Personal Blogs

"Pass Us by and Forgive Us Our Happiness"

 Dostoevsky’s The Idiot

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John Koenig, in his book , The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, coins a striking term— “Dead Reckoning”—to describe the peculiar grief we feel for someone we hardly knew, yet whose death leaves an indelible mark on us.

I wasn’t much more than a child when Marilyn Monroe died in 1962, but I can imagine the way her passing sent waves of mourning across the world. People who never met her still grieved, feeling the strange sting of loss.

 And then there was that August morning, August 31, 1997. I still remember hearing the news over the radio —Princess Diana was dead. I had a speech to give that Sunday, but the words felt heavy in my mouth, like stones. The air in the room was thick, almost suffocating, as if the grief had weight, pressing down on all of us. It was everywhere, this sorrow for a woman most of us had only known through screens and headlines. Somehow, her death struck us deep.

 What perplexes me is how we, as humans, carry this capacity for empathy. Why do we mourn the death of someone we’ve never met? I’ve been pondering this all week, especially as I watched people move through Glasgow Central Station—rushing down the stairs, passing a young girl quietly sitting in a sleeping bag, hoping for help, for someone to notice her. And yet, not a single person stopped.

 Why is it that we can weep for a stranger thousands of miles away, but ignore the suffering of the person sitting right in front of us? Have we become desensitized, numbed by the endless tide of need we see on our streets? Or is it something more complicated, a defence mechanism in a world where the pain can sometimes feel too overwhelming to face?

It’s confusing, deeply so.

Note: When Prince Myshkin in  Dostoevsky’s The Idiot returned from convalescing in Switzerland, He observed how society had lost their moral compass and declared "Pass Us by and Forgive Us Our Happiness."

“Religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world.” — James: 1:27 ESV

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I was thinking of the haiku I blogged on yesterday whilst having a coffee in Waterstones in Glasgow.

I was reading large book I took from the shelf called Haiku illustrated: Japanese Short Poems. It’s a nicely illustrated book and if my wife reads this, she may buy it for our forthcoming anniversary.

The haiku that caught the most attention was one of the early haikus in the book by Matsuo Bashō,

"On a withered branch

A crow has alighted—

Nightfall in autumn."

Here Bashō, juxtaposes nightfall with the emergence of winter. It makes me feel somewhat melancholy when I read it, and I would like to know how the poem plays on your emotions. Go on tell me, there are no wrong answers.

Funny, I enjoyed the poem so much, I shared it with a young lad who was browsing the shelves for books linked to his forthcoming literature degree.

Go on, share a poem, a piece of prose that had an impact on you. The thing about these chance encounters, they live in our head and we live in their heads.

Note: The haiku is not exactly the one in the book; the one quoted here is the public domain haiku

Creation itself makes His undying power and divine identity clear

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I suppose it must have been the late summer. I had been spending summer on an idyllic Island off the coast. We had a cabin with no running water or electricity. My job was to go and fill up the water containers from the communal well. Cows would cautiously approach and stare curiously whilst the smaller ones would shuffle through for front-row viewing.

At dusk, we would light paraffin lamps to illuminate the nights. My father would read children’s books. We were all ears as he read Heidi, Tales From 1001 Nights and Chinese Folk Tales. We ate freshly made pancakes washed down with jam and 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; every one 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. God whispered his presence.

***********

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.

Later I read the following verses,

"When I gaze to the skies and meditate on Your creation—

    on the moon, stars, and all You have made,

 I can’t help but wonder why You care about mortals—

    sons and daughters of men—

    specks of dust floating about the cosmos. Psalm 8:3,4.

"From the beginning, creation in its magnificence enlightens us to His nature. Creation itself makes His undying power and divine identity clear, even though they are invisible..." Romans 1:20 (Voice).

Scripture taken from The Voice™. Copyright © 2012 by Ecclesia Bible Society. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory

https://unsplash.com/@martiko11

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Who are your favourite characters in literature and movies? Perhaps Bruno in The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, Oscar Schindler in Schindler’s List, Gandalf the Grey in The Lord of the Rings, Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption, Abbé Faria in The Count of Monte Cristo, Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, or even Othello in Shakespeare’s play of the same name?

Did you notice the common trait they share? They are all kind-hearted people. But why are we naturally drawn to characters like these? Why don’t we Favor characters like Amon Göth from Schindler’s List, Fernand de Morcerf from The Count of Monte Cristo, or Iago from Othello?

The reason lies in a powerful force that influences us all—a benign force: the Law of Universal Justice. As Martin Luther King, Jr. famously said:

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

This principle ties deeply to our attraction to noble characters. If we were merely biological beings, shaped only by survival instincts in a cold, indifferent universe, love, kindness, and self-sacrifice wouldn’t exist. Good and evil would lose their meaning entirely. We wouldn’t be drawn to moral characters, because morality itself would be irrelevant. Good and evil can only exist in a moral universe.

But if good exists, how do we define it? Why do we feel compelled to do good if our existence is purely a result of chance, dictated by "survival of the fittest"? One person gives generously and finds happiness, while another inflicts pain and suffers from a guilty conscience. The difference lies in that gentle nudge we all feel—a natural inclination toward what’s right.

Romans 2:14-15 (NIV) captures this idea well:

“Indeed, when Gentiles, who do not have the law, do by nature things required by the law, they are a law for themselves, even though they do not have the law. They show that the requirements of the law are written on their hearts, their consciences also bearing witness, and their thoughts sometimes accusing them and at other times even defending them.”

Interestingly, science has also discovered the therapeutic value of random acts of kindness, not random acts of evil. So why do we lean toward kindness? Perhaps it’s because we are designed to do so.

Scripture quotations [marked NIV] taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version Anglicised Copyright © 1979, 1984, 2011 Biblica. Used by permission of Hodder & Stoughton Ltd, an Hachette UK company. All rights reserved. ‘NIV’ is a registered trademark of Biblica UK trademark number 1448790.

"He who walks with integrity

and practices righteousness,

who speaks the truth from his heart,

who has no slander on his tongue,

who does no harm to his neighbor,

who casts no scorn on his friend"

Psalm 15: 2,3. (BSB).

A special thanks to https://unsplash.com/@kellysikkema for the use of the image

Their Hearts Grew Softer: A Lesson on Being Human

In the sun-scorched hills of Judea, nestled in the small village of Bethany, lived a devout, God-fearing couple known throughout the village for their dedication to the synagogue on the hill that overlooked their community. The husband, a skilled carpenter with hands hardened by years of working wood and stone, had repaired nearly every home in Bethany. The wife, a gentle woman of learning, taught the children of the village, filling their minds with the Torah and their hearts with stories of God's miracles.

From the outside, they appeared as pillars of faith. They were always present at the synagogue, with the husband's deep voice rising above the others as he sang psalms, and the wife's quiet prayers comforting those in need. They organized village gatherings, led Torah studies, and ensured that every widow and orphan was cared for according to the Law of Moses.

 The people of Bethany admired their devotion, often turning to the couple for guidance. "The Lord has surely blessed them," the villagers would say, watching the couple go about their duties, always busy with good deeds. But behind the closed doors of their stone home, nestled at the edge of the village, another story began to unfold.

Though they were devoted to the synagogue, the couple developed a growing habit of speaking about others behind their backs. It began innocently, as many things do. After the Sabbath service, they would walk home along the dusty path leading through Bethany, reflecting on the day's events.

 "Did you notice how late Simon arrived today?" the husband would murmur as the sounds of the service faded into the distance.

 The wife nodded, adjusting her shawl against the desert breeze. "Yes, and he didn’t look well. It’s a shame, really… he’s not been the same since his wife passed. We should keep him in our prayers."

 At first, their words were cloaked in concern, an expression of care for their neighbours. But over time, the concern turned into something else. The remarks grew sharper, less about prayer and more about judgment. As they sat by the oil lamps in the evenings, their conversations often shifted toward the villagers of Bethany.

“I’ve heard that Miriam’s daughter has been seen speaking with the Roman soldiers,” the wife would say, her voice low. “People are starting to wonder if she’s been influenced by their ways.”

 The husband shook his head. “It's no surprise. The girl was always rebellious. This is what happens when the parents fail to uphold the Law properly.”

They felt justified in their talk, believing it was merely to keep each other informed and to pray for those who had strayed. But in truth, their words carried a sting, and the whispers they spread began to drift through Bethany like the dry wind blowing from the wilderness.

It wasn’t long before rumours began to take root in the village. Quiet suspicions turned into gossip that passed from house to house. Soon, the people of Bethany began to view one another with suspicion, not knowing where the rumours had started but feeling their effects all the same.

One Sabbath morning, the rabbi delivered a sermon unlike any the couple had heard before. Standing before the congregation, his voice sombre, he spoke of the power of the tongue.

"The scroll of Proverbs tells us that life and death are in the power of the tongue," the rabbi said, his voice resonating in the stone chamber of the synagogue. "Gossip, my friends, is like a serpent’s bite. It poisons relationships and tears communities apart. When we speak ill of others, even under the guise of concern, we sin against God’s command to love our neighbour."

 His words hung in the air, as heavy as the heat outside. The couple sat stiffly in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances. It felt as though the rabbi's words had been directed at them, piercing through the layers of self-righteousness they had built over time.

 As they walked home after the service, the usual chatter between them was absent. The desert wind whispered through the olive trees, and the only sound was the shuffle of their sandals on the dusty path. Finally, the husband broke the silence, his voice quiet.

 “Do you think he was talking about us?”

 The wife hesitated. “I don’t know… but I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we’ve allowed our words to become more judgmental than kind. We’ve spoken as if we were above others.”

The husband nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “Yes. We’ve let pride take root in our hearts, hiding it behind concern for others.”

That evening, as the oil lamps flickered in their home, there was no idle talk of their neighbours, no whispered judgments. Instead, they sat in silence, reflecting on the rabbi's sermon and the weight of their own actions.

The next Sabbath, as they made their way to the synagogue, they were filled with a new resolve. This time, their prayers were not just for the people of Bethany but for their own hearts. They asked for forgiveness—not just for their words, but for the pride that had crept in, making them believe they were better than those around them.

In the months that followed, they worked to change. They remained active members of the synagogue, still teaching and helping their neighbours, but their hearts were softer. They learned to hold their tongues, to listen without judgment, and to view their fellow villagers with kinder eyes.

The people of Bethany, unaware of the couple’s inner struggle, continued to look to them for guidance. But now, their faithfulness was no longer just an outward display—it came from a deeper place of humility and The Goodwill of God. And in time, their story became a quiet reminder to the village: even the most devout must guard their hearts, for it is easy to lose sight of The Goodwill of God, even in the holiest of places.

-------

Note: The story does not resemble anyone dead or alive; It was written for my own benefit and a reminder what I personally must apply in the moral of the story.

No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car.

                                                                                                 August Strindberg.

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Once upon a time, time began at the moment of the big bang. Don’t try to work that out; that’s what theoretical physicists get paid for.

As soon as the Book of Genesis proclaimed, "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth " Time not only began, but continued to move forward. As soon as you read one word here, the moment has gone, never to return. It’s easier to find porchetta at a Bar Mitzvah that move back time.

Fortunately, time refuses to stands still in our head. If I ask you the capital of Scotland, you might say Edinburgh. But if I ask you to describe the last meal you had with family or friends, a film rolls in your head. A captured moment in time.

My Captured Moment in Time.

As a child, I was brought up in Govan, Glasgow. My friends and I would take the ferry over the River Clyde and eventually find ourselves in the Dowanhill area where Avril Paton’s famous painting was set.

https://avrilpaton.co.uk/prints/windows-in-the-west

I would stare into these homes envious of the happiness that seemed to emanate as I observed get-togethers and cosy chairs with people sitting reading with cats on their lap and children playing board games on a table. Strange, many years later, I had the same sensations when I saw observed winter scene in a Stockholm suburb. I can only conclude that it takes us back to our cosy fairy-tail childhood where logs where on the fire and the family sat around reading and talking. It is a rolling film in my head that only dementia can rob me of.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory

 ^"It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man."

Psalm118:8 KIV.

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

There are many reasons why a person may question their religion, some noble, some for a more nefarious reason. The latter may use doctrinal issues as an excuse to pursue an immoral life.

When my wife and I left our religion, we decided to read The Gospels and The Book of Acts and systematically ask ourselves, what does God and Jesus require of us? This brought a great sense of freedom. For the last three decades, I had been spinning around like a Sufi whirler and never thinking of stopping, getting off and assessing my form worship. There would be guilt trips if I sat and watched a movie or went away for a day’s leisure. With no shepherding or talks and items to prepare, I had time to read God’s word independently without outside influence. It felt refreshing.

At the time, I read Nothing to Envy by Barbara Demick. She is a North Korean defector. The parallels between the North Korean regime and my religion were cognate. She wrote about North Koreans having two conflicting thoughts in their heads: a cognitive bias like trains travelling on parallel lines. There was the official thought that Kim Jong Un is a god, but the lack of evidence to support the claim. If North Koreans spoke publicly about such contradictions, they would find themselves in a treacherous place. Sadly, the force of the regime, as with the society I was associated with, is to isolate its own people completely. Take a few moments to read key quotes from Demick’s book on the Goodreads website at,

https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/6358552-nothing-to-envy-ordinary-lives-in-north-korea#:~:text=Choosing%20where%20to%20live%2C%20what,the%20state%20their%20entire%20lives.

The Bereans

The Bereans were a devout group of religious people mentioned in the New Testament of the Bible at Acts 17:10-12. They lived in the city of Berea in Greece. They were known for their noble character and open-mindedness in receiving the message of the gospel, but they had conditions:

“As soon as night had fallen, the brothers sent Paul and Silas away to Berea. On arriving there, they went into the Jewish synagogue. Now the Bereans were more noble-minded than the Thessalonians, for they received the message with great eagerness and examined the Scriptures every day to see if these teachings were true. As a result, many of them believed, along with quite a few prominent Greek women and men.” (BSB)

They used their God-given right to question and check what they were being told. When I looked at my own religious beliefs, I found them wanting. It is not a sin, it is noble-mindedness and courageous to question why you follow some man made doctrines and rules.

I am often saddened when I see former members of my religion falling into atheism and taking up the current Western world’s occupation towards secularism. God has given us the privilege of being free moral agents. It is not the wise choice to blame God for the way matters turned out. The Bible is full of cautions about trust in man. Despite leaving, we are all still subject to the issue that was raised by Satan. Is it loyalty to God and Christ, or the Satanic secular zeitgeist that is currently sweeping the West?

 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.

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Imagine, you are in the lab working on cells. Suddenly, a cell dies on you. What have you lost? Can you revive it? After all, it’s only a tiny cell. The strange thing is, we don’t know what life is.

I raise this question for many reasons. I was watching the biochemist, Dr James Tour, being interviewed on Socrates in the City. He discussed life,

https://socratesinthecity.com/watch/dr-james-tour-how-did-life-come-into-being/

And you would expect scientists to know and define what life is, but Dr James Tour says otherwise.

In the Book of Matthew, Jesus states in verse 10:29 the following,

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father.”

Let’s ponder, you walk along the park and see a dead sparrow. It has just fallen; you saw it with your own eyes. And yet, it still looks like a sparrow, but it is missing that vital life force. Just before Jesus mentioned the sparrow, he said, “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.” Matthew 10:28 (BSB).

Humans can take our physical life from us, but not our future life that God has planned for our future.

We have a soul; we are the soul with body and life force. Consider,

“Then the LORD God formed man from the dust of the ground and breathed the breath of life into his nostrils, and the man became a living being.” Genesis 2:7 (BSB).

I was walking through a graveyard last Thursday whilst on holiday. There were graves dating back to 1760. People who were once living souls with rich inner lives. Was their short walk on earth futile? That depends on how they lived their life as their future lies in the hands of God and Jesus.

This reminds me of a story regarding a child who was speaking about her grandmother. Her fiend asked, “Where is your grandmother?”

            “She is in the tomb.”

            “What’s a tomb?”

            It’s like that locked drawer where my mum keeps all her valubles, but the tomb is a drawer that only God can open.”

I am a duellist. In other words, I believe consciousness is linked physically to the brain, but in essence is a separate entity. When the day of renewal comes, I believe God and Christ will give me a perfect body whether spiritual or physical, and with it, he will restore my memories. Effectively restoring my identity.

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.

"[We] forbade him, because he doesn’t follow us"

Image by https://unsplash.com/@kiwihug

"For whoever is not against us is on our side. "

 I was reading about this Sanskrit word, Muditā. It’s defined as a selfless joy one derives from seeing and experiencing the success of others.

There was this incident in the Bible where a man was performing miracles in Jesus’ name.

The disciples who were with Jesus got a bit hubristic and protested,

John said to him, “Teacher, we saw someone who doesn’t follow us casting out demons in your name; and we forbade him, because he doesn’t follow us.”  But Jesus said, “Don’t forbid him, for there is no one who will do a mighty work in my name and be able quickly to speak evil of me. For whoever is not against us is on our side.  For whoever will give you a cup of water to drink in my name because you are Christ’s, most certainly I tell you, he will in no way lose his reward. Mark 9:38-41 mi (WEB).

The disciples were under the illusion that they had a monopoly on the Holy Spirit, like many religious groups today. but no, God and Christ are greater than any religious denomination and we can see the working of the Spirit on many individuals, irrespective of the denomination. Jesus, not the religious group is “the way the truth and the life.”

And therefore Jesus celebrated this man who was on his side.

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The Yaghan people of Tierra del Fuego — I love saying this country—have this long untranslatable, Mamihlapinatapai. Now this is what this word is all about. Two strangers meet and gain eye contact. Both are desperate to initiate a conversation, but The Owl of Minerva flies at dusk, so to speak, and they miss that opportunity. Tis a pity.

I spent my first five years of childhood in a sort of solitary confinement. These were the days before nurseries, and I spent most days playing in the back yard. To add to the problem, I attended four primary schools before high school. Naturally, I grew up with a painful shyness. As a result, I missed many opportunities in life.

When I was eighteen, I bought a book on shyness; it changed my life. Often shyness relates to not knowing what to say. I know people who have never read a book. Who spend their evening hours watching TV and wasting time on the cyber-hive playing video games and social networking. Then, when they meet people, they don’t have much to say. And to be honest, they can be extremely boring as they repeat the same old stuff.

Learn to read, there are many book-reading meetings online.

Learn to start conversations,

“I see you are reading a book, what’s it about?”

“That’s a nice camera, do you have a website where you post your images?”

“Is this your full-time job, or do you attend university?”

These are a few questions I ask, and I have had the most interesting conversations with passing strangers. Think of the various scenarios in which you can use conversation starters. Go on, bite the bullet.

"Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them! "

Ålmeshultasjön, Nässjö, Sverige kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@magnusostberg

Some years ago, I read The Emigrants by Wilhelm Moberg and when I took a trip to Sweden, I visited the Emigrant Museum in Växjö. Blighted by famine in the mid-1800’s, many Swedes migrated to Minnesota. Växjö is in Småland, a region that faced the heaviest migration toll. 

Entering the building one is hit with an emotional cloud as the rooms reek with sadness: images of emaciated pensive creatures in sepia-tone like Holocaust victims facing an uncertain future.

As a child, my friends and I would skip school, take the Govan Ferry over the Clyde, and spend the day at the Glasgow Art Galleries and Museum. The Last of the Clan by Thomas Faed was a painting that always caught my eye; An old clan chief on a horse, a few kith ‘n’ kin, some trunks, and earthenware pots to start life in North America. They were victims of The Highland Clearances; a policy  where sheep were favoured over humans for economic gain.

Such challenging times are repeated throughout the world from the persecution of the Lollards in Germany to the famines in Ireland. Events that are memorialised in songs like Runrig’s The Cutter, Shane McGowan’s Fairytale of New York and Björn Ulvaeus and Benny Andersson’s musical, Kristina from Duvemåla.

When we left the museum, we found a café in town and sat for a while people-watching, and I thought about what I observed in the museum. I wondered if emigration in the national consciousness makes Sweden more egalitarian and kinder to migrants. 

With the threat of deportation, many little migrants are falling victim to a strange syndrome called uppgivenhetssyndrom (Resignation syndrome). A catatonic state peculiar to migrant children who slip away from everyday reality due to the stress caused by the anxiety of an uncertain future.

At the time of writing, families with children cross the channel in a desperate attempt to run from poverty, exploitation, war and all forms of human cruelty.

I believe the following verses offer a future hope for children, 

"Now people were bringing the little children to Jesus for Him to place His hands on them, and the disciples rebuked those who brought them.

But when Jesus saw this, He was indignant and told them, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not hinder them! For the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who does not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”  And He took the children in His arms, placed His hands on them, and blessed them."

Mark 10:13-15 (BSB).

Image by https://unsplash.com/@jjying

Memories: Look at Me

My father closed his eyes when I was ten years old. Memories of him are like distant candles, too far to emit significant light.  I have one picture of us when I was seven. He has a Mediterranean look although his grandfather was from Donegal. Many agree that he looked like the actor, Antony Quinn, rugged with compassionate eyes. He is dressed in white shirt and black trousers. He appears dignified.

His business was successful which allowed us to live in a nice building in the shipyard town of Govan. His proudest possession was not the home, but the view from our third storey. When visitors came, he would point over to Hills Trust Primary School and tell them it was the school John Mclean (1879-1923) taught in. Although McLean was a half century out of the public eye, ‘Mother Glasgow’s succour is perpetual’ and everyone remembered him as the political activist who was dismissed by the Govan School Board for ‘Using language likely to cause a breach of the peace.’

 Mclean taught evening classes in Marxism and political economics. Dad shared his views, and he would put me on his shoulders and march round the house singing John McLean’s March; a song that celebrated Mclean’s release from prison.

Hey Mac did ya see him as he came doon the Gorgie
Away o'er the Lammerlaw and north o' the Tay
Yon man is coming now the whole toon is turnin' oot
We're all sure he'll win back tae Glasgow today.

 I never understood the foreign sounding words, but I enjoyed the bonding as he marched round the living room ignoring the precarious position of ornaments and photos as they defied gravity.

Books were his pleasure: Twain, Dickens, and The Untouchables by Eliot Ness. I think it was the sense of justice and injustice explored by these writers that appealed to him. Bedtime stories were memorable as I would be privy to abridged versions of Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, and Huckleberry Finn. They were related with incredible feats of memory and accent skills, enhanced by his rhythmic wheeze that was sustained from a childhood bronchial condition.

He always had time for the lonely. I recall an ex-employee regularly visiting us. Jimmy Hooper was his name. I guess he was young, but his long brown coat, working boots and seven o’clock shadow aged him. Jimmy stopped working for my father when he was admitted to a mental institution with schizophrenia. He had a severe stutter, and my father, with his hands clasped like a priest would, patiently listen to Jimmy, as he lost all self-respect when rhythmically moving his head to and fro like a Rabbi reading the Mishnah in an effort to blurt out a simple sentence. It was stressful for all in his company.

In ‘66 Dad was rushed into hospital with respiratory failure. My last image was a pale looking man gasping for life.

A few years ago, I was at the Edinburgh Festival; a BBC live recording. The folk group, Tonight at Noon performed John MacLean’s March. My eyes filled with pleasing tears. When I related this memory to Kanoko, a Japanese friend, she put both hands to her mouth and uttered ‘natsukashii’. In this context, she was using a word for a positive nostalgia; a fleeting, but sweet memory, initiated by music.

Nostalgia is a vogue word that’s obscured by abuse, misuse, and overuse in society. Like a last-minute kedgeree, the various nuances of memory are thrown into one pot and labelled ‘nostalgia’ in our English language.  But memory is never that simple, the complexity of images and films drawn up in our private vaults hidden away from human scrutiny, reveal a colourful array of thoughts and meanings that change with the transfer of time and space and present themselves in colourful assemblages of meaning, reminding us we are unique and individual.

natsukashii: evoking sweet memories from the past.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory

‘I am a child of this age, the child of disbelief and doubt, until now and even to the grave. What a terrible torment this thirst for faith has taught me, and now cost me, which is stronger in my soul, the more in me the arguments to the contrary.’ ----  Dostoevsky 

Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@vivom

A profile of Dostoevsky reveals a man who experienced considerable injustices in life.  Diagnosed with Grand Mal Epilepsy as a teenager, a last-minute reprieve from a firing squad, exiled to Siberia, death of his second wife whom he loved, death of his child from an epileptic convulsion and the distress of raising a troubled teenager.

Scholars recognise the Karamazov book mirrors Dostoevsky’s life. That being the case, it was the existential angst that troubled Dostoevsky’s later years. Mourning the repeated inhumanity of Russian society, he inevitably turned to thoughts of Divine justice. A question that is as relevant today as it was two centuries ago.

When he was exiled to Siberia, an old widow supplied him and his fellow prisoners some hospitality. She signalled out Dostoevsky and gifted him with a Bible. He later wrote:

‘I am a child of this age, the child of disbelief and doubt, until now and even to the grave. What a terrible torment this thirst for faith has taught me, and now cost me, which is stronger in my soul, the more in me the arguments to the contrary.’ Letters XXV111/1, P.176, 

The Bible, she gave him, was still in his possession at his death.

Fascinating that The Brothers Karamazov was, despite careful reading, I never found that attributed phrase where Alisha said to his atheist brother, ‘If there is no God, then all things are permissible.’ The problem lies in the translation it seems. Nonetheless, the aphorism stands as a valuable argument for objective morality and the personal God. Why does something exist rather than not exist? Why are humans who are apparent chemicals that have come about in the big cosmic game of chance directed by this virtue called justice? Are all the evil and good deeds carried out by humans all for nothing? Are the acts carried out by Pol Pot, Putin, Stalin, and others, permissible? Will there not be a great judgement? If we are alone in this dark universe, then anything and everything goes. But the lived experience reveals otherwise.

We are governed by an invisible force that bends towards justice. We feel it in our lives daily. I say bends because we are free moral agents on a level playing field where goodness and wickedness meet. There’s too much wickedness for God to exist some might say. But isn’t the reverse also true? There’s considerable goodness. Why would any virtue exist in a universe that just happened? I see medical staff going to war-torn countries and risking life to provide care for those who are not their kin. What about Ignacio Echeverría, the 39-year-old Spanish lawyer who confronted the terrorists in the 2017 London Bridge attacks and sacrificing his athletic future and life in the process? There’s the stranger who sacrifices a kidney for the person he will never meet. The millions of charitable givers who make life more endurable for orphans in Brazil, the Philippines, Bangladesh, and other parts of the world. These acts defy the theory of reciprocity allogrooming. They describe altruism in the true sense. Just pure, unconditional love. And history is filled with such.

Back in 1979, just like Dostoevsky, I had many vexing theological questions I wrestled with. One Sunday morning, a man who looked dressed for a funeral, knocked my door and asked, ‘If you had an audience with God, what would you ask him?’

Between a blink and a wink, I asked, ‘Why so much injustice in the world?’ I was expecting this tall thin man with heavy black glasses to ferret away in view of my difficult question. But no. He read me the following:

‘We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time … For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay…’

Why would God create a beautiful planet then subject it to futility? I have thought of this most of my adult life. Here’s what I think. Are we not free moral agents? Then it’s back to that level playing field scenario. How will humans conduct themselves in the absence of a creator? The presence of injustice is a factor caused by man. This gives the illusion that there’s no God. But are humans not like the child who behaves in the parents’ presence and disobeys in their absence? Is there a place for the child who always conducts himself unselfishly, metaphorically speaking? I say that God has us in this seemingly futile situation to test our worth. Not knowing if he is there for sure, reinforces our true selves. What we value most.

C.S. Lewis wrote, ‘If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world will satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we are made for another world.’

All the books I read as a child was about a craving. The hero’s striving for something. I could not put my finger on it at the time. But it was the human impulse for justice. Something books will never satisfy. I found that hope in the further words the man read to me that day as he stood at my door:

‘He (God) will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, the old order of things has passed away.’

 Revelation 21: 4.

I shed many a tear as a child. I shed some now. But to embrace a hope where a universe will prevail and justice being at its centrepiece, I wipe my eyes. The dark and stormy night looks brighter in the end.