Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday 14 August 2025 at 10:54
“Behold, I make all things new.”
Revelation 1:5
BSB
Image generated with Copilot
A Writer’s Notebook
If you’re new here, let me explain. These articles are glimpses of a larger work in progress — a book called What It Means to Be Human. It explores the many threads that make up our humanity. I try to highlight the positive signs of human nature, though it’s hard to ignore the darker drift I see in society.
I am a Christian living in a secular country that once carried the fragrance of a strong Christian heritage. The spires still stand, the bells still chime in some towns, and stained glass still catches the sunlight — but for many, the meaning has faded. Augustine of Hippo’s words still echo: The City of God and the city of man are not the same. We hold dual citizenship, he said, and must weigh — often painfully — whether loyalty to one conflict with loyalty to the other.
That tension feels sharper now than ever. In much of Europe, the Christian voice has become one crying out in the wilderness. Not despised, perhaps, but largely ignored — as though the faith that shaped our art, laws, universities, and moral compass is now just a relic in a glass case.
I often ask myself: What just happened? What turned the tide in barely a generation? In the past ten, maybe twenty years, society has shifted at astonishing speed. What was once considered virtue is now seen as quaint, even irrelevant. We have grown more selfish, unloving, and restless for pleasure. Hedonism parades as freedom, and materialism pretends to be progress. The creed of the age is me first. Sexual prowess is worn like a badge of honour, greed is rewarded, and crime, in some places, is treated as just another hustle. The unspoken motto: I’m all right, Jack — the rest of you fend for yourselves.
It’s easy to point fingers, but the deeper question is: Why has this happened? We have turned from God — not only in defiance but in forgetfulness. The memory of who we were has been eroded, not by one great earthquake, but by the slow, steady current of neglect. A generation that once knew the psalms by heart can no longer name a single one. And where there is no anchor, the ship will drift.
And yet…
The wilderness is not silent. Some have begun to see that the emperor has no clothes — that the bright promises of self-indulgence fade quickly, leaving only emptiness. They have tasted the fruit of this age and found it bitter. Quietly, without fanfare, some are turning back, seeking the God they once ignored. In coffee shops, living rooms, and small gatherings, hearts are stirring. There is a hunger for meaning, a thirst for something pure.
Augustine’s vision reminds me that I am first a citizen of the City of God. My allegiance is not to the shifting winds of public opinion but to the unchanging King who rules with justice and mercy. The wilderness, in Scripture, is never the end of the story. It is the place where God prepares His people, speaks to them, and sends them out.
Perhaps our calling, then, is not to lament as if we are helpless, but to live as those who still bear light. We cannot force the tide to turn, but we can be lighthouses — steady in the storm — beacons for those who will one day look up from the wreckage and ask, Where is hope to be found?
Even now, in this so-called post-Christian world, God is not absent. The City of God is still being built — brick by living brick — by those who refuse to bow to the idols of the age. And for every soul who turns from darkness to light, the wilderness grows just a little greener.
A Writer’s Notebook
“Behold, I make all things new.”
Revelation 1:5
BSB
Image generated with Copilot
A Writer’s Notebook
If you’re new here, let me explain. These articles are glimpses of a larger work in progress — a book called What It Means to Be Human. It explores the many threads that make up our humanity. I try to highlight the positive signs of human nature, though it’s hard to ignore the darker drift I see in society.
I am a Christian living in a secular country that once carried the fragrance of a strong Christian heritage. The spires still stand, the bells still chime in some towns, and stained glass still catches the sunlight — but for many, the meaning has faded. Augustine of Hippo’s words still echo: The City of God and the city of man are not the same. We hold dual citizenship, he said, and must weigh — often painfully — whether loyalty to one conflict with loyalty to the other.
That tension feels sharper now than ever. In much of Europe, the Christian voice has become one crying out in the wilderness. Not despised, perhaps, but largely ignored — as though the faith that shaped our art, laws, universities, and moral compass is now just a relic in a glass case.
I often ask myself: What just happened? What turned the tide in barely a generation? In the past ten, maybe twenty years, society has shifted at astonishing speed. What was once considered virtue is now seen as quaint, even irrelevant. We have grown more selfish, unloving, and restless for pleasure. Hedonism parades as freedom, and materialism pretends to be progress. The creed of the age is me first. Sexual prowess is worn like a badge of honour, greed is rewarded, and crime, in some places, is treated as just another hustle. The unspoken motto: I’m all right, Jack — the rest of you fend for yourselves.
It’s easy to point fingers, but the deeper question is: Why has this happened? We have turned from God — not only in defiance but in forgetfulness. The memory of who we were has been eroded, not by one great earthquake, but by the slow, steady current of neglect. A generation that once knew the psalms by heart can no longer name a single one. And where there is no anchor, the ship will drift.
And yet…
The wilderness is not silent. Some have begun to see that the emperor has no clothes — that the bright promises of self-indulgence fade quickly, leaving only emptiness. They have tasted the fruit of this age and found it bitter. Quietly, without fanfare, some are turning back, seeking the God they once ignored. In coffee shops, living rooms, and small gatherings, hearts are stirring. There is a hunger for meaning, a thirst for something pure.
Augustine’s vision reminds me that I am first a citizen of the City of God. My allegiance is not to the shifting winds of public opinion but to the unchanging King who rules with justice and mercy. The wilderness, in Scripture, is never the end of the story. It is the place where God prepares His people, speaks to them, and sends them out.
Perhaps our calling, then, is not to lament as if we are helpless, but to live as those who still bear light. We cannot force the tide to turn, but we can be lighthouses — steady in the storm — beacons for those who will one day look up from the wreckage and ask, Where is hope to be found?
Even now, in this so-called post-Christian world, God is not absent. The City of God is still being built — brick by living brick — by those who refuse to bow to the idols of the age. And for every soul who turns from darkness to light, the wilderness grows just a little greener.