Personal Blogs

"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).

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Friday afternoons during my school years carried a particular shade of gloom. The end of the week was marred by double periods of mathematics, an ordeal that felt as burdensome as spending a day nursing a case of spondylitis. To escape, my friends Sam, Tam, and I would hitch a ride on the short ferry from Govan across the River Clyde to Kelvin. Our sanctuary lay a brief walk away—the grand Kelvingrove Museum.

While my friends lost themselves among the haunting stares of the Dutch Masters—strange, lifelike eyes peering from gilded frames—I was drawn to a different kind of relic. Tucked away in the Natural History section was a tree stump, ancient yet undeniably alive despite its seven centuries. Running my fingers over its rings, I traced the history embedded in its wood, each groove whispering secrets like the static-laden tracks of a ’78 vinyl.

This Glasgow stump, however, is youthful by the standards of dendrology. Far from the bustling city, in the quiet of Europe’s forests, a Bosnian Pine has stood since A.D. 941, its roots digging deep during the age of Viking raids along Scotland's rugged coasts. This silent sentinel has withstood the ebb and flow of human history—the Reformation, the Renaissance, Hiroshima, the rise and fall of the Third Reich, even Brexit.

The march of time, relentless and unyielding, often brings me back to the resilience of nature compared to man’s relatively brief lifespan. A decade ago, the world mourned Lonesome George, the century-old Galapagos tortoise, reminding us of creatures like whales and turtles, whose lives span over 160 years, and jellyfish that dance close to immortality.

This reflection on time and survival inevitably conjures the poignant musings of Job, the ‘greatest of the Orientals’, who posed to his creator a rhetorical quandary only to resolve it himself: "If a man dies, will he live again? All the days of my hard service I will wait, till my renewal comes." (Job 14:14).

This age-old question of life beyond death is one we’ve all pondered. No one relishes the end of existence, and if our time must end, we yearn to know if there is something more beyond it.

Now, stepping into my sixth decade, mortality lingers close, yet my heart beats with the fervour of youth, desiring millennia like a giant sequoia. In this longing, I find a kinship with Job’s hope for renewal—a revival of spirit, if not of body, in the face of the eternal march of time.

"Stop judging by outward appearances, and start judging justly."

John 7:24

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It's a common human tendency to judge others based on past behaviours, holding onto those judgments as if they are indelible marks on a person's character. This perspective, while seemingly justified by past experiences, often fails to acknowledge the profound capacity for change that each person holds. Psychological concepts like confirmation bias, the fundamental attribution error, and conservatism bias illuminate why we might cling to outdated views of someone. These biases can cloud our judgment, leading us to overlook the evidence of personal growth and change.

Confirmation bias, for instance, prompts us to favour information that confirms our pre-existing beliefs. When it comes to personal relationships, if we've formed a negative opinion of someone based on past actions, we're likely to focus on behaviours that reinforce our view, ignoring any signs of change or improvement. Similarly, the fundamental attribution error can cause us to attribute someone's past mistakes strictly to their character, dismissing the circumstances that might have influenced those actions. Conservatism bias further entrenches these judgments, as we resist updating our beliefs even when new evidence suggests a person has changed.

This clinging to past perceptions not only stifles our ability to see others as they are now but also limiting our interactions to a narrow, often outdated narrative. It's here that the Biblical admonition to forgive becomes profoundly relevant. Forgiveness is not just an act of mercy towards others; it's a liberation for us. It allows us to shed the weight of past grievances and acknowledge the possibility of change, both in others and ourselves.

The concept of divine grace in Christianity deepens this discussion. Grace is fundamentally about unearned favour. It's the idea that we are given what we do not deserve. If we accept that grace is a gift freely given to us, it challenges us to extend the same grace to others. Recognizing that people are at various levels of maturity and that everyone is on a unique journey toward personal growth can help us hold our judgments more loosely.

When we apply this understanding, we see that everyone, including ourselves, is evolving. Someone who may have wronged us years ago might no longer be the same person today. Holding them in the prison of their past not only denies them the chance to demonstrate their growth but also prevents us from experiencing the fullness of our relationships. It locks us into a static view of a dynamic world.

In essence, embracing forgiveness and recognizing divine grace reflect our acknowledgment of human potential—the potential to grow, to change, and to move closer to the ideals we strive towards. In practical terms, this means giving others the chance to show us who they have become, rather than who they were. It means looking at our interactions as opportunities to witness the unfolding of each other's journeys, rather than as chances to confirm old biases.

Therefore, let us strive to approach each other with a spirit of grace and forgiveness, recognizing that each day gives us all a chance to be better than we were before. In doing so, we not only foster a more compassionate and understanding world, but we also mirror the very essence of what it means to live out our faith.

Tighinn a-steach

A documentary about Calmac, the ferry operator servicing the Scottish islands, showcased an uplifting report. Due to bad weather, the ferry was unable to sail from one of the islands which resulted in leaving many tourists stranded. In a heartening display of community spirit, local hotels and residents quickly stepped up to assist those affected.

In these rural areas, the sense of community is strong. Neighbours aren't just familiar faces; they're part of an interconnected network where everyone looks out for each other. This sense of responsibility towards one another is not just traditional; it's essential. In the Highlands, where your nearest neighbour might be miles away, knowing you can rely on each other is crucial.

This spontaneous hospitality isn't just about providing a roof for the night. It reflects a deeply held value of taking care of anyone within the community's reach. Such acts of kindness are more common here where the pace of life allows for genuine connections. Unlike in bigger cities where people can often feel isolated despite the crowds, in the Highlands, the community doesn't let anyone feel abandoned.

The experience of the stranded tourists illustrates a simple truth: despite modern advancements and the fast pace of city life, the need for real, human connection and support remains as vital as ever. The readiness of the Highland communities to help is not just about being good neighbours; it's about preserving a way of life that values human connections above all.

This story is a reminder that in the age of digital detachment, the principles of community and hospitality still hold significant value. The warmth and care extended by the residents of the Highlands are not only comforting to those directly affected but also serve as a model of community spirit worth aspiring to worldwide.

"My son, do not forget my teaching, but keep my commands in your heart, 

for they will prolong your life many years and bring you peace and prosperity."

Proverbs 3:1-2

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So, you know how almost every story we grow up with has a hero’s journey at its core? It’s this classic storyline where the hero, like Peter Rabbit, is warned against doing something—say, sneaking into Mr. McGregor's garden—but goes ahead and does it anyway. Peter’s little adventure lands him in a bunch of trouble, and he's as scared as a dog caught in the act. But at the end of it all, after escaping the scrape, he's back home, safe, sipping camomile tea. That’s pretty much how most stories go, right? They introduce a problem, throw in some drama, and typically end with a satisfying resolution.

Now, why is that? Why do stories often have happy endings or, at least, conclude with a sense of justice being served? Well, I think it boils down to us as humans having this deep-rooted sense of right and wrong. There’s this verse in Jeremiah 31:33 that says, “I will place my law on their hearts and scribe them on their minds.” This line suggests that our understanding of morality isn’t just something we pick up from society; it’s etched into our very being by a higher power.

This idea of inherent morality is crucial when we talk about guiding the young ones. When parents or stories forewarn kids, like Peter was warned, it’s not just about telling them what not to do. It’s about setting them up for the real world, helping them navigate through their own trials and triumphs. It’s about prepping them for life’s garden and the Mr. McGregors they’ll inevitably face.

And then there’s the anti-hero’s journey, which is a bit different. Unlike the clear-cut heroes, anti-heroes walk a murkier path. Their stories are also valuable because they show the messier side of decisions and consequences, teaching that life isn’t always black and white. These tales, too, are crucial because they provide a broader, more nuanced lesson in morality.

In wrapping up, whether it's through heroes or anti-heroes, stories are more than just entertainment. They’re a tool for moral education, helping shape young minds to understand and navigate the complex moral landscapes they’ll encounter in life. And as they grow, the forewarnings we weave into these tales can guide them toward making choices that lead to their own fulfilling stories—hopefully, with as many happy endings as possible.

"I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. 

It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past."

Virginia Woolf— Diary Entry

Time and Memory

Yesterday, I revisited the site of my childhood summers on the island of Bute, where my parents once had a cabin at Bogany Farm in the 1950s and '60s. Walking along those familiar paths, I spoke with the farmer and captured photos of the field that once hosted around 40-50 cabins. Each snapshot seemed to echo with the laughter of campfires, songs, and the cherished camaraderie of summer friends—fleeting escapes from the grey life in Glasgow.

This journey stirred a deep philosophical reflection within me. I pondered the whereabouts of those summer companions. Some have departed this life; others persist, our shared memories lingering like ghosts, even though our paths might never cross again. Life is a mosaic of such transient connections—from those we laughed with under the summer sun to strangers who offered fleeting smiles amidst the hustle of a city.

In the grand march of millennia, these moments are mere specks, yet profoundly significant. We are each a memory, held in the minds of those we've met, a reminder of our shared existence on this earth at the same point in time. This thought is both humbling and elevating, a testament to our brief yet impactful presence in the tapestry of human experience.

When I behold Your heavens,

the work of Your fingers,

the moon and the stars,

which You have set in place—

what is man that You are mindful of him,

Psalm 8: 3,4 (BSB).

Will not God bring about justice for His elect who cry out to Him day and night? Will He delay in helping them? I tell you; He will promptly carry out justice on their behalf.”

Luke 18:7,8 (BSB).

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I’ve spent many years of my life trying to make sense of how people treat one another. It’s not always been easy, especially when unkind words or actions from others have caused stress. But now, at this stage of my life, I find that I see things more clearly. It’s not that I’m immune to hurt or injustice, but I’ve come to realize that the key lies not in the actions of others, but in how we respond to them.

The core of the issue, I think, is our inherent desire for justice. We all seek it, whether we consciously acknowledge it or not. There’s a quiet principle embedded in us, guiding our lives toward what is right and just. We may not always see it at the moment, but in time, justice has a way of coming to light. It is a principle we can trust—one that has existed long before our individual experiences and continues to shape the course of human history.

The English jurist William Blackstone, many years ago, penned words that resonate deeply with me. He said,

 “God has woven into the constitution of every individual a principle which, in its natural state, leads him to seek his own happiness. This is the foundation of the law of nature, and it is through this law that every creature, in accordance with the Creator’s will, is directed to his own well-being.”

What strikes me about Blackstone’s words is the simplicity of the idea—how God has placed within each of us a fundamental drive to seek happiness through goodness, and how this drive aligns with divine law. This is not some abstract notion of justice, but a guiding force that shapes the very nature of human existence. By following this internal compass, we not only improve our own lives but contribute to the order and harmony of creation itself, as intended by the Creator.

It’s easy, in times of trial, to feel that the scales of justice are unbalanced—that the wicked seem to flourish while the just suffer. But I believe the reality is different. It’s only a matter of time. The principle of justice, like the principle of happiness, operates in its own way, often in ways we cannot fully understand in the moment. Some may receive their judgment in this life, in the natural course of things. Others will face it in the future judgment, when all things will be made right.

I find peace in this, not as an excuse to dismiss wrongdoings or to ignore the pain others may cause, but as a reminder that life has its own rhythm. Those who act wickedly will face the consequences, whether sooner or later. That’s the quiet justice of life—a principle deeply embedded in the universe, aligning us with a greater purpose.

So, when faced with unkindness or injustice, I try not to let it consume me. I don’t have to rush to fix the wrongs of others, because ultimately, their actions will be measured by a higher standard than any I could impose. And in the meantime, I can focus on the happiness I’m meant to seek—a happiness rooted in goodness, in striving for my own well-being in alignment with that divine principle. The pursuit of this happiness isn’t just a personal journey; it’s a contribution to the greater order of things, the good that God intended from the start.

In the end, we can trust that justice will be done. We may not see it immediately, but it is there, quietly shaping the world in its own time.

"If you see a tortoise on a fence post, you know it didn't get there by itself"

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When I was a child, I would look into the starry sky and conclude that this universe never created itself. Despite only being an infant, something metaphysical was taking place, something existential. This conclusion has become more forceful as I have aged and come to the current knowledge of the majestic earth, its life and the moral fabric that lies behind us humans.

Many people, scientists among them, have concluded like me, that the Earth and the universe were purposefully designed because of how complex and perfectly arranged they are. One of the main points in favour of this idea is the "fine-tuning" of the universe. This means that certain key things, like the force of gravity and the speed of light, have very specific values. If these values were even slightly different, life as we know it wouldn't exist. The chances of these values being perfect by random luck are super low, which makes some people believe that an intelligent being set them on purpose.

Another point comes from looking at how complicated living systems are. Take the human body, for example—it's made up of many parts like cells and organs that work together to keep us alive. The eye is a commonly used example because it's so complex and effective at turning light into the images we see. This complexity makes it hard for some to believe that it all happened by chance through evolution.

Then there's the "anthropic principle," which says that the universe seems specially set up for human life. Things like Earth's distance from the Sun, its atmosphere, and the presence of water are exactly right for us to live. It looks like the universe was made with humans in mind.

From a philosophical angle, the idea of design fits with the teleological argument, which suggests that the purposeful setup of the universe implies there's a designer. Many religious beliefs also support this by saying a divine being created the universe, which offers a neat explanation for its order and design.

Critics, however, point to natural explanations like evolution and the multiverse theory (the idea that there are many universes with different settings, and we just happen to live in one that supports life). They argue that evolution explains the complexity of life through natural selection and random changes, and that the multiverse theory could explain the perfect settings of our universe without needing a designer.

Despite these arguments, those who believe in design say that the natural explanations don't fully account for the extreme unlikelihood of the universe's fine-tuning happening by chance. They think the precise and complex nature of the universe more strongly points to intentional design rather than a random event.

These features of the Earth and the universe, like the exact settings needed for life, the complexity of living systems, and the conditions that specifically support human life, all suggest that there might be an intelligent design behind everything. While there are other views, the idea of a purposeful creator remains a compelling explanation for the wonders we see in the world around us.

“Worthy are You, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power,

for You created all things; by Your will they exist and were created.”

Revelation 4:11 (BSB).

 “The surest way to work up a crusade in favour of some good cause 

is to promise people they will have a chance of maltreating someone.”

Aldous Huxley - Brave New World 

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"Echoes in the Playground: Tracing Groupthink from Childhood to Global Stages"

It all begins in the playground. I remember when I was six years old, standing on the outskirts of laughter and whispers. A girl in my class handed out party invitations, flanked by her giggling friends. Eager for inclusion, I approached and asked for one. With a rhyme that stung sharper than any slap, she replied, “Bum, bum, bubble-gum, my mammy said you canny come.” The laughter that followed was a barrier, an early lesson in exclusion based on whims I couldn't understand.

This spirit of exclusion isn’t confined to the whimsical cruelty of children; it seeps into our communities with far greater consequences. Growing up in Govan, Glasgow, I witnessed the fierce rivalry between Celtic and Rangers fans. Football matches were more than games; they were battlegrounds for identity and belonging, often resulting in violence that tore the community apart.

Nationally and beyond, this division expands. The historical tension between national teams echoes these childhood games on a grander scale, with each side rallying to their banners, often irrationally so. Internationally, we see countries and groups cleave along lines drawn by similar us-versus-them mentalities, whether in politics, sports, or cultural pride.

Even sacred spaces like the family are not immune to this divisive groupthink. Disagreements over worldviews can escalate, transforming into a collective shunning that alienates family members who dare to think differently. This painful exclusion is mirrored in religious contexts, which should ideally promote kindness and acceptance. During a bitter cold evening in Glasgow, I observed Christians distributing food to the homeless, a stark contrast to the religious group I once belonged to, which prioritized doctrinal purity over compassion, often criticizing other faiths over trivial theological differences. Here, I was reminded of Mark 9:40, "Anyone who isn’t against us is for us," a call for inclusivity that was often ignored.

Political events further illustrated this pervasive issue. At every level, groupthink can lead to destructive decisions that favour cohesion over critical thinking. Defined as a psychological phenomenon, groupthink occurs when the desire for harmony within a group results in irrational or dysfunctional decision-making. Members may suppress dissent, shun external opinions, and avoid realistic critiques to maintain unity, sacrificing individual creativity and leading to suboptimal outcomes.

As we navigate these turbulent interactions, it’s crucial to pause and reflect. We must ask ourselves "Why?" and consider the extent to which we contribute to groupthink. Are we causing pain to others, dismissing those who are, after all, made in the image of God? Recognizing our part in these dynamics is the first step toward fostering a world where understanding and respect transcend the invisible yet formidable lines we often draw around and against each other.

Mortality is a reminder that time is both fleeting and precious, 

urging us to cherish the connections we choose to keep."

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The Value of Time: Navigating Relationships in the Face of Terminal Illness

When you are faced with the reality of a terminal illness, time suddenly becomes an entirely different, unfamiliar  currency—a fleeting, invaluable resource to be spent with care. I have found myself weighing each connection, each interaction, with a new kind of gravity. This recalibration of priorities has led me to limit my relationships, not out of selfishness but from a deep awareness of what little time I have left and how best to use it. Yet, this choice, though deeply personal, has not gone unnoticed or uncontested or the subject of hyper criticism. That disappoints me. 

What strikes me most is how the news of a terminal diagnosis can pull people out of the woodwork, individuals who had faded into the periphery of my life, now reappearing with sudden urgency. It’s easy to cast judgment on this phenomenon, to view it cynically as a reaction borne of guilt, fear, or social expectation. But beneath these surface motivations, I’ve found a tangle of emotions and intentions that reveal something profoundly human.

Guilt, undoubtedly, is a significant factor. I see it in the faces of those who reconnect after years of silence. It’s as though the knowledge of my illness has held a mirror to their lives, reflecting the gaps and absences in our relationship. Perhaps they remember a kindness I offered, a shared moment now tinged with the regret of neglect. These pangs of remorse compel them to reach out, to atone for the distance they allowed to grow. And while I understand this instinct, I’ve also come to realize that guilt-driven connections often serve more as balm for their conscience than solace for mine.

Fear, too, plays its role. There’s a certain urgency that illness imposes, an unspoken countdown that presses on both the diagnosed and their circle. For those who have drifted, my situation becomes a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the opportunities they’ve let slip by. They come, not wanting to carry the burden of unresolved words or unspoken feelings. They want closure, or perhaps a chance to leave on better terms than the ones we’d resigned ourselves to. It’s a fear I understand, but one that can feel oddly transactional when viewed from this side of the table.

Then there is the weight of societal expectations, the unspoken rules that dictate how we should behave when illness strikes. People feel a duty to express their concern, to offer support, even if their presence has been sporadic or absent in the past. These gestures, though often well-meaning, can carry an air of obligation. There’s a script to follow: the phone call, the flowers, the promise to visit soon. While I’ve appreciated these overtures, they sometimes feel less like genuine connection and more like a box being checked, a societal norm being fulfilled.

As I’ve reflected on these reappearances, I’ve come to see that their motivations—guilt, fear, obligation—are not inherently negative. They are simply human. We are flawed creatures, stumbling through relationships with a mix of selfishness and sincerity. What matters most, I’ve found, is not why someone reconnects but what they bring to the table when they do. Are they present, willing to engage honestly, or merely passing through to ease their own discomfort?

For my part, I’ve chosen to focus on the relationships that feel reciprocal, where time spent together is a shared gift rather than a one-sided act of absolution. This doesn’t mean I’ve shut the door on others; I’ve simply chosen to prioritize the connections that align with the values I hold closest: authenticity, mutual respect, and the ability to be fully present in the moment.

The Gift of Time

If there is one lesson I’d share from this experience, it is the profound importance of treasuring time and being intentional with it. For those who find themselves on the receiving end of these sudden reconnections, it is okay to set boundaries, to choose where and with whom to spend your precious hours. And for those reaching out, I would urge sincerity—not out of guilt, not out of obligation, but out of a genuine desire to be part of a moment that truly matters rather than causing added frustration by firing surface judgements. 

In the end, relationships, like life itself, are finite. They are imperfect, complicated, and sometimes messy. But within their imperfection lies their beauty: the chance to connect, to forgive, and to find meaning even in the shadow of mortality.

"

Rain whispers on leaves,

a slow dance of drips and dreams—

thirsty earth sighs, full.

Image provided by https://unsplash.com/@nasa

The Existential Quest in Astrophysics: Beyond the Search for Water

As part of the National Astronomy Week in United Kingdom, the subject of water on other planets came to the fore. Astrophysicists' pursuit of water on distant planets often signals a quest for life beyond Earth. At its core, this search raises profound existential questions: Why are we searching for life elsewhere? Is it merely for potential colonization? Man is reminiscent of two baboons squabbling over a banana while destroying the garden around them? Humanity has already left indelible marks of ruin on Earth; if we were to inhabit another planet, how long before we replicated the same fate there?

Alternatively, if our motive is to uncover the origins of life, why then do we overlook the narrative of creation presented in Genesis 1:1, "In the beginning..."? Detractors may argue that incorporating God into scientific discourse is unscientific. Yet, history tells us that many of the greatest scientific minds believed in a divine architect. The intricate laws of physics, the fine-tuning of cosmic constants, and the complexity of life often suggest to some the hand of a deliberate designer—a higher intelligence they may identify as God.

Science, while a potent tool for decoding the natural world, inherently possesses limitations. It does not venture into metaphysical realms or tackle the existence of the supernatural. For believers, science enhances the understanding of what they perceive as God's creation, supplementing rather than negating their faith.

Moreover, the inner richness of personal  experiences and the elusive nature of human consciousness are not wholly accounted for by scientific means, hinting at a spiritual or divine dimension to our existence. Such experiences frequently bolster the belief in a higher power, enriching the spiritual tapestry of an individual's life.

Importantly, science alone does not lay the foundations for morality and ethics. The presence of objective moral values, which many argue necessitates a moral lawgiver, is another point where discussions about God frequently emerge.

While the scientific community remains divided—with many contending that scientific findings are neutral or even oppose theistic views—the conversation between science and religion continues to thrive. For those who discern a connection, the integration of science and faith offers a more comprehensive understanding of reality than either could alone.

Lastly, we must ponder: if life exists outside our solar system and if it were superior both in power and morality, what would it think of humanity? Our history of adultery, deceit, aggression, environmental destruction, corporate greed, and profound inequalities paints a troubling portrait. What would these beings think of the race called mankind?

In our relentless stride toward cosmic exploration, these reflections remind us of the profound moral and philosophical implications of our scientific endeavours, urging us to look inward even as we reach for the stars.

Rùn-mòr (Scottish Gaelic) – A secret longing or 

 passion that quietly defines a person’s path in life.

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Echoes of Heritage: A Journey Through Music and Memory

In 1974, when I was in my late teens, I found myself at a crossroads. I shook off the friendships from my youth in search of something different. With no qualifications from school, I attended Cardonald College in Glasgow, aiming to gain the credentials needed to enter university.

During this transformative time, a chance encounter led to a significant pivot in my journey. One day, a man noticed I was watching a Scottish Gaelic programme on TV. The following week, he handed me a cassette of a Gaelic group called Na h-Òganaich (The Young Ones). I played it repeatedly, immersing myself until I could sing some of the Gaelic. This newfound interest soon led me to Runrig’s Play Gaelic album. Pardon the pun, but it felt like I was on a rocket to the moon. Those early experiences remind us that youth is a time of serendipity—someone hands you a cassette, and suddenly, something deep takes root in your soul, living with you eternally.

This nostalgic wave washed over me again last night when I attended a Runrig tribute concert performed by Beat the Drum at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. The audience, a gathering from the length and breadth of the UK, Ireland, and Europe, likely shared their own stories of how the Hebridean culture had influenced their lives.

Throughout the years, I've always felt a twinge of frustration about why destiny chose to drop me in Govan, Glasgow rather than the Hebrides. Now, in my later years, I've come to terms with being an outsider looking in. Yet, there's something profound and inexplicable that tugs at the edges of our consciousness, urging us to explore the realms of our heritage and the profound impact of music on our lives.

I mused on all this  as I watched Donnie Munroe, the former Runrig vocalist, traverse the rugged landscapes of Skye on a programme called Wilderness Walks. Skye was the place where he was raised. In an interview set against Skye's sweeping Cullins, Munroe spoke about the deep connection between music and the human soul. He recounted a poignant episode from Runrig's history—a concert in Ireland during the turbulent years of the Troubles.

The morning after the concert, a Catholic woman approached the band and blessing them. She shared a moving anecdote: her family had attended the concert, and upon returning home, the strife that often pervaded their lives was momentarily forgotten.

This story resonated deeply with my own journey with Runrig’s music from my early years. Despite being raised in Glasgow, far from the Hebridean islands where the language thrived. Over the years, my fascination only grew, leading me to visit Skye, Islay, and Jura. Each visit felt like a homecoming, a sensation that puzzled me until I delved deeper into my lineage.

Recently, curious about any ancestral connections, I submitted my DNA for analysis. The results were startling: 90% of my genetic makeup rooted in Celtic origins, including Brittany in France. Even more astonishing, my paternal line originated from Islay, adding another layer of personal history to lands that had always felt inexplicably like home.

These revelations have led me to ponder the mysterious ways in which our roots, and the cultural legacies of music and language, call to us. It may be easy to dismiss these connections as mere coincidences, yet I cannot shake the feeling that something deeper is at play. Perhaps it is the same force that inspired Munroe to speak so passionately about the soul-stirring power of music, or the same pull that guides a wandering soul back to ancestral lands.

As I reflect on these experiences, I am increasingly convinced that threads of destiny are woven into our lives, subtly guiding us back to our origins and resonating through the music that moves us. In these moments of connection, whether through melodies that touch our hearts or the lands that call to our spirits, we find a profound truth about our existence—there is indeed something deeper going on.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2CxhOoGE130

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The Donnie Monroe discussion

"Men have forgotten God; that's why all this has happened." Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

"Aim at Heaven and you will get Earth 'thrown in': aim at Earth and you will get neither." C.S. Lewis

 "When men choose not to believe in God, they do not thereafter believe in nothing, they then become capable of believing in anything." G.K. Chesterton

 "If God does not exist, then everything is permissible." Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov:

"He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you

but to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God? Micah 6:8 (BSB).

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What I Fear Most

Reflect on the quotes presented above. They serve as a solemn warning, crafted by sages through the ages, including the divine insights from Micah. A profound fear of mine is that many will be drawn into, and pledge their allegiance to, this post-Christian era. Entrapped by a materialistic and atheistic spirit of the times, this path does not promise a yellow brick road to a new age—and indeed, the cracks on that road are there for all to see.

I see the signs all around me—religious buildings closing, faith dismissed as outdated, and society drifting further into a post-Christian age. We live in a world that still runs on the aroma of Christian morality, yet fewer people recognize or acknowledge the source. What happens when those aromas run out? What will replace the faith that shaped our laws, our ethics, and our understanding of what it means to be human? I fear the answer, because nothing else works.

I was born into a world where Christianity was still the foundation of society. It wasn’t just a private belief system but the bedrock of Western civilization. The idea that every human being has worth—that justice, mercy, and compassion matter—comes not from secular reason, but from the belief that we are made in the image of God. Even those who reject Christianity still live within the moral framework it built. But what happens when that scaffolding is removed?

The moral and legal systems that govern much of the West have their roots in the Bible. Take human rights, for example. They are not self-evident in nature. Ancient empires didn’t operate on the assumption that all men were created equal. That idea comes from Genesis. Justice, as we know it today, was shaped by biblical principles—the Ten Commandments, Jesus’ call to love our neighbour, and the belief that truth is objective rather than relative.

Compassion, too, is a distinctly Christian contribution. The modern concept of charity was not a natural development of human civilization but the result of Jesus’ teachings. Hospitals, schools, and social services largely grew out of the church’s mission. Christianity introduced the revolutionary idea that the weak, the poor, and the outcast mattered. It gave us a moral compass beyond self-interest, a vision of a society where the first shall be last and the last shall be first.

Yet, I fear we are severing ourselves from our roots. Society wants Christian values—justice, dignity, kindness—without Christ. But values detached from their source wither over time.

If Christianity declines, something will take its place. That is inevitable. G.K. Chesterton put it well: “When men stop believing in God, they don’t believe in nothing; they believe in anything.” And history has shown that the substitutes for Christianity are rarely better.

Secular humanism tries to provide a moral framework without God, but its foundation is unstable. Morality becomes subjective, shifting with cultural trends rather than standing firm on eternal truth. The dignity of human life is no longer a given; it must be constantly justified. The moment it becomes inconvenient, it is discarded.

Scientific materialism, another replacement, reduces people to mere biological accidents. There is no soul, no inherent purpose—just neurons firing in a meaningless cosmos. Under this worldview, justice and morality become illusions, useful only for social cohesion but not rooted in any ultimate truth.

Then there are the political ideologies that rise to replace faith. The 20th century provided grim examples of this. When societies abandon belief in a higher power, they often turn to human messiahs—whether political leaders or radical movements. Communism, fascism, and extreme nationalism all sought to create utopias without God, and all led to disaster. The state became the new deity, demanding ultimate loyalty and punishing heretics who refused to conform.

Some turn instead to paganism or vague spirituality, but these, too, fail to provide the structure and hope that Christianity offers. They give temporary comfort but no lasting foundation.

Already, we see the cracks forming. Anxiety and depression are rising, particularly among the young. Without faith, many drift into nihilism, struggling to find meaning in a world that tells them they are just highly evolved animals with no destiny beyond death. There is a growing polarization in society because we have lost a shared moral language. We see the erosion of self-sacrifice, replaced by self-interest. Even forgiveness is fading—cancel culture is what happens when a society forgets grace.

These are not just random cultural shifts; they are the symptoms of a deeper spiritual emptiness. Christianity, for all its flaws in practice, gave us a reason to strive for goodness beyond ourselves. It gave us meaning beyond our immediate desires. Without it, we are left with a world where morality is fluid, where justice is whatever, the majority decides.

But even in my fear, I have hope. History is not a straight line; it moves in cycles. Christianity has faced decline before—during the Enlightenment, for example—yet it revived. God is not bound by cultural trends. Faith often flourishes in adversity. Some of the strongest Christian movements have emerged when belief became countercultural.

Perhaps the future of Christianity is not in grand institutions but in small, faithful communities. Perhaps the faith will be purified by the fire of opposition, leaving behind the nominal belief and rediscovering the radical love and truth of the gospel.

I fear that many will abandon Christianity. I fear what will take its place. But I also believe that truth endures. The world may wander, but Christ remains. And those who seek Him will find Him, even in the darkest times.

This fear may linger in me, but I refuse to despair. Because at the heart of Christianity is a promise—one that no cultural shift can erase: “I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Amen.” Matthew 28:20 (WEB).

"It is an irony of human existence that when you find you're the piper at  the gates of mortality, the world looks somewhat hopeful, illuminating the presence of kindness."

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

Cancer's Unseen Grace

One thing I’ve observed about the human family is that a fatal cancer diagnosis alters the architecture of perception regarding how they treat you. Those who are often indifferent or preoccupied reveal a hidden tenderness.

Tolerance kicks in from those around. Some side effects of hormone therapy, which is targeted at building a wall around cancer, include grumpiness, failing memory, intrusive thoughts, and an insatiable appetite for laziness, triggered by the body fighting with itself, and a "can’t be bothered" attitude.

But the machinery of life—doctor's surgeries, hospitals, consultants, even passing acquaintances—shifts into a mode of quiet grace, as if some unseen conductor has signalled a change in the score. It is an irony of human existence that when you find you're the piper at the gates of mortality, the world looks somewhat hopeful, illuminating the presence of kindness.

Strangers extend themselves in unexpected ways; friends, once casual, become unwavering; professionals, who might otherwise be hurried, now pause, listen, and offer more than duty requires. The same world, unchanged in its mechanics, pulses with a gentler rhythm.

Of course, not everyone is transformed. There are always those who move through life as if unseeing, concerned only with their own trajectory. But is that new? Their indifference and selfishness are constants against which kindness becomes more visible. It is not that the world changes—it is that awareness sharpens, revealing the threads of compassion that were always there, woven into the fabric of existence.

A terminal illness, then, does not merely bring fear or sorrow; it grants a rare vantage point. From this place, one sees the world not as it should be, but as it is—both flawed and profoundly beautiful, both self-absorbed and astonishingly kind.

"What a person desires is unfailing love" Proverbs 19:22 (Niv).