Let me tell you something before we begin, my friend.
I'm writing this to give you something to stand on for the days when you can't feel anything at all. I'm writing it because I believe God meets people, and because I've seen him do it.
So stay with me. There's good news on the way.
Two in the morning
You're lying awake. You've run the same numbers fourteen times, and they don't add up any of them. The answer from the hospital comes on Friday, and you saw the doctor's face when he didn't say anything. Or there's a person lying next to you whom you've been married to for 19 years, and the two of you haven't had a real conversation since last winter. You sleep fine together, but you don't talk.
You look up at the ceiling. And somewhere in there you say something to God.
It probably isn't pretty. Maybe it's just one word. Maybe it's: God, are you even there?
Now here's the best thing I know.
He was in that room. He heard it. And he wasn't offended by a single word.
What you said at two in the morning was prayer. It was the most honest prayer you've prayed in years, and it was more welcome in Heaven than anything you've ever said from a stage.
Why you can believe me
I've preached since 1992. I pray for the sick every single week, and I've seen God heal people while they stood in front of me. I have the stories with names attached. I've planted a church in Copenhagen and been a pastor for nearly three decades. I don't lower my expectations of God one inch. And I'm not asking you to lower yours either. Pray boldly. Expect him to do something.
For you who think I'm talking down from some unreachable tower of perfection and joy.
In 2008 I went in for a routine operation on my hand. A nerve was damaged, and the damage became permanent. Since then the hand has burned every single day. One winter day some years later I drove toward a spot I had picked out, and I stopped the car 200 metres away from it. No one knew about my plans to end it all. I had made very sure of that.
Help came through people around me. And I drove home.
So I live in a constant tension, and I still pray for the sick. I still have pain in my hand as I write this sentence. Both are me, on the same day.
I'm still standing.
I'm standing on something that doesn't require you to feel good first. That's what I want to show you.
You already have a theology
The word theology sounds like something that happens at a university. It does happen there too.
But the word just means the study of God, and you already have one. You probably didn't choose it. You were given it. From your mother. From a song you know by heart without knowing where it came from. From something an adult said to you at a funeral when you were nine, and that you've carried with you ever since.
You don't get to see it on a Sunday. On Sunday you sing along.
You get to see it at two in the morning.
52 good days and 313 others
There are 52 Sundays in a year, and I won't hear a word against them.
Those days are some of the best I know. We come together, the music lifts the roof, and something real happens in a room where a congregation sings the same thing to the same God. I've spent my adult life building that kind of room, and I intend to keep doing it.
Then there are 313 other days.
The grey morning in November where you drive to work and can't remember the last time you looked forward to anything. The evening where you sit in the car in the parking lot for ten minutes before you go in, because you don't have it in you to be the one who comes home.
And here's what I want you to hear: God is just as much God on that Tuesday as on Sunday. He doesn't change his face when the music stops.
The five words you know by heart
Think of the words you've heard most often in a church.
Victory. Joy. Peace. Breakthrough. Freedom.
Every single one of them is true. They're in the Bible, and I'll preach them until I die. I've seen people get their lives back because someone said one of those words to them at the right moment.
They're just all of them words about something that's over.
Victory is said afterward. Freedom is said by someone who has already come out the other side.
If you only have words for what's over, something particular happens on the day when it isn't over. You stand there with no words at all. And a person with no words for what they're standing in almost always lands in the same place: then it must be me, there must be something wrong with me.
Here is the whole reason I'm writing.
You're standing in a part of the story that no one has given you words to describe yet. That's all it is. There's nothing wrong with you. I didn't have those words in 2008 either. I found them in the years after, and I found them in the Bible, where they had been lying the whole time.
I'm still standing. I do it on those words.
Easter has more than one day
Grundtvig wrote it in 1843. It stands as number 230 in the hymnbook, and most Danes can say the first words without looking them up: Easter morning ends all sorrow, ends all sorrow evermore.
The line is true. I'll defend every syllable of it, and I sing it with my whole heart.
Then go sit next to a woman who buried her child in March, and sing it to her. She may believe it. She just can't feel it yet. And she knows perfectly well what she's expected to answer if someone asks how she's doing.
Every sermon I've preached or worked on since 1992 sits in an archive I can search. One Tuesday afternoon I searched for Easter and got 21 sermons on Easter Sunday. Then I searched for Good Friday. The search field came back empty.
No one had decided it. It just piled up, Sunday after Sunday, because hope is the gospel, and because I loved the people sitting there.
Two words for the same day
In English the day is called Good Friday. Here in Denmark we call it Long Friday.
Good is a verdict, and it's handed down by someone who knows the ending. That's rightly said, and I don't take a word of it back.
Long is a report from inside the day, while it's still going on. That's what pain does to time. It stretches it out. The night in the hospital is long. The Tuesday after the funeral, when everyone has driven home, is longer than any Tuesday is allowed to be.
We have two words for that day. We preach the one.
And notice what God's own Son did at three in the afternoon. He shouted a question up into a darkness that didn't answer him.
"At three o'clock Jesus cried out in a loud voice, 'Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?' — which means, 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'" (Mark 15:34)
If you're afraid of what you yourself said at two last night, then you're standing closer to him than you know.
Two men on their way home
Let me tell you about two men who walked along a country road.
It was Sunday. The tomb was already empty. The greatest thing that has ever happened on this earth had happened a few hours earlier, but they didn't know it. So they walked home toward Emmaus and talked about how it had all gone wrong.
"We had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel." (Luke 24:21)
Sunday had come. They were still on Saturday.
Now see what Jesus does. He comes up alongside them. He gives no speech about how they should have believed better. He walks with them the whole way to the town, and when they ask him to stay, he sits down at the table and breaks the bread.
He walked the whole road with two men who had misunderstood everything.
That's why I'm still standing. He walked the whole road with me too.
What I'm giving you
I can't tell you why your prayer hasn't been answered yet. No one can, and the ones who try usually do more harm than good.
The English theologian Stephen Torr has spent an entire dissertation describing exactly the hole I found in my own archive. In it he quotes the American Stanley Hauerwas, who puts it as clearly as it can be said: "We have no explanation that would make the pain of our own death or the death of our children less. We have a common story that makes it possible to be with one another, even as we die."
That's what the church has. And it's enough to carry a person through a winter.
Across the autumn there will be 23 articles, two a week, Friday and Tuesday. You'll be allowed to say it the way it is, without prettying up the ending. And you'll get a better question than "why", because "why" is rarely answered, while "what now" points somewhere.
I write them as someone who still prays for the sick, and as someone who still has pain in his hand.
What did you say to God the last time you lay awake at two?
Here's what I believe about you, even though I don't know your name. You're going to come through this grey season. He has already been on Friday ahead of you, and he doesn't go home without you. That's what carries you, and it takes neither strength nor a great faith from you.
Easter morning ends all sorrow. The hymn is right.
I'm still standing. And I'm waiting for that morning together with you.
If you're sitting in the dark tonight and have no one to call, say it anyway to one person. A friend or a doctor. In Denmark you can also call Livslinien on 70 201 201 or Sct. Nicolai Tjenesten on 70 120 110. You shouldn't carry this alone.
Lad mig sige dig noget, før vi går i gang, min ven.
Jeg skriver det her for at give dig noget at stå på de dage, hvor du ikke kan mærke noget som helst. Jeg skriver den, fordi jeg tror på, at Gud møder mennesker, og fordi jeg har set ham gøre det.
Så bliv hos mig. Der er godt nyt på vej.
Klokken 2 om natten
Du ligger vågen. Du har regnet det samme igennem 14 gange, og det går ikke op nogen af gangene. Svaret fra hospitalet kommer på fredag, og du så godt lægens ansigt, da han ikke sagde noget. Eller der ligger et menneske ved siden af dig, som du har været gift med i 19 år, og I har ikke haft en rigtig samtale siden i vinters. I sover fint sammen, men I taler ikke sammen.
Du kigger op i loftet. Og et sted derinde siger du noget til Gud.
Det er sandsynligvis ikke pænt. Måske er det bare ét ord. Måske er det: Gud, er du der overhovedet?
Nu skal du høre det bedste, jeg ved.
Han var i det rum. Han hørte det. Og han blev ikke stødt over et eneste ord.
Det, du sagde klokken 2 om natten, var bøn. Det var den mest ærlige bøn, du har bedt i årevis, og den var mere velkommen i Himlen end noget, du nogensinde har sagt fra en scene.
Hvorfor du kan tro mig
Jeg har prædiket siden 1992. Jeg beder for syge hver eneste uge, og jeg har set Gud helbrede mennesker, mens de stod foran mig. Jeg har historierne med navne på. Jeg har plantet en kirke i København og været præst i snart tre årtier. Jeg sænker ikke mine forventninger til Gud en tomme. Jeg beder dig heller ikke om at sænke dine. Bed frimodigt. Forvent, at han gør noget.
For dig som tror jeg taler ned fra et uopnåeligt tårn af perfektion og glæde.
I 2008 gik jeg ind til en rutineoperation i min hånd. En nerve tog skade, og skaden blev permanent. Siden har hånden brændt hver eneste dag. En vinterdag nogle år senere kørte jeg mod et sted, jeg havde valgt ud, og standsede bilen 200 meter derfra. Ingen kendte til mine planer om at slutte det hele. Det havde jeg sørget grundigt for.
Der kom hjælp gennem mennesker omkring mig. Og jeg kørte hjem.
Så jeg lever i et konstant spændingsfelt og jeg beder stadig for syge. Jeg har stadig ondt i hånden, mens jeg skriver den her sætning. Begge dele er mig, på samme dag.
Jeg står stadig.
Jeg står på noget, som ikke kræver, at man har det godt først. Det er det, jeg vil vise dig.
Du har allerede en teologi
Ordet teologi lyder som noget, der foregår på et universitet. Det gør det også.
Men ordet betyder bare læren om Gud, og du har allerede en. Du valgte den sandsynligvis ikke. Du fik den. Fra din mor. Fra en sang, du kan udenad uden at vide hvorfra. Fra det, en voksen sagde til dig ved en begravelse, da du var ni år, og som du har gået med lige siden.
Du får den ikke at se om søndagen. Om søndagen synger du med.
Du får den at se klokken 2 om natten.
52 gode dage og 313 andre
Der er 52 søndage på et år, og jeg vil ikke høre et ord imod dem.
De dage er nogle af de bedste, jeg kender. Vi kommer sammen, musikken løfter taget, og der sker noget virkeligt i et rum, hvor menigheden synger det samme til den samme Gud. Jeg har brugt mit voksne liv på at bygge den slags rum, og jeg har tænkt mig at blive ved.
Så er der 313 andre dage.
Den grå formiddag i november, hvor du kører på arbejde og ikke kan huske, hvornår du sidst glædede dig til noget. Aftenen, hvor du bliver siddende i bilen på parkeringspladsen i ti minutter, før du går ind, fordi du ikke har overskud til at være den, der kommer hjem.
Og her er det, jeg vil have dig til at høre: Gud er lige så meget Gud på den tirsdag som om søndagen. Han skifter ikke ansigt, når musikken stopper.
De fem ord, du kan udenad
Tænk på de ord, du har hørt flest gange i en kirke.
Sejr. Glæde. Fred. Gennembrud. Frihed.
Hvert eneste af dem er sandt. De står i Bibelen, og jeg vil forkynde dem, til jeg dør. Jeg har set mennesker få deres liv tilbage, fordi nogen sagde et af de ord til dem på det rigtige tidspunkt.
De er bare alle sammen ord om noget, der er overstået.
Sejr siges bagefter. Frihed siges af en, der allerede er kommet ud på den anden side.
Har du kun ord for det, der er overstået, sker der noget bestemt den dag, hvor det ikke er overstået. Du står helt uden ord. Og et menneske uden ord for det, det står midt i, lander næsten altid det samme sted: så må det være mig, der er noget galt med.
Her er hele årsagen til, at jeg skriver.
Du står i en del af historien, som ingen har givet dig ord til at beskrive endnu. Det er det hele. Der er ikke noget galt med dig. Jeg havde heller ikke de ord i 2008. Jeg fandt dem i årene efter, og jeg fandt dem i Bibelen, hvor de har ligget hele tiden.
Jeg står stadig. Det gør jeg på de ord.
Påsken har flere dage
Grundtvig skrev den i 1843. Den står som nummer 230 i salmebogen, og de fleste danskere kan de første ord uden at slå op: påskemorgen slukker sorgen, slukker sorgen til evig tid.
Linjen er sand. Jeg vil forsvare hver eneste stavelse i den, og jeg synger den med hele hjertet.
Sæt dig så ved siden af en kvinde, der begravede sit barn i marts, og syng den for hende. Hun tror måske på den. Hun kan bare ikke mærke den endnu. Og hun ved udmærket, hvad hun forventes at svare, hvis nogen spørger, hvordan det går.
Hver prædiken, jeg har holdt eller arbejdet med siden 1992, ligger i et arkiv, jeg kan søge i. En tirsdag eftermiddag søgte jeg på påske og fik 21 prædikener frem om påskesøndag. Så søgte jeg på langfredag. Søgefeltet stod tomt uden indhold.
Ingen havde besluttet det. Det hobede sig bare op, søndag efter søndag, fordi håb er evangeliet, og fordi jeg holdt af de mennesker, der sad der.
To ord for den samme dag
På engelsk hedder dagen Good Friday. Hos os hedder den Langfredag.
Good er en dom, og den bliver afsagt af en, der kender slutningen. Det er rigtigt sagt, og jeg tager ikke et ord af det tilbage.
Lang er en melding indefra dagen, mens den stadig står på. Sådan gør smerte ved tiden. Den strækker den ud. Natten på hospitalet er lang. Tirsdagen efter begravelsen, hvor alle er kørt hjem, er længere end nogen tirsdag har lov til at være.
Vi har to ord for den dag. Vi prædiker det ene.
Og læg mærke til, hvad Guds egen Søn gjorde klokken 3 om eftermiddagen. Han råbte et spørgsmål op i et mørke, der ikke svarede ham.
"Klokken tre råbte Jesus højt: „Eloi, Eloi! Lema sabaktani?" Det betyder: „Min Gud! Min Gud! Hvorfor har du forladt mig?"" (Mark 15,34 — BPH)
Er du bange for det, du selv sagde klokken 2 i nat, så står du tættere på ham, end du aner.
To mænd på vej hjem
Lad mig fortælle dig om to mænd, der gik ad en landevej.
Det var søndag. Graven var allerede tom. Det største, der nogensinde er sket på denne jord, var sket få timer forinden, men de vidste det ikke. Så de gik hjem mod Emmaus og talte om, at det hele var gået galt.
"Vi havde ellers håbet, at det var ham, der var Messias, og at han ville befri Israel." (Luk 24,21 — BPH)
Søndagen var kommet. De var stadig på lørdagen.
Se så, hvad Jesus gør. Han går op på siden af dem. Han holder ingen tale om, at de burde have troet bedre. Han følges med dem hele vejen til byen, og da de beder ham blive, sætter han sig til bords og bryder brødet.
Han gik hele turen med to mænd, der havde misforstået alting.
Det er derfor, jeg stadig står. Han gik også hele turen med mig.
Det, jeg giver dig med
Jeg kan ikke fortælle dig, hvorfor din bøn ikke er besvaret endnu. Ingen kan, og de, der prøver, gør som regel mere skade end gavn.
Den engelske teolog Stephen Torr har brugt en hel afhandling på at beskrive netop det hul, jeg fandt i mit eget arkiv. Hos ham står en sætning af amerikaneren Stanley Hauerwas, som siger det så klart, det kan siges: "Vi har ingen forklaring, der kan gøre smerten ved vores egen død eller vores børns død mildere. Vi har en fælles historie, som gør det muligt at være hos hinanden, netop mens vi dør."
Det er, hvad kirken har. Og det er nok til at bære et menneske gennem en vinter.
Hen over efteråret kommer der 23 artikler, to om ugen, fredag og tirsdag. Du får lov til at sige det, som det er, uden at pynte på slutningen. Og du får et bedre spørgsmål end "hvorfor", for "hvorfor" bliver sjældent besvaret, mens "hvad nu" peger et sted hen.
Jeg skriver dem som en, der stadig beder for syge, og som en, der stadig har ondt i hånden.
Hvad sagde du til Gud sidste gang, du lå vågen klokken 2?
Her er, hvad jeg tror om dig, selvom jeg ikke kender dit navn. Du kommer igennem den her grå sæson. Han har allerede været på fredagen før dig, og han går ikke hjem uden dig. Det er det, der bærer dig, og det kræver hverken styrke eller en stor tro af dig.
Påskemorgen slukker sorgen. Salmen har ret.
Jeg står stadig. Og jeg venter på den morgen sammen med dig.
Sidder du i mørket i aften og har ingen at ringe til, så sig det alligevel til ét menneske. En ven eller en læge. Du kan også ringe til Livslinien på 70 201 201 eller Sct. Nicolai Tjenesten på 70 120 110. Du skal ikke bære det her alene.
Words for the days when God seems silent — two a week, Tuesday and Friday.Ord til de dage, hvor Gud synes tavs — to om ugen, tirsdag og fredag.
All of God in the DarkHele Gud i Mørket Visit ÅbenkirkeBesøg Åbenkirke