St Fergus Parish Church

04/03/2026

Dietrich Bonhoeffer in the Cost of Discipleship.

27/02/2026

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27/02/2026

Proverbs 9:10
10 The fear of Yahweh is the beginning of wisdom,
And the knowledge of the Holy One is understanding.

21/02/2026

“If you feel incapable, throw yourself upon the infinite capacity of God.”
- Charles Spurgeon

10/02/2026

In the winter of 1937, when the Great Terror moved with bureaucratic precision and human life was measured in quotas, a convoy of black vans rolled south of Moscow into the frozen trees of Butovo. The trucks were known as black crows—sealed NKVD vehicles designed to carry men out of sight and out of memory. Inside them were priests. One was an elderly bishop.

The ground at Butovo was iron-hard, the earth locked by frost. The pit had already been cut. Faces were wrapped against the cold; names were not exchanged. The procedure was meant to be quick, silent, efficient.

Then something went wrong.

As the condemned were ordered to the edge of the trench, the bishop lifted his head. His body shook—not from fear, but from age and cold—and in a thin but steady voice he began to sing: “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death.”

One by one, the others joined him.

There was no pleading. No bargaining. No cry for mercy. The hymn moved through the trees, slow and unbroken, rolling across the frozen ground like a challenge the forest itself seemed to hear. Each voice entered where the last had fallen silent. The song did not stop.

An officer shouted. A blow followed. Blood cut across the bishop’s face. He did not look away. Calmly—almost gently—he said, “We forgive you, my children, for you do not know what you do.”

Shots cracked. Bodies fell into the pit. But the hymn continued.

When only one priest remained, the men holding the rifles hesitated. What unnerved them was not murder, but its refusal to inspire terror. The last priest made the sign of the Cross. He blessed his executioners. He stepped forward. The bullet came after.

For years afterward, the people living near Butovo avoided the forest. They said the place would not stay quiet. On winter nights, when the wind blew from the north, it carried something with it—voices rising from the frozen ground, singing.

Today, a church stands there. Beneath its foundations are the objects recovered from the pits: small crosses, prayer ropes, fragments of clothing—mute witnesses to a faith the state could shoot, but not extinguish.

More than nine hundred clerics were executed at Butovo. Thousands more followed them into the ground. The forest kept their secret for decades. It does not keep it anymore.

07/02/2026

07/02/2026

Once isn't enough. Daily isn't even enough. We need to fix our eyes constantly—not out of legalistic obligation, but because we're prone to wander. Our hearts are drawn to lesser things. We need the continual recalibration of refocusing on the One who never changes, never disappoints, never fails.

The Christian life isn't a sprint of intense focus followed by coasting. It's the steady, relentless practice of turning our gaze back to Jesus—again and again and again.

07/02/2026

"Each of you has a unique sphere of influence in the marketplace of your life. You have been set in the place of God's appointing, wherever that might be and whatever the task may involve, however elaborate or apparently inconsequential. Nevertheless, it is God's divine calling for you." —Alistair Begg

Listen to today's program: https://tfl.to/4adH4H1