"What happens when we sever the roots that nourished us?
A tree doesn’t collapse the day it’s cut. It stands for a while.
But then, it fades. The fruit stops.
And one day, it falls."
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
They’re coming.
From the east and the south, through shattered cities and weary camps,
countless souls are heading West. They’re not chasing only comfort or
calm, they’re drawn by something subtler. Something you can’t quite see, like
the warmth of firelight flickering just out of sight. It’s more than
opportunity they seek; it’s a way of living. A way that, whether we say it or
not, was shaped long ago. By the Bible.
Even now, when faith is
often muted or moulded to fit modern tastes, the pulse of Christian scripture
still runs deep beneath our cultural skin. Believer or not, we walk through a
world that echoes something holy.
Look close at our laws
and you’ll spot ancient wisdom beneath the legal lingo. “Do not murder.” “Do
not steal.” “Don’t bear false witness.” These aren’t just lines carved in
stone—they’re the spine of our justice. We punish violence. We guard the truth.
We honour promises. What’s now codified in law once lived in hymns and
homilies.
The West, for all its
flaws, tried to build on that base. Hospitals began as acts of mercy.
Universities like Harvard and Oxford sprang from a hunger to know God and serve
society. Our instinct to care for the sick, the outsider, the poor. This didn’t
grow from pragmatism, but from the radical idea that every human bear God’s
image.
Yet today, many hold that
the cosmos is cold and empty. No truth. No purpose. No obligation. But in such
a world, why care? Why forgive? Why show mercy when no one's keeping score?
Altruism isn’t so easily
pinned to evolution. It doesn’t fit the model of survival first. Still, it
endures like a stubborn echo from another place. We give. We grieve injustice.
We send aid across oceans. Some even lay down their lives. What moves us, in a
world that claims meaning is myth?
Something deeper stirs
us. A memory hidden in our culture’s bones. Like a tune from childhood, the
Bible hums through our values, even when we think we’ve tuned it out.
Just listen: we still
speak of grace, of purpose, of redemption. We say someone “redeemed
themselves,” barely pausing to feel the weight of that word. Even our calendar
counts from Christ. Our holidays, our language, our rhythms, they bear His
imprint.
And we shouldn’t be
embarrassed by this legacy. We should cherish it. Because the justice we
pursue, the compassion we show, the dignity we assume—these aren’t givens. They
were learned. Fought for. Fed by generations of spiritual discipline.
Of course, the West’s
story has ugly shadows. Hypocrisy. Empire. Bloodshed. These truths must be faced.
But they don’t erase the good. Christian faith sparked abolition. It birthed
aid missions. It fuels hope still. In hearts that rebuild, forgive, and begin again.
And so, the question:
What happens when we sever the roots that nourished us? A tree doesn’t collapse
the day it’s cut. It stands for a while. But then, it fades. The fruit stops.
And one day, it falls.
We are in that waiting
time. The season of slow withering. We want the fruit but not the root.
Justice, without the Judge. Peace, without the Prince. The kingdom, but not the
King.
But freedom alone isn’t
enough. We crave meaning. We want to believe that love is more than brain
chemistry, that pain has purpose, that goodness is no fluke. That longing, it’s
not weakness. It’s a sign. A hint that we were made for more.
Maybe that’s why they
come. Not just to flee, but to arrive. To taste the fruit of a tree they didn’t plant
but somehow know.
A tree whose leaves still
heal.
A tree with roots in forever.
"He has shown you, O man, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you but to act justly,
The Divine Pulse in a Secular World
"What happens when we sever the roots that nourished us?
A tree doesn’t collapse the day it’s cut. It stands for a while.
But then, it fades. The fruit stops.
And one day, it falls."
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
They’re coming.
From the east and the south, through shattered cities and weary camps, countless souls are heading West. They’re not chasing only comfort or calm, they’re drawn by something subtler. Something you can’t quite see, like the warmth of firelight flickering just out of sight. It’s more than opportunity they seek; it’s a way of living. A way that, whether we say it or not, was shaped long ago. By the Bible.
Even now, when faith is often muted or moulded to fit modern tastes, the pulse of Christian scripture still runs deep beneath our cultural skin. Believer or not, we walk through a world that echoes something holy.
Look close at our laws and you’ll spot ancient wisdom beneath the legal lingo. “Do not murder.” “Do not steal.” “Don’t bear false witness.” These aren’t just lines carved in stone—they’re the spine of our justice. We punish violence. We guard the truth. We honour promises. What’s now codified in law once lived in hymns and homilies.
The West, for all its flaws, tried to build on that base. Hospitals began as acts of mercy. Universities like Harvard and Oxford sprang from a hunger to know God and serve society. Our instinct to care for the sick, the outsider, the poor. This didn’t grow from pragmatism, but from the radical idea that every human bear God’s image.
Yet today, many hold that the cosmos is cold and empty. No truth. No purpose. No obligation. But in such a world, why care? Why forgive? Why show mercy when no one's keeping score?
Altruism isn’t so easily pinned to evolution. It doesn’t fit the model of survival first. Still, it endures like a stubborn echo from another place. We give. We grieve injustice. We send aid across oceans. Some even lay down their lives. What moves us, in a world that claims meaning is myth?
Something deeper stirs us. A memory hidden in our culture’s bones. Like a tune from childhood, the Bible hums through our values, even when we think we’ve tuned it out.
Just listen: we still speak of grace, of purpose, of redemption. We say someone “redeemed themselves,” barely pausing to feel the weight of that word. Even our calendar counts from Christ. Our holidays, our language, our rhythms, they bear His imprint.
And we shouldn’t be embarrassed by this legacy. We should cherish it. Because the justice we pursue, the compassion we show, the dignity we assume—these aren’t givens. They were learned. Fought for. Fed by generations of spiritual discipline.
Of course, the West’s story has ugly shadows. Hypocrisy. Empire. Bloodshed. These truths must be faced. But they don’t erase the good. Christian faith sparked abolition. It birthed aid missions. It fuels hope still. In hearts that rebuild, forgive, and begin again.
And so, the question: What happens when we sever the roots that nourished us? A tree doesn’t collapse the day it’s cut. It stands for a while. But then, it fades. The fruit stops. And one day, it falls.
We are in that waiting time. The season of slow withering. We want the fruit but not the root. Justice, without the Judge. Peace, without the Prince. The kingdom, but not the King.
But freedom alone isn’t enough. We crave meaning. We want to believe that love is more than brain chemistry, that pain has purpose, that goodness is no fluke. That longing, it’s not weakness. It’s a sign. A hint that we were made for more.
Maybe that’s why they come. Not just to flee, but to arrive. To taste the fruit of a tree they didn’t plant but somehow know.
A tree whose leaves still heal.
A tree with roots in forever.
"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