Sweden: a collage of experiences

Photos
Trip to Latvia Winter in Stockholm Trip to England with Source of Joy gospel choir Trip to Uppsala Autumn in Stockholm
Selected Journal Entries
	I want to be dangerous 22 juni 2004 I want to break down the walls, break down the lies. I have had enough. Had enough of seeing people think they are worthless, seeing people without hope, seeing people worship mobile phones or shiny cars, seeing downtrodden people who are more dead than alive. I have had enough. I want to be dangerous. I want to follow God--and push everything such else aside. I want to see broken hearts healed. I want to see lawyers and CEOs and burger flippers and homeless people dancing for joy together in the streets. I want to see people sing and cartwheel as they do their errands. I want people to know how unbelievably deeply their God loves them. I want to be dangerous. Brothers, sisters, do you? Hej då Sverige Today I said goodbye to Sweden and arrived in Seattle, back in my old room, back into old habits. I began to wonder if that snowy country was all just a dream. If so, what a dream. What a beautiful dream. Nothing Gold Can Stay Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. --Robert Frost Fusion "What do you work with?" I ask the grey haired man sitting next to me. I had recognized some of the diagrams he was studying on his laptop from my days in physics class. "I research fusion power," he says, looking up. My ears perk up, and I ask him to explain how it works. His eyes twinkle and we delve into the nitty-gritty physics behind it: hydrogen, plasma, and magnetic fields. And then into the grave need for it. Earth's climate is changing, due in large part to burning coal and gasoline. If we don't do something drastic, soon, Central America will become desert, and Scandinavia will be thrust into an ice age. "What can be done?" I ask, shocked. He says something about eating hydrocarbons and I assume that means that each and every one of us need to do something drastic to reduce pollution. Our flight lands, and its passengers start to fidget. I ask the master one last question: "How do you get to work?" He takes a deep breath. "Well, the lab is in the middle of nowhere, so I drive a car..." He sighs and continues, "...and my house is old, so it is heated with coal."

	Don't they understand? 16 juni 2004 When I visit, people have a hard time understanding that it's them I want to see and not the things around them. They suggest excursions and we go and look at some old house or rock and they say "How fine," and I think, "there must be more to life than this." Don't they understand that they themselves--the complex tapestry of their lives, dreams, and struggles--are so much more interesting? Don't they see how beautiful they are, carefully molded by the hands of God? Don't they fathom their immense worth? Don't they understand? Do we?

	Are we meeting people where they are? 14 juni 2004 We see our youth trying to find meaning in drugs, desperately grasping for the supernatural. Moral society tells them to hide their habit and hide their longing--instead of showing them where their longing can be met. Are we meeting people where they are? Half of teenage girls have problems with food, seeking to be loved and accepted by eating--or by starving. They hide these habits to show that they have everything together. Do we dare talk about it? Are we meeting people where they are? The homosexuals. Chased out of their families, chased out of society, chased out of the church. Do we welcome them with open arms, listen to their pain, and tell them of God's love; or do we keep our distance? Are we meeting people where they are? Are we meeting people where they are? Are we willing to get closer than a safe distance, to get our hands dirty, to deal with the hard questions? Are we willing to give up our language--hymn, psalm, prayer, worship--and speak in the language of the broken--friendship, meaning, love, acceptance? Are we willing to share our struggles, and be there when others share their own? Brothers, sisters, are we willing? Are we wiling to meet people where they are?

Swedish Countryside: Hälsingland and Harjedalen 9-17 juni 2004
I took the train up a bit North, stayed at my friend Martin's house in Näsviken, and then took a bus to Älvros to see where my grandmother grew up.
	Paintings of the countryside are a poor replacement for real countryside windows, windows that open to the changing colors of shimmering fields, living forests, and bright seas.

	"Common Sense" is seldom common, and rarely sensible.

	I could be a hero 25 maj 2004 I could be a hero: I could help people live longer. But would they spend more time living, or more time dying? I could be a hero: I could feed an African village. But then they would forget how to feed themselves. I could be a hero: I could teach an African village to grow food. But then they would forget how to teach themselves. I could be a hero: I could teach children to sing. But would they sing songs of love, or songs of hate? I could be a hero: But what problems would I solve? And what problems would I cause? But that is not the point. We feed the hungry because they ought to be loved, not because they ought to be fed. Social work without love is worthless. If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing. 1 Corinthians 13:1-3

On the Road Again: Hungary, Germany, France 6-24 april 2004
I took the train from Stockholm to southern Sweden to spend one night in Malmo and a day in the university town Lund. Then I took a bus with the Swedish Credo Christian group through Denmark, Germany, Austria, and into the Hungarian city of Gyor to the IFES conference "Get Connected." After about a week of conference I followed the German students home to Freiburg and spent a few days in the black forest. Finally I took a train to France to visit my aunt in Cannes for about a week.
	Most of this stuff doesn't go into words so well. Ask me sometime. National Identity My badge at the conference in Gyor said "Daniel Bjorkegren, SWEDEN." And I wasn't quite sure what to tell people--am I an American or am I a Swede? I told people a long story about my parents coming from Sweden and moving to the US so that I grew up in Seattle but now I'm studying in Sweden and how it kind of feels like home but at the same time I wonder "what's with these people?" ever so often, but how I wondered the same thing about the people in the US. And I came to the conclusion that I'm neither a Swede nor an American, I'm Dan. And that is somehow satisfying. Embracing Meaninglessness The club was hysterical. Beer glasses were hoisted overhead as the crowd swarmed. Dreadlock girl danced on the sticky floor. Short black hair boy bounced, rocking out with his friends. The room was a chaos of motion and a frenzy of happiness. If I'd asked them why they were happy I think they'd just answer, "Why not be happy?" As far as I could tell they had no reason. Blue eyed girls enthusiastically sang "brown eyed girl" to one another. A crowd of white men danced just as eagerly to "do the twist" as to the song "kill the white man." In the end I just stood in the corner contemplating the frenzy. They had learned to embrace meaninglessness. They were happy for no reason; they sang and danced for no reason at all. And I wondered why I, who had so many reasons to sing and so many reasons to dance, sat silent, watching.

Experiences in Ireland 4-16 mars 2004
I spent one week working on an Irish farm in Carlow and another week as a tourist in both Galway and Dublin.
	First Day Today I saw my first Irish sunset. I saw the orange rays cover the green fields and the rock walls. I heard the birds chirp and the river rustle. I played soccer with some Irish kids on their field, their farm. The farm their father wants to turn into a refuge for artists. This all after leaving for an unknown country, to live with people I'd never met or heard. They told me which bus to take and where to get off; they'd be there. They were. 'Enjoying' my first pint of Guinness While struggling to down a glass of the stuff at an authentic Irish pub I struck up a conversation with the nervous looking fellow beside me. Then a girl he knew came by and we all chatted a bit. The fellow left for the bathroom and the girl told me that this was an awkward time because he is her ex but he doesn't know that yet and she is going to tell him today. When the fellow came back I politely excused myself, walked to my hostel confused, and went to bed. The man singing "I love you" to the streets of Dublin, as the sun set over the wet sidewalks, heaps of trash, neon lights, and deep blue skies Not having a home: sleeping in a different bed every night and having all of my belongings on my back. Wanting to go home and wanting to stay forever.

	Isolation 11 februari 2004 A banana peel on the street is trash. The same peel alone in the cleanroom of an art museum is fascinating and profound. It seems the job of the artist is isolation: to expose only a fraction of the depth of life. But is not isolation God's job as well? Was it not He who separated seas from land, light from darkness, good from evil?

	Numb 2 februari 2004 "Thank you" for opening the door to the restaurant, "Thank you" for seating me, "Thank you" for the menu, "Thank you" for filling my glass with water, "Thank you" for the dish, "Thank you" for refilling my glass, "Thank you" for the bill, "Thank you" for taking my money, "Thank you" for opening the door out of the restaurant: I say "thank you" so often that I don't know what to say when I really am thankful. "Thank you" just cannot convey true gratitude any longer. It seems to have lost its meaning. Men's magazines well tell you that "I love you" are the magic words to get what you want from the girl. But if "I love you" is what you say when you want to use someone, what do you say when you really love someone? Or do we no longer have a word for that? We are eroding our language. We are slowly and steadily losing ground. Soon we will have no words--no meaning--left on which to stand. We are becoming used to a protocol of sensationalism and exaggeration, a numbing process that will has a devastating cost: How can poets sculpt meaning out of the same words that flash on neon signs? How can we understand love when we listen to worship songs while working, using the moans of people pouring out their hearts as background noise? It seems we are becoming numb not only to language, but to emotion as well. We are the five year old who loved the sensation of the brightest colors; he mixed them together and got grey.

Latvia 30-31 januari 2004
Took a boat to Riga, Latvia with some international student friends.
Freedom Monument Riga, Latvia When Latvia was in the USSR, its citizens would place flowers under the monument, as if praying for deliverance. Soviet newspapers told the citizens to stop this 'foolishness.'	Latvia is a story of people. A story of people and their struggle--against fear, occupation and terror. It is a story written under Nazi and Soviet banners. It is a tragedy written in blood and sorrow. And it is ultimately a story of freedom--how a forgotten nation would not be forgotten, how its shackles were finally released after centuries of struggle. It is a land now saved by capitalism... Or is this too propaganda? That is the story of the banners. I would like to have heard the story of the individuals. The story painted with a fine brush, instead that painted in broad strokes The story that asks, but cannot answer questions: How could an official split up families? How could a mother tell her children about their father's deportation? Why a man would murder under the red flag? And I think this story would be just like our own stories--of greed, sorrow, and of honesty--of harsh pain and sweet joy.

Brunnsviken	Frozen 28 januari 2004 "This must be a dream," I think as I step out onto the lake. In the distance I see one cycling, one walking, one gliding, on the frozen waters. I lie on my back, watching the clouds drift over the rosy sky. "I must be dreaming."

	Silence 24 januari 2004 The first week in the city was exciting. I took the train to school every day. So many people. They sat in rows, silent and stone-faced, but that didn't stop me: I talked to a new person every day. I found out where they grew up, where they lived, where they were going. I found out what they work with, what they'd like to work with, and about their families. I was meeting the faces of the city, experiencing another culture, learning new things. But the newness of it all slowly tapered off, and I began to realize why the city dwellers didn't talk to each other. They did the same things every day: go to work in the morning, and go home in the evening. At work the car mechanics fixed cars, the secretaries answered calls, and the businessmen went to meetings. At home the students read books, the dads watched televisions, and the moms changed diapers. Their lives, which at first had seemed an infinite, colorful tapestry, slowly reduced to a few strokes in shades of grey. Worse still, the people didn't seem to long for anything more than their greys: they had long since given up their dreams of finding color. I lost interest in hearing about the dull grey and stopped asking, now preferring to be silent myself. My stony face joins the rows and rows of grey speeding on the tracks past the white snow and black trees.

	Why is God Silent? 15 januari 2004 If God existed, if there were a spiritual world, wouldn't it be a part of your everyday experience? I mean, I haven't seen anybody open a path through the bottom of the sea, or even turn water into wine. But still, maybe God is not just be the Creator, but also living and interactive. Maybe nothing can happen without his action: we wouldn't breathe, the Earth could not spin, the flowers could not bloom. We would then have a God so connected to us that we have forgotten His existence. Maybe that's because we have a God of order, who seems to be quite predictable. "He speaks in the languages of science and math," we might say, and point to a few equations. But math and science are not the only languages of God: Look at the trees that practice the nonviolence Jesus preached: as much as we attack them, they will never fight back. We stop our selfish destruction when we realize that we are in control of their life or death. When we realize the consequences of our actions, we run back to reconcile. It seems the story of the trees and the tree huggers is the same as the story of Jesus and the Christians. Look at the stories we live each day: only glimpses of the one, complete Story of the power of good. If our stories with only a few characters are interesting, imagine reading all of our stories layered together in the complete Story of God and his people, where every character is a main character. Look at how the story of the baby born in the manger echoes throughout time--how even today material things and status don't satisfy, how you'll often times find that the most joyful people are in fact those that are the poorest, how so often the beauty really is in the dirt and grime. But take the time to look, and take the time sit quietly and listen. Because, as Elijah found out, God is not in the fire or the wind; God is in the silence.

	Change is good. But improvement is better 3 december 2003 After Alfred Nobel saw the terrifying power of his invention, dynamite, he started the Nobel prize to make up for it. He lived long enough to see the bad effects of his change. Trouble is, most of us don't live long enough to see whether the changes we strive for are actually improvements: Marx never saw the tyrrany of Stalin and Mao. And it can be hard to tell if changes are actually improvements; in the short term, any change looks like an improvement: A boy grew up in a town where every building was painted red. When he grew older and travelled out to the country, he found a blue town, with all of the buildings painted blue. Blue was exotic and beautiful to him, and he decided he wanted to live in the blue town when he could afford moving. So when he came home to the red town, he worked until he was a man to save enough money to move. He said goodbye to his friends and family and went to the blue town. After the man had been in the blue town for some time, he got married and had a son who he raised there. When his son grew older and travelled out to the country, he found the red town, thought the color red was exotic and beautiful, and worked hard to get enough money to move there. Then he said goodbye to his friends and family and went to the red town... Changes look like improvements in the short term. That's why fashion repeats, goes modern and then back to retro. It's also why one generation strives for a liberal utopia, the next for a conservative. It's also why technology is thrilling. If technology was designed to save time, it has failed: we have less time today than ever before. So technology is thrilling because it changes our lives, not because it improves them. Living your life just to change is a waste of time. If the changes you make are not improvements, they will simply be changed back in a future generation. Thankfully, there is one thing that is always an improvement: love. I don't mean the mushy stuff you'll see on MTV. I mean when you give up their time for some one else, when you are willing to help, when you're willing to overlook someone's faults and cherish their presence, when you put poeple ahead of things. 'Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; Then your righteousness will go before you and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard. Then you will call, and the Lord will answer, you will cry for help, and he will say, Here am I.' Isaiah 58 Don't settle for change. Live to love.

	My Zion november 2003 This was my Sweden: the Sweden I'd heard stories about, the Sweden I grew up with, the Sweden I'd visited. This: mormors bullar sockerbitar chokladkakor jordgubbstårta This was my Zion. This was my promised land. Down-to-earth, simple, hearty, honest. A land not haunted by violence, A land not seething in frustration, A people not seduced by materialism. Detta är min Sion. Land of broken promises. Detta: grafitti brott våld mord; Anna Lindh Ett land med samma problem, problem som inte kan lösas, ett tyst, gråtande land. This is my Zion, not altogether different from the troubled land I left.

Source of Joy England Tour 27 oktober - 2 november 2003
I joined my newfound Swedish gospel choir for their tour of England. We sang in Letchworth, Hemel Hempstead, Sheffield Woodhouse, Gainsborough, Romford, and Wickford; sharing the joy of the Lord.