Category Archives: spirituality

by | August 10, 2026 · 11:28 am

When Faith Stops Working: Are You Listening?

This summer, as Europe swelters under yet another wave of extraordinary heat, I find myself thinking about an old story I heard many years ago. It is a simple story, almost a joke. But sometimes the simplest stories contain truths we would rather avoid.

There was an old man named Angelo who lived in a small Italian village. One day, his neighbour came running to his door.

“There is a flood warning,” he told him. “The river is rising. Everyone has been told to leave the village within 24 hours.”

Angelo listened calmly.

“I will be fine,” he replied. “I trust in the Lord.”

His neighbour pleaded with him, but Angelo refused to leave.

A little later, a fire engine came through the village, its loudspeaker warning everyone to evacuate immediately.

Angelo heard it.

But he stayed.

Then the river began to rise. Water flooded the houses closest to the river, and people started fleeing for higher ground. A rescue worker came to Angelo’s door.

“You have to leave now!”

But Angelo shook his head.

“I trust in the Lord.”

Eventually, the water reached the upper floor of his house. Angelo climbed onto the roof.

Then a helicopter appeared.

A rescue worker lowered a ladder.

“Come on, Angelo! We can get you out!”

But once again Angelo refused.

“I trust in the Lord.”

The helicopter eventually disappeared.

Angelo drowned.

When he arrived at the gates of heaven, he was furious.

“I trusted you,” he said to God. “I believed you would save me. And you didn’t.”

God looked at him with sadness.

“Angelo, I sent you your neighbour. I sent you the fire engine. I sent you the rescue worker. And finally, I sent you a helicopter. What more did you expect me to do?”

Perhaps the warnings are the message

I thought about Angelo recently while walking through Wandsworth Common. Walking has become a way for me to make sense of the world. When I walk, I notice things I might otherwise miss.

This time, I noticed the grass. I noticed the bumblebee dying and the pigeon spreading its wings, trying to stay cool.

The grass should have been green. Instead, it was dry and yellow, brittle beneath my feet. Trees and shrubs were showing the strain of weeks without sufficient rain. Nature seemed tired. There was something strangely unsettling about it. Perhaps because I have lived long enough to remember summers when rain in central Europe was something we complained about rather than something we worried about.

I know that one hot summer does not prove climate change. Nor does a dry lawn. But when an isolated event becomes part of a pattern, perhaps the wise response is not to explain it away, but to ask questions, pay attention, and to listen.

And that is what keeps returning to me from the story of Angelo.

I attended one of the early United Nations climate conferences as a journalist many years ago. The scientists were warning us about the consequences of pumping ever greater quantities of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. At the time, the future seemed comfortably distant. Climate change belonged to another generation. It would have to deal with it

What if the warnings are already the message?

But perhaps that is one of the great illusions of human beings: our tendency to imagine that the consequences of what we do will always arrive somewhere else, sometime later, and affect somebody else. Now the future has become the present. The heat, the droughts, the record-breaking summer temperatures, the fires, and the floods simply cannot be denied anymore. And yet, like Angelo, we seem strangely reluctant to leave the comfort zone of our house.

When faith becomes a way of not seeing

This is where the story touches something much deeper for me than climate change. It touches the question of faith itself. For much of my life, I have wrestled with what it means to believe.

I have become suspicious of a faith that gives us easy answers to difficult questions. A faith that tells us everything will be all right if only we trust enough. Because sometimes everything tells us that something is just not right. The river really is rising. The diagnosis is serious. A relationship is really over. The world is changing rapidly beneath our feet. The certainties we have built our lives around simply have stopped working.

Perhaps that is one of the most frightening experiences in life: discovering that the beliefs that once gave us security no longer help us make sense of what is happening. But perhaps it is also an invitation. When faith stops working, something else may be asking to emerge. It is perhaps a deeper faith that does not require you to know how everything will turn out. It is a faith that allows you to say:

I don’t know.

I am afraid.

I may have been wrong.

But I am willing to look.

Listening to what is in front of you

I am increasingly convinced that wisdom has less to do with having answers than with learning how to listen. It is listening to your body, to other people, your intuition, and to that voice that you perceive only in silence, above all in nature.

Nature does not speak to you in words. It speaks through patterns, seasons, heat, drought, rain, abundance and scarcity. Our ancestors knew very well how to interpret these signs. Their survival depended on it. But in the disconnect from the natural world, we seem to have lost that ability.

We can choose to ignore these whispers from the universe. But ignoring them does not make them disappear. That is what Angelo misunderstood. He believed that faith meant waiting for God to intervene. Perhaps the deeper truth is that God had already intervened. The neighbour was the intervention. The fire engine was the intervention. The rescue worker was the intervention. The helicopter was the intervention. Angelo simply didn’t recognise them as such.

And I wonder how often we do the same.

How many times in your life has something tried to get your attention?

A relationship that no longer feels right. A body telling you to slow down. A restlessness that cannot be explained. A recurring dream and a difficult conversation that you keep avoiding.

A landscape that no longer looks the way it once did. A world that is changing before our eyes. Perhaps these are not interruptions to our lives. Perhaps they are our lives speaking to us.

The helicopter is still there

I don’t know what the world will look like ten or fifteen years from now. I don’t know whether we will succeed in changing course quickly enough. And I certainly don’t believe that fear and denial is going to save us.

But I do believe we still have choices. That may be the most hopeful part of the story. Angelo was not a victim until the very end.

He had choices. And so do you. We are not powerless in the face of a changing world. We can change how we live. We can demand that those who govern us take reality seriously. We can consume less, waste less, protect what remains and support those working to restore what has been damaged.

But perhaps the first step is simpler.

We need to listen. To put down our certainties for a moment. To look out of the window.

To walk through a park. To notice the colour of the grass. To feel the heat and rescue the bumblebee looking for water.

To see the trees struggling.

And then to ask yourself honestly:

What is life trying to tell me?

Faith does not mean believing that someone will come and save you.

Perhaps faith means trusting yourself enough to recognise the helicopter when it arrives. And having the courage to climb aboard.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | August 4, 2026 · 6:10 am

Finding Meaning Beyond Success: A Personal Journey

Are you one of those people living with this sense that your work somehow contradicts the deeper yearning of the soul? Outwardly you may appear successful, yet inwardly something remains unsettled.

Each person is born as a unique individual with gifts, talents, and a particular path to walk. Yet one of life’s great tragedies is that many people discover too late that they have spent decades climbing a ladder only to find it was leaning against the wrong wall.

Our culture encourages us to pursue success, influence, recognition, and wealth. There is nothing inherently wrong with these aspirations. The problem arises when we mistake them for the destination of a meaningful life. Once the goal has been achieved, the excitement gradually fades. What once felt extraordinary becomes ordinary. Habit replaces wonder. Achievement is followed by an unexpected emptiness.

I experienced something similar after walking my first pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

Reaching the cathedral filled me with joy and a profound sense of accomplishment. For weeks I had overcome blisters, fatigue, uncertainty, and changing weather. Every step had carried meaning because it demanded something of me.

Yet it was only after returning home to the old routine that I found that work needed to be done on the real pilgrimage. I was still stuck in an unfulfilling job and a marriage that was slowly falling apart.

On the Camino Primitivo

The Camino had changed me within, but my external world was still the same.

The real work was not completing the journey. It was allowing the journey to transform the way I lived afterwards.

That insight has stayed with me ever since.

The deepest satisfaction is seldom found at the destination. It is found in the daily struggle, the uncertainty, the conversations with strangers, the physical exhaustion, the moments of silence, and the countless small challenges along the way.

Perhaps this explains why people who seem to have every comfort deliberately seek difficult experiences. They climb mountains, run ultramarathons, walk across continents or venture into remote wilderness. They are not searching for suffering. They are searching for aliveness.

Growth rarely happens in perfect comfort.

Psychologists have long observed that human beings thrive when they are stretched, but not overwhelmed. Challenges activate creativity, resilience, and learning. When every obstacle is removed, our development often stalls. Muscles strengthen through resistance. Character is shaped through adversity. Wisdom is born from experience rather than convenience.

The workplace is no exception.

Many people see workplace difficulties as something to escape. Difficult colleagues, demanding projects, changing technology or increasing responsibilities can easily become sources of frustration. Yet these very challenges often become the training ground where patience, courage, emotional intelligence and leadership are formed.

This does not mean that toxic work environments should be tolerated. Persistent bullying, exploitation or unhealthy organisational cultures damage both individuals and organisations. But in a healthy workplace, challenge itself is not the enemy. Constructive difficulty invites you to grow beyond who you were yesterday.

The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer captured this paradox with remarkable clarity:

“If all wishes were fulfilled as soon as they arose, how would men occupy their lives? What would they do with their time? If the world were a paradise of luxury and ease… men would either die of boredom or hang themselves.”

His words may sound severe, but they point to an enduring truth. Human beings need something meaningful to strive for. We are not designed merely for comfort; we are designed for growth.

Over the years, I have facilitated hundreds of workshops on corporate health and wellbeing. One pattern has repeatedly emerged.

Many employees spend years counting the days until retirement, convinced that happiness lies just beyond their final working day. Yet when retirement finally arrives, many discover that the absence of work also means the loss of structure, identity, community and purpose. Without a compelling reason to get up in the morning, freedom can unexpectedly become emptiness.

Work is about far more than earning a living.

People often realise this only after a prolonged illness, unemployment or an extended absence from the workplace. Beyond the salary, meaningful work offers connection, contribution and the opportunity to develop our abilities. It gives us occasions to solve problems, collaborate with others and become more than we were yesterday.

Considering that we spend such a large portion of our lives at work, perhaps the better question is not, “How can I escape the workplace?” but rather, “How can I transform my work into part of my own inner journey?”

Whether you remain in your current profession or eventually choose another path, every challenge can become part of your formation. Every difficult conversation can teach compassion. Every setback can deepen resilience. Every obstacle can reveal strengths you never knew you possessed.

The goal, after all, is not simply to arrive at retirement, promotion or financial security.

The goal is to become the person you were always meant to be.

As I look back on my own life, I rarely remember the periods when everything was easy. It was the pilgrimages, the professional setbacks, the unexpected detours, the relationships that tested me, and the moments when I had to make difficult choices that shaped who I have become.

Perhaps the same is true for you.

Rather than asking, “How can I avoid life’s obstacles?” perhaps a better question is, “What is this challenge trying to teach me?”

The obstacle may not be standing in your way.

It may be showing you the way.

So let me leave you with this question:

When you look back on your own journey, did your greatest growth come from the seasons of comfort—or from the challenges you once wished would disappear?

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | July 28, 2026 · 5:29 am

The Trinity and Love

Over the years, I have walked thousands of kilometres on pilgrimage routes across Europe, often finding myself stepping off the trail into small churches and ancient chapels. Sometimes I entered simply to escape the midday heat. Sometimes to rest tired legs. Often there was no one else inside. The silence itself became a companion.

I would sit for a while and let my eyes wander over faded frescoes, carved crucifixes, stained-glass windows, and centuries-old icons. I rarely tried to analyse what I was seeing. Instead, I simply allowed the artwork to speak. Those precious moments became as much a part of the pilgrimage as the walking itself.

Walking a pilgrimage is not only about moving through landscapes; it is about allowing the landscape of the soul to change. The art in those ancient sanctuaries invited me to slow down, to become present, and to notice the subtle movements of the heart that are easily drowned out by the noise of everyday life. There are paintings we admire for their beauty. There are others we appreciate for their historical importance. And then there are a rare few that seem to look back at us, inviting us into a conversation that transcends words.

For more than six centuries, pilgrims, monks, artists, and seekers have returned again and again to Andrei Rublev’s The Trinity. Many consider it the greatest icon ever painted—not because of its artistic perfection, but because of the quiet mystery it reveals.

Most religious art portrays God as distant, enthroned, or judging from above. Rublev offers an altogether different vision. Three figures sit around a simple table beneath the shade of an oak tree. Their bodies incline gently towards one another. Their gaze moves in an endless circle of mutual love. There is no struggle for dominance, no assertion of rank, no hint of rivalry.

Everything about the icon whispers that the deepest reality of existence is relationship.

Rublev’s The Trinity embodies that same invitation.

At the front of the table there is an empty place.

It is impossible to ignore once you see it.

That space has been left open intentionally.

It is your place.

Icons were never intended simply to decorate churches or illustrate theology. In the Eastern Christian tradition, they are often called windows into heaven. Their purpose is not merely to tell us something about God but to draw us into an encounter with the Divine.

This is the difference between knowing about the sacred and experiencing it.

Modern culture encourages you to gather information, formulate opinions, and seek certainty. Yet the deepest spiritual experiences often arise when you stop trying to master the mystery and allow the mystery to embrace you instead.

That, for me, is the gift of pilgrimage.

Walking hour after hour strips away the unnecessary. There comes a point when the questions become more important than the answers, when silence speaks more eloquently than words, and when simply sitting in an ancient chapel can become a profound act of prayer. The journey teaches that God is encountered less through explanation than through attention—through learning to be fully present to the present moment.

When you sit quietly before Rublev’s icon, something subtle begins to happen. The image ceases to be an object we observe. Instead, it becomes a mirror. It reveals where lives have become fragmented, where fear has replaced trust, where ambition has overshadowed compassion, where you have forgotten that you belong to something infinitely larger than yourself.

The invitation is not to acquire another belief.

It is to enter the circle.

The early Christian mystics spoke of the Trinity as an eternal movement of self-giving love—a divine dance in which each person exists for the other. Creation itself flows from that love. Humanity is not called merely to admire it but to participate in it. It reminds me of the African philosophy of Ubuntu – that you become who you are through interaction with others.

Seen in this light, spirituality is no longer about escaping the world or accumulating religious knowledge. It becomes a way of seeing. A way of listening. A way of walking through ordinary life with an awakened awareness that every encounter can become sacred.

The empty place at the table reminds you that you are already included.

You do not earn your seat through achievement, moral perfection, or religious certainty but in simply accepting the invitation.

Perhaps this explains why The Trinity continues to move people after more than six hundred years. In a world marked by polarisation, tribalism, and the relentless pursuit of status and power, Rublev reminds us that the deepest reality of the universe is not domination but communion. Not fear, but love. Not exclusion, but belonging.

Every time I leave a quiet church or chapel on pilgrimage, shoulder my backpack, and return to the path, I carry something invisible with me. Not a new doctrine or a fresh certainty, but a deeper awareness that the sacred is never confined to the sanctuary. It walks with us along dusty paths, through forests and villages, in conversations with strangers, and in the silence between footsteps.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson Rublev’s icon has to teach. The spiritual journey is not about climbing towards God.

It is about awakening to the astonishing possibility that God has been making room for us all along.

And perhaps, having taken our place at the table, our calling is to leave an empty chair in our own lives—for the stranger, the wounded, the forgotten, and those with whom we disagree.

For love always makes room.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | July 7, 2026 · 8:05 am

The Crisis We Rarely Speak About

Across much of the world, we are witnessing a resurgence of tribalism, nationalism, and narrow ideologies. From my native South Africa to Europe and the United States, minorities are increasingly blamed for society’s frustrations.

History offers a familiar pattern here. A narrative that thrives on fear sows confusion and division, and while people are distracted by imagined enemies, fundamental freedoms are quietly eroded. The message is almost always the same: you have never been worse off, you are no longer safe, and the past was somehow better.

Materially speaking, most people today enjoy opportunities, technology, and healthcare that previous generations could scarcely have imagined. Yet trust in our major institutions—government, the media, religious organizations, and the judiciary—has seldom been lower.

Every crisis, however, carries within it the seeds of a new beginning. The illusion that our happiness depends on external institutions or circumstances is beginning to crumble.

Lasting fulfilment does not arise from the external world, but from the transformation that begins within.

So the deeper crisis lies elsewhere. It is a spiritual one—a growing loss of purpose, meaning, and connection.

Many traditional religious institutions no longer offer the answers people are looking for. More and more, people sense that the church, synagogue, temple, or mosque is not the same thing as the Divine itself. Religion teaches us what to believe and how to behave. At its best, it offers community, wisdom, and sanctuary. At its worst, it becomes an instrument of guilt, shame, or political power.

Spirituality begins somewhere deeper. It is a slow awakening.

As I write this from my home in Spain, the hypnotic chorus of Mediterranean cicadas fills the air. Their rhythmic song has become a daily reminder that creation itself is alive with mystery. Nature isn’t somewhere we escape to—it’s a living invitation to rediscover who we truly are.

When we learn to listen deeply, the subtle vibrations of life remind us that our greatest challenge isn’t political, financial, or technological. It’s the loss of our sense of purpose.

That’s precisely the insight in Romans 1:20: creation itself bears witness to the reality, power, and divine nature of God. If we open ourselves, we can perceive beauty, wonder, and mystery everywhere.

Paul writes that although God is invisible, His “eternal power and divine nature” can be clearly perceived through creation. Nature doesn’t reveal everything about God, nor does it replace spiritual revelation—it points beyond itself, toward its Source. Put simply: the universe is not just a collection of objects. It’s a living testimony, inviting us to recognise a transcendent Source expressed through both the visible and the invisible.

Seen this way, wonder becomes a doorway to faith. Beauty, order, complexity, and even our deepest longings all point beyond the material world. The real question isn’t whether there’s evidence—it’s whether we’re willing to respond to what creation is already revealing.

Paul’s larger argument is that humanity has always had access to an awareness of the Divine through creation, yet we repeatedly exchange that awareness for idols—things we choose to worship instead of the Source itself.

The Jewish mystic Rabbi Schneur Zalman put it beautifully: every soul “naturally yearns to separate itself from the body in order to unite with its origin and source…the fountainhead of all life.”

To receive these moments of awakening, we have to stay attentive—to learn how to become present. The novelist Boris Pasternak captured this with extraordinary simplicity: “When a great moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, and it is very easy to miss it.”

Perhaps the greatest spiritual practice of our time is simply learning to hear that quiet knock.

If these reflections resonate with you, I’d love for you to join Letters from the Threshold—my Inner Circle of readers exploring purpose, spirituality, and the deeper currents shaping our lives. Members receive exclusive essays, personal reflections, and an invitation to our monthly online gathering, where we explore the questions that matter most, together.

If you’re looking not just for information, but for transformation, I’d be delighted to welcome you.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S. Here you can find out more about my books on similar themes

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by | June 1, 2026 · 8:54 am

Embracing Self-Love on the Camino de Santiago

While walking the Camino de Santiago, I sometimes encountered pilgrims who seemed to confuse pilgrimage with an act of self-punishment. Despite their bodies sending unmistakable signals—painful blisters, swollen joints, and deep exhaustion—that it was time to rest, they would continue pushing forward. Determined to conquer the path at all costs, they ignored their physical limits until, inevitably, they were forced to abandon their journey altogether.

There is a saying I learned from another pilgrim on the way. “If you don’t learn to approach the path with humility, it will teach you humility.”

Others approached the Camino very differently. I remember older pilgrims, some well into their eighties, who walked slowly and with intention. They moved at their own pace, stopping occasionally to admire the landscape, sitting quietly in contemplation, or choosing to walk only half a stage in a day. Rather than measuring success by distance covered, they seemed to delight in the journey itself. Remarkably, many of these pilgrims completed the entire 800-kilometre route to Santiago. Even more striking was the vitality they radiated. They appeared youthful, not because of physical strength alone, but because they had learned the wisdom of walking in harmony with themselves.

Pilgrimage offers many lessons about life, but one of its most important teachings is the often misunderstood art of self-love.

Modern psychology increasingly confirms what many spiritual traditions have taught for centuries: self-love is not a luxury but a necessity for human flourishing. Research on self-compassion, pioneered by psychologist Dr Kristin Neff, shows that people who treat themselves with kindness during times of difficulty tend to be more resilient, emotionally balanced, and motivated than those who constantly criticise themselves.

Contrary to popular belief, harsh self-judgment, especially negative self-talk, does not produce stronger or more successful people. Instead, it often leads to anxiety, burnout, perfectionism, and emotional exhaustion.

Self-love, in psychological terms, means relating to oneself with the same care and understanding that one would naturally offer a good friend. It involves recognising one’s limitations without shame and acknowledging one’s worth without needing constant external validation. Such an attitude fosters emotional well-being and enables people to respond more constructively to life’s inevitable challenges.

These findings resonate deeply with the teachings of the 13th-century mystic Meister Eckhart. Eckhart believed that what turns human beings into compulsive graspers—unable to let go of possessions, status, relationships, or beliefs—is ultimately a lack of trust. Beneath our attachments lies a profound insecurity, a fear that we are somehow incomplete or unworthy.

For Eckhart, self-love and trust in the divine are inseparable. Compassion arises from confidence in the goodness that lies at the heart of existence, while compulsive striving grows from the belief that we are fundamentally lacking or flawed. The person who learns to “let be” and at the same time allows themselves to be is expressing a deep confidence in the creative source of life.

Eckhart writes: “If you do not know how to love yourself, how is it possible that you will love God? There can be no love of neighbour without love of self.” To love oneself, in his understanding, is not an obstacle to spiritual growth but one of its essential foundations.

Such ideas were controversial in Eckhart’s time. Many theologians were preoccupied with sin, moral regulation, and the strict enforcement of doctrine. God was often portrayed as an authoritarian ruler who rewarded obedience and punished transgression. Shame and guilt became powerful tools of religious instruction—a dynamic that continues to influence some religious traditions today.

The divine potential in every person

Yet Eckhart offered a radically different vision. Rather than beginning with fear, he began with trust. Rather than emphasising human depravity, he pointed toward the divine potential present within every person.

This brings us to an important distinction: self-love is not the same as ego.

The ego seeks validation, superiority, and control. It constantly compares itself with others and measures its worth through achievement, status, or recognition. Ego asks, “How can I become more important?” Self-love asks, “How can I become more fully myself?”

The ego is rooted in insecurity and therefore always needs more. Self-love arises from a deeper acceptance and therefore has nothing to prove. The ego separates; self-love connects. The ego grasps; self-love releases. The ego seeks to protect an image; self-love nurtures a living reality.

Far from encouraging selfishness, genuine self-love often leads to greater compassion. People who are at peace with themselves generally have a greater capacity to listen, empathise, forgive, and care for others. They are not depleted by the endless struggle to earn their own worth.

The spiritual path, whether on the Camino or in everyday life, invites you to confront your fears, loosen your attachments, and ultimately learn the difficult art of letting go. This includes letting go of the false stories you tell yourself about who you should be.

At the heart of Eckhart’s teaching is a beautiful image. The essence of the divine, he says, is “birthing”—a continual process of creation and emergence. Life is not a static state to be achieved but an ongoing unfolding into what we are meant to become. We are not passive observers of this process but active participants in it.

Perhaps this is one of the Camino’s greatest lessons. The journey is not won by those who push themselves the hardest. It is completed by those who learn to walk with wisdom, humility, and kindness toward themselves. In learning to love yourself, you discover that you are not separate from the sacred journey but part of its unfolding.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S. Over the years, my own Camino journeys have inspired two books exploring the deeper inner dimension of pilgrimage and transformational walking: Deep Walking for Body, Mind and Soul and the newly revised edition of Walking on Edge. Both reflect on the Camino not merely as a physical journey, but as a path of inner change, reflection, and rediscovery.

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by | May 17, 2026 · 6:01 am

The Lost Art of Stillness: Awakening Your Inner Self

In an age shaped by scrolling screens and shrinking attention spans, something profound is happening beneath the surface. Recent studies suggest that nearly two-thirds of young people struggle to remain engaged with content lasting longer than a minute. Yet, paradoxically, this same generation is searching intensely for meaning, transcendence, and spiritual grounding. The hunger for depth has not disappeared. If anything, it has become more urgent.

The difficulty is that our modern world is designed for speed rather than contemplation. We are conditioned to expect instant answers, simplified narratives, and constant stimulation. But the deepest truths of existence cannot be reduced to sound bites or algorithms. Mystery does not reveal itself in haste.

The ancient mystics understood this well. They approached the human soul with reverence, knowing that the divine cannot be encountered amid endless distraction and noise. The sacred unfolds quietly. Only in silence, solitude, and contemplation does the veil begin to lift, allowing fleeting glimpses of a reality greater than yourself.

As the 14th-century mystic Meister Eckhart wrote:

“Nothing in all creation is so like God as stillness.”

Those words may be more relevant now than ever before.

You did not arrive here by accident. Your very existence is astonishingly improbable. Consider how different your life might have been had you been born in another country, another culture, another language, another body, or another century. None of those things were within your control. And yet, within the boundaries of circumstance, you have been given the extraordinary freedom to choose how you respond to life.

Your external conditions shape you, but they do not define the deepest essence of who you are.

It is by fully entering the depth of life’s journey that you awaken to purpose, resilience, and meaning. But this awakening becomes difficult when the mind is continually fragmented by external distraction. Much of the anxiety and emotional exhaustion of modern life emerges from this loss of alignment — a growing disconnect between the soul and its deeper calling.

We lose ourselves when we settle for the illusion of safety in mediocrity, silencing the inner voice that calls toward courage, creativity, and transformation. In doing so, there is a drift away from the very source of vitality.

Nature has always offered a path back.

The silence of mountains, forests, rivers, and open skies reveals something ancient and expansive. Birdsong, wind through trees, flowing water — all of it speaks of an intricate web of interconnectedness that modern life often obscures. In nature, you are reminded that you belong to something far greater than your schedules, anxieties, and ambitions.

It is no coincidence that many of humanity’s sacred places are found in forests, caves, deserts, and mountain summits. Nature slows our breathing, quiets stress, restores attention, and gently reconnects you to the rhythm of being itself.

Perhaps this is why time spent in nature often feels less like escape and more like remembrance.

To live well is not merely to chase future goals or external validation. It is to recover the lost art of presence — to live not only to achieve, but Living to BE.

And perhaps, in the stillness that you so often avoid, you may rediscover the deeper purpose for which you were born.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article you might be interested in reading: Sages, Saints and Sinners Get it today on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and where all good books are sold.

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by | May 4, 2026 · 5:44 pm

Lessons from the 14th Century Plague

There are places where history feels very present and where the emotional residue of another age still clings to stone and air. Puig de Maria, rising above the town of Pollença, on the Mediterranean island of Mallorca is one such place. It is not simply an old monastery, but built as a human answer to a dark time.

In 1348, as the Black Death swept across Europe. Suffocating fear was everywhere. Death arrived without logic or mercy, dismantling the illusion of control that underpinned medieval life. It is in this context that Puig de Maria was conceived: not as an architectural ambition, but as a cry to the divine.

The decision to build a sanctuary on a mountain summit high above the town was not accidental. It carried symbolic weight. To ascend is to separate—from contagion, from chaos, from the unbearable proximity of suffering. But it is also to draw nearer to God, to meaning, to the possibility that fear can be held within something larger than itself.

In Sages, Saints and Sinners, I return to a question that refuses to stay buried: what becomes of us when certainty collapses? When the structures we trusted—faith, order, meaning—no longer hold, who do we become? Set against the desolation of the 14th-century plague, a time when vast stretches of Europe fell silent and entire communities vanished, the novel steps into that rupture. It is not only a story of loss, but of what emerges in its wake—of the fragile, defiant ways human beings rediscover courage, meaning, and even love when everything familiar has been stripped away.

Some retreat into despair. Others are in denial. But there is a third path, rarer and more demanding—the transmutation of fear into courage, and anxiety into love.

Puig de Maria stands as a physical manifestation of that third path.

The people who built it were not free of fear. They were defined by it. And yet, instead of allowing fear to contract their world, they expanded it vertically. They climbed. They carried stone up a mountain in the midst of plague, and in doing so, enacted a radical defiance: fear would not have the final word.

There is a discipline in the refusal to be mentally captured by catastrophe.

The monastery that emerged—first a chapel, then a place of ongoing devotion—became more than a sanctuary. It became a container. Within its walls, fear was transformed. Ritual, prayer, and community gave structure to what would otherwise have been overwhelming. The unknown was met not with paralysis, but with presence.

This is the essence of transmutation. Not the removal of darkness, but its reworking into something that can sustain life.

Walking up to Puig de Maria today, the path winds in steady, deliberate curves. It is not a punishing climb, but it demands attention. There is a rhythm to it—step, breath, step—that mirrors something older than the path itself. Pilgrimage is never only about arrival. It is about what is shed along the way.

Halfway up, the town below begins to recede. Perspective shifts. What felt immediate loosens its grip. By the time you reach the summit, something subtle but unmistakable has occurred: distance has been created, not just physically, but internally.

This is the overlooked power of sacred geography. It externalises an inner movement.

At the top, the monastery remains austere. A tower and thick walls. A chapel that holds silence rather than spectacle. There is no excess here, no attempt to impress. It was never meant for comfort in the modern sense. It was meant for clarity.

And clarity, in times of crisis, is everything.

In our own age, fear has taken on different forms, but its structure remains familiar. Uncertainty, fragmentation, and a sense that the ground is less stable than we were led to believe. The temptation is the same as it was in the 14th century: to collapse inward, to narrow, to protect.

But Puig de Maria offers another template.

Climb.

Not away from reality, but toward a broader vantage point. Build—not necessarily in stone, but in practice—structures that can hold anxiety without being defined by it. Create spaces, inner and outer, where fear can be acknowledged, but not enthroned.

The plague did not end because a monastery was built. Suffering was not avoided. But meaning was forged in the midst of it.

And meaning is what allows endurance to become transformation.

In Sages, Saints and Sinners, the figures who endure are not those who escape fear, but those who metabolise it. They refuse its finality. They insist, against all evidence, that love and courage remain alive.

Puig de Maria asks a question that is as relevant now as it was then:

When fear rises, will you descend into it—or will you climb?

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article you might be interested in reading: Sages, Saints and Sinners Get it today on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and where all good books are sold.

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by | April 3, 2026 · 9:15 am

The Cross: A Symbol of Resurrection and New Beginnings

Wishing you a peaceful Easter. I’m sharing this extract from my book: Deep Walking for Body, Mind and Soul as a reflection for the season — on the Cross, on suffering, and on the possibility of new beginnings.

“It is easy to bond with people on the Camino. You share daily experiences, memories and the highs and lows that come with a pilgrimage walk.

Then comes the time to say goodbye, which can be a painful process if you have spent days and weeks walking with someone. It is like saying goodbye to an old friend when you know it will be some time before you will see each other again.

Ray was a veteran pilgrim, walking the Camino for the last time. He had undergone surgery for colon cancer some weeks before, and was taking his walk slowly and with great mindfulness.

It was from the awareness that every moment that he still had to live was precious. “I’ve been on this same path many times,” he confided, “but this time I am seeing so many things I did not see before.”

“It is like reading a good book, and then you read it a second time and a third time, discovering each time something new from a different state of awareness,” he said.

Talking with Ray led to the realization that life itself is meaning and the purpose of each individual is moving to a higher state of consciousness during a lifetime whose end we cannot predict.

Ray decided to take a few days’ rest near the town of Sarria, wanting to walk the last 100 kilometers (62 miles) to Santiago in his own time.

On saying goodbye, Ray gave me a Christian cross that he had lovingly carved out of wood from an olive tree.

While I was touched by his gift that came from the heart, I had mixed feelings about the cross that also symbolized the “corporate identity” of the church with which I had a long-troubled relationship.

I was unaware at the time that my pilgrim friend had given me an astounding gift. I hung it around my neck, its mystery opening to me with every step to Santiago and healing the old wound.

In the Christian tradition the cross is the symbol of Christ’s pain and suffering. It resonated with the people in the Middle Ages who themselves went through a dark time of humanity. But in the modern era?

The tragedy is that the fixation on this symbol of suffering misses the essence of Jesus’ teachings—that of transmuting suffering and death in resurrection.

This might sound blasphemous for some but we have a religion focused on life being an endless endurance of pain and suffering with the salvation only coming in the hereafter.

This was very much the thinking during the Middle Ages. Christians paid tithes to the church to “buy” their way into heaven. With disease, war and childbirth being a constant daily reminder that life on earth could be a short sojourn, the church fed into the fears of what comes in the afterlife. If certain beliefs, habits and rules were not followed, you ended up in the eternal flames of hell.

Life on earth at the time must surely have been hell for many people, struggling to eke out a living in the overcrowded towns and cities infested with rodents and human excrement. Living in the rural areas was no better, as every freak weather condition could mean a failed harvest and famine.

The devil was blamed for bad luck, accidents, immoral behavior, theft, illness and death. He was frequently depicted in places of worship, paintings and manuscripts of the time. Hell was a dark underground world ruled by Satan and full of demons, monstrosity and deformity. The horrors could not be worse if you turned your back against God and the church.

At the same time Christ was the savior in the sky above. Depictions of heaven and Christ could frequently be found on high ceilings and on top of the altar. God’s mercy and the reward in the afterlife came after leading a life following rules and beliefs.

There are many depictions of the world of darkness and the world of light in the old cathedrals, chapels and churches on the Camino, such as in Jaca, Lugo and Oviedo, giving an inkling of the mindset of the time.

The dividing lines between good and evil could not be more vivid.

In contrast, the Cathedral of Santiago is an expression of joy. It probably stems from the joy many pilgrims felt in finally reaching their destination after months of arduous walking. The Monte de Gozo, or Mountain of Joy, is situated on a hilltop from where the pilgrims had a beautiful view of the ancient city of Santiago.

The Portal of Glory in the cathedral features over 200 Romanesque sculptures, featuring angels, saints and prophets. Angels carry and lead the soul to paradise. The angels play instruments in concert to the glory of God.

Built in the form of a cruciform, the cathedral is almost austere coming from the entrance but opens up to a magnificent organ and choir with illuminated chapels on either side.

Even today pilgrims are overwhelmed when entering the cathedral for the first time.

If he or she has walked on the northern route, he/she will have passed by numerous crosses along the wayside, depicting the crucified Christ in many shapes and forms of gruesome suffering.

No wonder the first Vikings visiting England went back to their homeland telling their people that the Anglo-Saxons were easy prey because they were worshipping a dead God.

The cross is in fact an old symbol pre-dating Christian times and deeply embedded in pagan and Celtic tradition.

In many of the churches and chapels on the Camino the “Goddess,” the Virgin Mary, is the central figure on the altar. Especially in Galicia the ancient stone crosses depict Jesus on the one side and the Mother Mary on the other, which on a symbolic level unites the male and the female aspect.

One of the sad aspects of the Protestant movement was the banishment of the Madonna, the female aspect, from the altar, replacing it with the crucifix.

Many priceless artifacts were burned and destroyed in the fanatic 30-year religious war between Catholicism and Protestantism that ravaged central Europe in the 15th century.

While the Roman Cross has a long central vertical line, the Celtic cross has both the vertical and horizontal lines in equal length, with a circle around it.

The horizontal lines symbolize the past and the future, with the mind locked in one of these two thoughts on a daily basis. The vertical line, however, represents the alignment with the above and the below, the awakened state of the present “heart moment” in the center where the cross meets.

We thus find many an ancient painting depicting a heart or a mandala in the center of the cross.

As we say the old Celtic powerful prayer of protection, we visualize the Goddess, the Mother, Mary, the Madonna:

She is as above me as below, to the left and to the right, before me and behind me as well as within me.”

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article you might be interested in reading more in “Deep Walking for Body, Mind and Soul” published by Morgan James, New York. Get it today on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and where all good books are sold.

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by | March 22, 2026 · 10:36 am

Karma and Grace: How Your Actions Shape Reality Beyond Fate

Karma, much like forgiveness, is one of the most misunderstood concepts in the spiritual world. It is often reduced to a simplistic notion of fate, something predetermined, inevitable, and beyond your control. But this interpretation strips it of its real power and your divine purpose.

In a recent conversation on my LivingToBe podcast with Buddhist teacher and author Ann Tashi Slater, we explored a deeper and far more empowering understanding. In the Buddhist tradition, karma is not destiny. It is taking intentional action, and the ripple effects those actions create over time.

This shifts everything.

Rather than seeing life as something that “happens to you,” karma invites you to recognize that we are constantly participating in the shaping of our own reality. Every thought, every word, every action plants a seed. And those seeds, given time and conditions, bear fruit.

This is where agency enters.

If karma were fixed, we would be trapped in a script already written. But karma is dynamic. It unfolds in the present moment. And that means the present moment is always a point of power.

You are not just living out past causes; you are inevitably generating new ones.

A Christian Mystical Parallel

Interestingly, this understanding is not foreign to the Christian mystical tradition. While the word karma is not used, the principle of cause and effect appears in several profound ways.

Meister Eckhart spoke about the inner orientation of the soul as the determining factor of one’s experience of God and reality. It is not external circumstances, but your state of being that shapes what unfolds.

Similarly, St. John of the Cross emphasized that choices do matter. Purification and transformation come through conscious participation—through surrender but also through intentional alignment with divine love, kindness, and compassion.

In the New Testament, the principle is stated with striking clarity: “As you sow, so shall you reap” (Galatians 6:7). This is, in essence, a karmic law, not to be seen as punishment, but as a reflection of the deep coherence of creation.

From this perspective, karma or what is often misunderstood in Christian terms as sin, is not a cosmic bookkeeping system of reward and punishment. It is a spiritual practise and the evolving of consciousness.

From Victimhood to Participation

The misunderstanding of karma as fate often leads to passivity, shame, or even quiet despair:


“This is just my karma.”
“This is how things are meant to be.”

But a more accurate understanding empowers, restores responsibility, and possibility.

If your present circumstances are influenced by past causes, then your present actions are shaping your future experience.

This does not mean everything is controllable. Life is inevitably unpredictable, with waymarkers of loss, sadness, happiness, bliss, and mystery. But it does mean that how you respond is never predetermined.

And that response is itself karmically potent.

This is where karma and forgiveness meet.

Forgiveness interrupts cycles. It dissolves patterns that would otherwise continue repeating. In karmic terms, it is the conscious decision not to perpetuate a particular chain of cause and effect.

It is an act of profound spiritual authorship.

The Transformative Shift

To understand karma in this way is to move from a passive to an active relationship with life.

You are no longer merely the result of what has been.
You are a participant in what is becoming.

Each moment becomes an invitation:
What am I creating now?
What seeds am I planting?

Even the smallest shift in awareness can spark a new choice.
And a single new choice can begin to reshape your entire life.

You are not here to be carried by circumstance and fate. You are here to participate, to create, to transform.

Pause. Notice. Choose consciously.

The life you are living tomorrow begins with the action you take today.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article you might be interested in reading: Sages, Saints and Sinners Get it today on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and where all good books are sold.

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by | March 16, 2026 · 5:25 pm

Does God Punish Humanity? Lessons from the Black Death and Modern Pandemics

When disaster strikes on a massive scale, people instinctively ask the same ancient question:

Is this God’s judgment?

It is a question that has echoed throughout human history.

In the 14th century, as the Black Death swept across Europe, entire populations believed they were witnessing divine punishment. Churches filled with desperate prayers. Some people turned toward deeper faith. Others lost their faith entirely.

Centuries later, during the COVID-19 pandemic, that same question quietly resurfaced.

What happens to faith when the world believes God’s judgment has arrived?

Fear, Faith, and the Flagellants

During the Black Death, fear spread as quickly as the disease itself. Many believed the plague was a punishment for humanity’s sins.

Across Europe, bands of penitents known as flagellants marched from town to town, whipping themselves in public acts of penance. They believed that if humanity suffered enough, God might show mercy.

Crowds gathered to watch them.

Some saw them as holy reformers.

Others saw them as dangerous fanatics.

It was faith under extreme pressure.

The Quiet Courage of Compassion

Yet there was another response to the plague.

While many fled cities in terror, others stayed behind to care for the sick and dying. Monks, nuns, and priests often remained when everyone else ran.

Historians estimate that in some regions nearly half the clergy died while caring for plague victims.

For these people, faith did not mean explaining suffering.

Faith meant standing beside those who suffered.

When Catastrophe Shakes Belief

But the plague also shook belief at its foundations.

People began asking difficult questions:

  • Why would a loving God allow such devastation?
  • Why did the devout die alongside the corrupt?
  • Why did prayers not stop the disease?

These questions gradually reshaped Europe’s intellectual landscape, eventually contributing to major religious transformations, including the Protestant Reformation.

Faith did not disappear.

But it began to evolve.

How Faith Responds to Crisis

History shows that when a catastrophe strikes, faith often moves in three different directions.

Some people become more rigid and fearful, searching for certainty in times of chaos.

Others lose faith entirely, unable to reconcile suffering with belief in a loving God.

And some discover a deeper, quieter faith—one rooted not in easy answers, but in compassion, humility, and solidarity with others.

What Did Jesus Say About Suffering?

In the teachings of Jesus Christ, suffering is rarely presented as punishment directed at specific individuals.

Instead, suffering often becomes an invitation to reflect on how we live and how we treat one another.

The focus shifts away from blame and toward compassion, mercy, and moral transformation.

The Inspiration Behind Sages, Saints and Sinners

These were the questions that fascinated me when I began writing my historical novel Sages, Saints and Sinners.

I wanted to explore what happens to ordinary people when the world around them collapses and they believe that God’s judgment has arrived.

In many ways, the questions raised during the recent pandemic helped inspire that exploration.

Set during the Black Death, Sages, Saints and Sinners explores love, faith, and spiritual conflict in the midst of an existential crisis.

What do people hold onto when everything begins to collapse?

The novel tells a story of faith, doubt, and forbidden love in a time when many believed the end of the world had come.

If these questions intrigue you, you may enjoy the novel that grew out of them.

Sages, Saints and Sinners is available on Amazon, and all good bookshops.

What Pandemics Reveal About Us

History reminds us that pandemics do more than challenge our health.

They challenge our beliefs.
They challenge our assumptions.
And they challenge our understanding of God.

Perhaps the deepest question is not whether suffering is punishment.

Perhaps the real question is this:

Do moments of crisis invite us to rediscover compassion, courage, and faith?

Reino Gevers – Author – Mentor –Speaker

P.S: If you enjoyed this article you might be interested in reading: Sages, Saints and Sinners Get it today on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and where all good books are sold.

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