Monday, 11 August 2025

When Bears Come Running

 


2 Kings 2:23–25

“From there Elisha went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, some boys came out of the town and jeered at him. ‘Get out of here, baldy!’ they said. ‘Get out of here, baldy!’ He turned around, looked at them and called down a curse on them in the name of the Lord. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the boys.”

At first glance, this feels… intense. I mean, name-calling and boom — bear attack. Is this the ancient equivalent of overreacting to a mean tweet?

But here’s where the irony gives way to reality:

  • These “boys” weren’t innocent toddlers. The Hebrew word na’ar can refer to young men in their teens or twenties — the same term used for soldiers in some passages.

  • Bethel wasn’t just any town. It was the spiritual heart of Israel’s idolatry under Jeroboam — home to a golden calf and a culture that mocked God’s messengers.

  • “Go up, baldy” wasn’t about his hairstyle; it was a taunt for him to disappear like Elijah — implying Elisha wasn’t a true prophet and mocking the miracle that had just occurred.

In short, this was a public, deliberate rejection of God’s authority, not an innocent playground insult. The bears were not a knee-jerk punishment; they were an act of divine judgment on a community that had been shaking its fist at heaven for generations.

The irony? We modern readers stumble over the bears — but in the ancient Near Eastern worldview, the real shock was that anyone would dare mock a prophet of the living God in the first place.

Lesson: Sometimes the fiercest consequences in Scripture aren’t about what we think is a “big deal,” but about what God knows corrodes the soul. The bears just happened to be the delivery system that day.

Friday, 1 August 2025

Life is a Hero's Journey: The Call Beyond Comfort


Life has always been a journey of heroism.
Not the kind plastered on magazine covers
or shouted through movie trailers,
but the quiet, trembling kind—
the kind when a heart hears the whisper: “Come.”

The Hero’s Call

From ancient myths to modern superhero films,
the call to adventure is universal:
leave home, face chaos, return transformed.
Joseph Campbell called it “The Hero’s Journey.”
But long before Campbell, Scripture told it better—revealing heroes defined not by ambition, but by divine summons.

When God Calls

The Bible’s heroes weren’t chasing glory—they were answering God.
Abraham left Ur, trading safety for promise.
Moses left Midian, staff in hand, to confront Pharaoh’s empire.
David left the pasture, sling in hand, to face a giant.
Mary left anonymity, saying yes to bearing the Savior.

Every story begins the same way:
A comfort zone is left behind.
A trembling step is taken into the unknown.
And God meets them there.

The Reverse Hero

But Jesus’ story flips the pattern.
Most heroes rise from nothing to greatness—
Jesus descends from greatness to nothing.
The true King leaves heaven’s throne for earth’s dust.
Trades angels’ praise for human scorn.
He carries not a sword, but a cross.

And it’s that humility—
that descent—
that leads to ultimate victory.

“Though He was in the form of God…
He emptied Himself, taking the form of a servant.”

— Philippians 2:6–7

Our Call Too

Following Him means more than leaving our comfort zones—
it means leaving self.
Choosing downward mobility.
Choosing service over spotlight.
Choosing the cross before the crown.
The adventure isn’t just daring—it’s humbling.
But in the Kingdom,
down is the way up.

Reflection

What “Ur” is God calling you out of?
And what “throne” is He calling you down from?
Could your small yes—even a courageous, trembling one—be the doorway into His greatest story yet?

Tagline:
Every epic begins with a courageous, trembling yes—and often, a humble descent.

Monday, 28 July 2025

The Missing Middle: Aragorn and the True Masculine: Between brute and ghost walks the man we were meant to be.

 

Scroll through the internet long enough, and you’ll see them:

The “alpha male” podcasters barking dominance tips.
The “beta male” memes apologizing for existing.
And somewhere in the mix, the “sigma male” lone-wolf TikToks telling you to drink black coffee at 4 a.m. and ignore women altogether.

It’s chaos out there.
Everyone’s flinging mud, chest-thumping or self-loathing.
And still—no one seems to know what a man actually is.


Where’s the Missing Middle?

The extremes are easy to caricature:

  • Brutish Alpha: Muscles, ego, zero compassion.

  • Delicate Beta: Gentle, agreeable, allergic to conflict.

But where is the whole man—the one with courage and compassion, strength and service?
That figure feels almost mythical in modern discourse.


Enter Aragorn

Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings quietly answers the question we’ve forgotten how to ask.

Aragorn isn’t loud about his strength—he’s a ranger, content in obscurity.
Yet when destiny calls, he rises with quiet authority.
He leads armies but kneels beside the wounded.
He wields the sword but also the healer’s hands.

He doesn’t need to scream “alpha” or retreat into “beta.”
He simply embodies what the ancients called virtue—wholeness.


Christ’s Echo

Tolkien, a devout Catholic, didn’t write allegory,
but Aragorn is unmistakably Christ-haunted:

  • A hidden king, revealed in the fullness of time.

  • A warrior who conquers through sacrifice.

  • A healer who restores the broken.

Even the prophecy—“the hands of the king are the hands of a healer”—feels like a whisper of Jesus washing feet and healing lepers.


Why We Still Ache for Him

In a world obsessed with extremes, Aragorn’s quiet balance feels alien—
and yet deeply human.

Jesus Himself embodied it first:
Lion and Lamb.
Table-flipper and Child-embracer.
King and Servant.

We long for that wholeness.
Not another caricature of masculinity,
but the Man in whom strength and tenderness kiss.


Tagline:

“Between brute and ghost walks the man we were meant to be.”

Scroll through the internet long enough, and you’ll see them:
The “alpha male” podcasters barking dominance tips.
The “beta male” memes apologizing for existing.
And somewhere in the mix, the “sigma male” lone-wolf TikToks telling you to drink black coffee at 4 a.m. and ignore women altogether.

It’s chaos out there.
Everyone’s flinging mud, chest-thumping or self-loathing.
And still—no one seems to know what a man actually is.


Where’s the Missing Middle?

The extremes are easy to caricature:

  • Brutish Alpha: Muscles, ego, zero compassion.

  • Delicate Beta: Gentle, agreeable, allergic to conflict.

But where is the whole man—the one with courage and compassion, strength and service?
That figure feels almost mythical in modern discourse.


Enter Aragorn

Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings quietly answers the question we’ve forgotten how to ask.

Aragorn isn’t loud about his strength—he’s a ranger, content in obscurity.
Yet when destiny calls, he rises with quiet authority.
He leads armies but kneels beside the wounded.
He wields the sword but also the healer’s hands.

He doesn’t need to scream “alpha” or retreat into “beta.”
He simply embodies what the ancients called virtue—wholeness.


Christ’s Echo

Tolkien, a devout Catholic, didn’t write allegory,
but Aragorn is unmistakably Christ-haunted:

  • A hidden king, revealed in the fullness of time.

  • A warrior who conquers through sacrifice.

  • A healer who restores the broken.

Even the prophecy—“the hands of the king are the hands of a healer”—feels like a whisper of Jesus washing feet and healing lepers.


Why We Still Ache for Him

In a world obsessed with extremes, Aragorn’s quiet balance feels alien—
and yet deeply human.

Jesus Himself embodied it first:
Lion and Lamb.
Table-flipper and Child-embracer.
King and Servant.

We long for that wholeness.
Not another caricature of masculinity,
but the Man in whom strength and tenderness kiss.


Tagline:

“Between brute and ghost walks the man we were meant to be.”

Scroll through the internet long enough, and you’ll see them:
The “alpha male” podcasters barking dominance tips.
The “beta male” memes apologizing for existing.
And somewhere in the mix, the “sigma male” lone-wolf TikToks telling you to drink black coffee at 4 a.m. and ignore women altogether.

It’s chaos out there.
Everyone’s flinging mud, chest-thumping or self-loathing.
And still—no one seems to know what a man actually is.


Where’s the Missing Middle?

The extremes are easy to caricature:

  • Brutish Alpha: Muscles, ego, zero compassion.

  • Delicate Beta: Gentle, agreeable, allergic to conflict.

But where is the whole man—the one with courage and compassion, strength and service?
That figure feels almost mythical in modern discourse.


Enter Aragorn

Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings quietly answers the question we’ve forgotten how to ask.

Aragorn isn’t loud about his strength—he’s a ranger, content in obscurity.
Yet when destiny calls, he rises with quiet authority.
He leads armies but kneels beside the wounded.
He wields the sword but also the healer’s hands.

He doesn’t need to scream “alpha” or retreat into “beta.”
He simply embodies what the ancients called virtue—wholeness.


Christ’s Echo

Tolkien, a devout Catholic, didn’t write allegory,
but Aragorn is unmistakably Christ-haunted:

  • A hidden king, revealed in the fullness of time.

  • A warrior who conquers through sacrifice.

  • A healer who restores the broken.

Even the prophecy—“the hands of the king are the hands of a healer”—feels like a whisper of Jesus washing feet and healing lepers.


Why We Still Ache for Him

In a world obsessed with extremes, Aragorn’s quiet balance feels alien—
and yet deeply human.

Jesus Himself embodied it first:
Lion and Lamb.
Table-flipper and Child-embracer.
King and Servant.

We long for that wholeness.
Not another caricature of masculinity,
but the Man in whom strength and tenderness kiss.



Monday, 21 July 2025

Her Head Blew Clean Off


An ordinary Tuesday, a glowing rectangle, and something unexplainable.

—From the balcony of wonder


She was sitting across from my balcony,

perched on the top floor of that old yellow apartment that probably leaks when it rains.


Just a regular Tuesday.

She had that small glowing rectangle in her hand—phone, obviously.

Laughing, scrolling, occasionally making that little face people make when something’s just mildly amusing but not worth a real laugh.

You know the one.


Then—boom.

Her head blew clean off.


No, not literally.

There was no blood, no screaming, no Netflix documentary to follow.


But I swear to you—one second she was chill and composed, and the next, she looked like she had just seen something eternal.

Like her soul had walked barefoot into a cathedral.


She kept staring at her screen.

Completely still.

Mouth slightly open.

Like a question mark that forgot what it was asking.


I leaned forward, curious.

What kind of TikTok does that to a person?


She never looked up, but I could almost hear her thinking, like radio static tuned to wonder.


Later—thanks to social sleuthing (and a shameless amount of zooming)—I found the verse she read:


“…that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love.

I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints,

what is the breadth and length and height and depth,

and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge,

so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.”

— Ephesians 3:17–19


That’s what did it.


That’s what blew her up.

Some ancient prayer, sitting there like a time-bomb in her feed.


She believed in love—sure.

 “Said a mother’s love was the highest form. (Pam would’ve nodded—we all know the weight of that.)”

But this wasn’t just sentiment.

This was tectonic.

“Filled with the fullness of God”?

Who even writes like that?


Whatever happened up there—on that balcony, on that Tuesday—it rewired something.


She’s still the same. Mostly.

But now, when she looks at the sky,

she pauses a little longer.

Like someone who saw infinity blink.


#That Pam's reference is from the book by CS Lewis, The Great Divorce 😌

Sunday, 6 July 2025

When Absurdity Sets the Table


Nietzsche called Dostoyevsky “the only psychologist from whom I have anything to learn.” And it shows. Long before Existentialism had a label, Dostoyevsky was digging tunnels into the darkness of the human soul — where freedom and suffering, pride and pity, God and evil clash like iron gates at midnight.  

He gives us the Underground Man: conflicted, raw, licking his wounds like a rat in a cellar. He shows us how we sabotage ourselves — replaying slights, dreaming of revenge, locking ourselves behind walls built for safety.  

Yet through the gloom, Dostoyevsky whispers: “There’s something more.”  

Camus called it “Absurdism” — the collision of a senseless world with a heart that craves meaning. 

Kierkegaard called it “the leap” — faith when reason fails at the cliff’s edge.  

I know this tension. 

Life is absurd. Chaotic. Unfair. Silent. 

Suffering rattles my faith like a stone against stained glass. 

And yet I ask: “To whom shall I go?”  

I am finite. Three pounds of grey matter grasping at the Infinite. 

If I could contain God in my skull, I’d be God — but I’m not.  

So I trust anyway. 

Despite the tension. 

Despite the silence. 

Despite the cellar’s cold creeping into my bones.  

Some call it cold comfort. 

But I ask: Would despair taste sweeter? 

Would loneliness warm me better than this fragile hope?  

No. 

I’d rather wrestle God in the dark than sing anthems to emptiness. 

I’d rather crawl toward the Table set for me — the one that doesn’t humiliate. 

Toward the Friend who offers not shallow toasts, but His own blood for my dignity.  

This is the paradox I carry: 

Absurdity and grace. 

Doubt and hope. 

Cracks in my cellar walls — and the Light that slips through anyway.  

When the world screams nonsense... 

When I am nonsense... 

He remains the final Word. 

 

When Bears Come Running

  2 Kings 2:23–25 “From there Elisha went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, some boys came out of the town and jeered at hi...

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