put us into the shoes of characters across different worlds and times, teaching us to understand and share the feelings of others.

It’s as if not reading limits their mental landscape—like a garden that’s never been fully cultivated. This can lead to misunderstandings and conflicts because it's harder for them to see beyond their immediate perspective.

Considering all this, I’ve come to see reading as essential—not just for knowledge, but for developing the skills to think deeply and empathize widely. Each book adds new layers to our understanding, helping us become better listeners and more thoughtful speakers.

As I continue to meet people who read and those who don't, I advocate more and more for reading's vital role in personal growth. I hope more people will pick up a book, not just to learn something new, but to better understand the world and the people around them. This way, we might all become like those expansive minds in Lagerlöf's tale, forever growing and making more room for others.

Note: May I take this opportunity to thank The quarter of a million visitors for gracing these pages in the past two years. I sure would like to know why you came. Drop an anonymous note in the reply box if you wish. It sure is lonely here.

 

 

The High Road and the Low Road: A Journey to Loch Lomond

On Wednesday evening, my wife and I set out for Balmaha on the banks of Loch Lomond. Drawn by the dual promise of celestial splendour and dawn's first light breaking over the rugged highlands. Our trip was spurred by something more urgent than mere wanderlust—my recent diagnosis with terminal cancer, which has sharpened our focus on seizing the moments that remain.

Loch Lomond isn't just a place of natural beauty; it's a sanctuary where each vista and shifting cloud seems orchestrated to remind us of life's transient, precious nature. As the night sky surrendered to sunrise, I felt a profound connection to the Creator, an assurance that despite the uncertainties of my health, there remains a greater plan at work.

During our visit, the echoes of "Loch Lomond" filled my mind—the haunting lyrics about parting ways, taking different roads through life and beyond. "O you'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland before you." The song, a poignant anthem of farewell, resonated deeply, reflecting our current crossroads. It was as if the high road was my impending journey beyond this life, while the low road was the here and now with my wife.

This melody, which has always stirred the soul, now underscored our experience with its profound symbolism. It wasn't just background music; it was a narrative woven into the fabric of our visit, a narrative about love, parting, and the passages we all must navigate.

Standing there, with the dawn light washing over the loch and mountains, I was struck by a mix of grief and gratitude. Grief, for the days that will be no more, and gratitude for the immeasurable beauty and joy that have filled my days. Each moment by the loch was a moment stolen back from fate, a declaration that even in the face of life's end, we can find reasons to cherish and celebrate.

Our journey back home was quiet, reflective. We spoke little, but our hands found each other often, a silent language of support and mutual strength. The road, both literal and metaphorical, stretched out before us, each mile a step towards whatever awaits.

As we navigate this chapter, the lesson of Loch Lomond remains with us: to embrace each day with vigour, to find solace in nature's embrace, and to love fiercely in the face of the unknown. Even as I consider the roads we take—the high ones and the low—the journey is as beautiful as it is heart-breaking, filled with the promise of love’s enduring presence.

When a man dies, will he live again?

All the days of my hard service I will wait,

until my renewal comes.

Job 14:14 (BSB)

 

 

 

“Mummy, will you come and play with me?"

"Not now, I'm too busy."

The child's hopeful request meets the harsh reality of adult preoccupations—a simple scene that captures a common, yet poignant moment. The mother's response, curt and perhaps unintentional in its sharpness, might leave a lasting impression on the young child, shaping their understanding of relationships and availability. It's a small interaction, but it's laden with emotional weight and the potential for reflection on the balance between life's demands and the simple, profound joy of being present with loved ones.

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“If anyone does not provide for his own,

 and especially for those of his household, 

he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.”

I Timothy 5:8 (BSB).

In my younger days, I was part of an evangelical group that often extolled the virtues of our counterparts in an Asian country. Every week, without fail, we would hear glowing reports of their diligent evangelism,  the speakers would proclaim. Their commitment was underscored by those admirable qualities intrinsic to this Asian culture—group harmony, punctuality, and a robust work ethic. These narratives were not merely informative but served as a persuasive tool intended to invigorate and, perhaps, "encourage" the congregants in the West.

I never was influenced by that. There was always time to provide pleasure and time with the children, camping trips, holidays, days out, listening to music and visiting other families with children. And no matter how busy I was, there was always time for a bedtime chat and a story. Sometimes collectively, sometimes individually— depending on the needs at the time. This was the eighties and the popular bedtime stories where those Ladybird books: The Elves and the Shoemaker, Chicken Licken, The Little Red Hen, Red Riding Hood and so on. When they were older, there was looking after their teenage needs. Goodness! I recall driving one of my teenage children  to The Island of Bute after school every Friday to spend time with friends and making the three hours round trip again on Sunday to take him home again. Parents in many respects become taxis to take the teens to their get-togethers, but that’s the way it should be and I’m sure many young adults have grown up to appreciate such care.

But returning to the Asian families. Children who are neglected or not properly nurtured will become  lost or  withdrawn; victims of what I would describe as friendly fire—a casualty of an intense focus on organizational goals over personal and familial well-being. And this is not restricted to religion. It also embraces every walk of life where the temptation to follow your dream underscores love for the children, albeit, not deliberate.

This knowledge serves as a critical lesson: religious fervour, when misdirected, can inadvertently harm those it intends to nurture. The pressure to constantly perform and contribute can eclipse the fundamental joys and responsibilities of parenting—playing, teaching, exploring nature, and simply being present with one’s children. For those feeling the weight of guilt that you are not doing enough for your faith because your family takes precedence, I offer this advice: pause and reconsider your priorities. The scripture in 1 Timothy 5:8 emphasizes, “If anyone does not provide for his own, and especially for those of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.” This powerful admonition reminds us that neglecting familial obligations in the pursuit of religious accolades is a misstep.

If your religious organization pressures you to the extent that your family life suffers, it may be time to reassess your commitment. Serve God, certainly, but remember that service to God is reflected in how we care for and cherish our loved ones. Let us not be swayed by external expectations to the point where we neglect the essential human connections that enrich our faith and lives. In balancing our spiritual and familial. We will never get it perfect, but we will try.

 

 

Stories are the compasses and architecture of our humanity, inviting us to greater empathy and reminding us that we not only navigate by them but have the power to guide their creation. In crafting tales that reflect our deepest values, we forge connections that transcend time, reminding us of the dignity within simplicity and the quiet strength of moral resolve.

As a writer deeply rooted in the exploration of what it means to be human, I find the modern storytelling landscape—particularly in Western cinema—both fascinating and disconcerting. Pervasive scenes that glorify sex, violence, and the supernatural prompt me to ponder the trajectory of our cultural narratives. Where, indeed, are we heading with this kind of storytelling?

Recently, a student asked me, "What kinds of stories do we need more of?" The question might seem straightforward, but it invites deep reflection for someone who views writing not merely as an act of creation but as a responsibility. My aim is not just to contribute to the noise but to craft spaces that delve into profound ideas, reflect on the human saga, and add something meaningful to our collective narrative. In a world often saturated with trivial or even damaging content, I yearn to offer something more substantial, something nourishing.

The current trend in narratives thrives on sensationalism. Consider the prevalence of gratuitous violence, morally ambiguous protagonists, and dark, mystical themes. One wonders about the psychological and social impact of such stories on our minds and societies. The social sciences are replete with studies indicating potential harm, yet our storytelling continues to push the envelope, often at the expense of the audience.

It’s crucial to ask ourselves about the societal implications of the stories we tell and consume. Are we nurturing empathy, understanding, and moral fortitude, or are we numbing our audience with spectacles of violence and moral relativism? The content we consume shapes our perceptions, influences our emotions, and even dictates our responses to real-life situations. When stories prioritize sensation over substance, they risk reducing complex human experiences to mere entertainment, devoid of any real engagement with the issues portrayed.

What then, should be the future of storytelling? I believe we need a revival of narratives that illuminate the human condition, that reflect the complexities of life in a manner that is truthful and enlightening. We need stories that challenge us, that offer more than an escape into fantasy—stories that prompt introspection and dialogue about the very real world we inhabit.

The stories we need more of are those that foster connection and understanding, that celebrate resilience and redemption without shying away from the reality of human suffering and imperfection. These stories recognize the power of the human spirit and the complexity of our emotions and moral landscapes.

As storytellers, we have the power to influence culture and individuals profoundly. It is our responsibility to wield this power wisely, ensuring that our stories do not merely entertain but also enrich. We must strive to create narratives that respect the intelligence and emotional depth of our audience, offering them not just a mirror to their own experiences but a window into the lives of others.

Thus, as I continue to write and reflect on what it means to be human in my own work, I encourage fellow writers and storytellers to consider the impact of their stories. Let us aim to contribute to a storytelling culture that values depth, empathy, and understanding—a culture that truly reflects the complexity of human life and inspires the best in us all.

 

 

"I was reading a book and I wanted to finish it."

An answer from an Auschwitz survivor who was asked, "What pulled you through?" 

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"Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; 

they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, 

and the most patient of teachers." - Charles William Eliot

In the early 20th century, a religious group purchased a property in California, christening it Beth Sarim—House of Princes. They prophesied that it would serve as a residence for the resurrected biblical patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who were expected to return imminently to govern the earth. The leaders assured their followers that these ancient figures would soon walk among us, ushering in a new era. However, as time passed without a divine arrival, the leader of the group quietly moved into the mansion himself. Strangely enough, this bizarre twist did not stir much dissent within the group. The followers, conditioned not to question, simply moved on.

This anecdote may seem peculiar, yet it is not uncommon among high-control groups, where questioning the leadership or the collective doctrine is often off-limits. The acceptance of such an oddity without scepticism or debate underscores a broader human tendency: the resistance to challenge entrenched systems of thought. This is where Thomas Kuhn’s concept of Paradigm Shifts becomes relevant. Initially framed within the context of scientific revolutions, the idea holds that progress—be it in science, culture, or personal beliefs—often stalls until outdated paradigms are disrupted by new, compelling ideas that force us to view the world differently.

My reflections on Beth Sarim and paradigm shifts resonate with personal observations about the broader community. Throughout my life, I’ve noticed that those who do not read or seek out new information often struggle with narrow-mindedness. Like horses with blinkers, they see only what is directly ahead, oblivious to the vast diversity of thought and experience surrounding them. This is not just an issue of limited intellectual curiosity; it is a fundamental limitation on empathy and understanding.

Some of the greatest challenges with people in my life are those who have never read a book. They resort to lazy thinking, biases, and flawed perspectives. Reading, in contrast, offers a gateway to expansive thinking. When we read, we engage in an act of perspective-taking that is profoundly empathetic. We immerse ourselves in the lives of characters vastly different from ourselves, confronting situations we might never face. Through literature, we experience the struggles and joys of others, from the safety of our own homes, which can translate into a deeper understanding and connection with the human condition in our everyday interactions.

Consider the emotional journey one undertakes with a well-crafted novel. As we connect with characters, we experience vicariously their fears, loves, successes, and failures. These experiences enrich our capacity for empathy, making us more attuned to the emotions and motivations of others in the real world. Moreover, reading about diverse cultures and histories broadens our perspective, helping us appreciate paths that have diverged wildly from our own. This exposure is crucial in our increasingly globalized world, where understanding and respecting differences is key to social harmony.

Thus, the value of reading extends far beyond entertainment or information acquisition; it is a vital tool for fostering empathy and breaking down the mental barriers that confine us. The story of Beth Sarim is a cautionary tale of what happens when communities insulate themselves from new ideas and perspectives. It reminds us of the importance of intellectual openness and the transformative power of reading—as a means to envision and embrace a world richer than our immediate surroundings. In essence, books do not just fill shelves; they expand the boundaries of our minds and hearts. Have you, too, felt a deeper connection to someone, real or fictional, after walking a mile in their literary shoes.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne?"

Robert Burns

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Unless you hail from the Baby Boomer generation or earlier, the Hogmanay traditions of yore may seem like quaint relics of a bygone era. Those times left indelible marks on me, filled with vibrant customs that welcomed the New Year with open arms and open doors. In our home, New Year's Eve was an occasion for a grand preparation that transformed the ordinary into the extraordinary.

As the evening unfurled towards midnight, our household would buzz with activity—my mother taking the lead in what we fondly referred to as the "Redding the house." This was no mere tidying up. It was a cleansing ritual, out with the old and in with the new, scrubbing every nook and cranny to a sparkle. The dining table would soon groan under the weight of festive offerings: plates of buttery shortbread, the spicy tang of ginger wine, frothy beers, and the inevitable bottles of whisky.

As the clock's hands edged closer to twelve, a palpable excitement filled the air, akin to the charged moments before a storm breaks. Then, as if on cue, midnight would arrive with a cacophony of sounds—the fireworks bursting in the sky above, the ships moored along the Govan and Partick stretches of the River Clyde blaring their horns in a symphony of celebration.

The tradition of First Footing then took centre stage. It was considered a harbinger of good fortune if the first person to cross your threshold after the bells rang was a tall, dark-haired man. Bearing gifts of coal, shortbread, salt, black bun, and whisky, the first footer was a welcomed guest, embodying warmth, flavour, sustenance, and cheer for the year ahead.

Another integral part of the celebration was the Bells at Midnight. The old church bells, including the Govan Gaelic Church which was across the street on Copeland Road where I lived, would ring out the old year and chime in the new, a sound that seemed to resonate deep within the soul. We would gather to sing "Auld Lang Syne," voices mingling in the crisp night air, hands joined in unity and hearts swelling with hope for the future.

What I miss most about those Hogmanay nights is the element of surprise and community—never knowing who might appear at your door to first foot. It could be uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbours, or friends. This was an era untouched by the immediacy of phones or the internet. Each visitor was a mystery until they stepped into the light of your entryway.

In those days, no one had to be alone during Hogmanay. Whether you were the widow in the next close or the old bachelor next door, you were part of a larger family. The community ensured that everyone had a place to celebrate, a stark contrast to the more solitary celebrations that have crept into modern life.

Reflecting on these traditions, I'm struck by the stark simplicity and the profound sense of belonging they fostered. Today, as the world races towards ever more digital and disconnected interactions, the Hogmanay of my youth serves as a poignant reminder of the power of personal connection and tradition.

Gosh! I miss  those days, though they are now just echoes of the past, preserved in the memories of those who lived them, and, in the stories, we pass down to inspire a new generation seeking the same warmth and community in their own celebratory rituals.

What was your experience ? Drop a note in the comments

Why is there something rather than nothing?

Why are we further away from abiogenesis than ever before?

Why is our planet so beautiful and fit for habitation?

Why would Altruism exist in an evolutionary world?

How come numbers work?

How come we have an anthropic planet?

Why are we moved by a sunset, wonderful music and seeing others happy?

 Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

 

 

The Spirit of Exclusion: Why Science Without God Falls Short

Imagine a painter meticulously crafting a masterpiece. Each stroke tells a story, and the interplay of colours reveals purpose and meaning. Now imagine someone stepping into the gallery, admiring the painting, but insisting it came about by accident. They marvel at the complexity of the brushstrokes, hypothesize about the physics of paint application, and yet refuse to acknowledge the artist. This, it seems, is where much of modern science finds itself—standing in awe of the universe while denying the existence of the painter behind it.

Science, at its best, is a glorious endeavour. It’s a tool that has helped humanity uncover the laws of nature, cure diseases, and explore the farthest reaches of space. But there’s a troubling trend: a spirit of exclusion where, as long as God is left out, any explanation will suffice. It’s as though science, once humble and curious, has decided that it can go it alone, refusing even to consider the idea of a Creator.

The Blindfold of Methodological Naturalism

Science today often operates like a detective investigating a crime scene but refusing to consider one crucial suspect. Methodological naturalism—the principle that science seeks natural causes—has become not just a tool but a rigid ideology. It’s like building a house with only a hammer, refusing to acknowledge that other tools might be necessary.

This approach has produced remarkable results, but it’s also left science boxed in, unable to answer life’s deepest questions. Why does the universe exist at all? Why is it so finely tuned for life? Why do we, mere collections of atoms, yearn for meaning? These questions lie outside the reach of a microscope or telescope, yet they are the ones that matter most.

The Limits of Science

To be clear, science is brilliant at what it does. It can explain the mechanics of how things work—how stars form, how DNA replicates, how water boils. But it stumbles when asked to explain why things exist in the first place. It’s like being able to describe the ingredients of a cake without understanding why someone baked it.

Take, for example, the fine-tuning of the universe. Physicists have discovered that the constants of nature—things like the strength of gravity or the charge of an electron—are calibrated with such precision that even the tiniest deviation would make life impossible. The odds are staggering, like flipping a coin and landing on heads a trillion times in a row. Yet rather than consider the possibility of design, some scientists propose the existence of countless other universes—none of which we can observe—to explain this fine-tuning. It’s an elegant-sounding idea, but isn’t it more like sweeping the evidence under the rug than solving the mystery?

The Bias Against Design

There’s a deeper issue here: a bias against design. Some scientists, like Richard Lewontin, have openly admitted that their commitment to materialism drives them to exclude God, regardless of where the evidence might lead. This bias is like a jury deciding the verdict before the trial even begins. It’s not science—it’s ideology masquerading as science.

This bias also leads to absurdities. Consider the origin of life. The complexity of even the simplest cell is mind-boggling, filled with information-rich molecules that resemble software code. Bill Gates once remarked that DNA is like a computer program, only far more advanced than any software we’ve created. Yet some scientists would rather believe that life emerged spontaneously from a “primordial soup” than entertain the possibility of an intelligent designer.

If you have proof of God, why would you deny it?

At its core, this exclusionary spirit reflects human pride. To admit the existence of a Creator is to admit that we are not the ultimate authority—that we are accountable to something greater than ourselves. 

This pride is dangerous. It blinds us to the evidence of design all around us and leaves us searching for answers in all the wrong places. It’s like trying to navigate a map without acknowledging the compass in your hand.

A Symphony Without a Conductor

The irony is that the very success of science points to something beyond itself. The laws of nature are so orderly, so precise, that they resemble a symphony. Yet a symphony without a conductor is unthinkable. The more we learn about the universe, the more it seems to whisper of a Designer—a mind behind the mathematics, a purpose behind the particles.

Even Albert Einstein, no theist in the traditional sense, remarked, “The most incomprehensible thing about the universe is that it is comprehensible.” Why should a random, purposeless cosmos be so beautifully ordered? Why should the human mind be capable of understanding it? These questions point beyond science to something—or Someone—greater.

Science Needs God

The exclusion of God from science doesn’t make science more rational; it makes it less so. It’s like trying to assemble a puzzle while deliberately leaving out the central piece. Science without God becomes a house of cards, impressive but precarious, unable to support the weight of life’s biggest questions.

The universe, in all its vastness and complexity, is not a closed system. It is, as the Bible says, a testament to God’s glory. “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1). Science, when pursued humbly, can help us marvel at that glory. But when it refuses to consider the Painter behind the masterpiece, it misses the point entirely.

It’s time for science to take off its blindfold, to embrace not just the how but the why, and to acknowledge that behind the symphony of creation stands a Conductor. Only then will science truly fulfil its purpose: not just to uncover facts but to point us toward truth.

But ask the animals, and they will instruct you;

ask the birds of the air, and they will tell you.

Or speak to the earth, and it will teach you;

let the fish of the sea inform you.

Which of all these does not know

that the hand of the LORD has done this?

The life of every living thing is in His hand,

as well as the breath of all mankind.

Does not the ear test words

as the tongue tastes its food?

Wisdom is found with the elderly,

and understanding comes with long life.

Job 12:7-10 (BSB).