Tag: Theology

  • 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

      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

        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

          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

          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

          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.

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  • Ecclesiastes, Chapter 2.

    Ecclesiastes, Chapter 2.

    Why Wealth, Wisdom, and Work Aren’t Enough.

    The second chapter of Ecclesiastes documents one of the most profound human experiments ever recorded. King Solomon, a man of unparalleled wisdom, wealth, and power, embarks on a personal quest to find lasting meaning and satisfaction “under the sun.” He systematically tests the greatest pursuits of human life—pleasure, grand accomplishments, and even wisdom itself—to see if they hold the key to a genuinely good life. His findings are both startling and deeply relevant, revealing that the things we often chase with all our might are ultimately empty when pursued apart from their divine source.

    The Grand Experiment with Extravagant Pleasure.

    Pursuing Joy Through Indulgence

    Solomon begins his test with an all-out pursuit of pleasure. In his heart, he resolves to experience every form of enjoyment available. He starts with laughter and mirth, only to quickly dismiss them as “mad” and pointless in providing any substantial benefit. He then turns to wine, not as a drunkard, but in a controlled experiment to see if it could cheer his body while his mind remained guided by wisdom. He sought to “lay hold on folly” to understand its appeal and its ultimate value during the brief days of human life. This wasn’t a reckless binge but a calculated investigation into the limits of sensual satisfaction. The conclusion was immediate and stark: raw pleasure and amusement offered no lasting substance.

    Building an Earthly Paradise

    Moving beyond simple indulgence, Solomon leverages his immense resources to create a world of unparalleled magnificence. He undertakes massive architectural and agricultural projects, building great houses for himself and planting sprawling vineyards. He designs and cultivates elaborate gardens and parks—what the original text calls “paradises”—filled with every kind of fruit tree. To sustain this lush creation, he constructs complex irrigation systems, including pools of water to nourish the flourishing groves.

    His acquisitions extended to people and possessions. He bought male and female slaves and had servants born into his household, a sign of established wealth and stability. His herds and flocks surpassed those of any ruler in Jerusalem before him. He amassed a treasury filled with silver, gold, and the “peculiar treasure of kings and provinces”—tribute and wealth from subject territories. To complete this world of luxury, he hired professional male and female singers and acquired “the delight of the sons of man”—a vast harem of wives and concubines. By every worldly metric, he had achieved everything a person could possibly desire.

    The Sobering Verdict on Pleasure

    After achieving this pinnacle of success, Solomon pauses to evaluate his accomplishments. He had denied himself nothing. Whatever his eyes desired, he took. He found a measure of temporary pleasure in the process—a fleeting joy that he identified as the only “reward” for all his toil. But when he stepped back and considered all that his hands had done and the exhaustive effort he had expended, his conclusion was devastating. Everything was “vanity and a striving after wind.” Despite possessing everything the world could offer, he found there was nothing of lasting gain to be found under the sun. The satisfaction was in the doing, but once done, the accomplishment was hollow.

    The Surprising Limits of Human Wisdom.

    Is Wisdom Really Better Than Folly?

    Having found pleasure wanting, Solomon turns his attention back to a comparison of wisdom, madness, and folly. His initial observation confirms what seems obvious: wisdom is superior to folly just as light is superior to darkness. The wise person, he notes, “has his eyes in his head,” navigating life with foresight and understanding. The fool, by contrast, “walks in darkness,” stumbling through life with blind infatuation and making fatal errors. In the practical matters of life, from managing affairs to building projects, worldly wisdom clearly has the advantage. It provides skill, good sense, and the ability to operate within safe and respectable bounds.

    The Great Equalizer: Death

    Yet, this advantage is ultimately superficial. Solomon perceives a sobering, universal truth that levels the playing field entirely: “the same event happens to all of them.” Both the wise person and the fool die. This single, inescapable reality undoes the earthly superiority of wisdom. If the final outcome is the same, what ultimate profit is there in being so wise? He asks himself why he had pursued wisdom with such effort if his fate was identical to that of the fool who pursued nothing. This realization leads him to declare that the pursuit of worldly wisdom, as an end in itself, is also vanity. No matter how wisely one lives, there is no “enduring remembrance.” In the days to come, both the wise and the fool are forgotten.

    A Descent into Despair

    This profound insight sends Solomon into a state of despair. “So, I hated life,” he confesses, “because what is done under the sun was grievous to me.” If every human endeavour—whether foolish pleasure or wise accomplishment—leads to the same end of death and obscurity, then life itself feels like a meaningless and burdensome exercise. The great pursuits that should have brought fulfilment instead revealed a deep-seated futility, proving to be nothing more than another form of “striving after wind.”

    The Heavy Frustration of Fruitless Toil.

    The Agony of the Successor

    Solomon then narrows his focus to the nature of his work. He had toiled with immense wisdom, knowledge, and skill to build his kingdom and amass his wealth. But now, even this brought him anguish. “I hated all my toil,” he says, because he must leave the fruit of his labour to the man who comes after him. And the crushing uncertainty is whether his successor will be wise or a fool. This was not a theoretical problem for Solomon; it was a deeply personal anxiety about his own son, Rehoboam, who would later prove to be a fool and fracture the kingdom. The thought that a foolish heir could gain mastery over all he had so wisely and painstakingly built rendered his life’s work a bitter vanity.

    When Work Becomes a Constant Burden

    This perspective transforms the very nature of work from a source of purpose into a source of unending pain. The Preacher gives his heart over to despair. What does a person truly get from all the toil and anxious striving? His days are filled with sorrow, and his work is a “vexation.” The anxiety is so pervasive that even at night, his heart finds no rest. Labor, when viewed only through an earthly lens, becomes a great evil—a consuming effort whose rewards are temporary and whose legacy is, at best, uncertain.

    The True Source of Simple Enjoyment.

    A Crucial Shift in Perspective

    Just as the chapter reaches its bleakest point, Solomon introduces a radical shift in perspective. After concluding that human effort alone cannot secure meaning, he points toward another possibility. He states, “There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil.” At first glance, this might sound like a retreat into simple hedonism, but the line that follows changes everything: “This also, I saw, is from the hand of God.”

    Joy as a Gift from God’s Hand

    Here lies the chapter’s central lesson. The ability to find genuine, simple enjoyment in the basic provisions of life—food, drink, and satisfying work—is not something we can seize for ourselves through wealth or wisdom. It is a divine gift. Solomon, who had more resources than anyone to create his own happiness, failed. He learned that apart from God, no one can truly eat, drink, or have enjoyment. True satisfaction is not achieved through frantic striving but received with gratitude from God. God mercifully spares most people the sad experiment Solomon conducted, allowing us to learn from his experience without paying the dear price he paid.

    The Divine Economy of Blessing

    Solomon concludes with a profound statement on God’s divine economy. To the person who pleases Him, God gives wisdom, knowledge, and joy. In contrast, the sinner is given the task of gathering and collecting wealth, only to ultimately see it given “to one who pleases God.” While this principle was especially visible in the immediate rewards and consequences of ancient Israel, it remains a spiritual reality. The backsliding Solomon found no happiness in the riches he sought apart from God. Ultimately, true, and lasting joy is the portion of the godly, for it flows directly from the hand of the Giver. Any other pursuit is, and always will be, vanity and a striving after wind.

    In this chapter, Solomon challenges us to examine the foundation of our own lives. Are we striving to build our own satisfaction through pleasure, accomplishments, or knowledge? Or are we learning to gratefully receive the simple, daily joys of life as a gift from the hand of God?

    Further Reading.

    • Title: ESV Study Bible
    • Source: Crossway
    • Rationale: It offers extensive, verse-by-verse notes, theological articles, and maps that provide a comprehensive and accessible framework for understanding the historical and theological context of Ecclesiastes.

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  • A Deep Dive into Christian Faith? From Emunah to Pistis.

    A Deep Dive into Christian Faith? From Emunah to Pistis.

    A Working Definition.

    Christian faith is not mere agreement that God exists. Scripture presents faith as confident trust in God’s character, actions, and promises, embraced now before all is visible. Hebrews 11:1 frames it as “assurance of things hoped for” and “conviction of things not seen”—not a blind leap, but a settled confidence grounded in God’s reliability.

    The Hebrew Core: Emunah as Steadfast Fidelity.

    In the Hebrew Bible, the idea behind faith begins with the root ’aman: to support, to make firm, to steady. From this comes emunah: steadfastness, fidelity, reliability. Exodus 17:12 uses it concretely when Moses’ hands are “steady” until sunset. Closely related is ’emet—truth as that which is stable and dependable. In this worldview, truth and faithfulness belong together. To call God “true” is to confess His unwavering fidelity; to have “faith” is to rest your weight on His proven steadiness.

    Abraham and the Pattern of Trust.

    Genesis 15:6 is the fountainhead: Abraham “believed” the Lord, and it was counted to him as righteousness. In Hebrew, the verb is from ’aman: Abraham regarded God’s promise as firm and entrusted himself to it. This is not abstract assent to ideas; it is relational reliance on the Faithful One. The prophets carry this forward. Habakkuk 2:4 declares that the righteous live by their emunah—their steadfast loyalty to God amid upheaval—mirroring God’s own faithfulness.

    From Hebrew to Greek: Why Pistis Matters.

    When the Scriptures were translated into Greek, emunah became pistis. Far from shrinking the concept, first-century pistis was a robust relational word used for trust, fidelity, and covenant loyalty—between rulers and citizens, generals and soldiers, husbands, and wives. In other words, pistis meant not just belief about someone, but faithfulness to someone. This is why the New Testament’s language of faith naturally carries the tones of allegiance, loyalty, and obedient trust.

    A Crucial Translation Turn: Habakkuk 2:4 in the LXX.

    The Greek Septuagint renders Habakkuk 2:4 in a way that accents God’s own faithfulness: “the righteous shall live by my faith[fulness].” The Hebrew stresses human steadfastness: the Greek emphasizes divine fidelity. The New Testament receives both lines: life comes from God’s covenant faithfulness and is embraced by our responsive trust. Paul will cite Habakkuk to proclaim that God’s righteousness is revealed “from faith to faith,” centering salvation on divine grace received through faith.

    Hebrews 11:1 Without the Fog.

    Hebrews uses two weighty terms. Hypostasis speaks of real substance or foundation; elenchos names proof or evidence. Faith treats God’s as-yet-unseen promises as present reality because His character and track record are the evidence. Faith is therefore not anti-evidence; it is sight by a truer light—the light of God’s Word and works—before final verification arrives.

    Jesus and Faith: Small Seed, Great Object.

    Jesus teaches that faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains. The emphasis falls not on the volume of our believing but on the trustworthiness of its object. Even small, real trust in the living God proves mighty because He is. In the Fourth Gospel, the accent intensifies: John avoids the noun “faith” and relentlessly uses the verb “believe,” portraying faith as an active, ongoing abiding in Christ—receiving, depending, obeying.

    Paul and the Gift That Isn’t a Work.

    Paul’s “justification by faith” is not an alternate system of human achievement. Faith is the antithesis of works-righteousness precisely because it is receptive trust in God’s saving action in Christ. By grace you are saved through faith—God’s initiative, not our performance. Faith looks outward to the crucified and risen Lord, receiving the righteousness God gives.

    “Faith in Christ” or “Faithfulness of Christ”?

    Paul’s phrase pistis Christou can mean “faith in Christ” or “faithfulness of Christ.” Theologically, both truths shine in the New Testament. Our salvation rests on Christ’s perfect covenant faithfulness—His obedient life unto death—and it is received by our faith in Him. Many translations choose one side for readability; the canon affirms the whole: Christ’s fidelity secures it; our trust receives it.

    James and Paul: Root and Fruit, Not Rivals.

    James insists that “faith without works is dead.” He is not contradicting Paul; he is exposing counterfeits. Paul denies that works can earn justification; James denies that a lifeless profession is saving. The root that justifies necessarily yields fruit. Where Christ truly dwells by faith, a new way of life appears—repentance, love, generosity, endurance, obedience. Works are not the price of salvation; they are its proof.

    Guardrails Against Counterfeits.

    Two distortions recur. One treats faith as a force that obligates God—believe hard enough and God must act. The other reduces faith to vague positivity that avoids repentance and obedience. Scripture rejects both. True faith submits to God’s wisdom, trusts His timing, and walks in His ways. Its centre is Christ Himself—not outcomes we prefer, experiences we crave, or reputations we build.

    What Faith Receives.

    Through faith we receive reconciliation with God, forgiveness of sins, adoption into His family, the indwelling Spirit, access with confidence, strength to endure, the ongoing renewal of our lives, and the promise of resurrection. These are not accessories; they are the relational riches of belonging to Christ. “This is the victory that has overcome the world—our faith,” because it unites us to the Overcomer.

    Growing a Steady Faith.

    Because faith is relational, it deepens as we know God. He grows our trust by His means of grace: hearing and meditating on Scripture, prayerful dependence, life with Christ’s people, and practiced obedience. Trials become laboratories where God proves faithful and teaches us to lean on Him. Walking by faith does not deny pain; it refuses to enthrone it.

    A Simple Summary.

    Christian faith is steadfast, active trust in the faithful God—grounded in His character, confirmed by His deeds, focused on Jesus Christ, empowered by the Spirit, and expressed in loyal obedience. It begins with God’s gracious initiative, receives salvation as a gift, and bears the fruit of a transformed life. It is not a leap into the dark but a step onto the solid ground God has already laid.

    An Invitation.

    If faith is confidence in God’s promises, the fitting response is to take Him at His word today: turn from self-reliance, receive the grace of Jesus, and walk in the obedience that faith produces. We do not deny what is seen; we deny it the final word. God’s faithfulness is the foundation—and He is worthy of our trust.

    If you’ve read this far—whether you’re curious, cautious, or already convinced—take Hebrews 11:1 personally: faith is “assurance” and “conviction” because its object is faithful. If you don’t yet believe, start where you are: ask Jesus to make Himself known, open the Scriptures, and take one honest step of trust today—He meets people in motion. And if you do believe, lift your eyes again from what is seen to what is promised; keep walking by faith, not by sight, and let love be the fruit. The God who cannot lie will not fail you.

    📚 Further Reading.

    1. Morgan, Teresa. Roman Faith and Christian Faith: Pistis and Fides in the Early Roman Empire and Early Churches. Cambridge University Press, 2015.
    2. Doggett, Frank. Faith and Loyalty: The Politics of Pístis in the Early Christian and Roman Contexts. Oxford University Press, 2018.
    3. Schreiner, Thomas R. Faith Alone: The Doctrine of Justification. Crossway, 2015.
    4. Kerr, Anthony N. The Temple of Christ: The Temple Theme in the Gospel of John. Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2008 — see especially the chapter on belief/trust in John’s Gospel.
    5. Wright, N. T. Paul and the Faithfulness of God. Fortress Press, 2013 — especially volumes 1 & 2 for detailed discussion of pistis Christou and faith in Pauline theology.
    6. These titles are offered for further exploration. They represent a mix of academic and accessible resources — no download files required; you can locate them via libraries, bookshops, or preview sites.