Category Archives: sunday thoughts

Sunday Thoughts (15)

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It’s reached the point of winter when the light reaches a bit further. Rises. It’s bright for longer, reflected on the snow.

And I was sitting in my room the other day, listening to a preaching about how important it is to let the light in.

The preacher was talking about how we design conference rooms with thick walls and doors, so that noise can’t get in or out, and we can have certain conversations in private. And sometimes we do the same in our brains. We have some things in our lives that we have built up walls around. Maybe it’s something shameful or secret, or just something in general that we feel like we have to deal with by ourselves. And by keeping those walls up, we can let God change us, and be in our lives, while some parts still remain unchanged. There are some parts where the light doesn’t reach.

But of course, that is not true. There’s no place where the light doesn’t reach. There’s no corner God doesn’t see. In the winter, when the sun is low, it actually reaches further, pierces the eyes. We’re allowed to live in the light, and we need to change our mindset and know that we are. We are whole people, and God deals with all of us.

Sunday (short) thoughts (14)

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And I don’t want to internalize my God, make him another part of me, talk to a selfmade idea. So I look up every now and then, away from myself, and ask if he sees me, if I am noticed as I walk under the stars. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because I do.

Tuesday morning prayer

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We’re having fun, aren’t we, you and me? I read something about laughing with you when we get to heaven, us telling you our story, and you telling back the things we’ve missed. And isn’t that crazy, you’ll hear about it then, and you’re already here now. There really is no fear. What could go wrong? What power do I have to mess things up? I’m here for such a short time. Soon I’ll talk to you about memories from this earth. I’ve enjoyed walking here, so much. I’ll keep enjoying it. The flowers, the people, the cities. You’ve done a great job, I love it all. The waterfalls and the street markets. The sorrow and the late night laughter. What a nice world you’ve made. Short, like a good night story. Long, like meadows and growing old. 

Sunday thoughts (12)

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The problem when you have too much is that they’ll think it’s you.

They’ll see what you do, and they’ll think it’s you.

They’ll think it’s you, solving all your problems, and working your life together for good. Sometimes you need to be weak, to show where your power comes from.

Like in the bible, when God told Gideon that He would be with His people, and they would defeat their enemies. But instead of strengthening their army, God said that the army was too big. In the book of Judges, ch 6:

2 The Lord said to Gideon, “You have too many men. I cannot deliver Midian into their hands, or Israel would boast against me, saying ‘My own strength has saved me.’

The journey is to become weak. And it’s the absolute freedom of the gospel: to not have to be anything in ourselves. Take it as a gift, not an insult. Sometimes you think you need to be more, when actually you need to be less. We need more cracks in our jars made of clay, so that it’s the light shining through us that’s visible — not the outward glaze. 

Sunday thoughts (11)

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Life is a little bit like the stairs up to my apartment. 

I walk up two stairs and come to a big window, where I can see half the sun over the roof of the building next doors. Then I walk up a couple more stairs, and by the next window, the sun is shining golden in my face. I feel it in my back as I continue walking. But it’s darker on the next platform, always a little bit darker on the platforms by the doors until I turn around again and take the stairs up to the next window. And finally by my door, I open it and walk through the corridor. And suddenly I’m in the living room. And suddenly I can sit still for a bit in the sunshine. 

That’s what it’s like to deal with things. They get better, but then it gets a bit darker again. We see more light, but then we keep going upwards and it feels like we’re moving away from the sun. But we’re just moving higher, and as time goes on we’ll end up in a place where we can see it better than ever before.

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(But even then, being healed does not mean always seeing the sun. It just means dwelling in that high place and knowing that we all have our own ways of moving through light and darkness.)

Sunday thoughts (10)

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Faith is sassy. It wears a smile. It’s similar to confidence, except that it’s not confidence in your own characteristics and abilities, but in Gods. It’s similar but with another source. A better source, an unending one. And faith does not contain fear, it’s not passivity in fear of disappointing God, it leads to activity together with Him and for Him, in confidence in who He is and confidence in who He has created us to be in His kingdom. It’s walking and acting and creating, it’s choices and future and an ability to dig into whatever we’re feeling today, because we have an unquenchable hope for the future.

Sunday thoughts (8)

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I read somewhere recently: 

“Christ didn’t die for your dreams, he died for your sins.”

And it’s so true. Let’s precede this with saying that of course God has a calling for your life, and of course he has amazing things he wants to lead you into, and dreams he has put into your heart. But he did not die for you to finally be able to get on that airplane and live that lifestyle you’ve always wanted to. He did not die for you to finally have that new job opportunity, savings account or success. Christ died for your sins. He died for you to be a new creation, pure and blameless, whether you’re in a minimum wage job or have an office with a skyline view. The main thing he died to bring you into is himself. Away from damnation and into eternity. That’s what we have waiting for us, that’s the life we have, changed and free, at a fancy restaurant patio or out on the streets. 

Continuation of prev. post (and Sunday thoughts (7))

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And here’s the thing, I stood close to it, leaning on the window pane. But I wanted to sit down. If I turned around there was the square of light, reflected on the sloped ceiling next to our kitchen table. And so I straightened up, and the sun was not on me anymore, and it was dark. But then I went and sat down on a kitchen chair and there it was again, bright and golden, filling up my whole field of vision even when I closed my eyes. And it was so stupid, I thought, to think that the sun would be less bright here. Maybe the sun is so bright in itself that it will still be quite bright, even if you move ten meters further away. And I think I do that all the time with God, feel like I’m moving further away, but truth is that I just need to sit down in the light and it won’t matter that much whether I’m ten meters further away or closer. Maybe I just need to stop worrying about the darkness and come to the light in the first place.