Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday 2 June 2026 at 10:37
There is a generation of those who curse their fathers
and do not bless their mothers
(Proverbs 30:11).
Seeing Our Parents Clearly Through the Spirit of This Age
There is a generation of those who curse their fathers and do not bless their mothers’ (Proverbs 30:11). The Hebrew word translated as ‘curse’ is qālal, a word whose basic meaning is ‘to be light’ or ‘to make light of’ someone. This gives the verse a deeper and more searching meaning: it is not speaking only of words of open hatred spoken against a parent, but of the heart that treats them as insignificant, contemptible or unworthy of honour. To curse a parent in this sense is to belittle them, defame them, dismiss their place and withhold the respect that God commands. The verse therefore describes a generation marked not merely by angry speech, but by a deep spirit of dishonour towards both father and mother. We live in an age were drama, soaps and comedies carry out this contempt with embellishment.
Lately my thoughts have drifted back to my parents. I know I must have made them unhappy at times; children do, especially as they grow and push against the boundaries of home and carry out acts that brings troubled conscience later in life. This is more acute when brought face-to-face with God as in the above biblical admonition.
Yet they were not perfect either. I remember feeling misunderstood, disciplined harshly, or left without the affection I needed. “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” That atmosphere shaped them as much as it shaped me.
Many of our parents grew up without the language we now use so easily—emotional security, healthy communication, listening to a child’s feelings. Obedience often mattered more than understanding. Fathers were rarely questioned; mothers were exhausted. Their own childhoods were marked by fear, silence, or burdens carried too young. My mother, taken out of school at fourteen, raised her siblings and worked to keep the house afloat. My father faced bitter winters on a milk round. Realising this can soften judgement, though it should not erase truth.
Childhood leaves marks. A child constantly criticised may grow into a man who doubts love. A child rarely comforted may struggle to comfort others. But memory can harden into explanation, and explanation into accusation. Blame can feel like action, yet it keeps us circling the same ground. Responsibility seems harsher, but it is the only path that leads forward.
Growing older means seeing our parents more clearly—not as saints or villains, but as flawed people who handed on what they themselves received. Some did the best they knew; some could have done far better. A parent may have loved us and still wounded us. Acknowledging the wound does not reject the love; it simply tells the truth about both.
Every generation believes it will do better. In some ways it does: children are listened to more carefully, fathers are more emotionally present, and we understand more about the effects of ridicule, neglect and fear. Yet each age has its blind spots. Rejecting severity can lead to a fear of boundaries; protecting children from every discomfort can leave them unprepared for disappointment. Humility matters. Matters can become more acute when a child migrates to more liberal countries such as Western Europe where meism prevails and children are indulged more.
We must decide what goodness looks like—what to preserve, what to refuse, and what we must learn for ourselves. Our inheritance may be mixed, but it is ours to work with. Some people remain fluent in grievance, waiting for an apology that may never come. But freedom rarely arrives through someone else’s confession. It begins when we choose not to live as the perpetual consequence of what was done to us.
This does not mean wounds disappear. Some memories remain painful, some relationships complicated. Yet resentment need not be the only inheritance carried forward. We can become the steady presence we once needed: speaking gently where harshness was spoken to us, listening where we were dismissed, correcting without humiliation, loving without making affection something to earn. “The past is not a prison unless we choose to remain inside it.”
Seeing Our Parents Clearly
There is a generation of those who curse their fathers
and do not bless their mothers
(Proverbs 30:11).
Seeing Our Parents Clearly Through the Spirit of This Age
There is a generation of those who curse their fathers and do not bless their mothers’ (Proverbs 30:11). The Hebrew word translated as ‘curse’ is qālal, a word whose basic meaning is ‘to be light’ or ‘to make light of’ someone. This gives the verse a deeper and more searching meaning: it is not speaking only of words of open hatred spoken against a parent, but of the heart that treats them as insignificant, contemptible or unworthy of honour. To curse a parent in this sense is to belittle them, defame them, dismiss their place and withhold the respect that God commands. The verse therefore describes a generation marked not merely by angry speech, but by a deep spirit of dishonour towards both father and mother. We live in an age were drama, soaps and comedies carry out this contempt with embellishment.
Lately my thoughts have drifted back to my parents. I know I must have made them unhappy at times; children do, especially as they grow and push against the boundaries of home and carry out acts that brings troubled conscience later in life. This is more acute when brought face-to-face with God as in the above biblical admonition.
Yet they were not perfect either. I remember feeling misunderstood, disciplined harshly, or left without the affection I needed. “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” That atmosphere shaped them as much as it shaped me.
Many of our parents grew up without the language we now use so easily—emotional security, healthy communication, listening to a child’s feelings. Obedience often mattered more than understanding. Fathers were rarely questioned; mothers were exhausted. Their own childhoods were marked by fear, silence, or burdens carried too young. My mother, taken out of school at fourteen, raised her siblings and worked to keep the house afloat. My father faced bitter winters on a milk round. Realising this can soften judgement, though it should not erase truth.
Childhood leaves marks. A child constantly criticised may grow into a man who doubts love. A child rarely comforted may struggle to comfort others. But memory can harden into explanation, and explanation into accusation. Blame can feel like action, yet it keeps us circling the same ground. Responsibility seems harsher, but it is the only path that leads forward.
Growing older means seeing our parents more clearly—not as saints or villains, but as flawed people who handed on what they themselves received. Some did the best they knew; some could have done far better. A parent may have loved us and still wounded us. Acknowledging the wound does not reject the love; it simply tells the truth about both.
Every generation believes it will do better. In some ways it does: children are listened to more carefully, fathers are more emotionally present, and we understand more about the effects of ridicule, neglect and fear. Yet each age has its blind spots. Rejecting severity can lead to a fear of boundaries; protecting children from every discomfort can leave them unprepared for disappointment. Humility matters. Matters can become more acute when a child migrates to more liberal countries such as Western Europe where meism prevails and children are indulged more.
We must decide what goodness looks like—what to preserve, what to refuse, and what we must learn for ourselves. Our inheritance may be mixed, but it is ours to work with. Some people remain fluent in grievance, waiting for an apology that may never come. But freedom rarely arrives through someone else’s confession. It begins when we choose not to live as the perpetual consequence of what was done to us.
This does not mean wounds disappear. Some memories remain painful, some relationships complicated. Yet resentment need not be the only inheritance carried forward. We can become the steady presence we once needed: speaking gently where harshness was spoken to us, listening where we were dismissed, correcting without humiliation, loving without making affection something to earn. “The past is not a prison unless we choose to remain inside it.”
What we choose next matters more.
Scripture from the BSB Bible