Tag: Ian Banks

Lent signifies a journey of faith, calling for trust in God amidst uncertainty. Abram’s obedience and Nicodemus’s quest for understanding highlight the promise of transformation through divine love.

Who gets which verbs? Who acts, who reacts, who speaks, who listens? Which verbs come as a surprise – and which are conspicuously missing?

Imagine for a moment that the Transfiguration had been filmed. Same mountain. Same dazzling moment. Same three stunned disciples shielding their eyes. But now imagine that the footage had been handed to three different film editors – each with their own instincts, priorities and sense of what really matters…

Saul is not confused; he is focused. But that clarity is precisely the problem. Saul sees clearly only within the narrow boundaries of his own conviction. And then, suddenly, light. A light so bright that it blinds him.

Epiphany vision is often formed in waiting. Those who rush too quickly to conclusions rarely see clearly. Those who wait, who remain attentive, are the ones who begin to recognise God’s movement. Waiting sharpens our perception. It trains us to look for light in unlikely places.

At first glance, Matthew’s story of the Magi and Julia Donaldson’s The Gruffalo seem to belong to very different worlds. One is a sacred text, shaped by prophecy and pilgrimage; the other a children’s story, full of wit, danger, and imagination. Yet both stories invite us to think about power, fear, wisdom and how truth is recognised – or missed.

What’s in a name? Names matter. They carry identity, promise, memory, and hope. A name can tell you where someone belongs, who they are, and sometimes even what is expected of them.

In prepping for what comes next, a particular scenario is imagined that can be planned for. A predictable crisis that they can solve with enough supplies. But the real world rarely behaves that neatly…

We are pointed to Advent truth: that Christ comes suddenly, tenderly but disruptively – spraying God’s graffiti of hope across the walls of our lives.

Let’s lift our eyes to the King that we did not expect. Not to the thrones of this world, but to the King who reigns from the cross. The Shepherd who gathers the scattered. The Saviour who remembers the forgotten. The Lord in whom all things hold together.

Malachi ends with hope so gentle it almost feels fragile: “The sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings.” God’s justice is not cold. God’s truth is not cruel. God’s light is not violent. It is the rising sun – the warmth that thaws the frozen, the light that reveals the path, the dawn that says, “There is a future, and it is full of healing.”

Their sacrifice, like Job’s words, is written in stone – a testimony not only to death, but to something deeper: to love that would not be erased.

The Bible does all of that, but something more mysterious happens as well: when we open the Bible, the Bible opens us too. It’s the Book that reads us.

Sometimes, perhaps, we need to wrestle with God’s identity and our own – and we might just get hurt, damaged, cracked in the process.

Let’s not leave Lazarus lying outside our gates. Let’s mind the gap —of wealth, race, indifference, division—with the love of Christ. For in the end, it will not be our comfort that defines us, but our compassion.