Why Muggeridge Still Matters
Malcolm Muggeridge (1903–1990) lived one of the most interesting lives of the 20th century — a war correspondent, BBC commentator, author, and eventually a surprising voice for Christianity. He was never a sentimental believer. In fact, part of what makes him so compelling is that he came to faith reluctantly, even begrudgingly.
Some of his more memorable quotes:
“The depravity of man is at once the most empirically verifiable reality but at the same time the most intellectually resisted fact.”
“Only dead fish swim with the stream.”
“I never wanted a God, or feared a God, or felt under any necessity to invent one. Unfortunately, I am driven to the conclusion that God wants me.”
That last line is from the passage I keep coming back to. Here's what it means to me.
That line guts me. It's the recognition that no matter how comfortable we get, no matter how self-sufficient we feel, we are not the seekers. We are the sought.
I’m reminded of Martin Luther, who during a time of deep spiritual anguish was asked by his confessor, “Do you love God?” Luther replied, “Love God? Sometimes I hate Him.” It’s a raw, honest confession—one that echoes Muggeridge’s sense of being hunted down by a God he never sought, yet could not escape.
When Muggeridge wrote that God is pursuing him like a hound, it was known to be a reference to Francis Thompson’s poem, The Hound of Heaven. God is not content to let us be. He comes after us in our sunshine moments and picnics, casting a shadow. Not to ruin our joy, but to reveal how flimsy it all is without Him.
He describes how the divine light exposes everything — our vanity, our mortality, even our carefully constructed happiness.
Our distractions lose their flavor.
Our achievements crumble under divine scrutiny.
Even our highest joys can't withstand eternity’s gaze.
It's raw, almost painful. But deeply true.
One image that sticks with me is Muggeridge’s idea that, under God's direction, history becomes a kind of soap opera — full of bad acting, fake props, and threadbare storylines.
Now, soap opera might feel a bit dated as a term (though it's still around). But the idea still lands: our self-important dramas and manufactured narratives look ridiculous when exposed to eternal light. You could swap in reality show, Instagram story, or even political theater — the effect is the same. God sees through all of it.
Muggeridge also quotes Kierkegaard, who said that what we naturally love is finitude — the safe, manageable life. But when God confronts us with infinitude — eternity, holiness, ultimate truth — it undoes us. It pulls back the curtain on everything we try to hide behind.
We long for comfort and control. But God wants truth and transformation. No wonder we resist Him.
No Escape — But That's Good News
Muggeridge ends with a bleak honesty: “There is no escape.” We twist and turn, try to replace God with politics, pleasure, or philosophy. We’d rather follow D.H. Lawrence or Marx or Roosevelt — anyone but the real God.
But in the end, dead or alive, He is still God. And strangely, that’s where the hope lies. Not in our illusions. Not in our performances. But in the relentless, loving pursuit of the One who won't leave us alone.
This passage has meant so much to me over the years because it reminds me that faith isn't always tidy or desired — but it’s real. God isn’t something we add to an already full life; He’s the light that reveals what’s really there.
And in that light — even when it hurts — is the only kind of life that lasts.
"IS THERE A GOD ?
Well, is there? I myself should be very happy to answer with an emphatic negative. Temperamentally, it would suit me well enough to settle for what this world offers, and to write off as wishful thinking, or just the self-importance of the human species, any notion of a divine purpose and a divinity to entertain and execute it. The earth's sounds and smells and colours are very sweet; human love brings golden hours; the mind at work earns delight. I have never wanted a God, or feared a God, or felt under any necessity to invent one. Unfortunately, I am driven to the conclusion that God wants me.
God comes padding after me like a Hound of Heaven. His shadow falls over all my little picnics in the sunshine, chilling the air; draining the viands of their flavour, talk of its sparkle, desire of its zest. God takes a hand as history's compere, turning it into a soap opera, with ham actors, threadbare lines, tawdry props and faded costumes, and a plot which might have been written by Ted Willis himself. God arranges the lighting —Spark of Sparks—so that all the ravages of time, like parched skin, decaying teeth and rotting flesh, show through the makeup, however lavishly it may be plastered on. Under God's eye, tiny hoarded glories—a little fame, some money . . . Oh Mr M! how wonderful you are!—fall into dust. In the innermost recesses of vanity one is discovered, as in the last sanctuaries of appetite; on the highest hill of complacency, as in the lowest burrow of despair. One shivers as the divine beast of prey gets ready for the final spring; as the shadow lengthens, reducing to infinite triviality all mortal hopes and desires.
There is no escape. Even so, one twists and turns. Perhaps Nietzsche was right when he said that God had died. Progressive theologians with German names seem to think so: Time magazine turned over one of its precious covers to the notion. If God were dead, and eternity had stopped, what a blessed relief to one and all! Then we could set about making a happy world in our own way—happy in the woods like Mellors and his Lady Chatterley; happiness successfully pursued, along with life and liberty, in accordance with the Philadelphia specification; happy the Wilson way, with only one book to take to the post-office—one book, one happiness; happy in the prospect of that great Red Apocalypse when the State has withered away, and the proletariat reigns for ever more. If only God were D. H. Lawrence, or Franklin D. Roosevelt, or Harold Wilson, or Karl Marx!
Alas, dead or alive, he is still God, and eternity ticks on even though all the clocks have stopped. I agree with Kierkegaard that 'what man naturally loves is finitude' and that involvement through God in infinitude 'kills in him, in the most painful way, everything in which he really finds his life . . . shows him his own wretchedness, keeps him in sleepless unrest, whereas finitude lulls him into enjoyment.' Man, in other words, needs protection against God as tenants do against Rachmanism, or minors against hard liquor."
Here is an analysis of the poem, The Hound of Heaven
The Hound of Heaven: A Poem of Relentless Grace
Among the great spiritual poems of the modern era stands The Hound of Heaven, a work of profound beauty and theological depth. Written by English poet Francis Thompson (1859–1907), this poem has stirred hearts for over a century with its portrayal of God’s tireless pursuit of the human soul.
Who Was Francis Thompson?
Thompson’s life was marked by pain and paradox. Born into a devout Roman Catholic family in England, he showed early promise in both medicine and literature. However, his adult life spiraled into years of poverty, illness, and opium addiction on the streets of London. It was during these darkest days that he wrote The Hound of Heaven, a deeply personal reflection of his spiritual journey.
Despite his hardships, Thompson's poetic gift eventually caught the attention of the publishers of Merrie England, and his work—especially this poem—was embraced for its powerful imagery and spiritual insight.
What Is The Hound of Heaven About?
The title itself is striking. A “hound” suggests a dog trained to pursue with unswerving focus. In this poem, the “Hound of Heaven” is a metaphor for God—persistent, patient, and full of grace. Far from a predator, this divine pursuer is a loving Father who follows the soul with unwavering purpose, even as the soul runs from Him.
The poem explores the futility of fleeing God through earthly distractions, pleasures, and self-reliance. In the end, it is not wrath that catches the fleeing soul, but love.
THE HOUND OF HEAVEN- Francis Thompson
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat—and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet—
'All things betray thee, who betrayest Me'.
“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”
God tells the fleeing soul that all the things he turns to instead of God—pleasures, hopes, dreams, people—ultimately betray him. Why? Because he has betrayed his Creator. When the soul flees God, even good things lose their ability to satisfy. They become hollow.
I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followed,
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)
But, if one little casement parted wide,
The gust of His approach would clash it to:
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateway of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars;
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;
With thy young skiey blossom heap me over
From this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
The long savannahs of the blue;
Or, whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet:—
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
Still with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following Feet,
And a Voice above their beat—
'Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.'
“Nothing can protect you, because you refuse to give Me a home in your soul.”
It echoes the theme: God desires to dwell with His people (e.g., Revelation 3:20, John 14:23), but if He is shut out, no other refuge will suffice.It flips the roles. Just as we seek shelter in God, God also seeks a place to dwell—in the heart of the human soul. If the soul refuses to “shelter” God (through faith, surrender, love), then that soul has no true refuge from the storms of life, fear, guilt, or eternity.
It echoes the theme: God desires to dwell with His people (e.g., Revelation 3:20, John 14:23), but if He is shut out, no other refuge will suffice.
I sought no more after that which I strayed
In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children's eyes
Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
Come then, ye other children, Nature's—share
With me' (said I) 'your delicate fellowship;
Let me greet you lip to lip,
Let me twine with you caresses,
Wantoning
With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,
Banqueting
With her in her wind-walled palace,
Underneath her azured dais,
Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.'
So it was done:
I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.
I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies;
I knew how the clouds arise
Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
All that's born or dies
Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful divine;
With them joyed and was bereaven.
I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day's dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine:
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
I laid my own to beat,
And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
These things and I; in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
The breasts o' her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
My thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
With unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
And past those noisèd Feet
A voice comes yet more fleet—
'Lo! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me.'
Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke!
My harness piece by piece Thou has hewn from me,
And smitten me to my knee;
I am defenceless utterly.
I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amidst the dust o' the mounded years—
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amarinthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
Ah! must—
Designer infinite!—
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
Such is; what is to be?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again.
But not ere him who summoneth
I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;
His name I know and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
Be dunged with rotten death?
Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the bruit;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
'And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!
'Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught' (He said),
'And human love needs human meriting:
How hast thou merited—
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
Rise, clasp My hand, and come!'
Halts by me that footfall:
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
'Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.'
Why It Still Matters
In a time when many are restless, hurting, or hiding behind distraction, The Hound of Heaven offers hope: God pursues not to condemn, but to rescue. His grace is not forceful but faithful. And even when we run, His love is faster.
