Arent we all (part 2)

[I would like to begin by saying that the use of "Swedes" is pervasive throughout this blog.  What is written here are simply my conversations and the thoughts I had based on what I experienced and what I know.  My sample size is admittedly infinitesimal, in regards to the Swedish men and women I met and their take on Swedish belief and culture.  In truth, I know very little of Swedish culture or mindsets.  Many of the Swedes I met were some of the most kind and endearing people I've ever met - Samuel, Caroline, Henrik, and Rikard I'm looking at you.]

With Misti and Jeremy asleep and the drive still ahead of me I moved through a minute or two of small talk and directly engaged the driver on the topics of my greatest curiosity.  I realize this is an incredibly American thing to do, but then again, I'm an incredibly American guy so I guess it didn't matter (Besides, I knew that as a Swede he was too polite to refuse my questions).

Thought #1 (Low hanging fruit)
Tell me how you feel about the taxes which seem unreasonably high.  This thought was simply a warmup - a curious flight of fancy to loosen up the driver.  In all actuality, I am not all that concerned about the taxes in Stockholm, and judging by the conversation I had with the driver, neither are Swedes.  It seems when Swedes pay their taxes, the government gives them the very things they promise which happen to be the VERY THING SWEDES WANT!!! What a novel idea.  Not only taxation with representation, but representation that actually listens to it's constituency.  (For more on this topic if you're interested feel free to check out this link: representative taxation and for healthy counterpoint check out this one on irresponsible government entanglements.  It was very informative and incredibly interesting... well, incredibly may have been an exaggeration.)

Thought #2 (Not so easy)

We may have apple pie, but Swedish
and Caroline Hultmar's Cat Sauce
may just gives us a run for the money!

"How do you feel about the immigration crisis from your perspective as a native Swede?"  This question elicited a much less immediate answer and an unintended raise of the eyebrows (I had apparently touched a nerve).  He soon responded after some thought and said, "I don't mind the immigrants at all... but they need to abide by the rules.  They can't come over here and think this is their place to run - stirring up all kinds of trouble." He continued, "I don't mind them and their beliefs so much, I just don't want their beliefs changing who we are as Swedes."

This was a common sentiment among both Swedes and Immigrants.  Swedes feel more than happy to embrace the immigrant - so long as the immigrant adapts, adopts and assimilates into Swedish culture.  Immigrants often saw this request in a different way: they felt excluded and left out from the society at large - relegated to an ethnic enclave to spend their days constantly toiling to become Swedish - to understand how Swedish Meatballs and Cat Sauce can be SOOOOO GOOD!!!  

Cat Sauce also known as creme sauce
by every other human being

It became obvious that while my driver's compassion wasn't lacking in the least bit, his ability to empathize was unhinged.  He couldn't see where the immigrant was coming from or why they couldn't change.  He didn't understand why they held so tightly to their Islamic ways and why they just. couldn't. become. Swedish.

This round of questioning made me think though, "Why is it that my driver who is a perfectly thoughtful, wonderful human being (by all accounts) could not find a connection point to empathize with the plight of these men, women, and often times parent-less children?  Somehow, there was a disconnect for him.  But to be fair, I think the same could be said of me from time to time.  Why?

As I think back to my own situations, when I find myself continually annoyed by one segment of  society or another, I find I am thinking of them as less than and me as greater than.  When I lack compassion has less to do with my character and more to do with my connection to my own personal brokenness (or the lack thereof).  MY brokenness in MY face drives me to look at the one who heals the broken places to their fullest extent.  It's only out of that recognition of unmerited favor can I see the brokenness of others even when the cost is my own comfort and security.  

The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that I can be neither truly compassionate nor truly empathetic apart from Jesus.  Outside of this great grace, my selfishness is impossible to overcome.    That may seem silly to many who read this, but in truth, my willingness to see my brokenness was impossible before I met Jesus.  I was deeply insecure (and sometimes still can be), among a great many other things I also felt out of place in the skin that covered my body.  I was never settled or at home and often was desperately lonely.  I felt like a foreigner trapped in a foreign land - language unknown, home unmarked.  Many who know me now (even family members) may be surprised by that confession.  While I was a resident of Jacksonville Beach, Florida - I felt homeless, transient, invisible, alone... I was an immigrant, but I was blind to my status.  I was an alien without hope of ever finding the dreams that would give me place, hope and joy.  But in truth, aren't we all aliens?

Apparently, the Aliens of Tensta
like the Simpsons, too

So then, in my brokenness, I'm forced to ask this question again.  Aren't we all immigrants?  Aren't we all strangers in a foreign land - castaways, refugees, aliens?  Whether our immigration is to the World or to Christ, this earthly existence seems constantly devoid of actual place.  It's tricky, because no matter what decision you make rejection is an inevitability.  Choose the World and the rejection of Heaven is staring you in the face.  Choose the world in the wrong way and your rejection is from the World and from Christ. Choose Christ and I guarantee, the world's rejection is hot on your heels because we live in a world that it is fundamentally built upon layers of rejection.  It embraces no one and nothing outside the lines of it's own selfish intent.  We are a race of rejects who are purposed to be champions, longing for an acceptance that transcends the shadowlands of our existence and calls us back to our birth rite.  We long to be conquerers, but as vagrants those dreams seem as tenable as building a skyscraper on a foundation of cotton candy.

So in a way, I too am an alien in a foreign land, but an alien in peace.  It is a peace imbued by the absurdity of the cross - of a pre-existent, all loving, supreme Christ making new what was broken and displaced.  It is truly absurd.  It is skyscrapers on a foundation of cotton candy, or castles floating on the air.

I think I understand the plight of the refugee in a way that my atheist driver can not (Editorial note: I do speak from pride or self-righteousness, only weakness).  I can understand the desperation for peace - for a shalom so deep that you're willing to risk everything just for the chance to find a satisfaction that never runs dry - for home.  Sadly, there is no rest for the immigrant outside of Christ - never rest.  Rest is peace and without christ there is no peace, only a spiraling abyss of darkness into the insatiable appetites of a "might makes right" existence.

My driver will neither admit his brokenness to me, himself, nor to the God he [politely] refused to believe in.  So until he does, they will always be them - the unnamed masses, wrecking his existence
and hopefully in the process, drawing him to the very heart of God.

--- 

Aren't we all (Part 1)

The MAX

I find that when I go to a new place I'm desperately searching for something familiar.  Something that gives me a sense of place.  Belonging.  Home.  For me, it was seeing the signs for the Max.  The comfort this provides has nothing to do with Mark-Paul Gosselaar or Lark Voorhies.  Seeing this closed (for the day) burger stand in the airport lobby reminded me of my Sweden team, in particular - Elizabeth Rummel, Bo and Cal Brickle, Bobby Wilund, Samuel Arlebrant, and Rustin McAlister.  It was as if someone said, "You're not a total stranger here." As my trip down memory lane started to pick up speed, in the blink of an eye I was snickering under my breath about the Swedish cattle and their polite way of speaking, Lion King references, less than delicious Max burgers, swimming above the arctic circle, Oscar the Swede, midnight volleyball with locals and many other memories.

They were only moments, but sometimes a moment is all you need.  

---

[Before I continue, it is worth noting that at this point in our trip I haven't slept for more than 2.5 hours in the last 36]  Our driver met us in the main hallway of the terminal.  It was clean, quiet and small as I had come to expect. As I looked out the windows of the terminal everything seemed incredibly bright, almost as bright as when you wake up before the sun in wintertime, stumbling into the bathroom and in one half-awake, thoughtless movement you turn on the lights, nearly falling back into the wall, wholly unprepared for the jolt of lumens filling your still sleepy retinas.

Christopher Plummer

Werner Herzog

As we approached the driver, he held up a sign that said, "Willis."  This is the first time I've ever had anything like that - it's amazing how little is required to make someone feel important.  He was kindly and tall (this is apparently a marked trait that Swedes have cornered - being tall and kind).  He reminded me of a mixture between two actors, Werner Herzog and Christopher Plummer (Baron Von Trapp).


While our driver played trunk Tetris, pondering how to fit all our luggage in the taxi, I shuffled my sleep-deprived wife and son to their seats and took my own seat in the front next to our driver.  Our congenial driver buckled up and confirmed the destination address, and with that we were off. Driving unimpeded through the outer boundaries of the Stockholm, for a short few moments Jeremy was cracking us up looking cute and alert taking everything in as we drove, but it wasn't long before he was asleep.  Similarly, Misti interjected a few sentences into the conversation engaging in the time-honored tradition of awkwardly carrying on forced small talk with people we will likely never come into contact with again.  I remember sitting in my seat thoroughly impressed with my wife's level of engagement, I thought, "Wow, She must really be excited for this adventure.  She's such an awesome woman!  I never imagined that she would be able to make it this long without falling asleep.  Honestly, she's like super woman, to fight through what I know must be an unbelievable desire to lay her head on that seat back and just sleep all so she can fully immersed in every aspect of this trip, I think i'm going to tell her how impressed I..."  then I looked back and saw her out cold - mouth agape.  Looking at her, I was reminded, "My bride is beautiful."

Some days her elegant beauty is more conspicuous than others - today is one of those days... sound asleep.  She is always there and yet there is always something unexpected, unpredictable about her.  It hits in these moments, in waves as though the wheels of time ran through thick mud and slowed down to a crawl - caught in a stare that seems to last an eternity.  Her loveliness is unintentional, it's not contrived or preconceived... it's just who she is, she's lovely.  I guess that's one of the true joys of marriage, it's constant newness - I see her anew every day and it's never a disappointment.  Life with her isn't boring or mundane, it's rich and vibrant.  I never have to wait with a romantic comedy like anticipation for the next arbitrary encounter like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan (i.e. You've Got Mail or Sleepless In Seattle.)  I experience her every day, good and bad; sickness and in health; till death do us part... and my heart is blessed for it.

I love seeing my wife.

---

The drive from the airport is mesmerizing.  Granite outcroppings of stone litter the side of the road, solid walls rising and falling as we drive.  Their dull grey blackness punctuated by the emerald green grass interspersed throughout.  It was almost as if the boulders were reaching up through slits in the carpet of grass to welcome us to the most glorious city as we wind through the serpentine streets of the outer belt.

The road snaked around the rocks as if it's design was conscious of every stone and crag.  The designers seemed to treat the rocks less as obstacles to be overcome and more as individual statues, meant to be admired from every angle.  These highways flowed with the rising undulations of the land, countless rivers and neighborhoods that predate vehicles.  They are somehow smooth, clearly marked and a welcomed addition to the natural landscape.  Don't get me wrong Stockholm has interstates (or the equivalent) and lots of them - long, unexciting highways stretching north to south and east to west. But I'm thankful our driver took us another way... a way that allowed us to more deeply appreciate the natural comeliness of this country.

As the volvo wound through the outskirts of Stockholm and Misti snoozed in the backseat, I did my best to engage in dialogue with my new friend (to be perfectly honest, I'm only calling him my "new friend" because I can't remember his name).  In my defense, I rarely remember anyone's name.  I have equal opportunity forgetfulness.  This is generally problematic when it comes to sharing the Gospel or just generally not looking like a jerk; sadly, my brain seems to disagree with this most general assessment.  Knowing my penchant for near instantaneous namenesia, I have to work doubly hard to make sure that conversations I engage in are well thought out.  I like to think through the the things that are of interest to the person I talk to because while I may not remember their name I'll never forget the circumstances that surrounded our meeting.  This trip would be no different.  I did some research about Sweden and its place in the world at large.  But even more so, I wanted to know the issues that Swedes are quietly dealing with, the things they're proud of, and the things they secretly despise.  

The conversation that ensued, took us down a rabbit hole that I was more than happy to chase him into and eventually became a very insightful picture of the Swedish soul - "What do we do with Immigration now?  How much longer can this be sustained?"  

But more on that in Part 2 of this blog...