Tag: god

  • The Restlessness That Points to Something More.

    The Restlessness That Points to Something More.

    Why there’s an audio version
    Some readers prefer to read at their own pace. Others (especially when eyesight, energy or health make reading harder) may find listening easier. So I’ve added an audio option—feel free to relax, sit back and listen, or carry on reading—whichever suits you best.

    The Restlessness That Points to Something More.

    Wonder begins early in life. As children, we asked questions with unguarded honesty—questions that cut beneath the surface of everyday life. We looked at the sky or the rhythm of the seasons and felt instinctively that the world was meaningful. We sensed intention, beauty, and purpose long before we could articulate any of it. The world felt alive.

    Yet growing up brings noise. Responsibilities tighten. Modern life hums relentlessly—emails, deadlines, notifications, expectations. Eventually those earlier questions fade into the background. They never truly vanish; they simply sink below the surface. Still, every now and then, something interrupts our pace—a quiet morning, a late-night drive, a moment when the world feels strangely still. And there, in the silence, the old questions rise again, as though patiently waiting to be acknowledged.

    These questions are not signs of weakness. They are, in many ways, a map leading us toward a deeper reality.

    How We Lost Our Shared Compass.

    Only a few generations ago, many in the Western world lived with a shared sense of orientation. Faith, community, tradition, and a belief in a higher purpose sat at the centre of daily life. People disagreed, yes, but most felt connected to something beyond themselves—something more stable than personal preference.

    Today that grounding has shifted. We are encouraged to craft our own identity, determine our own truth, and build our own meaning from scratch. The language is empowering, promising unlimited self-expression and total personal freedom. But this freedom comes with a hidden cost: if meaning comes only from within, then we must continually sustain it. We must invent it, protect it, and perform it.

    For many, this has not produced confidence but exhaustion. A quiet, unspoken hollowness sits just beneath the surface. The slogans of modern life promise liberation, but they leave us carrying the full weight of our own significance.

    The Quiet Experiment of Building Meaning Without God.

    Across the last century, something subtle happened. Society began an experiment—one many never consciously agreed to. Faith moved from public life to private life, then from private life to irrelevance. God shifted from the centre to the margins and, eventually, out of the picture altogether.

    At first, this shift felt like progress. But without God, the foundations that once supported identity, worth, love, dignity, and moral meaning grew thin. When the human heart loses any reference point beyond the self, everything becomes negotiable. Truth becomes personal. Purpose becomes fluid. Identity becomes fragile.

    And when life becomes difficult—as it inevitably does—self-constructed meaning begins to wobble. Hospital corridors, grief, loss, and loneliness often reveal the limitations of carefully curated self-defined purpose. In those moments, many discover an instinctive longing for something solid. Something transcendent. Something real enough to hold the weight of suffering.

    Why We Still Feel the Ache.

    Despite our technological comfort, our constant entertainment, and our unprecedented convenience, a quiet restlessness lingers in nearly every corner of modern life. Many describe a sense of spiritual depletion they cannot quite name. They change jobs, relationships, locations, habits, and online personas, yet the same unshakable ache returns.

    Perhaps that ache is not a malfunction. Perhaps it is a message.

    When we remove God from the centre, we inevitably place ourselves there—but the human heart was never built for that role. Most people, even in a secular age, continue to live as though love is real, justice is real, truth is real, beauty is real, and human dignity is real. Yet these realities sit uneasily within a worldview that insists everything is accidental and impersonal. Deep down, we sense that these things point beyond us. They whisper of a source.

    Why Our Deepest Questions Still Matter.

    We can distract ourselves for years—sometimes for decades—but we cannot outrun the deeper questions that come for us in quiet moments. If suffering exposes the limits of self-invented meaning, and if the ache of restlessness reveals a hunger that comfort cannot satisfy, then perhaps the assumptions of our age need re-examining.

    John 14:6 (ESV 2007) speaks with striking clarity:

    “Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’”

    This is not an argument for nostalgia, nor is it a call to return to a past era as though it were golden. Rather, it is an invitation to consider whether removing God from the centre may have unintentionally removed the very foundation on which value, meaning, and hope rest.

    An Invitation to Look Again.

    You do not need certainty to begin exploring these questions. You do not need to call yourself religious or even know where you stand. You simply need to acknowledge that the stirrings inside you—the longings, doubts, and moments of wonder—may be pointing toward something more substantial than personal feeling.

    This is not a verdict on your life or a demand for instant belief. It is a simple invitation: look again. Consider the possibility that the restlessness within you is not an enemy to silence or suppress, but a signal. A signpost toward the One who made you.

    If God is real, then seeking Him is not a hobby or a side interest. It is the most important journey any person can take. And that journey often begins not with certainty, but with curiosity.

    What if the ache you feel is an echo of the One who calls you?
    What if meaning is not something we construct, but something we discover—something already woven into the fabric of reality?
    What if those quiet questions are not interruptions, but invitations?

    The restlessness may, in the end, be the door.

  • The Master’s Manual: Matthew Part 7 of 7

    The Master’s Manual: Matthew Part 7 of 7

    Introduction

    Every kingdom shapes the lives of its citizens. It forms how they think, act, love, and hope. In the Gospel according to Matthew, Jesus not only announces His Kingdom — He teaches His followers how to live within it. His words are not abstract philosophy; they are a manual for life under His reign. Through long-form teaching, parables, warnings, and promises, Jesus forms a people who live by the power of God rather than their own strength. And as His teaching points ahead, the Holy Spirit would later come to empower this obedience, turning fearful disciples into fearless witnesses

    What Matthew Tells Us

    Jesus begins His great teaching on a mountain (chs. 5–7). He presents a vision of righteousness that flows from the heart, not religious performance. He calls the humble blessed. He honours those who hunger for what is right. He teaches that reconciliation is better than resentment, purity better than hidden indulgence, truth better than empty promises, quiet trust better than anxious striving. His followers give, pray, and fast without drawing attention to themselves, trusting the Father who sees in secret. He closes with a picture of two houses — one collapses, one stands — showing that wisdom is not merely hearing His words but obeying them.

    Jesus then instructs His disciples for mission (ch. 10). He sends them as His representatives into towns and households, calling people to recognise that God’s Kingdom has drawn near. This mission will meet hostility, yet He assures them they will not be abandoned. When they face pressure and accusation, their defence does not rest on human eloquence; the Holy Spirit will speak through them (10:19–20). Allegiance to Jesus will even divide families, yet He promises that losing one’s life for His sake is the way to find true life.

    Through parables (ch. 13), Jesus reveals the hidden strength of God’s Kingdom. It is like seed scattered on various soils — some hearts resist, some receive superficially, but where the Word sinks deep, it bears abundant fruit. The Kingdom grows quietly, like yeast spreading through dough or a tiny mustard seed becoming a tree. It is worth more than everything a person owns; to gain it is to gain treasure beyond price. Yet for now, good, and evil grow together. A final harvest will come, where the King will bring justice and make things right.

    Jesus teaches that life in His Kingdom reshapes the way believers treat one another (ch. 18). Greatness is found not in status but humility. He values the vulnerable, warning His followers never to push them away. When a brother sins, restoration is patiently pursued. Forgiveness is not measured out reluctantly but poured out generously, echoing the grace His Father has shown. Jesus tells of a servant forgiven an impossible debt who then refuses to forgive another. The warning is unmistakable: those who have received mercy must live as people of mercy.

    As Jesus moves toward Jerusalem (chs. 19–20), He teaches about faithfulness in relationships, generosity that reflects God’s heart, and service rather than self-promotion. When some disciples compete for honour, Jesus redirects them. In His Kingdom, greatness comes through serving, because the King Himself came not to be served but to serve and to give His life for many. God’s generosity is not earned by labour; it is given with delight.

    Near the end of His ministry, Jesus prepares His disciples for what lies ahead (chs. 24–25). He tells them not to be alarmed by turmoil; the world will be shaken, but the purposes of God will stand. His people must remain awake, faithful, and expectant. He compares them to servants entrusted with resources. Some remain diligent; others grow careless. When the King returns, He will welcome those who served Him by serving His people — feeding the hungry, welcoming strangers, caring for the sick and imprisoned. He receives such love as if it were shown to Him directly.

    Matthew shows that obedience to Jesus is the solid foundation of kingdom life. But Jesus also knows His disciples cannot walk this path alone. He promises His ongoing presence with them (28:20). After His resurrection and ascension, this promise is fulfilled through the Holy Spirit — poured out at Pentecost as recorded in Acts — who emboldens His followers with power, love, and clarity. The same disciples who once hid in fear now speak boldly, even in many languages, declaring that the risen King reigns. What Jesus began teaching on the mountain is carried forward by His Spirit through His people.

    Why This Matters

    Jesus’ teachings in Matthew reveal the character of life under His rule. They invite us to respond to God from the heart, not merely from habit. They uphold a righteousness deeper than behaviour — a life shaped by love, trust, and humility. His Kingdom challenges our natural instincts: mercy instead of revenge, purity instead of indulgence, generosity instead of grasping, faith instead of fear.

    His commands are not burdens. They describe the beauty of a life aligned with God. The King never demands what He will not supply. He teaches, leads, and gives His very presence. When Jesus promises to be with His people to the end of the age, He is assuring them that obedience is not a lonely endeavour. The same Spirit who empowered Him, who spoke through His disciples, now strengthens His people worldwide.

    Matthew shows the King giving the pattern; the Spirit later gives the power. These are not competing truths but a united story. Jesus forms His disciples through teaching; the Spirit then enables them to live what they have learned. The foundation is the Word; the power is the Spirit; the goal is a people who bear the King’s likeness.

    Hope and Challenge

    Jesus’ teaching comforts and confronts. It comforts by revealing the Father’s care, the Son’s presence, and the Spirit’s help. It confronts by exposing where our allegiance wavers, where anger hardens, where fear rules. His words press us to follow — not half-heartedly, but with trust.

    For believers, this teaching is not an optional layer on top of faith; it is the shape of faith itself. The King calls His people to forgive as they have been forgiven, to serve as they have been served, to hope because He reigns. And He does not leave them powerless. By the Holy Spirit, fearful hearts become bold, anxious minds find peace, and weak hands learn to love.

    For seekers or the curious, Jesus’ teaching is an open invitation. His Kingdom is not for the flawless but for those who recognise their need. Here, the broken are restored, the weary find rest, and those wandering in darkness see light. To follow Jesus is to discover a life deeper than achievement, more enduring than success, more joyful than comfort. This life begins with trusting the King.

    Conclusion

    Matthew reveals Jesus as both King and Teacher. He shows His people how to live under God’s reign — humbly, faithfully, boldly. His teaching gives the pattern; His Spirit gives the power. Those who hear and follow build their lives upon rock. The Master does not send His disciples alone. He teaches them, saves them, dwells with them, and empowers them. This is the life of His Kingdom: shaped by His words, by the Holy Spirit of truth who teaches, comforts, and brings things to remembrance for those born again.

  • Which Story Do You Prefer?

    Which Story Do You Prefer?

    Life of Pi, God, and The Universe.

    At the end of Yann Martel’s breathtaking novel and film, Life of Pi, two Japanese officials sit by the hospital bed of a young man who has survived 227 days adrift in the Pacific Ocean. They have come to understand how the Tsimtsum, their company’s cargo ship, sank. Pi tells them an incredible story: a tale of sharing a lifeboat with a zebra, an orangutan, a hyena, and a magnificent Bengal tiger named Richard Parker. He speaks of carnivorous islands, transcendent storms, and a relationship of terrifying co-dependency with the great beast.

    The officials, unsurprisingly, do not believe him. Their faces are etched with polite disbelief. “We need a story that we can believe,” they say. So, Pi offers them another. A story without animals. In this version, the lifeboat carries Pi, his mother, the ship’s brutish cook, and an injured sailor. It is a grim, horrific account of human depravity—of murder, cannibalism, and desperation. It is a story of mere survival, stripped of all wonder.

    After a long silence, he looks at the men and asks a simple, profound question. “So, tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can’t prove the question either way, which story do you prefer?” The lead official, after a moment, quietly answers, “The one with the tiger. That’s the better story.” Pi looks at him, a gentle understanding in his eyes, and replies, “And so it is with God.”

    Story One: A Universe That Sings.

    This choice, presented in a quiet hospital room, is the fundamental choice we all face when we look out at the cosmos. We are presented with two grand narratives about where everything came from. The first is a story of intimate intention, the one found in the opening pages of Genesis. It doesn’t begin with a chaotic explosion, but with a divine word. “Let there be light.”

    In this account, the universe is not a cosmic accident; it is an intentional act of artistry. A Creator speaks reality into existence, separating darkness from light, waters from sky. The story builds with a poetic rhythm, and at the end of each creative day, a beautiful refrain echoes: “And God saw that it was good.” This is not the assessment of a detached engineer checking his work. It is the deep, resonant satisfaction of an artist beholding his masterpiece. Goodness and beauty are not happy by-products; they are woven into the very fabric of existence from the first moment.

    The climax of this story is not the formation of distant galaxies or blazing suns, but the creation of humanity. We are told we are made in God’s own image—Imago Dei. In this narrative, our existence is the point of the story. Our lives have inherent meaning because we were conceived in the mind of a loving Creator before the foundations of the world were laid. It is a story that tells us we belong here. It is a story that sings with purpose.

    Story Two: The Unceremonial Goodbye.

    The second story is the one told by modern naturalism. It begins not with a word, but with a singularity—an infinitely dense point that explodes in a Big Bang. It’s a story of magnificent scale, of forces and particles, of 13.8 billion years of cosmic evolution. It is, in its own way, a stunning account. But philosophically, it is the story of the hyena and the cook. It is a story of survival of the fittest, of a “blind, pitiless indifference.” It is a worldview that Pi was taught as a boy in the most brutal way imaginable.

    As the son of a zookeeper, the young, spiritually curious Pi saw a soul in the animals. He saw wonder. His rational father, Santosh, saw a dangerous naivety. To teach his son a lesson in cold, hard reality, he had a goat tied to the bars of the tiger’s cage and forced Pi to watch as Richard Parker tore it apart. As Pi reeled in horror, his father delivered the core tenet of this second story: “That tiger is not your friend! When you look into his eyes, you are seeing your own emotions reflected back at you. Nothing else.”

    This is the universe of pure naturalism in a single, visceral lesson. A universe without a soul, where any meaning we perceive is merely our own reflection staring back at us from a cold, empty reality. And for Pi, this lesson was proven in the most heartbreaking way possible at the end of his journey. After 227 days of shared ordeal, after surviving the impossible together, he collapses on a Mexican shore. The tiger, his companion in suffering, walks to the edge of the jungle, pauses, but doesn’t look back. He simply vanishes. “What hurts the most,” the older Pi tells the writer, “is not taking a moment to say goodbye.” It was unceremonial. In the end, Richard Parker was exactly what his father said he was: an animal. An uncaring force of nature.

    That is the universe of the Big Bang, beautifully and terribly illustrated. It may be awesome and powerful, but it feels nothing for you. It does not know you exist. The love you feel, the meaning you seek—these are, in this story, one-way projections. The universe travels with you for a time, but in the end, it walks into the jungle without a word.

    The Story That Haunts Us.

    So, we are left with a choice. One story gives us a universe that knows our name, crafted with love and infused with goodness. The other gives us a universe that came from nothing and cares for nothing. One story says beauty is a clue, a signpost pointing towards the divine Artist. The other says beauty is an evolutionary trick, a fleeting reflection of our own emotions. Pi’s story with the tiger is filled with unimaginable suffering, but it is never meaningless. God is always there, watching. Even when Pi feels abandoned, he later understands that God “gave me rest and gave me a sign to continue my journey.” The story of the cook is just suffering—brutal, pointless, and ugly.

    The story with the tiger—the story with God—doesn’t promise an easy life. It promises that the journey, with all its terrors and wonders, has a purpose. It promises that you are not alone in the boat. The other story promises nothing. Both require faith. It takes faith to believe in a loving Creator you cannot see. It also takes faith to believe that the intricate order of the cosmos and the deep consciousness within your own mind are the result of a random, unguided accident.

    So, which story do you prefer? The one taught by Santosh with a goat and a cage, confirmed by an unceremonial goodbye on a lonely beach? Or the one that whispers of a loving Creator, of a universe that sings, and of a beauty that is more than just a reflection of our own eyes?

    And so it is with God.

    5 responses to “Which Story Do You Prefer?”

    1. Christopher Francis Avatar
      Christopher Francis

      Hi Jo. You did a fantastic job with this post and I really enjoyed. The contrast between the stories we get to choose from are so stark and distinct it would seemingly make no sense for someone to choose Story 2. “This is not the assessment of a detached engineer checking his work. It is the deep, resonant satisfaction of an artist beholding his masterpiece. Goodness and beauty are not happy by-products; they are woven into the very fabric of existence from the first moment.” These statements are very well put. Great job.

      1. Jo Blogs Avatar
        Jo Blogs

        Hi Christopher,

        Thank you for such a fantastic comment, I’m so glad you enjoyed the post! Please forgive the delay in my reply; I’ve been a bit distracted by the weather here and have only just logged in and seen your message.

        It’s wonderful to hear that the contrast between the two stories struck a chord. The inspiration for the piece came so suddenly. I saw the film was on a streaming deal, and as a long-time fan, I bought it and watched it again. Literally, the second the credits rolled, I knew I had to write about that final, profound choice. I rushed to my computer to get the notes down and wrote the post the very next morning.

        Thank you again for your kind words. Knowing that the content and the way it was written connected with you is incredibly encouraging. It means a lot!

        Jo

        1. Christopher Francis Avatar
          Christopher Francis

          Good day Jo. No problem on the delayed reply. I have never seen the film but I may watch it soon if I can. Contrast is a great tool to use in writing when it is done well. I use it quite a bit myself, though maybe differently then the writer of the Life of Pi. Also, thanks for subscribing to my blog. I hope you enjoy my writing and it blesses you. Cheers.

        2. Jo Blogs Avatar
          Jo Blogs

          Hi Christopher. I tried twice to leave a comment on your poem Misery-Maker but GoDaddy’s firewall blocked it twice (normal connection and VPN).
          I just wanted to let you know in case the firewall settings need adjusting.
          The piece really spoke to me; I’d love to share my thoughts once it lets me through.

        3. Christopher Francis Avatar
          Christopher Francis

          Hi Jo. Thanks for reading. I had no idea the firewall was blocking comments. I apologize for your trouble. I am looking at it now and will you let know when I have fixed the problem. Regards.