Personal Blogs

We all know someone who, in Iago’s mould who uses lies and deception to exploit, betray, and divide. They are in the family, workplace, congregation and anywhere were there are people.

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The Tragedy of Trust: When Good Faith Meets Deception

When I studied Shakespeare’s Othello, it broke my heart in a way few works of fiction do. I was drawn to Othello, feeling his intensity, his strength, and his tragic flaws, only to see him fall, bewilderingly, into a web of lies. By the end, I couldn’t shake the question: why was he so easily taken in by Iago? How could someone so powerful be so susceptible?

Iago, Othello’s ensign, is the root of the tragedy, a character defined by deceit, manipulation, and a remarkable skill for sowing discord. He systematically ruins Othello’s life, convincing him that his loyal wife, Desdemona, has been unfaithful. Though Shakespeare would not have used the term, Iago’s behaviour closely matches what modern psychology would describe as sociopathic. What strikes me most is how eerily accurate Shakespeare’s portrayal is, even centuries before psychology defined these traits with clinical clarity. Iago’s lack of empathy, his relentless pursuit of personal gain at the expense of others, and his pleasure in watching others suffer are traits we now associate with a sociopathic personality.

We can recognize Iago’s traits today: manipulative, dishonest, charming when it suits his needs, yet fundamentally selfish and empty of empathy. He doesn’t care about the people he destroys; he simply sees them as pieces on a board. Like many modern psychological profiles, he thrives in creating chaos, deriving satisfaction not from personal victories alone but from watching others unravel. There’s an unsettling familiarity here because figures like Iago exist beyond fiction—they can be found in workplaces, families, communities, and yes, even in places as sacred as churches.

Shakespeare understood, intuitively, what we now study in psychology: the profile of a person who causes harm without remorse and operates without a moral compass. Iago’s deceit is so layered, his words so plausible, that even the discerning Othello is blindsided by his betrayal. Othello, a capable, brave man, falls precisely because of his willingness to trust—a quality that ought to be a strength but becomes a liability when weaponized by a heart devoid of compassion. This insight into human weakness is what makes *Othello* so timeless and its tragedy so universal.

 The heartbreak I felt at the end of Othello—the frustration, the sorrow for Othello’s tragic misplacement of trust—is the heartbreak we sometimes feel in life when encountering similarly ruthless characters. While Shakespeare couldn’t define sociopathy, he painted a vivid picture of the devastation such a character can wreak, drawing on an intimate understanding of human nature.

In this sense, perhaps Othello isn’t fiction after all. It’s a reflection of our own lives, our relationships, and our vulnerabilities. We all know someone who, in Iago’s mould, uses charm and deception to exploit, betray, and divide. Shakespeare knew them too. And he reminds us, painfully, of what it costs to let them in.

"But I am alive, bearing witness to the beauty of this evening, 

to my own fragile existence within it. 

And perhaps that’s all I can do—to walk gently away from  this good night,

with reverence for the delicate weaving of days that form the fabric of a life well-lived."

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My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle. Job 7:6, BSB.

As I sit on the beach, watching the sun sink low over the horizon at Milarrochy Bay on the banks of Loch Lomond. I can’t help but feel the quiet ache that accompanies such beauty. It’s the kind of ache that speaks in whispers, a bittersweet voice that reminds me how fleeting everything is; the day, the night, life.

 The warm colours streaking the sky—burnt orange, deep lavender, soft pink—hold a kind of dignity in their transience, as if they’re saying goodbye while also offering one last gift. There’s something melancholic in the way the light fades, giving way to night, each day marking the relentless passage of time. I cant help but be reminded that it is the Creator's way of asking us to reflect on what we are doing with life.

I often think about Job’s lament, “My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle.” His words resonate more deeply as I grow older, as though he’s describing not only his own life but the quiet dread we all feel as time slips away faster than we can grasp. I imagine the weaver’s shuttle moving back and forth, each swift motion a day in my life, threading together a fabric of moments that I can only half remember. I blink, and a week is gone, blink again, and a year. The days string together so quickly that I’m left wondering if I truly inhabit each one or simply brush past it, distracted by all the demands and routines that have accumulated over the years.

This feeling—this existential ache—wasn’t always with me. In my younger days, time felt expansive, as if I could luxuriate in it, waste it even, with no fear of loss. In former days, time  stretched before me like a Highland landscape. But now, as each day is drawn through the loom, it feels as though my moments have grown shorter, tighter, more urgent. My calendar fills up; my children are adults; my parents are long gone; my friends and I find ourselves gathering less frequently, all scattered by the demands of life and the quiet surrender to routines that we didn’t choose but somehow accepted along the way.

Evenings like this, as the sun descends, confront me with the reality of my own finitude. I know, intellectually, that time’s passing is inevitable, a fact that no one can escape. Yet there’s a difference between knowing this and feeling it. When I was younger, the sun setting was just a part of the natural rhythm. Now, it’s a reminder that I’m further along the road.

What lies behind me is fixed, unchangeable, and what lies ahead feels like a dwindling reserve of days that I’m desperate not to squander.

It’s odd, though, how this awareness brings a strange, unexpected sweetness to my days. There’s a richness in seeing things as they are, in acknowledging that I won’t be here forever, —at least not for now. And perhaps, in these fleeting, golden moments, there’s an invitation—a call to slow down, to savour the colours before they’re swallowed by darkness, to live not with the naïve presumption that tomorrow is guaranteed, but with the humble gratitude that today is a gift.

In the end, maybe it’s enough to simply be present, to stand in awe of the sunset, feeling that melancholy pang as the light fades, as the shuttle slips through one more time. But I am alive, bearing witness to the beauty of this evening, to my own fragile existence within it. And perhaps that’s all I can do—to walk gently away from  this good night, not with despair, but with reverence for the delicate weaving of days that form the fabric of a life well-lived.

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"If conscience leads you to shadowed paths, take heart; prophets trod there first."

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Many people who leave a religious group due to frustration with leadership find themselves on a complex, often circular journey. The need for connection is so strong that it pushes them toward another group with the same underlying dynamics they were trying to escape. Though they initially experience relief and freedom in leaving, it’s not long before they’re drawn to a new organization, one that seems, on the surface, to promise everything the old one failed to deliver. But over time, they start noticing familiar patterns—rigid rules, expectations of conformity, or flawed leaders who still claim special authority over others and, the constant solicitation of money.

Leaving a group that once shaped your life is no small thing. It leaves a profound void, and that emptiness can be overwhelming. Yet, even as they start with hope in this new community, many realize they’re re-living an old story, hoping this time it will end differently. They desperately want to be part of a group where they can be themselves, but that desire often leads them to overlook red flags. They might find themselves rationalizing behaviours or doctrines they initially disagreed with, telling themselves that it’s different this time. Slowly, they realize they’ve ended up back where they started.

Perhaps most ironically, those who join these new groups often become obsessed with their old ones. For some, leaving doesn’t mean freedom; it only transforms the struggle. Instead of focusing on new beliefs or practices, they spend countless hours denouncing the group they left. It becomes almost a Sisyphean task—forever rolling the stone uphill as they bash their former faith over the head, recounting every flaw, every wrong, in endless detail. Rather than moving on, they become locked in a cycle of resentment and critique, investing more energy in tearing down their past than building up their present. It’s as if they can’t resist the urge to keep proving—to themselves or others—that leaving was justified, that they were right to reject what they once held dear.

The Bible speaks to this tendency. Psalm 146:3 reminds us, “Do not put your trust in princes, in human beings, who cannot save.” This wisdom holds true whether we’re following leaders within a religious group or in our personal lives. When we place too much trust in human leadership—whether that’s the leaders we left or the new ones we’re following—disappointment is almost guaranteed. We risk becoming bitter, lost in a perpetual cycle of anger and frustration. Yet, Jesus’ teachings offer a different path. Throughout his ministry, he repeatedly warned against putting spiritual dependence on flawed human authority. Instead, he emphasized a direct relationship with God, describing himself as the way to God.

In leaving one group for another, many people compromise their beliefs simply to belong. They ignore the subtle ways their conscience twinges, just to keep that sense of connection. But Christ calls his followers to a deeper kind of independence, saying, “And do not call anyone on earth ‘father,’ for you have one Father, and he is in heaven” (Matthew 23:9). True belonging isn’t about abandoning one’s convictions for the comfort of conformity; it’s about finding strength in a personal relationship with God that doesn’t depend on any human mediator.

Being around others who share similar beliefs can provide encouragement and support. But joining a group with an unquestioning mindset, expecting them to fulfil all our needs, is a recipe for repeated disappointment. When people place their trust in God above any human leadership, they are free to engage in community with balance, knowing that their faith isn’t contingent on any one group or leader.

Perhaps the path forward is this: to approach every community with an open yet discerning heart. Instead of depending on human leaders to guide every step, we can rely on our personal relationship with God without the need for a spiritual middleman.

Breaking the cycle of dependency on flawed human leadership means taking to heart the truth that true spiritual strength doesn’t come from groups or leaders. It comes from a relationship with God that allows us to connect with others without compromising our convictions. It’s this kind of connection that truly liberates, lifting us out of the endless task of justifying our past and enabling us to look forward to a faith that is free, genuine, and deeply rooted. Instead of endlessly battling the shadows of our old beliefs, we can step forward in peace, confident that God walks with us—our ultimate guide, our ever-present friend.

Part 2

Finding God in the Quiet: Embracing Solitude

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” Psalm 23:4

Leaving a religious organization can feel like stepping into a void, a place where the familiar structures of support and community fall away, leaving us alone with our thoughts and questions. It’s a journey that often brings a mixture of relief and pain, freedom and fear. You may have hoped for warmth, compassion, and a reflection of God’s love, only to find the harsh reality of human imperfection. And now, as you look around, you might feel as though you’re on the outside looking in, wondering where to turn next. Yet in this solitude, even in the shadows, you may find something quietly transformative waiting.

The Bible gives us story after story of individuals who found themselves in the darkness, far from the comfort of home or the embrace of community. They, too, walked a lonely path, but it was there—in the quiet, empty spaces—that they came closest to God. Think of Joseph, imprisoned unjustly, or Moses, who spent decades in the wilderness after fleeing Egypt. These are men who knew isolation deeply, who wondered if anyone else understood. And yet, it was in these shadowed seasons that they encountered God in profound ways, ways that perhaps would not have been possible in the busy rhythms of community life.

C.S. Lewis, no stranger to questions of faith and doubt, once he compared it to God’s megaphone.” He believed that pain and solitude, however unwanted, often work as tools that deepen our spiritual lives. He once wrote, “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” Lewis knew that these experiences have a way of stripping us down to our essentials, making us aware of how deeply we need God—God alone, free from the trappings of institutions and expectations.

For those who have left religious communities, this solitude can feel jarring, even desolate. You may feel the loss of shared rituals, the absence of familiar faces, or the awkwardness of unlearning old beliefs to discover faith anew. Yet, like the biblical figures who found God outside the city gates, beyond the temple walls, there’s a beautiful, quiet strength in this moment of solitude. Here, where you are free from others’ interpretations, judgments, or expectations, you have the opportunity to experience God in a raw, personal way, unfiltered by anyone else’s lens.

Elijah, the prophet, also experienced something similar. After standing up against the prophets of Baal, he fled into the wilderness, alone and exhausted, ready to give up. But it was there, in the silence of the wilderness, that God didn’t come in a great wind, or earthquake, or fire—He came in a whisper. Elijah’s story shows us that God doesn’t abandon us in our wilderness. Sometimes, He’s closer than we ever realized, present in ways that only the quiet and the solitude can reveal.

There’s comfort in knowing that when we find ourselves in these shadowed places, we are in good company. For the apostles, it was often in prison cells or lonely stretches of desert that they wrote some of their most stirring words, finding strength in the assurance that even in their trials, nothing could separate them from God’s love. The Apostle Paul, isolated in prison, wrote that he had “learned the secret of being content in any and every situation.” His words are a reminder that this peace, this closeness with God, isn’t tied to our external circumstances or surroundings but to something much deeper within.

Leaving an organization doesn’t mean leaving behind the possibility of finding God; if anything, it opens up new ways of seeing and experiencing Him. In the absence of structured routines, we have the freedom to discover what a relationship with God truly looks like—perhaps in long, solitary walks in nature, or in quiet mornings with scripture, or even in simple, heartfelt prayers whispered in the quiet of night.

And yes, the dark places can be disorienting but remember Lewis’s words about darkness: “I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.” When we’ve been in the dark, the smallest light becomes all the more precious, and we begin to see God not as a distant deity, but as the One who walks beside us, even when no one else does.

So if you find yourself alone, walking away from a community that once shaped your life, take heart. You are not abandoned, and you are not truly alone. This may be your wilderness, but as the stories of scripture reveal, the wilderness is often where God does His deepest work within us.  And as you gravitate towards this solitude, you may find, as those before you have, that this is the very place where God’s voice becomes clearest, His love most evident.

It’s a hard journey, yes, but you may find that in losing the crowd, you’ve gained something even greater—a direct and personal encounter with God. And one day, when you emerge from this season, you may see that it was here, in the quiet, that you grew roots of faith stronger and deeper than you ever imagined.

“I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense,

 reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.”  —   Galileo Galilei

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In a world brimming with religious organizations, each claiming to know the exclusive way to God despite their ever changing beliefs and failed prophecies. It’s easy to forget a simple truth that Jesus shared: "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me" (John 14:6). This statement challenges the idea that any institution can monopolize access to God. Jesus’ invitation is personal and direct, calling each of us to reflect on what he actually taught, rather than blindly following an organization’s rules.

If you’re part of a religious community, it can be helpful to step back from routines and doctrines to spend time alone with the Gospels. Ask yourself, “What does God and Jesus require of me?” Instead of assuming truth is dictated by a group, this question brings us closer to Jesus’ teachings in their purest form. It encourages us to assess if our lives align more with Christ’s message than with any institutional practices.

Religious organizations can offer community and support, but sometimes they place themselves in a role that only Jesus was meant to fill. Statements like "There is no salvation outside the church" can shift our trust from Christ to an institution. Jesus never taught that salvation came through human organizations. His call was to follow him, to love God with all our heart, and to love our neighbours as ourselves. When organizations claim exclusive access to salvation, they risk creating barriers to the relationship Jesus offers freely.

Some groups also teach that we shouldn’t question “divinely guided” leaders. Yet, Jesus himself questioned religious authorities when they neglected justice, mercy, and faithfulness (Matthew 23:23). He encourages us to seek truth, to carefully examine teachings. By spending time with his words directly, we gain the clarity to discern what’s right, even if that means questioning those in authority.

In the Gospels, Jesus connects with people uniquely, responding with empathy and guiding each person toward truth. This shows that he meets us wherever we are, whether we’re confident or uncertain. We don’t need permission from an organization to seek him directly or to ask what he really requires of us.

Taking time away from religious groups can help us reassess our spiritual priorities. Jesus’ teachings emphasize compassion, humility, and forgiveness over strict adherence to rules. Warnings about “bad associations” can sometimes make us overly judgmental, cutting off opportunities to love our neighbours as Jesus commanded. Instead, Jesus welcomed people from all walks of life, showing what it means to love unconditionally. Reading about his actions, we can refocus on what God truly asks of us: compassion, not exclusion.

Jesus’ message offers freedom from unnecessary burdens. When organizations suggest that blessings depend on complete dedication, it can imply that God’s love is conditional. Yet Jesus teaches that God’s love is a gift, not something we earn. He calls us to love God sincerely and to follow him with open hearts, offering peace and joy instead of a rigid list of achievements.

Some teachings can make us overly dependent on an organization, discouraging us from trusting our own conscience. But Jesus calls us to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength (Mark 12:30). By immersing ourselves in his words, we gain a clearer understanding of his will, one that goes beyond any organization’s guidance.

Taking a break from religious routines to focus on Jesus’ teachings can be freeing. It allows us to examine our spiritual lives honestly and to let go of fears instilled by human organizations. Reading the Gospels with fresh eyes, we hear Jesus’ words anew.

When we ask, “What does God and Jesus require of me?” we may be surprised by the simple, compassionate answer. Jesus calls us to follow him, to seek truth, and to love others—not out of obligation, but as a response to his grace. Organizations can support us, but they should never replace the personal relationship that Christ invites us to have. In seeking Jesus alone, we find the way, the truth, and the life that brings us to God.

“If anyone thinks he is religious without controlling his tongue, 

his religion is useless, and he deceives himself.”

James 1: 26, CSB.

Why do people gossip? For some, its simple curiosity, an attempt to piece together another's story. Others gossip to elevate themselves, reasoning that if they can highlight someone else's shortcomings, they’ll somehow appear superior. Some people gossip simply to belong, thinking it will help them fit in with a crowd. For others, it’s even darker—a tool to hurt, to control, or to destroy. Regardless of the reason, each motivation reveals something about the person and, sadly, often drives away true friendships.

James 1:26 in the Bible offers a striking perspective on this: “If anyone thinks he is religious without controlling his tongue, his religion is useless, and he deceives himself.” This isn’t just a suggestion for those in faith communities but a guiding principle for anyone who wishes to live with integrity. The unrestrained tongue, always ready to spark the next bit of scandal or critique, damages not only those it targets but the one who wields it. The cost? Genuine relationships. True friendships thrive on trust and understanding, but gossip is like termites gnawing away at the foundation of that trust.

If you find yourself in a setting where gossip is the common currency—whether it’s family gatherings, social groups, or even online—consider how it's shaping the atmosphere around you. Sometimes, walking away from that toxicity is the only way to keep your integrity and peace intact. Yet, distancing yourself can be difficult, especially when the gossiping voices are those of friends, family, or respected colleagues. Still, remember that staying true to yourself and avoiding the urge to participate is a quiet but powerful act of defiance.

It’s worth taking a moment to reflect on your own conversations. Ask yourself, “Have I, knowingly or unknowingly, hurt someone by gossiping?” If so, consider making amends. Remember that the words we let loose can either build up or tear down—and rebuilding is never as easy as walking away.

In a world that’s all too ready to listen to gossip, let’s choose instead to listen to each other’s stories with empathy and kindness, keeping “speak no evil” as a guiding light. By doing so, we make space for friendships that are genuine, built not on shared whispers but on shared respect. After all, true friends don’t need to trade secrets—they’re far too busy building each other up.

(Scripture quotations marked CSB have been taken from the Christian Standard Bible®, Copyright © 2017 by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Christian Standard Bible® and CSB® are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers.) 

"But there is a God in heaven who reveals secrets..."

Danial 2:28, (BSB).

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Yesterday morning, a fellow writer asked me a question that echoed through my mind long after he had gone: “How can a book that was written 2,000 years ago have any relevance today?” It’s a question, I imagine, that many people are asking, especially in a world where change is constant, where technology propels us forward at breakneck speed, and where the wisdom of ages past can seem, at first glance, like an echo too distant to hear clearly. But this question made me pause, not because I doubt the answer, but because it’s something I’ve reflected on countless times myself. In fact, so much of my own journey—my writing, my very outlook—has been shaped by the quiet, steadfast wisdom of the Bible.

It strikes me that the Bible, if one takes the time to sit with it, isn’t merely a book of rules or history or moral directives; it’s a living, breathing conversation about life’s deepest mysteries. Written by people who, like us, struggled, doubted, hoped, and loved, it speaks to the universal questions of the human heart: Why are we here? What does it mean to be truly human? What does God, in all His vastness, expect of us? These are questions that transcend time, and it’s in the Bible that I find not only answers but a path to walk and a companion to walk with.

If I could condense the essence of the Bible’s wisdom into a single heartbeat, it would be love—an all-encompassing, all-reaching love. “You must love God with your whole heart, mind, and strength,” we are told. To me, this is the call to a life of devotion, not out of a sense of duty, but out of a desire to know the One who created us, the source of our being. This love isn’t confined to feelings or words; it’s about embracing God with all that we are—our thoughts, our dreams, our will. And this call to love God is bound together with a second command: to love our neighbour as ourselves. It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Yet, in this directive lies a challenge that reaches into every aspect of our lives, asking us to become selfless, compassionate, and wholly engaged with others.

When I look around, I see how these paradigms play out in daily life, far removed from the world of the ancient Near East but still as relevant as the air we breathe. Loving God with everything we have can mean different things depending on where we are in life—it might mean forgiveness, or it might mean trusting when we can’t see the outcome. It might mean courage in the face of loss, or humility when pride beckons. But no matter what, it requires that we let go of our self-centeredness and see the world as His, as a place infused with His presence and purpose.

Loving our neighbour as ourselves—that’s the part that meets us on the street corners of our lives, in the eyes of strangers, in the stories of people we might otherwise pass by. This is the challenge that asks us to give up bitterness, to see past divisions, and to act with kindness even when it feels inconvenient. And as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to realize that the Bible’s words on loving others aren’t a plea or a suggestion—they’re a defining trait of what it means to be human, to be truly alive. Because when we love others, when we allow ourselves to see each person as valuable, as someone who, like us, is wrestling with life’s uncertainties, we reflect a little of God’s own love back into the world. It’s here that we come closest to the essence of life, to becoming the kind of person whom God considers worthy of the life He promises. Some would say these principles are ideals, too lofty for a world as complicated as ours, where love often seems a fragile thing, battered by selfishness and fear. But that’s why I believe the Bible remains as relevant as ever—it’s not calling us to be perfect in a world that isn’t; it’s calling us to be faithful. It recognizes our imperfections, meets us in our weaknesses, and offers us a way to live that transcends our flaws. To me, that’s the Bible’s enduring gift: it offers a vision of humanity that goes beyond what we are, pointing to what we can become.

In my own life, I’ve found that these ancient words are not only guidance but also solace and strength. They don’t tell me what the future holds in detail, but they assure me that it’s in God’s hands, that our lives are part of a story much larger than our own. The Bible is a book for seekers, for the broken-hearted, for those who long for answers but are willing to live with mystery. It’s a book that, despite its age, has the remarkable ability to speak to the most contemporary of questions and offer wisdom as fresh as the morning.

So, as I reflect on that question, “How can a book that was written 2,000 years ago have any relevance today?” I find myself grateful. I am grateful for the wisdom of those who came before me, who wrestled with God, who wrestled with themselves, and whose words still echo in my own life. I am grateful for the reminders to love God fully and to love others generously. In a world that feels increasingly fractured and uncertain, this love isn’t just relevant; it’s revolutionary. It reminds me that, no matter the passage of time, the most essential truths remain timeless.

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 "A few years back, while working on my Creative Writing EMA, I took a leap and penned a personal essay that flowed from a place I didn’t even know was there. The result was a rush of joy and accomplishment—capped off by an incredibly high mark that made it all the more rewarding."

                                                                             ---- The author 

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Plagiarism is copying someone else’s work and presenting it as your work. It is a complex issue rooted in more than just dishonesty—it is an obstacle that ultimately undermines a writer’s potential for genuine creativity and self-discovery. In a world increasingly driven by content creation, the stakes are high. With the rise of paid writing opportunities and platforms that reward originality, the temptation to plagiarize lingers. However, understanding the consequences of plagiarism, not only in ethical terms but also in the context of personal growth, reveals why it is so essential to resist.

Plagiarism is fundamentally an act of theft. By copying another person’s ideas, words, or structures, the plagiarizer robs not only the original creator of their due credit but also themselves of the chance to develop their own voice. Writing, at its best, is the magical flow that is found in the excitement of discovery and personal accomplishment. Every essay, article, or post should be an exercise in articulating one's unique perspective. This process requires wrestling with thoughts, shaping them into coherent ideas, and refining one’s voice through trial and error. Those who shortcut this process by borrowing from others may never encounter their true voice because they’re not pushing their creative boundaries.

In the digital age, plagiarism takes on new dimensions. On social media, for example, reposting or rephrasing someone’s words without attribution has become surprisingly common. With algorithms that reward virality and engagement, it’s easy to see how tempting it is to take credit for a resonant thought or popular post. Yet this too is plagiarism, and it reflects a hollow form of self-expression. Just as in traditional writing, social media plagiarism prevents the user from contributing anything truly original to the conversation, reducing their presence to a collection of borrowed thoughts.

Writing platforms that pay for articles and incentivize high engagement amplify this problem. The pressure to produce can create a temptation to rely on others’ ideas or even to regurgitate content, rather than formulating something new. But while the temptation to plagiarize may be understandable, it’s a path that comes with heavy costs. Many platforms and search engines, including Google, have become increasingly effective at identifying and penalizing plagiarized content. Google’s search algorithm, for instance, actively lowers the rankings of plagiarized articles, pushing them further down the search results or even delisting them altogether. This means that far from gaining visibility, a plagiarized article is more likely to be buried, reaching fewer readers and diminishing its value to both the writer and the platform.

Moreover, platforms that pay for original writing often have strict anti-plagiarism policies, and detection tools make it relatively easy to identify copied content. A writer who attempts to plagiarize risks more than a poor Google ranking—they may find themselves banned from reputable platforms or discredited in the eyes of potential employers. Given the reputation damage and opportunity loss, the short-term gain of copying is far outweighed by the long-term repercussions.

Perhaps the most insidious consequence of plagiarism is that it stifles growth. Writing is a skill, one that develops only with practice, self-reflection, and courage to take creative risks. By relying on others’ work, a plagiarist avoids these challenges and, in doing so, halts their own journey toward authenticity. Without grappling with the labour and joy of creating something uniquely theirs, a writer forfeits the chance to find their true voice that is overtly their own.

In a world that celebrates originality, plagiarism offers a hollow shortcut. It may provide a fleeting sense of accomplishment or recognition, but it ultimately deprives the plagiarist of their opportunity to grow, express, and connect genuinely. By avoiding plagiarism and embracing the slow, often difficult process of authentic creation, writers can find not only success but also the fulfilment that comes from realizing and sharing their unique voice with the world.

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Good Morning, Germany: A Reflection on Waldeinsamkeit

Good morning, Germany. As I begin my day here in Scotland, I’m thinking of you and one of your beautiful words—Waldeinsamkeit. There’s something hauntingly comforting in that word, like a whisper in the forest or the scent of pines after the rain. Waldeinsamkeit—that quiet solitude we feel in the depths of the woods, a kind of peaceful loneliness that is really not lonely at all. It is a feeling I often find here in the west of Scotland, where I can step out of everyday noise and into the vast, green embrace of nature.

Living on Scotland’s west coast means I’m close to a world of islands, places that lie just beyond the familiar shoreline, calling with their rugged paths, hidden beaches, and the allure of wild seclusion. In these islands and along the mainland’s isolated footpaths, I often spend my days walking, exploring, and sometimes camping under a starlit sky. There’s something profoundly therapeutic about being in the wilderness, away from everything but the essentials of life. The trees, the wind, the sound of waves meeting rocks—these are my companions, voices of the natural world that don’t speak but communicate a deep and abiding calm.

Waldeinsamkeit is not an emotion we easily pin down in English. Perhaps it’s because it comes with a sense of reverence, of standing within a creation so grand that you feel, paradoxically, both small and part of something immense. I feel a bit closer to God in these moments—an appreciation not only of the world around me but of my place within it. It’s a reminder that, despite life’s rush and routine, I am part of this living planet, this gift given to us to nurture, cherish, and truly experience.

And yet, for all the solace of solitude, there’s an undeniable joy in the unexpected encounters along the way. Sometimes, when I am far from the familiar, a stranger’s face or a friendly greeting makes the day’s journey complete. These brief meetings feel like gifts, as though the wilderness itself orchestrates a moment of connection just when it’s most needed. Perhaps it’s the shared experience of being out there, beyond the bounds of ordinary life, that makes people more open, even a little kinder.

I have many fond memories of the strangers I’ve met on these paths—people who, in sharing a moment, became a part of my story, however briefly. In fact, come and say hello in the box below, I would love to here from you.

There’s a beauty in this mix of solitude and shared experience, like a dance between silence and laughter. I believe it’s a balance that gives life depth, allowing us to step away from the world to find peace within, only to return and share that peace with others.

Germany, thank you for Waldeinsamkeit. Though I may live far from your forests, your word captures something very close to my heart. Here in Scotland, with its windswept islands and secluded paths, I experience my own version of that peaceful solitude and know that I am truly, wonderfully, and divinely alive.

The highest heavens belong to the LORD, but the earth He has given to mankind.

Psalm 115:16 BSB

…holding on to faith and a good conscience, 

which some have rejected and thereby shipwrecked their faith.” — I Timothy 1:19 (BSB).

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I was over in Rome a few years back. One evening I was having a meal with friends. One of them visited local prisons to Bring The Christian message to inmates. One of the prisoners who had been a member of the mafia confessed that he had taken many lives and asked "Will God ever forgive me?" This was troubling his conscience deeply; a sign that an outside influence was at work in his inner conscience.

This resonated with me. C.S. Lewis had much to say  on divine influence,  especially his idea of a “controlling power” that speaks within rather than through what we see. Lewis proposes that a higher power could not reveal itself as another physical fact in our universe but would instead press on us from within, gently urging a response we cannot ignore.

Lewis' analogy of a house speaks to this. Just as a house’s builder does not reside within the walls, the divine, if real, would reach us differently, nudging us through a sense of direction we feel yet cannot see. What Lewis suggests is that this inner prompting should “arouse suspicions.” Why do we feel a pull toward qualities like love, truth, or kindness? Despite the noise of daily life, this inner voice seems to keep calling, a steady influence that does not easily fit within a material worldview.

Moments exist when I have ignored this voice. I sometimes let pride and my own ideas drive me, leaving me with a feeling of unease. Ignoring this guidance unsettles, like losing footing. The voice within, though quiet, presses back, drawing attention to a deeper alignment needed. It reminds me to pause, to listen, and to reconnect with what feels right and true.

For me, Lewis’ framing of this inner influence is an invitation. If we all have this inner voice that points us to something greater, it might be our most important clue that there is more than just ourselves in play. This prompting asks us to trust, to let it shape how we live and act, rather than being merely a vague feeling.

In following this quiet nudge, I feel we find something of lasting worth—not our own goals but a peace that comes from something, or Someone, who knows us fully.

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing, there is a field. I will meet you there.”

Rumi

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The Arab word Taarradhin (تراض) caught my attention recently. It means compromise, but with a depth that speaks of mutual satisfaction, where both sides walk away with dignity intact. It’s not about winning or losing but understanding—something rare and precious in today’s world. This word reminds me of Rumi’s line.

Rumi knew that life is not always about right and wrong. Sometimes, it’s about stepping into that middle ground where we let go of our need to be right and simply meet one another as humans. In a world that often pits us against each other, Taarradhin invites us to let go of pride and embrace humility, to seek healing instead of victory.

How often do we cling to our positions, imagining that peace can only be found through triumph? Yet the greatest resolutions come when both sides walk away unbroken, when we choose understanding over stubbornness. Compromise isn’t weakness—it’s courage. It’s the quiet strength of seeking connection over division.

As I look around, I see a world that feels increasingly divided. Social media fuels conflict, news cycles highlight only the most extreme positions, and people argue with a fervour that often seems more about proving their point than listening to anyone else. We are driven by a need to be right, a need to win. But in the noise of it all, we’ve forgotten that there’s a space in between—a space where Taarradhin lives.

What would happen if, instead of fighting to be heard, we fought to understand? If we could meet in that field beyond our judgments, where the goal isn’t to convince or to conquer, but simply to connect. This isn’t an easy ask. It takes humility to step away from our firmly held beliefs, to put aside our pride, and to meet someone with a heart open to understanding. But isn’t that where true progress happens?

When we let go of the need to win, we make space for something deeper—something that leaves us all a little more whole. And isn’t that the point? Life is less about being right, and more about learning to walk alongside one another, even when we disagree.

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By nature, I withdraw from proud, self-righteous people—traits we all encounter, both in others and ourselves.

I once knew someone who often began a sentence with, “Well, you wouldn’t know this, but…”

Whether it's the Pharisees of Jesus’ day or modern attitudes, the same patterns emerge: judgment, superiority, and control. While I get frustrated when I see these traits in others, I’ve had to acknowledge them in myself.

The Pharisees were religious leaders known for strictly following the Law of Moses. They believed they were society’s moral benchmarks. But Jesus saw through their façade. In Matthew 23, He called them “whitewashed tombs”—clean on the outside, but dead inside. Fixated on rules, they missed the heart of the law: mercy, justice, and love. Their self-righteousness wasn’t about honouring God; it was about preserving their status.

Reflecting on that, I see how easily I can slip into similar patterns. The Pharisees clung to their beliefs out of fear—fear of losing control, of being wrong, of being exposed. When I get caught in self-righteousness, it’s often rooted in that same fear. I may hold onto my ideas or principles, not from conviction, but to avoid vulnerability and admitting I don’t have all the answers.

Self-righteousness often starts with good intentions. We want to live rightly and honour our beliefs. But when it turns into comparing ourselves to others, it shifts. Instead of focusing on personal growth, we look down on those who don’t meet our standards. The Pharisees mastered this, using their strict rule-following to judge others.

So, how do we handle self-righteousness—in others and ourselves? The instinct is to meet judgment with judgment, but that only deepens the problem. When I feel self-righteous, I try to step back and ask, “What am I afraid of? Why do I need to feel ‘better’ than someone else?” Understanding the fear or insecurity behind self-righteousness helps me approach others with more empathy and less anger.

Jesus set the example in how He dealt with the Pharisees. Yes, He called out their hypocrisy, but His aim was to wake them up, not shame them. When I encounter self-righteousness, I try to follow that approach—challenging where necessary, but with the goal of healing, not tearing down. Of course, I must be careful not to become self-righteous in the process! That’s where Jesus’ words about removing the plank from my own eye before addressing someone else’s speck (Matthew 7) come into play. I must check my heart first.

Setting boundaries is also crucial. Sometimes, despite all the grace and patience I can offer, people won’t change. In those moments, it’s okay to step back. Jesus did this with the Pharisees too, withdrawing when they refused to listen. Protecting my peace and spiritual well-being means knowing when to engage and when to let go.

The cure for self-righteousness, in myself or others, is humility. Paul wrote to the Philippians, using the Greek word tapeinophrosune—literally "to make the mind low." It’s a beautiful metaphor for humility, the antidote to self-righteousness: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or empty pride, but in humility consider others more important than yourselves” (Philippians 2:3).

Recognizing that none of us has it all figured out is okay. Rooting out self-righteousness takes time. True righteousness isn’t something I can earn or enforce; it’s a gift of grace. When I embrace that, I can live with more freedom and less judgment—both towards others and myself.

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"Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help."

Psalm 146:3 KHuman beings have an innate desire to follow others, especially those perceived as wiser, more capable, or even divinely inspired. But Psalm 146:3 offers a crucial reminder: "Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help." History repeatedly shows us the pitfalls of placing blind faith in leaders—whether political, religious, or intellectual—who are, like all of us, fallible.

The Trap of Groupthink

One of the most dangerous aspects of human behaviour is our susceptibility to groupthink. The irrationality keeps when desire for concord within a group overrides critical thinking. Groupthink leads to irrational decisions because individuals suppress dissent, overlooking flaws in favour of consensus. It is not by accident that many of  disastrous decisions in history—from failed economic policies to misguided wars—were made by leaders surrounded by groups too focused on agreement rather than wisdom.

The Myth of Competence

There is a dangerous tendency to assume that if an idea is supported by professionals—whether academics, politicians, or religious leaders—it must be valid. Yet some of history’s gravest mistakes have been made by those considered experts in their field. Religious groups, for instance, have repeatedly predicted specific dates for apocalyptic events, claiming Divine guidance. These prophecies have failed to materialize, but followers often persist, trusting in the authority of their leaders being guided by God despite the evidence to the contrary and the principle found at Deuteronomy 18:21-22.

Similarly, political leaders, often surrounded by well-credentialed advisors, have made disastrous decisions based on flawed economic theories. The recent trade wars waged by global superpowers were the result of leadership blinded by a belief in their own righteousness, backed by an echo chamber of experts. The consequences were dire: economic collapse, widespread suffering, and a loss of trust in institutions.

Misguided Science and the Illusion of Certainty

Even in the realm of scientific inquiry, there is no consensus on foundational theories. Theories of evolution, for example, vary significantly: gradualism, punctuated equilibrium, and others propose differing paths of species development. These contradictions highlight the limits of human understanding. All these theories cannot be true, yet many are accepted as plausible, reflecting the uncertainty and imperfections in our collective knowledge.

 Lessons from History: Humility Over Certainty

The greatest catastrophes arise when we stop questioning and assume that collective agreement equates to truth. Whether in politics, science, or religion, history teaches us that leaders who project absolute certainty are often the most dangerous. Jesus rebuked the Pharisees not because they lacked knowledge, but because they believed themselves to be above reproach. Their certainty blinded them to their own failings, much like today’s leaders who surround themselves with sycophants, promoting only ideas that conform to their preconceptions.

True wisdom begins with humility, recognizing the limits of our own knowledge. Psalm 146:3 advises us not to place ultimate trust in human leaders, no matter how intelligent or authoritative they seem. Humans are fallible, prone to error, and susceptible to the corrupting influences of pride and groupthink. History confirms this, revealing that even the most respected leaders and experts can lead us astray.

Conclusion

The path to wisdom lies not in blind faith or in following leaders who claim certainty but in seeking truth with humility. Whether in science, politics, or religion, we must always question, reflect, and recognize that humans—even the most intelligent among us—are prone to error. Only God’s guidance, as Psalm 146:3 reminds us, is infallible. So, when someone says, "Follow me, I know the path” , stop and think.

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As an ardent viewer of All Creatures Great and Small, the beloved series that continues to captivate audiences worldwide, I find myself reflecting on one particular trait shared by the characters: a deep and abiding love for animals. Whether it's sheep, goats, alpacas, or even the humble tortoise, both farmers and vets show a profound tenderness and care toward their creatures. This reverence for animals is woven into every episode, just as it is in the pages of James Herriot’s books.

Yet, as much as this love for animals warms our hearts, it also raises a deeper question: do we as humans sometimes cherish animals more than our fellow man? This thought struck me during a recent reading of the Bible, particularly as I lingered on Matthew 18, a chapter that emphasizes the importance of how we treat one another. It made me realize that, in many religious organizations, these principles are often overlooked or misapplied.

Matthew 18 centres on the value of the individual, underscoring that each person must be protected, especially in moments of weakness. Verse 6 is clear—there is a severe responsibility to shield our fellow man from harm. But it’s in verses 15 to 17 that we see the roadmap for how to handle interpersonal conflict in a way that protects dignity rather than shames.

When someone wrongs us, Jesus' counsel is not to publicly humiliate them or cancel them, as we often see in today’s world of harsh judgment. Instead, verse 15 encourages us to approach the individual privately, in the spirit of compassion. The goal is always to protect, to show mercy, and to extend the opportunity for redemption. The process isn’t about escalating punishment; it’s about restoration.

Even when the sin is more severe, the same principle applies. The aim is to guide the individual back to their senses, not through coercion, but by appealing to them with mercy. If private efforts fail, Jesus instructs us to bring along one or two others, not to enforce judgment, but to persuade gently. This is a far cry from the cold, procedural punishments many may have experienced—there’s no 'Stool of Repentance,' no back-row ostracism. Forgiveness is to be immediate and full, even if repentance takes time.

In fact, even if someone relapses into their faults, Jesus' words to Peter are profound: “Not seven times, but seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22). This radical call to forgive reflects the boundless mercy we are to extend to one another. The process isn't about humiliation or public disgrace. It's about love, mercy, and godly compassion.

Of course, there are times when a person remains unrepentant despite every effort. Only then, after every avenue of mercy has been explored, are we told to involve the broader congregation. Even in these cases, the goal is not to cast someone out but to lovingly allow the community to intervene and seek restoration.

As I reflect on these verses, I can't help but wonder how different our communities might be if we followed this path more closely. If we cherished our fellow man with the same tenderness we show our animals, offering mercy, patience, and forgiveness without limit—wouldn't that be a more Christlike way to live?