Archives for 2013

What I am into (Feb 2013 edition) and Progress on New Year’s Goals

Retreats. I spent 4 days in Wales at Fflad-y-Brenin in Pembrokeshire, Wales. It is a very creative place, known for the dreams, visions and ideas people receive while staying there (according to the founder, Roy Godwin). Though I had set the time aside to seek God, ideas kept coming, and I wrote several blog posts, which I will be posting slowly. So it turned out to be a writing retreat, rather than a seeking God retreat. Sigh!

God is everywhere all the time of course, but sometimes, one needs to make a hard stop; turn off other distractions and seek him in a concentrated, concerted way to hear him. I oddly hear God far better and receive more direction for my life on holidays and retreats than when at home. Is it the lack of possessions and clutter, or just the break from familiar routines? I don’t know.

And Wales—well, it was cold, wet and beautiful!!

Ffald-y-Brenin, the Farmhouse, the Hermitage, the Beehive Chapel, and the main residential building (left to right)

Walking. Taking a WalkFit Course with Joanna Hall in Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Though, well, I should have learnt to walk as a toddler, I am conscious that I walk very slowly compared to “normal” people. Joanna’s technique is adding speed—oh, and endorphins and pleasure to my walks. Long strides, leave on the toes, arrive on the heel, stand tall, head straight, draw up your thighs and pelvis, suck in your abs. Complex, but you incorporate these things slowly. My posture is improving, and I am walking faster and more. Joanna has us walk up a hill counting steps. And then again, and again, shaving 5% off our steps each time.

And I am finally walking the recommended 10,000 steps a day. And it is a lot.

Exploring. Loved being a tourist in London after my course. We spent a magical, fascinating afternoon poking around Westminster Abbey, amid those mass of monuments, especially enjoying Poet’s Corner. I adored the mosaics at St Paul’s!

A few of the memorials in Poets Corner

Brass floor inlay, Westminster Abbey (St. George)

The Cloister, Westminster Abbey

South Towers of Westminster Abbey from the cloister

Houses of Parliament from the Cloister, Westminster Abbey .

Now some images from St. Paul’s

St. Paul’s Cathedral

Ceiling Mosiac in St. Paul’s Cathedral

Decoration, St. Paul’s Cathedral

Decoration on a column, St. Paul’s Cathedral

Chapel dedicated to American Fallen Servicemen from World War II

William Holman Hunt’s grave. One of the many in the crypt of St. Paul’s. The largest is Lord Nelson’s.

Theatre—Enjoyed Mr. Darwin’s Tree, a one-act play, a memoir of Darwin. And The Winter’s Tale at Stratford-on-Avon

Reading—Enjoyed Hamlet’s Dresser, a memoir of salvation from sadness through immersion in Shakespeare. Enjoying Saul Bellow’s rumbunctious Adventures of Augie March.

Progress on New Year’s Goals

Week of	Goal Km	Actually done Km
Jan-07		29.6
Jan-14	33.6	Ice 13.6
Jan-21	14.96	snow 16.4
Jan-28	19.69	23.36
Feb-28	25.69	28.37
Mar-10	31

	Weight (lb)	Cum. Loss
Jan 1st	233
Jan 13th	231.8	-1.2
Jan 20th	229.2	-3.8
Jan 27th	229.6	-3.4
Feb-03	229.4	-3.6
Feb-29	227.8	-5.2
Mar-10	226.8 goal

Domestic Order

Feb 4,BEFORE

Feb 28, AFTER

A project for next week–lots of shelf space for excess books around the house!

Linking up with What I’m Into at HopefulLeigh.

Salvation by Shakespeare: Hamlet’s Dresser by Bob Smith

By Anita Mathias

Image Credit

Hamlet’s Dresser by Bob Smith is a highly unusual book. I enjoyed it!

Bob Smith’s life was shaped by the care of his younger sister, Carolyn, born with cerebral palsy and severe mental retardation (she only mastered six words). She was epileptic, incontinent, stubborn and disturbed. (After one move, she stands for three years in the kitchen, day and night, sleeping standing up, kicking the refrigerator, in which she found safety).

His mother checks out emotionally, and grows increasingly distraught and depressed under the strain of caring for Carolyn. His father is disengaged and eventually competitive with Bob who grows into an exceptionally beautiful boy. As Bobby tells it, he bore the responsibility of bathing, changing, amusing and caring for his sister from the time he was four or five.

His domestic responsibilities, and the odour of Carolyn’s accidents make other friendship impossible. In addition, he is suspected of, and ridiculed for, being gay by his father, grandfather, grandparents, and schoolmates, which leads to extreme ostracism. Tortured homoerotic sexuality is one of the undercurrents of the novel.

* * *

Bob takes to doing his homework in the Stratford, CT library to escape his crying sister, and his mother’s demands to “wipe her good.” He sees Shakespeare in a stained glass window and asks who he was. The stern librarian gives him a copy of The Merchant of Venice.

He is ten, and reads the opening of The Merchant, and a voice five centuries old reaches out to him with enchantment…

“In sooth, I know not why I am so sad…”

“Ten simple monosyllabic words, and of course, I couldn’t know what sooth meant, but it’s hardly necessary. It changes nothing in the simple declarative sentence, a sentence that could not more perfectly describe the kid reading it.

I think that the more confused you are inside, the more you need to trust a think outside yourself. I was desperate to lean against something bigger than me, and it’s clear that William Shakespeare understood what it’s like to ache and not know why.

In our house, silence was the code. Like many people, we avoided talking about what most needed talking about. Shakespeare became my secret language, an ancient remote cuneiform speech that somehow made me more visible to myself. Poetry became a beautiful place to hide from my life, and from my parents, a place I knew they would never follow me to. “

He was an excellent student, until, in high school, he stops caring about academic work. Instead he reads Shakespeare, compulsively, uncaring whether he understands it correctly or not, whether he is pronouncing it correctly or not, the way I used to read sections of Julius Caesar, Macbeth, The Tempest or The Midsummer Night’s Dream starting when I was eleven, copying out passages in a voluptuous daze in study hall, again and again until I knew them by heart.

Smith begins to construct an alternative world, when he falls in love with the art in the Met on a school trip. He takes the train there every Saturday, until he knows every piece in the Met well, and then moves on to the Frick, and then the Isabella Gardener and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Taking a sandwich and a Shakespeare play in his rucksack, he finds solace and escape.

When life is unbearably difficult, one craves an escape—an addiction if you like. What a beautiful, healthy escape he chose: Shakespeare and art.

* * *

Life changes when he gets a role as Hamlet’s Dresser in the Stratford Shakespeare festival. By immersing himself in the magical words and music of Shakespeare’s lines, and in Shakespeare’s wisdom and insight, Smith grows and enlarges over a few seasons of touring with the company.

He adores his beautiful, fragile, tortured sister: a can’t live with her, can’t live without her scenario. His parents finally institutionalise Carolyn. For forty years, neither he nor his mother could bear to visit her, protecting their bruised hearts.

This abandonment of his heart’s beloved sister is a painful shadow hanging over the book. The memoir is awkwardly structured, hopscotching between his unbearably painful childhood, backlit and illuminated by Shakespeare; his present as a sixty year old writing the book in Stratford, CT; and his present experiences of teaching Shakespeare to seniors.

Almost as if passing on the love he can no longer show his sister, he teaches Shakespeare classes in senior centres, and it is the bright point in the old people’s lives, keeping them alive by adding intellectual, human, emotional and artistic interest to their lives. In a sense, his love and care for these old, needy people is a payback to the universe for his abandonment of his sister. “I am most certainly haunted by a delicate and undismissable ghost,” he says.

Reading the book, or listen to it read by Bob Smith on a Blackstone audio version. It will help you see the beauty and power of Shakespeare afresh, and perhaps fall in love with him again.

Nothing and No One is Beyond Redemption

By Anita Mathias

Matthew 1: 1-17

I begin reading Matthew again, and again notice that though the Messiah could have chosen to come from nice, safe, unremarkable, pious humans, he instead chosen as his ancestors those who have messed up and blown it—and had their transgressions recorded in the holiest of books!

Amazing: the Redeemer, the most beautiful human I know of, came from generations of the unredeemed, sinners who’ve spectacularly messed up.

All generational sins and curses are broken in him–and for us who are grafted into him, and live in him, he provides newness, freedom from the sins of our past, and our family’s past.

The Holy One comes from the unholy, proving NOTHING we have done, no matter how we have blown it, wasted our time, our lives, our talents, destroyed our relationships, nothing is beyond redemption.

* * *

Those repeated generational lies on the part of Abraham and Isaac, “She is my sister,”–not beyond redemption. The little bit of Do-It-Yourself assistance Abraham provided the promises of God in fathering Ishmael with Hagar–not beyond redemption.

Or Rebecca helping God out in doing what he had promised, by the gross and heart-breaking deception of Isaac. Jacob, the deceiver, the scheming grabber of the main chance, becomes the father of the twelve tribes of Israel.

Judah, who slept with a prostitute, and his daughter-in-law Tamar who incestuously slept with him disguised as one. Rahab, the good prostitute who sheltered the spies.

Redeemed, all redeemed, chosen as ancestors of GOD become flesh. Sexual sins, sins of manipulation, anger, fear and lack of faith—none of these preclude redemption.

* * *

Goodness came out of all these lives. Sweetness from what was very messed up.

And King David with his eight wives and ten concubines, who could not resist the beautiful woman he saw bathing, and indulged his desire, his weakness, his lust—his adultery leading to murder of Uriah, the righteous Hittite.

And—oh sing redemption’s song!–out of his weakness, out of his sin, his lust, his adultery, his taking of Uriah’s one lamb, the murder and adultery he so bitterly regretted– out of that came the wisest man who ever lived. Out of that came the Messiah.

And Solomon, with his 700 wives and 300 concubines, who was given wisdom, knowledge, wealth, possessions and honour (2 Chron 1:12) and the honour of building a glorious temple to the Lord.

And out of all the wicked kings of Judah, whose actions lost the Kingdom and led their people into captivity, the Messiah came.

* * *

Because the father-heart of God cannot help himself. We are his children, the work of his hands, he cannot help redeeming us, as we– come on, ‘fess up—if we can, when we can, give our children a leg up in the rat-race of life. Whether they are eminently deserving—or not.

* * *

And what a comfort that is, that nothing I have done is beyond redemption.

That I can place all the silliness–things done stupidly, impulsively, hot-headedly, selfishly, maliciously, sinfully!—place them in his hands,

His kind hands which work fast and skilfully,

Redeeming, working all the foolishness and weakness into a new beautiful story for my life.

One by one, I bring to him my sins and failures, the times I have messed up, sins in my marriage, my parenting, my friendships, my church relationships, all these wobbles, bring it to him who amazingly, incredibly, died for me, and they are redeemed, washed in the blood of the lamb. Washed whiter than snow, repurposed.

Oh, take it all lovely Redeemer, take my life, past and present, work on it with your strong brilliant hands; make something beautiful out of it.

Dancing with the Lord

By Anita Mathias

Dancing with the Lord,

That’s the way I want to live:
moving in so closely

that I’m guided unconsciously.

He doesn’t mind my clumsiness,

my obvious inexpertise.

And when exhaustion

makes me stall, I climb

onto his feet, like a child

on her father’s toes,

and the dance continues

while His music plays.

Disturb us, O Lord

By Anita Mathias

Archbishop Desmond Tutu

Via Christine Sine

Disturb us, O Lord

when we are too well-pleased with ourselves
when our dreams have come true because we dreamed too little,
because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, O Lord

when with the abundance of things we possess,
we have lost our thirst for the water of life
when, having fallen in love with time,
we have ceased to dream of eternity
and in our efforts to build a new earth,
we have allowed our vision of Heaven to grow dim.

Stir us, O Lord

to dare more boldly, to venture into wider seas
where storms show Thy mastery,
where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.

In the name of Him who pushed back the horizons of our hopes
and invited the brave to follow.

Amen

By Bishop Desmond Tutu

My Train Wreck into Grace

By Anita Mathias

Sometimes, when my tongue runs away with me, and I use my words to express anger rather than bestow grace, and those words steal life and strength and peace rather than lavish them, I see the red flag of Jesus, and am stopped dead in my tracks.

But sometimes, I don’t stop, and don’t listen to Jesus, and feel that I am out of control, a train rushing on…

I might eat whatever is quick and easy or delicious, rather than whatever is a blessing to my body.

Or my marriage might enter a vicious spiral of criticism, resentment, judgement and anger,

And there we go, rushing on, rushing on, knowing that no good can come from expressing runaway emotions, knowing that what one sows, one reaps…

On and on, we rush, speaking carelessly, heading for a train wreck, smashing past the level crossing, towards the other train.

And that’s when I understand grace and the mystery of the cross

What I sow I should reap, right? But that was before Jesus came.

* * *

Our train hurtles on, and Jesus sees that we are going to crash.

He steps in.

And our train still hurtles headlong; we are out of control.

And He absorbs the crash in himself.

And we crash into grace; we crash into Jesus.

I am redeemed.

My marriage is redeemed

Because of the grace Jesus died to bring me.

Because of grace.

* * *

He keeps me on track, he keeps my marriage on track,

Keeping me on the rails

Because he absorbed the impact at Calvary,

Of all this foolish, headlong sin.

Oh, I trust grace

I trust mercy.

* * *

If the world were governed by dreary cause and effect,

And a woman could reap only what she sows,

Lord, who would stand?

But you stand between us and destruction,

For this we revere you.

For it’s not a mere mechanical world of crime and punishment.

It is a world of miracles.

It is the world of Jesus where he lives.

It is a world where Jesus stands in front of us,

Absorbs the impact of our bullet trains

Speeding at a million miles an hour towards self-destruction

Is smashed,

Rises,

And in that resurrection is hope that I, who live in him, shall also rise.

* * *

Lord, sharpen my eyesight

Help me to see your red flags in time,

To repent in time

And when I do not,

When I crash,

Let me crash into grace!

The seventy times seventh chance,

The four hundred and ninetieth chance,

The infinite chances you lavish on me in the land of the living,

Because you love me!

The Worst Evangelism Question Ever, or, When we See Him Face to Face

By Anita Mathias

Pompeo Batoni: The Prodigal Son

The worst evangelism question ever in my opinion is:

“If God were to ask you, “Why should I let you into my Heaven?” what would you say?”

The lovely pastor of our first little church in Williamsburg, Virginia, was all gung-ho about Evangelism Explosion. When we were new, he visited us with a man he was training, and popped the Evangelism Explosion question, “If God were to ask you, ‘Why should I let you into My Heaven?’ what would you say?”

I said, “I know the correct answer, but to be honest, that isn’t what I am going to say.”

Now, 19 years later and even more confident, I would snort and say, “No way is God going to ask silly questions on that emotional and glorious occasion.”

* * *

Because you see, in the Parable of the Prodigal Son, Jesus has told us what it’s going to be like when we meet his lovely father.

“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.”

And because I am God’s prodigal daughter–unbelievably, but definitely, because he is so incredibly good and kind–I believe he will be filled with compassion for me, run to me, throw his arms around me, and kiss me.

And I will say, head bowed, through heartfelt tears, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your daughter.’

And seeing the holiness of his face, and his sheer goodness and loveliness, everything I have ever done will come crashing in, and I will hang my head, overcome and ashamed.

And he will say, “Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on her. Put a ring on her finger and sandals on her feet. ²³Bring the fattened calf for there are no calories or cholesterol in heaven. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. ²⁴For this daughter of mine was dead and is alive again; she was lost and is found.”

* * *

And if this amazing Father could possibly ask that silly imaginary question, “Why should I let you into my heaven?” I would say,

“Because you are my father, and I am your daughter, and your home is mine.”

“Because I have messed up and repented, messed up and repented, again and again, but through it all, through it all, oh I have loved you–oh so very much.”

And he will say “Come,” because that is his nature.

The role of Enemies and Frenemies in God’s Plan for our Lives

By Anita Mathias

Have you ever had an enemy, or a competitive frenemy? You know the sort of person who, if your name comes up to speak, or be in an anthology, or a panel, or win a prize is certain to, covertly and insidiously, block you?

I guess no one can escape them, even someone who is“irreproachable: as painfully thin as anyone could wish, without quirks, without oddities, capable of going from perfect bride to perfect mother, with no messy deviation.”

Sometimes, we have behaved in such a way that they have good reason to block us from “glory” or damn us with faint praise. And, sometimes, it is sheer jealousy and insecurity, which we have not deserved.

* * *

Enemies and jealousy are a fact of life. But they are not in any way to disturb us or frighten us. They were written into the blueprint of our lives from the foundation of the world, and whatever opportunities to “star” they deprive us of, were, of course, not opportunities God wanted us to have right then. Enemies, by virtue of thwarting and blocking our weak, foolish and undirected ambitions, in fact, help keep us focused on the main thing.

And—and, this must be infuriating to the enemy—their blocking us is only going to make us stronger, if we continue seeking after Jesus.

No one can block the life of Jesus in us. And so Paul writes, ¹⁶Rejoice always, ¹⁷pray continually, ¹⁸give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. 1 Thess 5:16.

* * *

As a river hits rock, it turns in another direction. If it did not hit obstacles of hard, gravelly, rocky soil, it would become a swamp, a marsh, a pond. It would never reach the sea. But the impermeable rock it meets, the friend who will not be appeased in our terms, forces it, in its contorted, twisty way, towards the ocean.

When I look back to times when I was blocked, for many of them, I feel thanksgiving. Yes, I do!

I think of a group I was in four years ago in my previous church, led by a little cocky Eastender who had spent time in jail. (Yeah, it all was a bit of a soap opera!). This fellow, I’ll call David, loved to hold forth, and I guess, so did I, then. Once when he asked me to lead the group, he kept interrupting every sentence, and to his wife’s frown and admonitory shake of the head, subsided, muttering, “It’s not a sermon!”

He suggested we split into midweek triplets. I have long had a dream of leading a group which would read through the Bible. (I know now that I will never lead it, because my call to write and blog has grown so much stronger, but I still dream of belonging to such a group.)

So when he suggested prayer triplets, I emailed all the women in the group asking if they wanted to meet in my house, read through the entire Bible, week by week, and then pray. Pretty much everyone wanted to.

Well, this little man went ballistic. My inbox filled with hysterical emails accusing me of undermining him; there were hysterical angry phone-calls. He sent me idiotic questionnaires asking what I considered the ideal qualities to host a group or lead a group, questionnaires I wisely ignored. I didn’t lead that mini-group.

I was blocked in another group I did lead, thank goodness, thank goodness, and soon left that church which seemed to be as much about contending for status, position and importance as about following Jesus Christ.

* * *

So what happened? I had been leading groups for over ten years, and got into the habit of sharing my thoughts and insights with the group rather than write them down.

The impulse to meditate on Scripture and share my thoughts was still strong in me. Was God-given. When I was not leading, the thoughts and insights still came, a stream of living waters within me, but I wrote them down.

Within six months, in April 2010, I began blogging. The river of God’s life in me, blocked in one direction turned to another, which happened to be God’s true call for me.

* * *

And have I forgiven David? Yeah, sure I have. I was upset and angry then, even burst into tears in one of the phone calls with this man who was so terrified that I might possibly have a greater gift than this—but ultimately, he behaved so stupidly that it was easy to forgive.

Premeditated malice ah, that’s a different ballgame, but even then, God has permitted us to have enemies for our own good.

* * *

What our enemies do for us: We learn to act graciously and with dignity in the face of our enemies, as I did not do then, but do increasingly now. We learn to forgive—and essentially blow off their injury (and sometimes we can blow them off, glory be to God!!).

We learn to trust God that our enemies might block short-term “glory,” but cannot block the long-term purposes of God in our lives. And we learn to keep on keeping on, and when we see God give us the opportunities our enemies denied us—but just bigger and better, oh, our trust is immeasurably deepened.

I joined another local church which I did love, was soon asked to co-lead a group, and did so, but after a year, realized that leading groups was no longer in God’s plan for me, that I could share what the Spirit says to my spirit and perhaps the Church with more people through my blog.

* * *

Somerset Maugham has a splendid story called The Verger. An illiterate man is fired by the snooty new vicar from his job as a church verger. He drifts into business, and becomes wildly successful.

When the bank manager discovers that he was illiterate, “the manager was so surprised that he jumped up from his chair.

“That’s the most extraordinary thing I ever heard.”

He stared at him as though he were a prehistoric monster.

“And do you mean to say that you’ve built up this important business and amassed a fortune of thirty thousand pounds without being able to read or write? Good God, man, what would you be now if you had been able to?”

“I can tell you that sir,” said Mr. Foreman, a little smile on his still aristocratic features. “I’d be verger of St. Peter’s, Neville Square.”

* * *

I got into blogging because I was blocked in a manuscript I had trouble wrapping up, and because being blocked from teaching the Bible after doing so for seven years left me with time to meditate and more ideas than I had people to share them with. And so I wrote them down. And blogging has been life-transforming for me, and so I bless all who have brought me to it.

Archives for 2013

anita.mathias