Month: March 2026

When I first became a Christian, I wanted to understand everything.

I read theology, studied the history of the Church, tried to learn the context of the Bible and the meaning behind the scriptures. I wanted to know what scholars thought, what different traditions believed, and how all the pieces fitted together. Like many new Christians, I assumed that the deeper my faith became, the more complicated it would become.

In some ways, that was true. The more you study, the more you realise that things are rarely as simple as they first appear. The Bible is ancient and layered. The Church has two thousand years of history, much of it inspiring, some of it troubling. Christians disagree about many things.

And eventually you come to a slightly uncomfortable realisation: the more we know, the more we realise how much we don’t know.

But something else has happened to me over the years.

In a strange way, faith has also become simpler.

After years of reading and thinking, I find myself returning to a single idea that sits at the heart of it all: God is love.

If something is done in love, it carries the mark of God.

If it is not done in love, then however religious it may sound, I struggle to see God in it.

That doesn’t mean love is easy. In fact, it may be the hardest calling of all. Love requires patience, humility, forgiveness, and compassion. It asks us to see other people not as enemies or problems to be solved, but as fellow human beings made in the image of God.

Over the years I have seen Christianity expressed in many different ways. Some of it has been thoughtful and gentle. Some of it has been loud and certain of itself. Some of it has been tied very closely to politics and power.

But the older I get, the more I find myself returning to the question: Where is the love in this?

If love is there—real love, not just words—then I feel confident that God is there too.

If it is absent, then no amount of religious language can quite convince me otherwise.

I am also increasingly aware that it is not my place to decide who is or isn’t a Christian. That judgement belongs to God alone. My task is much simpler, and perhaps much harder: to try, however imperfectly, to live a life shaped by love.

After all the books, all the debates, and all the years of thinking about faith, this is what seems to remain.

Faith is not really about winning arguments or proving that we are right.

It is about learning, slowly and imperfectly, how to love.

Watching Bec perform with the Hills Symphony Orchestra is breathtaking— though honestly, it’s hard to know where to start! She somehow manages to raise three beautiful children, keep a busy household running, hold down a full-time job, and still find the energy and passion to play at this incredible level. We are beyond proud of her—not just for her talent, but for the amazing person she is every single day. This video is a little window into the magic she brings to the stage.

The world feels heavy right now. Headlines tell of children killed, leaders acting with apparent disregard for life, and conflicts that escalate faster than we can comprehend. It’s hard to breathe sometimes, let alone believe that hope is possible.

I won’t pretend it’s easy. I feel rage, grief, and disbelief alongside the quiet fear that tomorrow could bring something worse. And yet, even in the darkest times, there is something that remains within our control: our humanity.

Yes, technology can amplify destruction. Yes, politics and war machines make the consequences of mistakes catastrophic. But no algorithm, no missile, no government can take away our ability to choose empathy, conscience, and care. That is ours alone.

It’s tempting to feel powerless, to give in to despair—but small acts still matter. Speaking out against injustice. Protecting those who cannot protect themselves. Listening to the suffering of others. Standing up, even when it feels like no one else is. These choices may seem tiny, but they are the threads that hold a human society together.

Choosing humanity is a form of resistance. It reminds us—and everyone around us—that cruelty and indifference are not inevitable. They are decisions, and decisions can be challenged. We may not control the world, but we can control how we live in it, how we act, and how we respond to the suffering we see.

So, even when the world seems devoid of conscience, let us carry ours. Let us act with courage, kindness, and moral clarity. This is where hope lives—not in headlines, not in powerful offices, but in the human hearts that refuse to turn away.

Because as long as we do that, we are still human. And that, perhaps, is the most powerful thing we can be.