There are chapters in Scripture that refuse to sit quietly in the background of theology, chapters that push their way into the raw, unfiltered spaces of human experience and demand to be lived rather than studied. Luke 19 is one of those rare passages that won’t let you stay the same after you touch it. It begins with a man trying to hide from God behind the branches of a sycamore tree and ends with a King weeping over a city that refuses to recognize the peace standing right in front of it. In between those bookends the story unfolds like a mirror, showing you what happens when heaven walks straight into the rooms you thought were too messy, too complicated, or too compromised for divine visitation. Luke 19 does not simply narrate events; it reveals a God who steps into human history with the disruptive tenderness of someone who knows exactly what you are avoiding, exactly what you are yearning for, and exactly what it will cost to heal you. The chapter moves with a kind of spiritual momentum that refuses to let your heart stay indifferent, because every verse whispers the same quiet, persistent truth: God always comes for what belongs to Him, even when the whole world assumes you are disqualified.

What makes Luke 19 so powerful is that it speaks to anyone who has ever felt unseen, mislabeled, trapped by a past they can’t rewrite, or quietly ashamed of the life they built while trying to outrun their own emptiness. It begins with Zacchaeus, a man the people had written off as irredeemable. He wasn’t simply disliked; he was despised, considered a traitor, dismissed as beyond spiritual recovery. Yet underneath his corruption something was stirring, a hunger he couldn’t ignore, a curiosity strong enough that he climbed a tree just to catch a glimpse of Jesus. That detail is easy to overlook, but nothing is accidental in Scripture. When a grown man climbs a tree in public, he is no longer protecting his dignity; he is following the quiet ache in his soul. He wasn’t climbing because he wanted a better view of Jesus; he was climbing because he wanted to know if Jesus could see anything in him that was still worth rescuing. Luke 19 begins by reminding us that sometimes the first step toward transformation looks foolish, undignified, or childlike, and that God often finds you not when you are impressive, but when you are desperate enough to climb above the noise of your own reputation.

But the brilliance of this chapter is not that Zacchaeus climbed a tree; it’s that Jesus stopped beneath it. Jesus always stops where others pass by. He pauses where the world shrugs. He calls names where people whisper insults. He invites Himself into the homes the religious elite avoid. In that moment, standing under a sycamore tree, Jesus did more than acknowledge Zacchaeus; He announced Him. When He said “I must stay at your house today,” it was not a request, and it was not a suggestion. It was a divine insistence. It was heaven declaring, “I choose you before you clean your house, before you fix your habits, before you rewrite your story.” That one moment shatters centuries of assumptions about how God approaches sinners. Jesus didn’t wait for repentance; His presence created it. He didn’t demand transformation before entering; His entrance initiated the transformation itself. It is an upside-down kingdom where grace arrives before guilt is confessed, where love enters before shame is named, and where the Savior walks through a door the world said should remain forever locked.

Zacchaeus welcomed Him joyfully, but that joy didn’t come from moral accomplishment. It came from the realization that God had just walked straight into the darkest corners of his life without flinching. And isn’t that what we are all secretly afraid of—that if God ever truly looked inside, He would see too much damage, too much selfishness, too many choices we regret? Luke 19 confronts that fear by showing us a God who is not shocked by our sin, not intimidated by our failures, and not deterred by our past. He sees the very things we try to hide and walks toward them, not away. When Jesus steps into Zacchaeus’s home, He also steps into the relational wounds, the greed, the betrayal, and the loneliness that had built up like a wall around him. And in the presence of unconditional acceptance, something shifts inside Zacchaeus. Repentance is not forced; it is awakened. He stands before Jesus and voluntarily begins repairing the very places where his life had done the most harm. When transformation is real, it always touches the people you once wounded, because the grace that reaches you is too powerful to remain contained.

But Luke 19 is not simply a story of personal redemption; it is a declaration of divine purpose. Jesus ends His interaction with Zacchaeus with one of the most important sentences in the New Testament: “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.” That truth isn’t theological poetry; it is the heartbeat of the Gospel. Jesus does not wait for the lost to find Him; He seeks them. He does not draw near to the polished, the perfect, or the put-together; He enters the home of the man everyone hated. And He doesn’t merely forgive; He restores. That one sentence is a direct confrontation to every lie that says you must earn your worth, perform your identity, or apologize your way into God’s approval. It is the divine insistence that rescue is God’s initiative, not ours. Zacchaeus wasn’t saved because he changed; he changed because he was found.

And then the chapter pivots. Jesus moves from a house filled with new repentance to a parable about a nobleman entrusting his servants with resources before leaving for a distant country. It is not a random transition; it is a continuation of the same theme. The man who had misused wealth is now surrounded by a parable that reveals how God expects His people to treat the resources He gives them. The parable of the minas is not about financial capitalism; it is about spiritual responsibility. It is the story of a God who entrusts His people with influence, opportunity, calling, and potential. And it challenges every believer to ask a question many avoid: what have you done with what heaven placed in your hands? Not compared to anyone else, not measured against culture, not evaluated through worldly metrics, but what have you done with the unique calling God assigned to you?

This parable is often misunderstood because we read it through the lens of modern productivity, but the heart of the story is not about performance; it is about trust. The nobleman gives each servant something valuable and expects them to engage, risk, invest, and multiply. But the third servant hides his gift, terrified of doing the wrong thing. Fear always buries potential. Fear always convinces you to protect what God called you to expand. Fear always whispers that playing small is safer than stepping into responsibility. Jesus uses this parable to expose how often believers bury their spiritual callings under the weight of insecurity, comparison, and self-protection. And by placing this parable immediately after the story of Zacchaeus, Luke is teaching us that God’s grace not only saves you; it sends you. Salvation is not the end of your story; it is the beginning of your assignment.

But Luke 19 does something profound after the parable. It shifts from private transformation to public revelation. Jesus begins His entry into Jerusalem, riding not a warhorse, but a donkey—a deliberate act of fulfilled prophecy. It is a moment dripping with symbolism, a moment where the King arrives in humility rather than domination, peace rather than force, vulnerability rather than spectacle. The crowds erupt in praise, laying down their cloaks and shouting blessings. It looks like a coronation, a celebration, the moment Israel has been waiting for. But appearances can be deceiving. The same voices crying out in worship would soon cry out in accusation. The same hands waving branches would later point toward crucifixion. Jesus knows every contradiction in the human heart, yet He rides forward anyway, not because the moment is flattering, but because the mission is eternal.

And yet the part of Luke 19 that cuts the deepest is not the cheering crowd; it’s the tears of Jesus. As He approaches the city, He begins to weep—not soft tears, but deep, aching sorrow. He weeps because the people do not recognize the peace offered to them. He weeps because they wanted deliverance more than relationship, victory more than surrender, revolution more than repentance. They wanted a king who met their expectations, not a Savior who exposed their need. And in that moment you see the heart of God revealed in a way that theologians have struggled to articulate for centuries. The King who could command angels to reshape history instead weeps over the unbelief of His people. He does not rage; He grieves. He does not retaliate; He laments. Because divine love is not indifferent to human resistance. It aches for what could have been, what should have been, what must be chosen freely by the human heart.

The final scene of the chapter often gets reduced to an image of anger, but it is far more layered than that. Jesus enters the temple and drives out the merchants who had turned sacred space into a marketplace. This was not an outburst; it was a prophetic act of restoration. The house meant for prayer had become a place of exploitation, distraction, and corruption. Jesus wasn’t simply cleansing a building; He was reclaiming the space where heaven and earth were meant to meet. And by ending the chapter this way, Luke ties everything together: God enters the places the world has misused, He restores what people have contaminated, and He refuses to allow sacred things to be treated casually. Zacchaeus’s house was restored. The temple was restored. Soon the world itself would be restored through a cross no one expected.

This is where Luke 19 becomes personal in a way no reader can avoid. The chapter is not asking whether Jesus has passed by your life; it is asking whether you are willing to let Him enter. It asks whether you are hiding behind excuses the same way Zacchaeus hid behind branches. It asks whether you are burying your calling the way the servant buried his mina. It asks whether your worship is genuine or merely emotional enthusiasm that disappears when obedience becomes costly. It asks whether you recognize the peace being offered to you or whether you are missing it while waiting for God to operate on your terms. And it asks whether the temple of your own heart is a place of prayer or a marketplace of distraction. Luke 19 is not a chapter that whispers; it confronts you with the evidence that God is always closer, more intentional, more disruptive, and more compassionate than you realized.

What strikes me as I move deeper into the flow of Luke 19 is how the chapter refuses to let anyone cling to a shallow version of faith. It does not allow you to treat Jesus like an idea or a distant historical figure. It forces you to confront Him as a living presence who walks straight into the unsettled rooms of your soul. Zacchaeus did not encounter a concept; he encountered a Person. The crowds did not wave palms at a philosophy; they celebrated a King. The city did not reject a metaphor; it rejected the very embodiment of peace standing in front of it. And the temple was not cleansed by an abstraction; it was cleansed by hands that carried both gentleness and authority at the same time. Luke 19 reveals a Savior who can step into a sinner’s living room with tenderness and then step into a temple with righteous disruption. It paints a portrait of a God who comforts the broken and confronts the corrupt, a God who heals what is wounded and overturns what is profane, a God who walks into your life with compassion but never compromises His holiness. This duality is not contradiction; it is completeness. The God who loves you enough to eat at your table is the same God who loves you enough to overturn every lie you’ve believed about yourself.

As I reflect on Luke 19 through the lens of its full emotional range, it becomes clear that the entire chapter is designed to expose the human heart in all its layers. It reveals the curiosity of Zacchaeus, who wants to see Jesus but is unsure if Jesus wants to see him. It reveals the resentment of the crowd, convinced that some people deserve grace and others do not. It reveals the fear of the servant who hides the gift instead of using it. It reveals the enthusiasm of the worshipers who praise Jesus as long as He fits their expectations. It reveals the heartbreak of a Savior who stands above a city He loves and weeps because they cannot see their own day of visitation. And it reveals the courage of a King who walks into a corrupted temple to restore its purpose. All these emotional movements are not isolated scenes; they are threads woven into the same fabric, exposing the realities of human nature and the consistency of divine love. Luke 19 invites every reader to locate themselves somewhere in the chapter, not to condemn them, but to awaken them to a God who moves toward them even when they are afraid to move toward Him.

The more I dwell on the story of Zacchaeus, the more I realize that his repentance was not a response to guilt; it was a response to being truly seen. Something powerful happens when God sees you without flinching. The shame that seemed permanent becomes temporary. The sin that felt immovable gets displaced by grace. The identity shaped by criticism and self-protection begins to collapse under the weight of divine acceptance. Repentance becomes less about fear and more about alignment, less about punishment and more about restoration, less about obligation and more about revelation. Zacchaeus didn’t change because he was threatened; he changed because Jesus stepped into his home with a love that revealed the truth of who he was always meant to be. When grace enters that deeply, it does not just modify your decisions; it rewires your desires. It awakens the kind of transformation that does not need to be forced or performed because it is no longer external; it is internal, organic, and undeniable.

But transformation does not end with restoration; it moves into responsibility. That is why the parable of the minas is such a critical second movement in the symphony of this chapter. It is God saying to every redeemed heart, “What you do with what I gave you now matters.” It is the reminder that grace does not end with rescue; it expands into assignment. You were not saved so you could settle; you were saved so you could serve with purpose, courage, and conviction. Yet many people live like the third servant, holding tightly to what was meant to be invested, preserving what was meant to be expanded, storing what was meant to be sown. That servant’s fear did not just rob him of productivity; it robbed him of partnership with the kingdom. God is not displeased when you try and fail; He is displeased when you refuse to try. The parable is not about performance; it is about participation. The minas were not tests of skill; they were invitations to trust. And when you live with the mindset of scarcity, you bury the very calling God entrusted to your hands. Luke 19 refuses to let believers settle for that mindset. It confronts the soul with the truth that faith without engagement becomes stagnation, and stagnation eventually becomes loss.

Then, as if the chapter wants to stretch the human heart even further, Jesus moves from teaching to embodiment. He steps onto a donkey and begins the descent into Jerusalem in an act of kingship that looks not like worldly power, but like divine humility. This moment is often read triumphantly, but there is a fragility to it that becomes clearer the more you sit with it. Jesus is riding toward the fulfillment of prophecy, but He is also riding toward rejection, betrayal, and crucifixion. The people cheering Him do not understand Him. They celebrate Him, but they do not see His mission. They praise Him with their voices, but they do not grasp the cost He is about to pay for their salvation. And yet He keeps riding. That is the beauty of Luke 19. It reveals a Savior whose love is not contingent on human consistency. He does not stop loving because people misunderstand Him. He does not withdraw His mission because devotion fades. He does not require perfect loyalty to continue pouring out perfect love. The King who enters Jerusalem on a donkey is a King who knows exactly how fragile human praise is, and yet He rides onward because His love is stronger than their confusion.

The moment Jesus reaches the city and begins to weep, something sacred unfolds that is easy to miss if you read too quickly. This is not the cry of defeat; this is the cry of divine heartbreak. It is the sound of a God who has given everything and watches humanity walk past peace as if it were invisible. He weeps because they long for answers but reject the truth. He weeps because they pray for deliverance but ignore the Deliverer. He weeps because they have cried for centuries for God to come near, and now that He stands before them, they cannot recognize Him. These tears reveal something that theology alone cannot articulate: God is not unmoved by human unbelief. He is not indifferent to spiritual blindness. He does not shrug at the resistance of the heart. He aches for it. He feels it. He grieves it. Divine sorrow is not weakness; it is evidence of divine love. And when you allow yourself to grasp that, Luke 19 becomes more than a chapter; it becomes a revelation of the God who feels more deeply for you than you have ever felt for Him.

That is why the cleansing of the temple must be understood as an act of love rather than anger. Jesus was not erupting; He was restoring. The house of prayer had become a place of noise, transaction, and distraction. It had lost its essence, its purity, its purpose. When Jesus overturned the tables, He was overturning everything that blocked authentic communion with God. He was removing the barriers between the people and the presence. He was reclaiming holy space that had been invaded by the cares and commerce of the world. And if you bring that image into your own life, you begin to see how often God has done the same in your heart. There are moments when His love disrupts your patterns, overturns your habits, exposes your compromises, or removes the things you thought you needed because they were quietly draining your spiritual strength. Divine disruption is often the doorway to spiritual freedom, and Luke 19 paints it vividly enough that no believer can avoid its implications. God will not allow sacred things in your life to be treated casually. He will confront whatever tries to replace prayer, purpose, or purity.

When the chapter closes with Jesus teaching daily in the temple, you see the full picture come together. He rescued the lost in Zacchaeus’s home. He entrusted purpose through the parable of the minas. He received worship during His entry into Jerusalem. He wept over the blindness of the city. He cleansed the temple of corruption. And then He taught, as if to say: this is what I came for—to restore, to reveal, to redeem, to renew. Luke 19 is a journey from hidden branches to holy spaces, from personal salvation to public proclamation, from private homes to public temples, from individual redemption to collective accountability. It is a chapter that touches every dimension of human life, because it reveals every dimension of God’s heart. And when you allow it to settle into your spirit, you begin to see that the God who walked into Zacchaeus’s house is the same God who walks into yours, the same God who entrusts you with calling, the same God who receives your worship, the same God who grieves your resistance, and the same God who restores what has been misused. Luke 19 becomes an invitation to let Him all the way in, not partially, not conditionally, but completely.

In the end, Luke 19 forces a decision. Not the decision of a moment, but the decision of a lifetime. Will you climb the tree to see Him even when you feel unworthy? Will you open the door when He calls you by name? Will you use the purpose He placed in your hands, or bury it under fear? Will your worship be emotional excitement or genuine surrender? Will you recognize the peace being offered to you right now, or will you let it pass by while waiting for something more familiar? Will you allow Him to cleanse the places in your soul where compromise has taken root? Luke 19 leaves no heart untouched, because it reveals a God who refuses to leave you untouched. It reveals a Savior who seeks the lost, a King who rides toward His mission with humility, a Redeemer who weeps for what humanity cannot see, and a Holy Presence who restores what has been desecrated. And when you let this chapter speak to you deeply enough, you begin to realize that the same God who entered Jericho, Jerusalem, and the temple is entering your life with the same intentionality, the same urgency, and the same love.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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In Summary: * Listening now to the Spurs Countdown Show ahead of tonight's game. High point of my day was waking up and finding that my vision had returned to normal. Well.. my normal, anyway. As it was yesterday before receiving the intravitreal injections in my eyes. Man, it took the rest of yesterday, after the shots, to recover from them. But I slept very well last night, woke in a good mood, and have enjoyed a quiet, restful Saturday. Looking forward to enjoying the Spurs game tonight, then retiring to another good night's sleep.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night. Details of that regimen are linked to my link tree, which is linked to my profile page here.

Starting Ash Wednesday, 2026, I'll be adding this daily prayer as part of the Prayer Crusade Preceding SSPX Episcopal Consecrations.

Health Metrics: * bw= 226.64 lbs. * bp= 143/84 (66)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups

Diet: * 07:10 – 1 banana * 08:35 – 1 peanut butter sandwich * 10:50 – pork chops, mashed potatoes, whole kernel corn, garden salad * 15:00 – 1 fresh apple

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 07:20 – bank accounts activity monitored * 07:30 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, and nap * 10:00 – listen to ESPN Radio * 11:00 – listening to NCAA men's basketball, Minnesota Golden Gophers vs Rutgers Scarlet Knights, live radio feed from the Gophers Sports Network * 14:30 – listening to relaxing music, reading, praying. * 18:00 – tuning into 1200 WOAI, the proud flagship of the San Antonio Spurs, well ahead of the Spurs game tonight vs. the Sacramento Kings. Go Spurs Go!

Chess: * 14:00 – moved in all pending CC games

I don’t want to sleep so I am listening to some music 16 horsepower and I hear also the little small black dog, snoring surprisingly loudly, for he is — like I said — very small

But his heart is bigger than the whole house

And the orange dog is resting quietly by my side. She is breathing too: I feel her chest rising and falling under my palm.

She is my favourite

These two dogs have been type of guides, because they have been leading the way out of a darkness into the warmth of spring, so to speak.

Their unrelenting love and care has been of great help.

And now I don’t want to fall asleep because I don’t want this day to end

But it will.

My friend he sent me this song “We Don’t Talk” by Hilary Duff, because she (Hilary Duff, not my friend) also has no contact with her own sister, so this song — of course — struck a chord in me.

Presumably Hilary Duff’s sister is jealous that she’s known only as Hilary Duff’s sister, rather than by her own birth name.

And I have a similar situation where I’ve only ever been happy for my sister’s prosperity, but she’s apparently always been jealous of mine

And me, I am successful (just like Hilary Duff)

But at least now I know

It’s better to know

I think

I signed the offer from Sh without any negotations, and with the hourly rate I initially offered, hooray! I celebrated by eating out I got a nice run in the rain afterwards.

There are moments when the mind wanders into questions so large they almost feel like they belong to another world, and yet they reveal something essential about our own. I found myself wrestling with one of those questions: what truth about God would still remain if every church on earth disappeared tomorrow? It is a staggering image to imagine an entire globe without steeples stretching into the sky or sanctuaries humming with worship, to imagine every building boarded up and every door locked, to picture a world where the familiar rhythm of Sunday morning is suddenly interrupted by silence. Yet this image forces the heart to confront a reality most people never fully consider, which is the truth that God has never depended on buildings to reveal Himself or to sustain the faith of those who seek Him. If anything, the disappearance of structures would strip away the last illusions we hold about where God lives, how God moves, and what God desires most from us. Long before humanity ever built a sanctuary, God walked freely among people, and long after every sanctuary crumbles into dust, God’s presence will remain as strong, as radiant, and as accessible as it has always been. The disappearance of buildings would not mark the disappearance of God, but rather the revelation of His true home within the human heart.

To understand this fully, you have to step back and remember that the story of God and humanity did not begin with vaulted ceilings or stained-glass windows. It began in a garden where Adam walked with God without intermediaries, without rituals, and without architecture. God’s first sanctuary had no walls, no pews, no altars, and no programs, and yet it pulsed with intimacy, communion, and divine nearness. Abraham encountered God beneath a sky scattered with stars, without a temple in sight. Jacob wrestled with the divine presence in the dark of night, lying on the bare ground with nothing but a stone beneath his head. Moses heard God’s voice in a burning bush on the side of an unremarkable mountain. Elijah encountered God not in the wind or the earthquake or the fire, but in a whisper that could be felt more than heard. David found God in caves, in fields, in desperate prayer, and in fierce tears. These encounters were not diminished because they lacked a sacred building; they were strengthened by the realization that God has never been confined to human structures. The entire biblical narrative testifies to a God who refuses to be limited by the walls we build for Him, who shows up where we least expect Him, and who draws near in ways that defy every human attempt to contain Him.

When you step into that truth, you begin to see that the disappearance of churches would not erase Christianity; it would expose its essence. The early church did not grow because they had the most impressive buildings; they had none. They did not transform the Roman Empire by hosting the largest services; they had no public worship gatherings for nearly three centuries. They did not disciple nations because they possessed influence or political leverage; they were marginalized, hunted, persecuted, and often killed. Their power was not architectural; it was relational. Their strength was not found in public gatherings but in private devotion. Their influence was not the result of structures but of souls on fire. When they prayed, prison doors opened. When they preached, hearts burned. When they loved, entire cities stopped to marvel. They understood something we often forget, which is that the Church is not a place we attend but a presence we carry. If every church disappeared tomorrow, the truth that would remain is that the Spirit of God cannot be exiled from the earth and cannot be separated from the believer.

But this leads to a deeper question: if the structures suddenly vanished, what would remain of your faith? Would you feel lost without the rhythm, the schedule, the physical reminder that you belong somewhere? Or would you rise with a new sense of personal responsibility, realizing that the presence of God was never meant to be an occasional visitation but a continual habitation within you? We live in a world where many believers have unconsciously anchored their spiritual lives to buildings, programs, and leaders. These things are beautiful, but they are not the foundation. Churches help, but they are not the source. Pastors guide, but they are not the Shepherd. Worship teams inspire, but they are not the presence. Community supports, but it is not the root. The moment we confuse the structure with the Source, we weaken our connection to the living God, because anything built by human hands can be shaken, but the One who established the heavens and the earth cannot be moved.

Sometimes God allows things in our lives to be stripped away so that we can rediscover communion rather than routine. There are believers who learned to pray not because they attended a service, but because life pushed them into a corner where they had no choice but to seek Him for themselves. There are people who learned Scripture not because someone preached it, but because they were desperate for answers and opened the Bible in the stillness of night. There are men and women who learned to worship not because music played, but because their soul could no longer bear silence. There is a sacredness in realizing that God becomes most real when foundations crumble, because He alone remains when everything else falls apart. This is true not only for the Church at large, but for every individual who has ever faced a moment where life as they knew it collapsed in front of them.

Most people have experienced a moment where the structure of their life fell apart. A marriage dissolved. A career ended. A reputation cracked. A dream broke. A season shifted so abruptly that it felt like standing in the ruins of a building you once trusted. When that happens, it is easy to assume that God is somehow less present, that the collapse of what is familiar signals the withdrawal of what is divine. Yet the mystery of God is that He does His greatest work in the spaces where everything familiar has been stripped away. When the Israelites were pushed into the wilderness, God led them with fire by night and cloud by day. When Jonah ran from his calling, God met him in the belly of despair. When Paul lost everything he once counted as accomplishment, God rebuilt him into a messenger whose words still shake the world. When the disciples hid in fear after the crucifixion, Jesus walked through locked doors to breathe peace into their shattered souls. God does not wait for structures to be rebuilt before He reveals Himself. He reveals Himself precisely where structures fall.

So, if every church disappeared tomorrow, the world would not suddenly be empty of God. In fact, it might become clearer than ever where God has always been found. He would be found in the quiet prayers whispered before dawn. He would be found in the forgiveness offered by someone who has every reason to stay angry. He would be found in the strength of a mother fighting for her children, in the integrity of a man choosing honesty at a personal cost, in the courage of someone stepping out in faith even when they cannot see the road ahead. He would be found in every moment where the unseen becomes more real than the seen. God has always been a God who moves among people, not merely within places, and that truth cannot be erased by the disappearance of structures.

And yet, there is another layer to this vision that deserves attention. If every church vanished, believers might begin to rediscover what it means to carry the presence of God into everyday spaces. The early Christians did not wait for Sunday to talk about Jesus; they lived Him openly and boldly. They shared meals, prayers, stories, and struggles. Their lives became the platform for their message long before any building existed. They understood that faith spread through households, conversations, and acts of compassion. Strangers encountered the gospel not in sanctuaries but in streets, marketplaces, and workplaces. The disappearance of churches today would not signal the end of faith, but the rebirth of a movement that has always thrived outside of walls. It would force believers to reclaim an identity that has been too often outsourced to institutions: the identity of being a living temple of God.

As you picture a world where every church building has vanished, you begin to see how easily we forget the original design of the faith we claim. Christianity was never born inside a sanctuary; it was ignited inside hearts. It was not shaped by committees but by convictions, not by programs but by personal transformation, not by liturgy but by lives that were visibly changed by encounters with God. The absence of buildings would force us to rediscover a truth that modern believers often overlook, the truth that gathering is powerful but God does not require architecture to make Himself known. In fact, some of the most profound spiritual awakenings in history did not begin in cathedrals but in fields, in homes, in caves, in prisons, and in unexpected corners of society. Faith spreads wherever people live out the presence of God with sincerity, boldness, humility, and love. When you remember that, you begin to understand that the disappearance of churches would not weaken the gospel but might purify it, drawing believers back to the heart of what God always meant faith to be.

Yet many people struggle with the idea of losing structures because buildings give us a sense of identity and belonging. When someone asks, “Where do you go to church?” they are often asking, “Where do you fit?” or “Where do you find your spiritual home?” But the truth is, your spiritual home was never meant to be a building. Your spiritual home is the presence of God resting within you, guiding you, shaping you, convicting you, comforting you, and transforming you from the inside out. Buildings create fellowship, but presence creates identity. Architecture creates familiarity, but encounters create faith. And if every church disappeared tomorrow, the loss of familiarity might feel devastating at first, but the rediscovery of identity would be life-changing. You would remember that you are the temple of the Holy Spirit, that God’s presence is not a place you visit but a Source you carry. Identity rooted in external structures is fragile. Identity rooted in God is unbreakable.

This brings us to something that carries enormous weight once you reflect on it deeply. If church buildings disappeared, many believers would discover that their relationship with God was anchored to routine more than intimacy. Not because they lacked sincerity, but because they had been conditioned to experience God primarily through scheduled gatherings rather than continual communion. Without the reminders, the music, the sermons, or the environment, some would initially feel disconnected. But in that disconnection, something beautiful would begin to happen. They would learn to hear God in the quiet again. They would learn to seek His presence in the ordinary again. They would learn to lean on Him because they want Him, not because a structure guided them toward Him. It is not that church gatherings are unnecessary; they are deeply valuable. But they were always meant to support your relationship with God, not replace it.

And then there is this truth: God often does His deepest work outside of familiar structures. When people lose the comfort of routine, they gain the opportunity for renewal. When they cannot rely on a building to remind them to worship, worship becomes more sincere. When they cannot rely on a sermon to feed them spiritually, Scripture becomes alive in their own hands. When they cannot rely on a pastor to carry the spiritual weight, responsibility rises within them. This is not a dismissal of the beauty of the Church; it is an acknowledgment that God has always been larger than it. The removal of structures does not remove His presence; it reveals whether we were depending on Him or depending on the routine. And in that revelation, faith becomes either exposed or refined.

Now imagine what might happen globally if believers had to rediscover faith in its rawest form. People would begin praying again because they need God, not because prayer was scheduled. They would begin repenting because conviction stirred their conscience, not because it was part of a formal invitation. They would begin to worship because gratitude overflowed, not because they were led by a choir. They would begin to witness because the presence of God inside them could not stay silent, not because outreach was planned. Communities would form naturally, out of shared hunger and shared devotion, not because a building provided a meeting space. What began as an imagined crisis would become a spiritual recalibration. God would not be diminished. God would become more visible.

You would also see faith become more active. Without structures to lean on, believers would step more boldly into their calling. Some would begin hosting gatherings in their homes. Others would begin praying with co-workers or strangers. Some would begin studying Scripture with others who have questions. Faith would stop being something observed and would become something embodied. The Kingdom of God would not shrink; it would spread into places where traditional structures once struggled to reach. The divine presence would infiltrate spaces that were once untouched: street corners, parks, break rooms, households, public squares, prison cells, nursing homes, shelters, schools, and anywhere people find themselves in need of hope. This is not fantasy; this is precisely how the early Church expanded across continents. What we call “the church” today is the byproduct of what happened when believers relied on presence more than place.

And still, beneath all of this, there lies a more intimate truth that touches the core of the human soul. If every church disappeared tomorrow, God’s love for you would remain exactly the same. Your worth would not decrease. Your purpose would not fade. Your prayers would not lose their power. The disappearance of buildings would not silence God any more than the disappearance of light silences the sun. He would continue speaking through Scripture, dreams, burdens, convictions, moments of clarity, and whispers that reach you when no one else knows what you are carrying. You would still feel His strength when you are weak, His comfort when you are grieving, His guidance when you are uncertain, and His peace when the world around you is unraveling.

And this leads us to the most powerful revelation of all: if every church disappeared tomorrow, God would rebuild His movement the same way He started it—not with structures, but with people. He would begin with individuals awakened to the reality of His presence inside them. He would begin with hearts that burn to know Him, not just know about Him. He would begin with those who are willing to carry His presence into the world rather than wait for the world to come to a building. He would begin with anyone who says yes. And from those yeses, a movement would rise that no persecution, no collapse, no crisis, no government, no culture, and no force of darkness could stop. This movement would not look like what we have known, but it would look unmistakably like Jesus. It would be a movement of compassion, courage, healing, forgiveness, humility, conviction, and radical love. It would be a movement that cannot be contained, because God Himself cannot be contained.

The more you sit with this question, the more you realize that the disappearance of churches does not reveal God’s absence—it reveals His resilience. If everything familiar crumbled, God would still stand. If everything we leaned on vanished, God would still lead. If everything we trusted fell apart, God would still be faithful. He is not sustained by architecture. He is not strengthened by attendance. He is not upheld by tradition. He is God, eternal and unchanging, and His presence fills every crack where human structures fail.

So if every church disappeared tomorrow, what truth about God would still remain? The truth that He has never lived in buildings made by human hands. The truth that His presence has never depended on brick or stone. The truth that He has always pursued the heart more than the structure. The truth that He is nearer than your breath, stronger than your fears, deeper than your doubts, and more present in your life than any building could ever be. And the truth that, when everything else is stripped away, God alone remains—faithful, steady, unshaken, and eternally committed to those who seek Him. That is the truth that cannot disappear, because it is the truth He wrote into the fabric of creation itself.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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What Is Agency and What Is Depression?

My thoughts are my own. The idea that someone can make me think or feel a certain way is false. We can be manipulated to an extent, but we all have agency. You cannot make me clench my fist and raise up my right arm. However, are my thoughts my own or those of the depression?

I suppose the reality is that the depression and I are one. Perhaps I am trying to other the depression to distance myself from the harmful thoughts. The thoughts in question are the darkest ones. Or, are these thoughts only taboo because of our culture?

Forms of Ideation

The dark thoughts in question are suicidal ideation. In therapy and in blogs I have shared that my shame, the self-critic, feels like a gateway to ideation. I can recognize that the feelings are those I experience during suicidal ideation. For me, it is connected, but I am not saying others are wired that way. Lately, I have been questioning my disintrest in my physical health. Yet, someone's random question of where I want to be buried or have my ashes spread immediately brought me to my overwhelming fear of death.

My psychiatrist used to ask the same question when these black and white thoughts came to me, “Can it be both?” Sure I can be afraid of death and also see it as an escape from the pain and exhaustion. Is the fear of death motivated by some ancient survival mechanism in our brain that won't let us pruposely drown?

Be Healthy or Be Me?

I am getting older. My parter is doing the right things as she works out and is trying to eat better. I feel as if all I have time for is work and sleep. When could I find time or energy to work out? I will also admit that I eat my feelings. There's a voice in my head, “If no one sees you eat it, did you?” I happily lap up that advice. That stolen moment in the car with those McDonalds' fries is something I did for me.

I guess this is another question of my agency as a person. Am I eating junkfood because it makes me feel good or because it is something I have control of in this world? In university, I learned that death certificates must have a reason on them. In other words, you cannot simply have the cause of death as “they were old.” There must be a medical reason like heart failure. We obfiscate the idea that age is related to death. In the same way, I don't think eating two rows of oreo cookies is going to kill me. Diabetes will be the cause. Therefore, it is the disease and not the cookies, so I might as well eat the last row of cookies too.

Am I immature or irresponsible for eating unhealthy foods? My sense of shame loves that idea. What an excellent source of pleasure. I get to have my cake and eat it too. I continue to beat myself up with depression and have chocolate.

Highs And Lows

My blood pressue is a concern at the moment. For much of my adult life, my blood pressure has been low, sometimes dangerously so. Suddenly, it has been registering as high blood pressure. My blood sugars are also very high, as if that wasn't clear from the previous confession above. Medication for diabetes was doing great work before. I was also not working full time.

Would I eat better and exercise more if I wasn't working full time? Well, if the past is any indicator I am not certain. When I wasn't working full time, I was ashamed that I was broken. I continually scolded myself for not being like others. How can everyone around me have a full time job and do all the things that paralyze me with anxiety?

What would happen if I wasn't working isn't clear because I really tried after my breakdown. I tried to eath healthier and work out. I was more successful. As I like to say, it is a full time job dealing with anxiety and depression. When I am working, it is all about shoving all that aside to get the work done. My reward for getting through the day is those stolen moments of eating someting I should not.

Is rewarding myself with junkfood my choice or another obfiscation? Is my depression and shame pulling the strings to keep me in that state of self-loathing?

Uncomfortable to Swallow

My inner debate is likely another red hering. I hesitate to admit that there is a part of me who thinks the poor heart health and afront to my diabetes through stolen moments of sweets is just part of a slower suicide. The thoughts that arrive when I think about stopping for ice cream or decide to sleep in instead of working out are along the lines of “Why does it matter?” Is this a life worth living?

It is very hard to admit that these are things that go through my mind because the people around me that are not neurodivergent have difficulty understanding it. They are part of my life, am I saying I'd rather not be around them? Of course, I am not saying that. They don't live in my head. They experience the world differently than I do.

In my mind the invasive thoughts are like an endless rain.

The world we all live in is a dour place at the moment. Many seek to escape it by not watching the news or clinging onto hope that things will change somehow. I cannot think capitalism would suddenly change over night. Furthermore, therapy really taught me that my feelings are not wrong. I need to embrace my feelings, not lock them away or try to esape them.

I suppose it is a perspective thing. Maybe the sage advice is to concentrate on what you can do for yourself and to not try to fix the whole world. However, as I stand in the storm of depression raging in my head it looks to me that this is how the world went wrong, thinking of only ourselves.Though, considering that everything I am going through is because of me, perhaps it is sage advice. If I think helping myself won't make the world a better place, why should I try?

Maybe that's the depression talking again. Maybe it is me?

The moon outside is aglow like a pale banana lamp on the star-clear dark blue sky. A wintery fairytale!

And here sits I, with the family. and also: the fires burning in the fire place and the fires burning in my soul!

I just watched Christina Aguilera ft. Lil Kim — can’t hold us down on the TV, and it struck me like a hammer! It’s just such an awesome track! Sassy! with these small purple shorts and the other street fashion they just deliver this powerful feminist message, which saddens me somewhat to hear, because I feel we’re moving in the wrong direction lately.

Lil Kim’s line about the double standards now to me has an ominous ring to them

But the tables about to turn  I bet my fame on it

You know?

I hate man pigs! let that be plainly stated here!!

and what the fuck is a trad wife?

No thanks

🤌🤌🤌🤌

[Je parle d’idées noires]

Répit. Le médicament du matin n’est plus là. A moins que ce soit juste mon horaire habituel de clarté mentale.

C’était bien, ces deux-trois semaines à fond les ballons. Je ne listerai pas tout ce que j’ai fait, de raisonnable à déraisonnable. Par exemple, m’inscrire sur 2 cours différents de sport, pour reprendre doucement… vraiment ? Y en a un qui m’a tuée, au passage. On va se contenter des étirements merci.

Et même les étirements, c’est vertiges et compagnie. C’est revenir en trottinant quelques mètres sous la pluie parce que je me fais arroser par les voitures, au bord du malaise.

Le fossé entre ce que je pouvais faire avant, il y a quelques années, et maintenant quand l’épuisement frappe, est cruel.

Les phases up me redonnent de l’énergie mais m’enlèvent du sommeil, et en une semaine j’ai l’impression de devenir un cadavre. La Fatigue me rattrape et rend ce plaisir fugitif. J’ai eu “de la chance” que ça dure si longtemps cette fois.

Le contrôle que j’avais sur mon corps, que je pensais avoir sur mon esprit, n’est plus là. Grève.

Que je pensais avoir. Je pensais aller bien, vraiment, quel kif, je peux bouger, j’organise plein de trucs, je passe par quelques monts et vaux et j’admire la neige au passage.

Madame veut quand même me voir chaque semaine. C’est risible, je ne vais pas si mal. Je ne prends pas les ponts pour des solutions, je ne fais pas de crise d’angoisse tous les deux pas.

J’ai juste écrit, dans une tentative de noter des trucs cools que j’ai envie de faire dans ma vie, que je ne méritais rien et surtout pas d’être heureuse. Franchement, pas de quoi se formaliser. Je vis comme ça depuis si longtemps, c’est mon normal à moi.

Parce que j’ai un catalogue de situations improbables autour de moi ou avec moi, je n’arrive pas à comprendre la vie intérieure des gars qui pensent que les merdes n’arrivent qu’aux autres et que je me prends la tête pour rien.

Ce trou noir qui aspire tout réconfort.

Et parfois, une petite chanson qui n’a l’air de rien. Elle me comprend, elle fait sortir un mélange de douleur et de douceur ensemble, il y a un peu de lumière et de vie.

Angèle, “Tout oublier”

November Ultra, “November”

Pauline Croze, “T’es beau”

Manu Chao, “Minha Galera”

Emma Peters, “Clandestina”

The Cranberries, “No need to argue”

Trio Mandili, “Galoba”

#Spurs vs. Kings

My radio game this Saturday night comes from the NBA and has the Sacramento Kings traveling to Texas to meet my San Antonio Spurs up the road in Austin. With a start time of 07:00 PM Local Time, this game fits nicely into my schedule of choice. And given the teams' respective W-L records this year (Kings 12-45, Spurs 39-16) I'm reasonably confident my Spurs will win. That's always good for my state of mind.

And the adventure continues.

Estou fazendo justamente o que eu disse ontem mesmo que não deveria fazer, estou escrevendo isso aqui cedo demais hoje.

Acontece que existe um livro, ou melhor, existe uma peça de teatro chamada de: O Céu da Língua, de Gregorio Duvivier. Estava lendo o seu roteiro ontem, e vi essa parte sobre despedidas e quis vir compartilhar com você.

Acho que de certo modo, essas cartas são minha eterna despedida, a fim de nunca dizer adeus.

…Até porque a DESPEDIDA é uma palavra nossa. Que a gente não dá muito valor. Em inglês eles falam say goodbye. Ou decir adiós. Dire au revoir. Em muitas línguas se despedir é dizer tchau.

A despedida não é dizer adeus, mas é a cerimônia do adeus.

Só uma língua que inventou a saudade poderia ter inventado a despedida.

Se a saudade é a presença de uma ausência, a despedida é o prenúncio dessa ausência.

Nos despedimos porque sabemos que vamos sentir saudades, e a despedida vai ajudar na saudade futura.

Se despedir é tornar presente aquilo que não estará.

Por isso a gente gosta de se despedir. E passa a vida se despedindo.

Tem a saída a francesa, que é sair sem se despedir, e a saída a brasileira, que é se despedir sem sair.

A gente chega na festa falando: só to dando uma passada. Meia-hora depois, to indo, tá gente. As 4 da manhã ela tá lá. Pronto, agora realmente já deu. E a Cida, heim? Deu uma engordada. A gente passa uma vida se despedindo porque a gente sabe que é no final que as pessoas prestam atenção na gente. Dito isso. To indo embora.

To me sentindo igual num boteco quando eles começam a lavar o chão mas a gente simplesmente levanta os pés e continua a beber.

Essa é a experiência mais brasileira que tem.

Beber com um rodo passando sobre os pés.

A gente tem todo um léxico do apego, tem a saideira, e o chorinho, e o chorinho da saideira, e o repeteco do chorinho da saideira.

A gente tem toda uma playlist da pessoa que não vai embora.

Daqui nao saio daqui ninguem me tira.

E não tem tira nem doutor nem ziquizira quero ver quem é que tira nós aqui desse lugar, não deixa o samba morrer, o show tem que continuar, eu não vou embora….

Te amo meu amor,

E se precisar me despedir de você até o fim da vida, para nunca te dizer adeus, assim o farei.

Do cara mais atrasado que já te amou,

Nathan.

Under många år präglades bloggvärlden av perfekta hem, fläckfria kök och liv som såg ut att vara i ständig medvind. Bilderna var genomtänkta, vardagen filtrerad och idealen ofta högt satta. Men med tiden har något förändrats. Allt fler bloggar har rört sig bort från det polerade och närmat sig det vanliga, det ärliga och det lugnare. I stället för att spä på prestationskrav och jämförelsehets har många valt att visa livet som det faktiskt är, med disk på bänken, trötta morgnar och små segrar i vardagen. Det har blivit en motrörelse mot hysterin, där balans och rimlighet fått ta mer plats.

Mr Lagom är en blogg som andas lugn och balans i en värld där mycket annars ska vara mer, snabbare och bättre hela tiden. Här står den svenska idén om lagom i centrum, inte som något tråkigt eller mellanmjölkigt, utan som ett aktivt val. Det handlar om att hitta en rimlig nivå i vardag, arbete, relationer och fritid, där livet får vara hållbart över tid. I stället för att jaga ytterligheter visar bloggen att det ofta är i det enkla och lagom stora som välbefinnandet finns.

Ett tydligt exempel är inlägget Skicka en julklapp till en vän, där omtanken är viktigare än prislappen. Här lyfts värdet av den lilla gesten, av att visa att man tänker på någon, utan att det behöver bli överdrivet eller prestationsinriktat. Det är ett fint exempel på hur lagom kan vara både generöst och avspänt på samma gång.

I Barn behöver namn på sina grejer rör sig bloggen in i familjelivets mer praktiska delar. Att märka kläder och saker kan verka som en liten detalj, men det är just sådana genomtänkta val som förenklar vardagen. Mindre borttappat, mindre stress, mer lugn. Lagom struktur gör stor skillnad utan att bli ett helt projekt.

När det gäller barns utveckling och avkoppling tar Ljudböcker för barn upp hur berättelser kan bli en naturlig och balanserad del av vardagen. Ljudboken blir ett alternativ som varken är passiv skärmtid eller kräver full närvaro från en vuxen hela tiden. Det är ett sätt att stimulera fantasin och samtidigt skapa en lugn stund.

I Vaffo behöver man en sån där laddbox, pappa? diskuteras mer samtida frågor kring teknik och vardagsval. Behöver man verkligen en laddbox hemma, eller går det att lösa på annat sätt? Inlägget visar hur man kan resonera kring investeringar och behov utan att dras med i känslan av att allt nytt automatiskt är nödvändigt.

Den lekfulla sidan av bloggen syns i En improviserad saga, där fantasin får ta plats utan krav på perfektion. Det är en påminnelse om att kreativitet inte måste planeras in i detalj. Ibland räcker det att börja berätta och se vart det leder.

När någon fyller år och förväntningarna smyger sig på funderar bloggen i Vad är en lagom bra 30 års present? kring hur man hittar en gåva som känns personlig utan att bli överdriven. Här handlar det om att anpassa efter personen, relationen och situationen, snarare än att leva upp till någon osynlig standard.

Samma tanke fortsätter i Minska stressen kring presentköp, där pressen att alltid hitta den perfekta presenten ifrågasätts. Inlägget uppmuntrar till ett mer avslappnat förhållningssätt, där det är tanken och omtanken som räknas, inte hur imponerande gåvan är.

Genom alla dessa texter framträder Mr Lagom som en blogg som vågar sakta ner. Den visar att livet inte behöver maxas för att vara bra. Ofta räcker det att välja det som känns rimligt, hållbart och mänskligt. Och i det finns något både befriande och väldigt svenskt.

遠くに城が見える。 その手前には横に広がる橋があり、端のほうでは写真を撮っている人がいたり、歩き疲れて立ち止まった子どもをお母さんがなだめていたりする。 橋の途中には銅像が立っていて、その横では誰かが歴史を語っている。 そんな橋を渡ると思うと、空がより広く感じられて、歩いているだけで気分がよくなりそうだ。

橋を渡り切っても、城はまだ遠くにあって、その手前には城下町が広がっている。 俺はその街の喫茶店に向かおうとするが、天気が良いせいか、なんとなくその手前で道を曲がり、店の周りをぐるりと一周してから、遠回りして入ることにした。

その喫茶店で働く女の子の制服は、昔ながらのレストランで見かけるような、クラシックな茶色の可愛いデザインだった。

俺がナポリタンとコーヒーを頼んでいると、リュックを背負った女の子が慌てて入ってきて、「遅刻してごめんね」と言った。息を切らしながらも、手にはスタバのコーヒーを持っている。遅刻してるのにスタバに寄ってきたこと、そして喫茶店に来るのにコーヒーを持ってきていること、その両方が妙に引っかかる。

彼女を待っていたのは、180cmくらいの細身でニットを着た男だった。彼はそのどちらにもツッコまなかった。かっこいい男は、そういうことにツッコまない。

横からパソコンを打つ音が聞こえてきて、お仕事お疲れ様ですと心の中でつぶやく。なんとなくその音のする方に視野を広げてみると、その人は生姜焼き定食を食べていた。「この人、ご飯を食べている音がパソコンをタイピングしてる音と同じだ」と思い、すぐにインタビューしてみたくなった。 でも、そんなことを指摘された事はないだろうし、「で、それの何が面白いの？」と返される未来が見えたので、頭の中に留めておくことにした。

足が地面につかないタイプの一人席には、40代くらいでバリバリ働いていそうな男性がコーヒーを飲んでいた。 彼の胸元には、本人の顔がくっきり映るほど素材の良さそうなバッジがついている。 普段はその反射した自分を見て、自分に納得しているのが想像できる。

そうしているうちに、友人がやってきた。12分の遅刻だ。 特に謝りもせず、俺の前に座ると、コーヒーフロートを頼み、スマホを見ながら「今日なんか空気乾いてね？」と言ってきた。 俺は特に返事をしなかったが、それにも気づいていないようだった。

「そういえば、本返すわ」と言われて、貸していたことを思い出す。 「かなり面白かったわ」と言われたとき、ふとその友人の歯に目がいった。 歯の数や形は普通のはずなのに、全体として違和感がある。もしかしたら、唇や頬の位置が少しずれているのかもしれない。 人の顔を見て良い時間の最大値を超えたので、それ以上は見ないことにした。

「この前さ、37歳くらいの女の壺職人のところに取材に行ったんだよ」と友人が言う。 友人は今はライターをやっている。 性格が悪いので、その言い方からして既に、壺職人に対するリスペクトがまるで感じられない。

「どうだった？」と聞くと、「部屋入ったら時計が目立ってるだけだった」と言う。 彼にとって、それが一番印象的だったのだろう。

「壺は？」と聞くと、「プロみたいな壺だった」と返ってきた。

「お茶とコーラ、どっちがいい？」って聞かれたときにさあ——と、友人は話を続ける。

「声が響いてさあ、壁が経年劣化してたのが分かったんだよな」

細かい話を断片的に聞かされるけど、こっちはこっちで休日の精神なので、大した反応もしない。 「今、自分が動かせるパーツは人差し指だけですよ」と言って、指をひらひらさせてみせた。

隣の席から「お菓子はホコリが付きやすいんですよ」と聞こえてきた。 そちらをちらりと見ると、立派な髭をたくわえた、でもどこか童顔の人が話していた。 その年齢不詳の人のせいで、話し相手の人物が、特に特徴がないにもかかわらず、ますます何歳なのかより分からなくなっていた。

「それ、ヨシダさんも言ってましたよ」と話し相手が返すと、「ヨシダサン？みんなと同じ仕事してるやつか？」と返していて、ざっくりすぎるだろと思いながら心で笑う。

腰が疲れて、なんとなく上を見上げると、店の天井にパイプが走っていた。 その一部が修理されていて、そこだけ色が違っている。 それを見て、自分が猫背になっていたことに気づいた。

Soy tan guapo, que cuando mi madre me trajo de la clínica, dice mi abuela que se iluminó la casa con los tonos del arco iris. Y eso que mi abuela, la madre de papá, no era fan de mi madre. Aún así, le dijo:

-Ya era hora de que terminaras algo bien.

Imagínense cómo estaría la cuestión, y cómo sería yo, para que hubiera paz ese día. Y sin darme cuenta, seguí mejorando. Un día un poquito, otro día otro, y así semana a semana hasta llegar al presente.

Dice la Dra. Leblanc, que me ayudó a nacer, que mi padre al verme se arrugó de envidia y se encogió cuando observó mis perfectos atributos. Lo siento, no quise ofenderlo, pero esa es la vida y no la inventé yo. Da más a los que más tenemos.

Pero al crecer, me fui dando perfecta cuenta de que empecé a caerme un poquito mal. Yo sabía que para eso estaban mi papá y mis hermanos, pero aún así, a veces remaba a favor de ellos.

No era un inconsciente: yo quería ponerme en mi lugar. Aunque la naturaleza se había pasado de frenada, decidí, con algo de carácter, poner límite a la situación. No sabía cuándo ni cómo, pero lo haría. Lo que me convenció para ponerme manos a la obra fue lo que se desencadenó el viernes pasado cuando estacioné el Bentley en el Hotel París de Montecarlo. Muchachas y señoras, también algún turista, me estrujaron para hacerse fotos abrazándome. Sinceramente, yo no sé si esto es acoso pero de inmediato vi que se me iba subiendo la vanidad al punto que me dieron ganas de darme un puñetazo para que despertara y comprendiera que la belleza no lo es todo.

No lo hice, porque me esperaba mi mamá para el té y no quería que me viera despeinado. Además, qué culpa tiene ella de que yo no me soporte, cuando ella puso todo de su parte al parirme, para que yo naciera de este modo; o sea, así.

Y con tal de no verla sufrir, intentaré no enmendarme.

We talked and things went better than I could have hoped for.

La Macedonia del Nord è un paese che vive sospeso tra due ombre: quella lunga di Alessandro il Grande e quella, più recente ma altrettanto ingombrante, del dopo‑Tito. Due eredità che non potrebbero essere più diverse, e che tuttavia convivono nella psicologia collettiva del paese. Da un lato il mito dell’eroe conquistatore, simbolo di grandezza e di espansione; dall’altro la memoria di un sistema che ha garantito stabilità, ordine, appartenenza, ma che ha anche congelato le identità in un mosaico amministrato dall’alto. È in questa tensione che si gioca il destino della Macedonia contemporanea. E, come sempre, è nella prima infanzia che si decide se un popolo saprà trasformare le proprie eredità in futuro o se resterà prigioniero delle proprie nostalgie.

L’eredità di Alessandro non è un semplice riferimento storico. È un mito fondativo, un’aspirazione, un orizzonte di grandezza che continua a esercitare una forza simbolica enorme. Ma è anche un peso. Perché nessun paese moderno può realisticamente misurarsi con un impero che ha raggiunto l’India. Eppure, la Macedonia del Nord vive costantemente nel confronto con ciò che è stata o che crede di essere stata. È un popolo che porta dentro di sé una tensione irrisolta tra la volontà di essere riconosciuto come erede di una civiltà antica e la necessità di trovare un posto credibile nel mondo contemporaneo. Questa tensione attraversa la politica, la cultura, la diplomazia. Ma soprattutto attraversa l’educazione.

Il dopo‑Tito ha lasciato un’eredità opposta: un sistema che ha garantito coesione attraverso la gestione centralizzata delle identità. La Jugoslavia non chiedeva ai popoli di essere grandi, ma di essere ordinati. Non chiedeva di espandersi, ma di convivere. Non chiedeva di desiderare, ma di funzionare. La Macedonia ha interiorizzato questa logica: un’identità amministrata, prudente, spesso timorosa di affermarsi per non disturbare equilibri fragili. È una psicologia che ancora oggi si percepisce: un popolo che oscilla tra orgoglio e cautela, tra aspirazione e autocensura, tra desiderio di riconoscimento e paura del conflitto.

In questo scenario, l’educazione della prima infanzia diventa un campo strategico. Perché è lì che si decide quale delle due eredità prevarrà. Se quella titanica di Alessandro, che spinge verso l’affermazione, la creatività, la proiezione; o quella post‑jugoslava, che tende alla gestione, alla moderazione, alla rinuncia. I bambini non ereditano solo una lingua o una cultura: ereditano una postura verso il mondo. E la Macedonia del Nord, oggi, deve decidere quale postura vuole trasmettere.

La prima infanzia è il luogo in cui un popolo stabilisce se vuole essere protagonista della storia o se preferisce essere amministrato da altri. È il momento in cui si formano la fiducia, il desiderio, la capacità di immaginare. Un paese che educa i propri bambini alla prudenza e alla sopravvivenza produrrà cittadini adattivi, ma non creativi. Un paese che educa alla possibilità produrrà cittadini capaci di trasformare il proprio destino. La Macedonia del Nord si trova esattamente in questo bivio. Da un lato la tentazione di ripiegarsi, di considerarsi troppo piccola per aspirare a qualcosa di più. Dall’altro la possibilità di recuperare la propria energia storica, non come nostalgia imperiale, ma come capacità di immaginare un futuro autonomo.

Il mito di Alessandro può essere una risorsa se diventa un simbolo di apertura, di curiosità, di incontro con il mondo. Può essere un ostacolo se diventa un rifugio identitario, una compensazione per un presente percepito come insufficiente. Allo stesso modo, l’eredità post‑Tito può essere una risorsa se offre stabilità e coesione, ma diventa un limite se soffoca il desiderio. La prima infanzia è il punto in cui queste due forze si incontrano e si trasformano. È lì che si decide se un bambino crescerà con l’idea che il mondo è un luogo da esplorare o un luogo da temere.

La Macedonia del Nord non è condannata a scegliere tra grandezza e amministrazione. Può costruire una terza via: un’identità che riconosce la propria storia senza esserne prigioniera, che valorizza la propria pluralità senza temerla, che educa i propri bambini non alla nostalgia, ma alla possibilità. Ma questa scelta non avverrà nei palazzi del potere. Avverrà nelle scuole dell’infanzia, nelle famiglie, nei primi anni di vita. È lì che un popolo decide se vuole continuare a esistere nella storia o se preferisce essere definito dagli altri.

La Macedonia del Nord ha una storia troppo ricca per accontentarsi della gestione. E ha un futuro troppo fragile per rifugiarsi nei miti. La sua forza, oggi, dipende dalla capacità di educare una generazione che non viva all’ombra di Alessandro né sotto il peso del dopo‑Tito, ma che sappia trasformare entrambe le eredità in un progetto nuovo. È nella prima infanzia che questo progetto può nascere. Ed è lì che si gioca il destino del paese.