Unanswered questions.

If you were able to ask God one question, what would it be?  There could be a myriad of answers to that one!  Many of us might find it difficult to come up with just one question when we have so many for which we would like answers.  For me, it probably wouldn't be one of the enormous and regularly quoted questions such as "how can a God of love allow so much suffering in the world?"  My question would be more likely to be to do with understanding why God allows some of his most faithful followers to die at a relatively young age.

When I was a Minister in Sheffield I had a very close friendship with an Anglican colleague called Alan.  He was a lovely, godly, prayerful man, and he and I worked closely in encouraging prayer in the area.  I was desperately sad when I learned that he had contracted cancer.  Many of us prayed for Alan's healing, yet although he did experience a period of remission, he eventually died.  I vividly remember walking the streets of Sheffield one dark night, with tears streaming down my face; the question "why?" was at the forefront of my mind.

More recently, my brother Phil has been through a similar experience to Alan, as I have written about previously in my blog. People all over the world have prayed for Phil ever since he was first diagnosed with terminal cancer in April 2015.  As we read the gospel records we see that every time someone came to Jesus for healing, he responded positively to their request.  What's more, he instructed his followers to continue his work, 'He sent them to proclaim the gospel and heal the sick' (Luke 9.2).  I know that God still heals today, and for a time Phil was remarkably restored to health.  His witness through the tough times of his illness was inspirational.  And yet he still died, aged just 55. So what are we to make of those kind of situations?  How do we respond to questions for which we receive no complete answer?

When we don't understand why God has allowed something to happen and our prayers have not been answered in the way we had hoped, it seems to me that we have a clear choice.  We can either give up on God, or we can continue to trust him even in the unknowing.  There was a time in Jesus' ministry when many of his followers turned away from him, feeling that the going was too hard.  Jesus turned to his twelve disciples and asked them whether they were going to desert him, too.  Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life' (John 6.68).  If we give up on God. what's the alternative?

I firmly believe that God's word to me is to continue to trust him, and to believe that he can use even the worst situations for good.  Painful as Phil's death is and will remain, many good things will come from the legacy of his life.  The greatest comfort, perhaps, is that we know that those who put their faith in Jesus Christ have the wonderful assurance of life eternal; death is not the end, it is a doorway into the very presence of God!  I know that Alan and Phil are safe and secure in God's loving care, and experiencing the reality of God's promise:


‘Look! God’s dwelling-place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death” or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away' (Revelation 21.3&4).

This is wonderfully captured in Matt Redman's song, 'One Day (When We All Get To Heaven)'

In this life we won't get all the answers we seek.  I've come to the point where I am at peace with that truth; I will trust in God, even when I don't have the answer.

Don't leave it until it's too late

I was brought up in a family of 6 children, and family has always been a really important part of my life.  I am so grateful for the love and nurture which I received in my formative years.  Although, on reflection, I never remember as a child being told verbally by my parents that they loved me, I think that deep down I knew it was so.  Apart from when I was having the occasional childhood tantrum (I vividly remember on one occasion threatening to leave home!), I never felt unloved.  And yet those three significant words, "I love you" were rarely, if ever, spoken.  So does that really matter?

It is sometimes said that when a person becomes a parent, they tend to model the kind of parenting which they themselves experienced.  Having discussed the matter with my wife, Sue, as far as we can recall as young parents we didn't often tell our children that we loved them.   Of course we did (and still do) love them very much, and we hope that they experienced our love, even if we didn't verbalise it.  But maybe we ought to have spoken it out more regularly as an added affirmation.  Certainly, our children regularly speak out words of love to their children, which is wonderful to hear.

I have come to the conclusion that the best way is to both speak the words "I love you" and to demonstrate that love by our actions.  The apostle John makes this clear when he writes, 'Our love should not be just words and talk; it must be true love, which shows itself in action' (1 John 3.8).

When my later brother Phil was diagnosed with terminal cancer, it brought this issue into sharp focus.  I had become more used to sharing the phrase "I love you" with my sisters, but somehow to say it to my brother seemed a bit embarrassing and not quite the manly thing to do (I realise that might sound very strange and perhaps old-fashioned, but that's how I felt).  It dawned on me that there would come a time when it would be too late to say those words to Phil, and so I plucked up the courage, overcame my embarrassment, and spoke out those three small yet powerful words.  

I am so grateful that Phil and I were able to share our love and appreciation for each other while he was alive.  We had that opportunity because we were given notice that Phil's earthly life was drawing to a close.  The last couple of weeks of Phil's earthly life were spent in a hospice in Auckland, a city where he and his family had made their home.  Phil and his immediate family were able to spend time together, and share memories, laughter and tears.  It was a precious time.

What has really come home to me afresh is the realisation that we need to speak out words of love and thankfulness while we still have the opportunity.  Life is very fragile, and none of us know how much longer our earthly lives will last.  Sometimes we have no time to prepare for the death of a loved one.  Those people whom we love and appreciate need to know how much we love and appreciate them.  Don't leave it until it's too late!

Phil: reflections

If you've read my previous blog, you will be aware that less than a week ago my younger brother Phil passed away.  Though his death was not unexpected, it has still been very hard to accept, and his family and many friends have experience a whole range of very human emotions.  For most of us, those emotions are still raw.

Yesterday I felt that I wanted to sit down and write a poem as a kind of tribute to Phil and an expression of some of the emotions which have been going round in my heart and mind over the past few days.  I make no claim to be a great poet, and it may be that as I reflect further I will want to change some of the words and phrases.  However, I have shown it to some who have expressed the thought that I should put it into the public domain.  My initial intention was to read it aloud via Facebook Live, but in these early days since Phil's death I know that if I tried to do so, the likelihood is that I could find myself being overcome with emotion long before I got to the end.

So here it is, a poem I dedicate to Phil's memory, and also to his wonderful wife, Monika and children Mike and Emily - my love and admiration for you all are without bounds.

Phil: reflection

Is this real, or am I dreaming?

Surely it just can’t be true?

Something so brutal, and with no sense:

It must be a dreadful nightmare,

a ghastly horror show,

from which I long to run,

make my escape into the world of comfort,

where all is calm and as it should be.

The dream says Phil is gone, dead,

his earthly life has ended.

It cannot be!

I will not accept it!

I turn my face away,

For I can take no more

of vile oppression.

Help me to wake and see the light!

Phil, my little brother,

with whom I’ve shared so many precious times.

Two brothers, at one in love of Jesus (and Hull City!)

And now they say you’ve gone,

no breath of life within your mortal body.

No more I’ll see your smile, laugh at your humour,

or know your loving inspiration

in the walk of life.

Oh … this is no dream, no mere imagination.

My heart is broken at the loss.

No, not for you, for you are with the One you loved

and served so faithfully through life.

It is for me I mourn, and for your family,

who will no more see loving dad, or husband;

and for countless folk who called you friend.

I know that God is good, a loving, faithful Father:

‘I’ll never leave you’ is his promise.

I know he is our healer, and we’ve seen his hand in you

through these last years

as cancer sought to take you from us.

Two precious years in which

your witness spoke profoundly to so many.

Lives transformed, hope awakened

Jesus lifted high!

And yet … and yet …

I struggle with that question – why?

For your heart was filled with such great passion,

a love for Jesus which you longed to share

with all those of your new-found country;

a place you loved, its beauty and its people.

A vision drove you on to break through boundaries

and tread in places others feared to go.

A pioneer, breaking new ground, and calling others

to walk those paths along with you.

A vision unfulfilled?

For you are gone;

the flaming torch is one you cannot carry

any longer.

Is that bright flame to fall,

to die, like you … to be extinguished?

A masterpiece to stay unfinished?

A tragedy from glorious ambition?

A dreadful end to life of such great promise?

A great warrior cut down too soon?

The enemy triumphant in the last?

It may seem so …  and yet

as I have read the many, many tributes to your life

which have poured in from all around the globe,

I glimpse a bigger picture.

For everywhere you’ve been you’ve lit a flame

in people’s hearts.

That flame lives on and it will spread.

The seeds you’ve sown they will produce

a kingdom crop of fruitfulness

which none can span but God alone;

all to the glory of your Saviour.

I accept the truth now, Phil,

your race is run, you’ve fought the fight,

you’ve entered your reward -

the joy of heaven, free from all pain and sadness.

“Well done, you good and faithful servant,”

the words which surely greeted you

as you were welcomed by

your Saviour and the heavenly hosts.

The glory of Creator’s presence is now

in your sight.

We feel the sharp, strong pain of loss

and will forever do so,

but as we bear your life in view we are inspired

to carry on the work which God began in you.

You’ve passed the baton on to us, and

now you cheer us on to run the race,

and as we do, we hear your great last message,

“DO NOT GIVE UP!

But press on to the end,

looking to Jesus, for he will lead you on.”

And so, my brother, friend and inspiration,

I say farewell, with sadness, yet with joy,

and such great thankfulness that I was privileged to 

call you brother.

You leave a hole in all our lives, which never can be 

filled until we meet again.

And yet we know that Jesus, in whose presence you 

now rest, lives in our hearts,

and so do you, dear one.