Category: Faith

Holocaust Memorial Day

Holocaust Memorial Day calls us into a sacred kind of remembering, not distant or abstract, but close to the heart, where names, faces, and stories matter. We remember the six million Jewish lives stolen, alongside Roma, disabled people, LGBTQ+ people, political dissidents, and so many others whose humanity was denied. We don’t remember to wallow in despair, we remember because love demands truth, and because forgetting is the first step towards repeating.

Scripture doesn’t offer easy comfort here, but it does offer presence. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit,” the psalmist writes, and we cling to that promise for every life shattered by hatred. The cry of Micah still confronts us with holy clarity: God requires us “to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Remembrance, then, is not passive, it’s a call to live differently.

We hold the tension between grief and hope. We name the darkness honestly, because anything less would betray the truth, yet we also dare to believe with John’s gospel that “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” That light flickers in every act of resistance to hatred, every stand against prejudice, every choice to protect the dignity of another.

Today, we remember with reverence, we lament with sincerity, and we commit ourselves again to compassion, justice, and courageous love, trusting that God’s memory is deeper than ours, and that no life, no story, no tear is ever forgotten.

St Dwynwen’s Day

Saint Dwynwen’s Day is celebrated on 25 January as the Welsh day of love and friendship, often compared to Valentine’s Day but with a gentler, more reflective tone. Dwynwen was a fifth century princess, said to be one of the daughters of Brychan Brycheiniog, whose story blends history, legend, and faith. She fell in love with a young man named Maelon, yet circumstances and family opposition meant they could not be together. Heartbroken, Dwynwen prayed for relief from her anguish and for the happiness of others in love. According to tradition, her prayers were answered through a series of miracles, leading her to dedicate her life to God and to become the patron saint of lovers.

Her story is rooted on the island of Llanddwyn, off the coast of Anglesey, where the ruins of her church still stand among dunes and seabirds. For centuries, people visited the holy well there, believing its movements could foretell the fate of relationships. Today, Saint Dwynwen’s Day is marked with cards, small gifts, poetry, and messages of affection, especially in Welsh, celebrating both romantic love and deep friendship.

The day carries a distinctively Welsh flavour, honouring language, heritage, and the quieter virtues of compassion, fidelity, and self giving love. It offers a reminder that love isn’t only about grand gestures; it’s also about prayerful hope, gentle kindness, and the courage to wish well for others, even when our own hearts have known sorrow. For many, it’s a tender winter pause for gratitude and connection.

Embracing Christian Unity

There’s a quiet urgency in Paul’s appeal to the church in Corinth (1 Corinthians 1:10-18), a voice that still reaches tenderly and truthfully into our own divided moment. “I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you.” He isn’t asking for bland uniformity, he’s inviting a scattered people to gather their lives around one living centre, shaped by grace rather than rivalry. The Week of Prayer for Christian Unity calls us to hear that invitation anew, not as a burden, but as a gift.

We recognise the ache of fractured witness because we live with it. We’ve heard the labels, “I follow Paul,” “I follow Apollos,” “I follow Cephas,” or their quieter modern equivalents that reveal themselves in loyalties, assumptions, and subtle pride. Paul’s piercing question still stands before us, “Is Christ divided?” The answer remains no, yet our habits can suggest otherwise. Unity doesn’t mean pretending our differences don’t exist, it means choosing, again and again, to let Christ be at the centre rather than our preferences.

Paul gently, firmly, draws our gaze to the Cross, that holy place where all human boasting is undone. For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. Here, at this strange intersection of suffering and love, we discover the true ground of our oneness. We’re not united by style, politics, or tradition, but by shared surrender and shared hope.

This week becomes a practice of turning towards one another with humility. It’s a time to listen more deeply, to bless more readily, to notice the grace of God alive in communities not our own. Unity grows quietly, in prayers whispered for neighbouring churches, in conversations softened by kindness, in the courage to believe that the Spirit is still at work, patiently weaving us together.

May we remember that our oneness isn’t something we manufacture. It’s a gift we receive with gratitude, tend with care, and live out with joy, for the sake of Christ and for the healing of the world.

When Faith Loses Integrity

The Book of Hosea offers one of scripture’s most searching critiques of what happens when faith becomes entangled with power, identity, and national pride. It speaks into any age where devotion to God is claimed loudly, yet trust quietly shifts towards political strength, cultural dominance, and the comfort of belonging to the “right” side of history. Hosea’s burden is not that the people of Israel stopped being religious, but that their religion had become distorted, busy with ritual yet hollowed out by misplaced loyalties.

Again and again, the prophet exposes the danger of claiming God’s authority for structures God has not ordained. They set up kings without my consent; they choose princes without my approval (Hosea 8:4) is a devastating spiritual diagnosis, not simply a political observation. It confronts the instinct to baptise human systems with divine approval, to assume that national success, military strength, or political dominance must surely reflect God’s favour. Hosea insists that such confidence is a form of unfaithfulness, even when it wears religious clothing.

What makes this prophecy so piercing is its emotional honesty. The critique is not cold or detached. God’s voice through Hosea is full of anguish and longing, not triumphalism. How can I give you up, Ephraim? How can I hand you over, Israel? (Hosea 11:8) reveals a heart broken by the distance between what faith is meant to be and what it has become. This is not the language of contempt, but of wounded love.

Hosea calls the people back to a faith rooted in trust, justice, mercy, and humility rather than in power or identity. That call remains timeless. Whenever Christianity is used to defend control rather than compassion, to protect privilege rather than pursue righteousness, Hosea’s voice still speaks. It invites honest self-examination, gentle repentance, and a return to the God who desires steadfast love more than sacrifice, and faithfulness more than any display of religious certainty.

From Calling to Witness

There are seasons when hope arrives quietly, almost unnoticed, like the first green shoots after a long winter. We speak of God doing new things, yet we often expect clarity and momentum before we trust. Scripture invites us into a gentler posture of attentiveness.

Isaiah 43:19 whispers promise into dry places, see, I am doing a new thing, now it springs up, do you not perceive it, while Hosea 10:12 urges us to break up unploughed ground and seek the Lord until righteousness falls like rain. Together they call us to watchfulness, to faithful openness, to the slow work of soil being turned and grace already moving beneath the surface.

Isaiah 49:1–7 gives voice to the ache many carry, a sense of calling without visible fruit, labour poured out with little to show. The servant speaks honestly of frustration, yet still trusts that my reward is with the Lord. What feels hidden or wasted is held within a larger purpose, a calling that widens from restoring what is familiar to becoming a light to the nations. God’s work is rarely as small as we fear.

Psalm 40:1–12 captures the texture of lived faith. The psalmist waits patiently, cries out, and is heard. God lifts them from the pit and sets their feet on firm ground. Praise rises, not as performance, but as a life reshaped from within. Obedience matters more than sacrifice, because God’s law is written on the heart. Gratitude for past rescue sits alongside honest prayer for mercy, forgiveness, and help, reminding us that trust is both tender and resilient.

Paul opens his letter in 1 Corinthians 1:1–9 by speaking grace over a fragile community. They are called, gifted, and held, not because they are strong, but because God is faithful. Their future rests not on competence, but on the promise that God will sustain them to the end. It’s a reassurance for every imperfect believer who keeps turning up with open hands.

In John 1:29–42, everything turns on encounter. John the Baptist points beyond himself to Jesus, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Two disciples follow, hesitant yet curious, and hear the simple invitation, come and see. They stay, they listen, they are changed, and witness begins to ripple outward, one life quietly touching another.

Across these readings runs a shared rhythm of calling before clarity, waiting before fruit, faithfulness before recognition. God works through what feels small, hidden, or unfinished. If we live with expectancy, offering our daily yes, we may discover that we’re already standing within God’s new thing, grace unfolding gently, faithfully, and far beyond what we can yet perceive.

Note: This devotional is based on worship I led at Horden Salvation Army on Sunday 18 January 2026, you can see my full notes by clicking here.

The Kingdom That Sings

Psalm 47 reads like a burst of fresh air, the kind that catches you by surprise and leaves you smiling before you’ve worked out why. It opens with this bold invitation to the whole world; every nation, every people, to clap their hands and shout with joy because the Lord most high is awesome, the great king over all the earth. There’s no sense of exclusivity here. It’s a psalm flung wide open, gathering everyone in.

As you sit with it, you can feel the music running through the lines. God is lifted up with shouts of joy and the sound of trumpets, and the whole psalm seems to sway with that confidence. At its heart is a quiet, steady reassurance that the world isn’t drifting without purpose. God reigns. Even in seasons when life feels uncertain, the psalmist calls us back to trust, almost like someone placing a gentle hand on your shoulder and saying, Look up.

One of the most moving threads in the psalm is its vision of unity. The nobles of the nations assemble … for the kingship belongs to God. It imagines former strangers standing together, not because they’ve all agreed on everything, but because they’re held by something greater than themselves. In a world like ours, so often split by fear and noise, that picture feels both ancient and startlingly hopeful.

When you approach Psalm 47 as more than a song, it becomes a reminder of your place in a wider, joyful story. It tells you that even when your own praises feel quiet, you’re still part of a kingdom that sings on your behalf. It invites you to breathe, to trust, and to let your heart rise with the music that’s already playing.

Grace Through Broken Voices

Regarding Philip Yancey’s confession of adultery; his moral failure doesn’t invalidate his writing. It does, however, change how some readers might approach them, and that response is understandable. Much depends on what you believe gives an author moral or spiritual authority.

From a Christian perspective, Yancey’s work has always centred on grace, failure, mercy, and the stubborn love of God that meets people at their worst. A confessed moral failure doesn’t contradict that message, it actually places the writer inside it. Scripture itself is full of voices shaped by serious moral collapse, David, Peter, and Paul among them, whose words weren’t discarded but received with discernment because God’s grace was seen to be at work through broken people.

That said, confession doesn’t mean consequences disappear, nor does it require readers to feel comfortable or uncritical. It’s reasonable to reread an author more carefully, to separate insight from personality, and to test what’s written against wisdom, humility, and truth. Yancey has never claimed moral superiority, and his credibility, for many, rests not on perfection but on honesty, repentance, and a long pattern of thoughtful, compassionate reflection.

In the end, his writings stand or fall on whether they illuminate grace, foster humility, and point beyond the author to God. If they still do that for you, they remain worth reading. If they don’t, you’re free to set them aside without bitterness or denial.

A New Year Unfolds

As a New Year stretches out before us, full of possibility and uncertainty, Paul’s words fold around us like a warm cloak. In Romans 8:38–39 he says he’s convinced that nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God that’s in Christ Jesus our Lord. Nothing – not the fears that creep in as the calendar turns, not the regrets we carry from the year just gone, not illness, disappointment, change, or the quiet ache of things unresolved. Neither death nor life, neither the heights of our joys nor the depths of our anxieties, neither what’s pressing in on us today nor what might surprise us tomorrow can prise us from the love that already surrounds us.

And Paul’s prayer in Ephesians 3:17–19 feels especially tender at the doorway of a New Year. He longs for us to be rooted and established in love, so that we might somehow grasp its vastness, even though it surpasses knowledge. Wide, long, high, deep: love that fills every direction we might turn. Love that steadies us when we step into something unfamiliar. Love that whispers courage when we don’t feel ready. Love that keeps nourishing us beneath the surface, the way roots drink in hidden water.

As the year unfolds with its mix of beauty and burden, that love won’t thin out. It won’t grow tired. It won’t lose interest. Even when we face decisions that feel heavy, or days that feel lonely, or news that unsettles our confidence, we remain held. God’s love isn’t a feeling that wavers with the season; it’s the deep reality beneath every season.

So let yourself begin this year resting in what’s already true: you’re loved with a love that can’t be broken, outmatched, or undone. Whatever comes, you won’t face it alone.

An Invitation to Hope

A New Year always arrives quietly. No fanfare, no guarantees, just a clean page waiting for the first mark. It can feel hopeful and heavy all at once. We carry into the New Year the joys we want to protect and the disappointments we’d rather leave behind. And yet, here we are, breathing, still becoming.

This is a gentle reminder that you don’t have to rush. Growth rarely announces itself with fireworks. More often, it looks like small, faithful steps taken when no one is watching. A kinder word spoken. A habit nudged slightly in a healthier direction. A decision to begin again, even if you’ve already begun many times before.

The New Year isn’t a test you can fail. It’s an invitation. An opening to live a little more truthfully, love a little more bravely, and listen a little more deeply, to others, to yourself, and to God. Scripture often speaks of newness not as something dramatic, but as something quietly persistent. Morning by morning, mercies renewed. Strength given for today, not for the whole year at once.

So set your intentions lightly. Hold your plans with humility. Celebrate progress, however modest it seems. And when you stumble, because you will, remember that grace doesn’t run out in February.

May this New Year be shaped not by pressure, but by purpose. Not by fear, but by faith. Step forward with hope, trusting that even unfinished, uncertain steps can still lead somewhere good.

What to leave behind?

New Year’s Eve has a particular stillness to it, a threshold moment where we pause with one foot in the familiar and the other hovering over what’s yet to come. It’s tempting to treat this night as a hard reset, as if everything behind us must be swept away to make room for something new. But wisdom rarely lives in extremes. It invites us to look back with honesty and tenderness, to notice what has shaped us, and to choose carefully what we carry forward.

Some things deserve to be packed gently for the journey ahead. Habits that have rooted us, relationships that have deepened us, moments of courage we didn’t know we had until they were asked of us. These are not accidental successes, they’re signs of growth, grace, and quiet perseverance. Carrying them forward isn’t clinging to the past, it’s honouring what has helped us become more fully ourselves.

And then there are the things it’s time to release. Old grudges that have grown heavy, patterns of thinking that shrink our hope, voices, including our own, that tell us we’re not enough. Letting go isn’t failure. It’s an act of trust, a decision to stop giving our energy to what no longer brings life.

As the year turns, we’re not asked to reinvent ourselves overnight. We’re invited to travel lighter, wiser, and more attentive. To keep what serves love, justice, and kindness, and to lay down what doesn’t. In that gentle discernment, we make space for God to meet us again, not as strangers to the future, but as people ready to step into it with intention and hope.