random | Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

I Asked You to Guide Me

By Anita Mathias

I asked for guidance.

You answered

Pillars of cloud by day.

Pillars of fire by night.

The red sea parted.

Staffs turned into snakes.

Asses spoke.

The ground was dry

but the fleece was wet.

The sign I asked you for.

The fleece was dry,

while the earth was drenched.

The sign I asked you for.

It was as if you strolled into the room

and I could see you–

when I asked you for guidance.

* * *

I asked for guidance.

Silence.

Absolute.

So I navigated,

by ancient arts:

Common sense,

the north star,

the panic azimuth,

the sun rising from the east,

Not in a blaze of illumination,

but like dawn on the peaks

of distant mountains that

shine out of the darkness,

until we see the snow on them.

We see them.

Image Credit

In Which I Tell You about My Memoir-in-Progress and My Writing Process (Monday Blog Hop)

By Anita Mathias

I have been tagged by Claire Musters to write about my work in progress, and my writing process.

What I am working on

I work on my blog, Dreaming Beneath the Spires, on the principle of the Minimum Effective Dose. What is alive grows, so I post just enough to keep my blog growing, month on month. About 2-3 posts a week.

I am wrapping up a memoir—Mind has Mountains which I have worked on sporadically since 1991, but abandoned for months, and sometimes years at a time!!

However, I have a first draft of the entire thing with several chapters published, anthologized even, winning several prizes (including a $20,000 NEA!)

I have had leading editors and agents interested on both sides of the Atlantic, but things fell apart at the stage of the proposal. They did not feel the ones I wrote were saleable.

A savvy New York agent showed a savvy New York editor the book, and they commented, “It’s as if Anita is at odds with the material. She is fighting the story.” Interestingly, though both were secular, they felt I was fighting the spiritual memoir that my life and spirit were demanding I write so as to write the literary memoir I wanted to write!

I wanted to write a memoir of an Indian Catholic childhood, ending at 18, a memoir inspired by Mary McCarthy’s Memories of a Catholic Girlhood, Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood and Patricia Hampl’s A Romantic Education. It had three sections—

I My life as a Catholic child in the Zorashtrian company town of Jamshedpur up to the age of 9 when I was expelled from the local school because of my mischievousness.

(And holidays with grandparents in Catholic enclaves of Bombay and Mangalore).

The Chapel at St. Mary’s Convent, Nainital

II Boarding school in St. Mary’s Convent, Nainital in the Himalayas, a boarding school run by Irish and German nuns at which I was rebellious, and an atheist.

III Working with Mother Teresa for two years, after an abrupt religious conversion at 17.

I wanted to write a series of essays on passions and experiences and people, like Vladimir Nabokov’s great memoir Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited but the world has changed, and speeded up. People want story, not literary essays. (Not that I greatly care about literary fashions. I truly believe that self-publishing, in the first instance, is an option for sui generis books, provided one can do some marketing—which perhaps I can with God’s help.)

But I think God loves story–and created us to love good stories. The whole Bible tells a shapely story, of our simultaneous craving for God and desire to do our own thing, and how we needed a Saviour to change our hearts from within, and bear the horrid consequences of the crack in our natures.

The editors and agents who have looked at it had a point. I was stopping the story mid-story.

I talked a bit about my book to editor Amy Boucher Pye last week, and we thought about what the story of my life really was.

I suddenly realized that for me to write a solely literary memoir like Nabokov’s Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited or Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, ending at age 18 would be at odds with my story. It would leave out the two most important directional decisions of my life–deciding my life’s path would be that of a writer (aged 21) and a decision (aged 27) that I was going to align my life with Christ.

Most days I do live in Jesus, am hidden in Jesus. The story of my life is a spiritual one.

So I need another three chapters: being an undergraduate at Oxford when my faith wobbled to extinction. Doing an MFA in the US when I tried to do life without God, making a religion of poetry (and achievement), a la James Joyce. Recommitting my life to Jesus, aged 27, when I realized that I realized that I really, really hadn’t made much of my life in the last six years without Jesus.

So the memoir would have more mess, more complication, but also more truth.

While talking to Amy, I came up with a new working strapline: A rebellious girl finds peace in Christ. Ah-ha!

And I thought of another model, C. S. Lewis’s Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life which takes Lewis up to age 32, when he became “the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England,” (but what creativity and joy his conversion opened up for him!).

So I found a meta-narrative for my story. A full circle narrative: a thoroughly rebellious Catholic believer ends as thoroughly “mere Christian,” at peace–a narrative winding through the Zoroashtrian town of Jamshedpur, boarding school in Nainital; Mother Teresa in Calcutta; Oxford, England; Columbus, Ohio…

How does my work differ from others in its genre?

Well, I am a restless writer and everything I have published is in a different genre.

Wandering Between Two Worlds: Essays on Faith and Art traces my life and the evolution of my faith and struggles in the form of essays. It deals with dichotomies—East and West, Writing and Prayer, Domesticities and Art, Roots and Wings.

Francesco, Artist of Florence: The Man Who Gave Too Much, which has sold the best of all my books, is a children’s book, dealing with art, Florence, The Renaissance, beauty, good-heartedness, weakness, and the importance of forgiving oneself.

The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth is a reflection on that Beatitude, theological writing for everywoman.

The Church That Had Too Much is an odd book, the record of a dream , and I found myself writing it in the shape and rhythms of poetry.

And Mind has Mountains, of course, will be a memoir!

Why do I write what I do?

I write on whatever grabs my interest, and my writing is a way to work out my ideas or share whatever fascinates me.

How does my writing process work?

My writing process with a blog: dictate it to my iPhone when I get the idea. Think out my post. Write it pretty close to its final form. Revise it a couple of times on screen. Print it out. Re-arrange and cut paragraphs. Try to cut at least 10% of the words. Do five iterations from first draft to final draft. Hit publish.

For the memoir, I have been writing thoughts and memories as they surface in thematically organized chapters. I choose the chapter I am longing to write, and then write up episodes in the order of desire to tell about them. I revise each chapter eight times, taking less and less time at each iteration, tightening it each time, cutting a minimum of 10 %, and entire paragraphs which are of interest to me, but perhaps not to you.

I post chapters on my blog as they are done.

When I finish the entire book, I suspect I will revise it another 5-8 times at least until I have shaken off every word I can, until the prose feels as inevitable and flawless as poetry, or least is as good as I can make it.

I am taking the liberty of tagging Carolyn Weber, Amy Boucher Pye and Michael Wenham to answer the same three questions.

Dear Diary—What I have Done, Learnt, Enjoyed. At El Palmeral Retreat Centre, Costa Blanca, Spain

By Anita Mathias

1 In which Michelle is encouraged by how ordinary I am—“ A year ago my sister, Janae, told me to follow this lady named Anita Mathias on Twitter. My sister is cool, so I did what she said. And I’m glad I did. Anita has been a dependable source of refreshment and peace on my otherwise maniacal Twitter feed. Her writing is filled with spiritual insights and joy — but what I love the most about her is how ordinary she seems. We’re so used to following these wildly hilarious and profoundly daring personalities, none of which are very much like me. That Anita is just herself gives me hope.”

Oh and read on for Michelle Schmidt’s review of my first children’s book, Francesco, Artist of Florence: The Man Who Gave Too Much

Tuesday May 6th

1 Walked yesterday in the Curate’s Garden in Elche–full of date trees, the foundation of many economies from Morocco to North Africa. Apparently, Arab sailors took dates on long sea voyages for vitamin C (as the seaman from Genoa took pesto!).

Amazed at the varieties of cactus plants–God’s beautiful abundance scattered in deserts and mountain valleys whether there is anyone to appreciate them or not.

God creates beauty for the sheer joy of it, because that is his nature.

I now blog like that. There is something mysterious about blogging—one cannot predict the response to a piece, and often the pieces we just toss off do the best. If one senses a call to blog, you just continue faithfully, writing down the vision and making it plain, writing what you hear God say to you, and leave the reception of the work to him.

2 I was dropped off at the garden for two hours. It was relatively small and I walked around it several times. I was going back and forth on several issues, but just walking alone, sitting and thinking–it is amazing how clarity came.

I was inexplicably burnt out last month. Burn-out, like joy, picks its own timetable, but walking alone here, in an arid region of Spain is restoring joy to my heart. I find myself thinking more clearly, praying spontaneously and joyfully, in tongues.

Wednesday 7th May

1 I have seen the abbreviation IHS on dozens of Catholics cards and bookmarks, and it was embroidered on the altar cloths of the chapel. It’s Greek. It is the first three letters of the Greek spelling of Jesus, ιησους which is transliterated as “ihsous.” And essentially means Jesus.

2 Paprika, I have just thought of it as a spice, but, apparently, it is powdered red peppers, or chili peppers.

3 Our British hosts told us a chilling story of a car-jacking. They were driving in Valencia, when they suddenly got a flat tire–or so they thought. They pulled to the side of the road, and a couple of men on a motorcycle came up ostensibly to help them. When they got back into the car, her handbag was gone, with her money, credit cards, driving licence, housekeys etc. So if you get a flat in Spain and get help, know where your handbag is.

4 Our host, Julie Jowett, cooks delicious Spanish regional food–which I really enjoy–Patata Bravas, tender Moorish lamb, Cordero Murono, Tortilla Espanola, and Patatas a lo Pobre

4 The Costa Blanca is very much British ex-pat country. Our hosts were British, as were their neighbours who are farming a small pomegranate grove. My elderly seatmate on my flight is farming an orange grove. The water table is 8 feet below ground level, and they have been encouraged not to water the orange trees, but let the root delve deep into the water table.

Thursday 8th

1 On earrings and inheritances.

We were looking at the Prodigal Son who blew his inheritance.

When he gets back, he gets everything his heart needs–acceptance, belonging, lavishness—a home, a rich robe, a ring, a good meal. What he does not get back is the inheritance he squandered. The Father tells the older son, “Everything I have is yours.” The elder son is not stiffed; the prodigal son does not get the older brother’s share of the inheritance, but still gets all that is necessary for his complete joy.

There is truth to that. The years and time we have blown–through sin, laziness, self-pity, anger–we have blown. But if we turn to God, our hearts can still find the fullness of joy.

I share this thought with the group, fiddle with my earrings, and realise I have lost my great-grandmother’s earrings, rubies, with a dangly pearl and ruby bit, which I have worn every day for thirty years and never lost. I am upset and retrace my steps, bedroom

God has a sense of humour and he’s a no-bullshit God. I just said that what is lost is lost, but in God we can still find everything our heart desires. Was it theory or do I really believe it?

Life brings reverses, but I really do believe we get to choose how happy we are, or how sad! After a bit more looking, and a bit of mourning, I decide to join St. Teresa of Avila in her prayer,

Let nothing disturb thee,
Nothing affright thee
All things are passing;
God never changeth;
Who God possesseth
In nothing is wanting;
God alone sufficeth.

A verse which has saved my life a few times is “Do not let your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid,” (John 14:27). And each time I reminded myself of this either what I dreaded did not happen (Mark Twain: I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened) –OR it did happen, and I had strength to cope with it, and good came out of that dark plot twist.

So I decided that I would let nothing disturb me, but continue being happy. And God smiled—and perhaps said, Okay honey, I just wanted to reinforce the lessons I have been teaching you–and soon after that, I found the 3 missing pieces scattered around my large suite. Thank you Jesus.

I had prayed. Yes, and it felt like magic happened. And it would have been magic too if I had felt peace in the loss. God is good like that.

Friday 9th May

We went out for tapas last night—delicious: Fried cubed goat’s cheese, fried mushroom and bacon, grated potatoes and sausage, tender pork, roasted wild garlic…

Dear Journal: This week’s amusements, embarrassments, adventures and discoveries. (From El Palmeral Retreat Centre, Costa Blanca, Spain)

By Anita Mathias

At El Palmeral Retreat Centre, Costa Blanca, Spain, we were invited to help ourselves to fruit from this tree, a cross between an apricot and kiwi fruit (in taste)

Wednesday 30th April

1 Micha Boyett asks, “Do we really have something worthwhile to say every day?”

Hmm. I believe God does have something worthwhile to say every day. A. W. Tozer writes, “God is forever seeking to speak to His creation. The whole Bible supports the idea. God is speaking. Not God spoke, but God is speaking. He is by His nature continuously articulate. He fills the world with His speaking Voice.”

And I believe God says something worthwhile to us every day. And perhaps if we listen to him, and “write down the vision and make it plain,” we will have something worthwhile to say every day.

Which is not to say that we need to say it!! I aim to blog every second day, or even every third day.

2 I am listening to Galatians as I walk. It takes me half a mile of walking at my puppy’s pace to listen to the entire book. I have listened it to in the New Living Translation a few times, in the NIV a few times, and in the Message. The Message is my favourite translation of Galatians. I have listened to it several times, and can’t get enough of it. So beautiful.

3 George Monbiot on British subsidies under David Cameron for grouse moors and shotguns for pheasant hunts (£50 for a gun licence, while the background checks cost £196). Iniquitous.

Thursday May 1

1 Meaningless said the preacher, all is meaningless. (Ecclesiastes). Except loving God and finding joy in your work, he concludes.

More and more, as I observe things that people lavish their intensity on, I realise that they are simply inconsequential and meaningless.

And I need to remember that about the things I get intense about. Love God and love your work and find joy in it–there is a lot to be said for the solution of the Preacher of Ecclesiastes!

Friday May 2nd

1 This makes me so upset and angry. The true story of Philomena—how Irish nuns sold children to the highest US bidder, without the knowledge or permission of their parents. (From the Guardian)

2 Cool veggies to grow if you have very little space I have 1.5 acre, but am amazed at how much can be grown compactly!

3 Bible Study with my small group. Jesus and Nicodemus.

In the Old Testament, Isaiah saw a vision of God, high and lifted up and the train of his robe filled the temple with glory.

Jesus was also high and lifted up–in shame, humiliation and disgrace. As he said, like Moses lifted up the bronze serpent, so he had to be lifted up to give life.

One of the many ironies in the Gospel of John–the meaning of what it is to be high and lifted up is changed. The one who serves is high and lifted up, not necessarily in people’s eyes, but in deed and truth.

Jesus was high and lifted up on the cross to bear the punishment for our sins. I believe that, of course.

But was it more? Was he somehow redeeming suffering? Saying it’s part of life. A pathway to truth and reality. No one is as real as one in pain.

For long before the Fall, before sin, there was darkness and chaos, and God created darkness as well as sunshine, and pronounced both good.

Saturday May 3rd

1 My trip to Cambodia, and coming back with a virus took a lot out of me. I was feeling tired, intellectually, spiritually, physically and emotionally. It was hard to settle down and get things done. I realized needed to get away. Just an hour after realizing this, Amy Boucher Pye had a place available massively discounted on her retreat in Spain. I took it.

2 On my way to Costa Blanca, Spain. I have flown out of Heathrow and Gatwick so often now that I have the routine down pat. Check your luggage. Get asked if you have packed any guns, daggers, bombs, petrol canisters. I switch off and default to my smiley good girl persona, so when she shows me a picture of guns, daggers, bombs and asked if I’ve packed them, with a huge grin, I unthinkingly say “YES.”

She stares. Then laughs. “The correct answer is NO,” she informs me laughing. Okay, no then. I don’t know if the TSA would be as merciful!

2 Irene used to ask me “Mum, if it turned out I was a cyborg, and you realized you were bringing up a Cyborg all these years, should you still love me?”

Well, security scanners think I am a cyborg. I have never met one I did not set off. It must be my 3 rings, my dangling earrings, my bangles and necklace. I wear the same inherited jewellery every day and never take it off–or else I would lose it.

An elderly British man is similarly body-searched, I suppose for guns, bombs, daggers and petrol. He sits next to me and says, “They’ve put us through an ordeal and a half.” I am delighted. I haven’t heard the phrase “and a half,” since I was in boarding school, and assumed it was an Indian expression. Apparently not.

3 Talk about Primitive Methodism and Wesleyan Methodism with a Methodist minister here at the retreat centre I am at, El Palmeral, Costa Blanca, Spain.

4 The landscape of the Costa Blanca. Arid chaparral, with groves of pomegranates and lemons, and herds of sheep. It’s a denuded landscape, not much grass to be seen, and that may partly to do with the sheep who, according to George Monbiot cause environmental devastation everywhere by their grazing habits.

Sunday May 4

1 Love the sung liturgy from the Northumbria Community at El Palmeral

2 Funny how I often accentuate words wrongly after 13 years in England! There are five feisty Yorkshire women here, and the talk turned to gardening. I asked them if they knew of Incredible Edible Todmorden, the West Yorkshire town which grows fruit and vegetables in every available bit of land. This is my dream for my own garden, and we will probably gradually achieve some of it, but at the present, my time and energy is going into writing.

Anyway, all of them, keen gardeners, say they have never heard of Todmorden. I frown. Impossible. Describe it, spell it. Oh, they all know it well, but it’s pronounced TodMRDN. I said ToddMorden. We thought you were asking about a person, one said. My bad! 🙂

3 I pray first thing in the morning, and my day feels odd if I do not do so. But several people say, the best time to write is early in the morning.

Praying in Churches, Mosques, Temples and Synagogues

By Anita Mathias

The Blue Mosque, Istanbul

As a curious anthropologist, a photographer, and a discreet and respectful observer, I love visiting mosques, temples, synagogues, and churches, and often use the quietness and sacred space to pray. (And, as a schoolgirl, have not been above accepting the delicious sweets offered by the priests in Hindu temples and Sikh gurudwaras.)

I observed during a holiday in Turkey, the utter devotion with which Muslims bow, pray, prostrate themselves. I have watched Jews bow before the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, slipping prayer requests into the cracks of the wall. I have seen those same wide, longing, hopeful eyes of faith in Buddhist temples, Sikh gurudwaras, Roman Catholic churches in Italy, and Protestant churches in England.

* * *

What happens when I pray? Well, often–coincidences accelerate; I change; other people change; circumstances change. Sometimes, miracles happen. Magic, an element of surprise and unpredictability, is introduced into dreary, impermeable, hopeless reality. Once I’ve started praying, with faith, hope, love, diligence, persistence (and a list!), I feel that anything can happen—and it often does!!

If I prayed, and nothing happened, ever, would I continue praying? Perhaps not; the cognitive dissonance would be too hard to bear.

And would Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs and Jews continue praying if their prayers were never answered? Perhaps not!

* * *

God, God, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness was God’s self-description to Moses (Ex 34:6). And would he only answer the prayers of those whose parents had taught them to call him Jesus, or Jehovah, but not the prayers of those taught to call him Allah, or Krishna or Rama?

I do not believe that. I believe God graciously inclines his heart to all who call upon him whatever name and language they use.

* * *

God has a yearning heart of compassion for all peoples. He feels pride and affection for all creation. “Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens: Who created all these? He who brings out the starry host one by one, and calls each by name.” Isaiah 40:26.

“Alpha Centauri. You’re beautiful. I made you. Twinkle, twinkle, little Sirius. You’re lovely. I made you. And you, Andromeda burning bright in the darkness of the night. I made you,” I can imagine God saying.

And will he not also delight in the humans he has made and fashioned in darkness of their mother’s womb, the area almost out of the control of our hope and ambition? Will he not answer their prayers, whether they think of him as Jesus, Yahweh, Allah or Rama? I believe he will.

* * *

Jonah cannot understand God showing mercy on Nineveh (the capital of Assyria), Israel’s great enemy, whose wickedness and violence has come up before God.

But God replies, “Nineveh has more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who cannot tell their right hand from their left, and many cattle as well. Should I not be concerned about that great city?” (Jonah 4:10).

And will he not be concerned about those who pray to a God they call Yahweh, Allah, Rama, Vishnu, Jesus in synagogues, mosques, temples, gurudwaras, and churches? Does he not often grant their requests?

Is that why prayer has been a feature of every known human civilization, from primitive distant civilizations who build ziggurats, sun temples, Wats and Parthenons to the Unknown God they knew as numinous and beyond our ken to hyper-connected us, who with a million ideas available at our finger-tips, still reach through the heavens to someone beyond ourselves, who knows everything–and everything about us–and still loves us. Whom I call Jesus.

Dear Diary: What I’ve Thought, Read, Done, and Been Grateful for This Week

By Anita Mathias

Merry

Grateful for

Monday

1 Merry, my labradoodle’s wagging tail and sweet nature.

Jake and Merry

2 Jake, my 11 year old Border Collie, tolerating Merry.

3 Blog stats picking up steadily.

4 Seeing a heron on my walk.

5 Three mile walk/run from Sandford on Thames to Iffley Lock and back, barely tired

7 Green and Black Butterscotch chocolate

8 My sponsor at Overeater’s Anonymous, who is, sadly, but naturally, anonymous.

10 The process of trying to surrender my eating and fitness to Christ

11 Christ–how he brings clarity and light to everything.

12 Coconut Curry Lentil Soup made by Roy for lunch, and asparagus soup with coconut milk made by Zoe for dinner

13 Kettle crisps with salt and pepper

14 This: Donald Miller writes

Being known by strangers isn’t going to make anybody fulfilled. In fact, it can make life much more confusing and complicated. But finding a role in life that helps others is actually healing.

Having somebody come up to me and say they loved my book is nice, don’t get me wrong, but having somebody come up and say they sold their house, quit their job or adopted a child because of Creating Your Life Plan is fulfilling to me on a much deeper level.

I wish I would have known that when I was younger.

Here’s a thought: What if our desire to be known and validated and even famous isn’t a misappropriated desire to actually be people of significant impact, which doesn’t require fame at all?

15 Sold 20 copies today of Francesco, Artist of Florence: The Man Who Gave Too Much in the US.

Tuesday

Thought–I was influenced by WHM’s Sonship as a young Christian. World Harvest Mission changes its name to Serge. Why would someone lose 30 years of name-recognition, for an obscure, trendy title that means nothing to most people, and sounds like a clothing store, with no hints of its Christian origins?

Thankful for

1 Image of God as a river of love, flowing through me to others

2 The opulence of our new dinner service, Royal Doulton Old Country Roses

3 Shelly Miller hosting my piece.

4 Asking Jesus for light on my perennial diet dilemma. What to eat to be strong and healthy and shed some weight? I hear him say that he was an omnivore–eating fish, lamb, wheat, corn. He feasted. So I shall be an omnivore, but mainly eat fruit and vegetables, beans and pulses. And not use food to satisfy emotional needs–just as Jesus did not : “My food is to do the will of God, and to accomplish his purposes.”

Also there is no record of Jesus exercising for the sake of exercise. He got his exercise in the course of ministry. Perhaps I should walk with friends rather than have coffee with them. Yes! And exercise (also) in the course of domestic ministry–gardening, housework…

Jack Deere: The answer to all our struggles is a Person (not a philosophy or a theory or research or method)

4 I am exhausted, but clinging to God as a sea-anemone to a rock in a tidal pool.

5 I am exhausted, but waiting like the eagle on the edge of its nest, for the winds of the spirit to fresh energy into me.

6 What would a woman who is deeply loved by God eat for breakfast? Or lunch, or dinner?

7 My friend, Michael Wenham ponders the thorny issue of Christian gay marriage, and even quotes me!

8 A Simple Habit that Could Change Your Life: I owe my theology & my ministry to this simple habit: Looking at the Book : John Piper

9 Facebook’s first incarnation was a nasty site called “Hot or Not?” Well, it’s nice there’s a divine trio & a few humans who like us either way.

Wednesday April 30

1 Woke early with (illegal) construction next door + puppy yelping. Too tired to pray so trying what my daughter Zoe calls, “sloaking.” Soaking prayer–resting in the awareness of God’s love for you, surrendering everything to him, and placing it in his hands–and if you fall asleep, you fall asleep. It is sloaking. Woke refreshed from 2 hours of sloaking. Not sure if I did fall asleep or not, but I am refreshed.

2 In which Eric Metaxas, in a dream, experiences Jesus as a gold fish

This golden fish was ixthys—Jesus Christ Son of God Our Savior. God had something more for me: this was his Son, a living Person, Jesus Christ. And I realized in the dream that he was real and had come from the other side and now I was holding him there in the bright sunlight and at long last my search was over. And I was flooded with joy.

When I went to work the next day, I said that I had accepted Jesus. And when I spoke those words I was flooded with the same joy I had had inside the dream. And I’ve had that joy with me for the past 25 years.

3 Very stimulating coffee with Timothy Willard whose book Home Behind the Sun: Connect with God in the Brilliance of the Everyday is blowing up on Amazon, top 20 Christian books of all time, and top 1000 of all books sold on Amazon!

4 Going to Spain this weekend for a retreat led by Amy Boucher Pye on living as the Beloved. An idea close to my heart!

5 I am writing this “What I am thankful for” post because I have had an episode of low spirits. Not quite depression, just low spirits. And I have learned that depression is a friend. It forces you to burrow ever deeper into Christ for answers. It might force you to revise your life. The low energy forces you to drop accidentals, and concentrate on essentials. I usually come out of a spell of over-work induced burn-out with my faith stronger as I cling more tenaciously to Jesus, and get to know him better.

Narendra Modi, Possible Indian Prime Minister? A Disaster for India’s Religious Minorities

By Anita Mathias

Narendra Modi’s supporters, Image: The Guardian.

He wakes at 5 a.m. and does yoga for ninety minutes. He is vegetarian. He lives a simple, almost ascetic life. He has vowed celibacy to concentrate his energies on making India great.

In a country in which corruption is endemic in every area of life, Narendra Modi is “clean,” incorruptible.

He is a technocrat, running a well-organised, disciplined government, getting things done.

He has been Chief Minister of Gujarat for 12 years. Without significant natural resources or population hubs like Mumbai or technology hubs like Bangalore, the state has achieved 10% growth annually, India’s highest. Its citizens have a higher per capita income than other Indians. Ahmedabad, its capital, is a boom town, high-rises everywhere, companies moving in, three million private cars for six million people, efficient public transportation, dedicated bus lanes…

(Outside Ahmedabad, however, is the insalubrious Juhapura ghetto where the city’s garbage is dumped and periodically burnt, and the 400, 000 Muslims who fled there after the 2002 religious massacre live in poverty, in dark, overcrowded surroundings, without sewage or municipal water (for which they are, nevertheless billed).

* * *

A tough, ruthless, feared leader, Modi has the potential to be the strongest leader in the developing world. To make India a superpower to rival and outstrip China. To restore national pride. To develop India’s considerable human resources. Who knows, to woo back educated Indians from the diaspora perhaps.

Modi will, I suspect, be a boon to India’s economy.

Were I living in India, I would find myself hard-pressed not to vote for him.

But I would resist.

I would not vote for him.

I would vote for Rahul Gandhi, son, grandson, and great-grandson of Indian Prime Ministers, patrician, well-educated (Harvard and Cambridge), and, personally “clean” and incorruptible, I believe.

I would vote for Rahul Gandhi and for Congress, though I believe the more experienced Narendra Modi would be better for the economy.

Because as Chief Minister of Gujarat, Narendra Modi stood by and did nothing while 2000 Muslims were massacred under his watch in 2002, riots his henchmen are widely suspected of fomenting.

Because the sense of pride and belonging to appeals to is Hindu pride, and Hindu identity, not Indian pride and Indian identity.

Because he appeals to the worst, militant elements of the ancient, peaceful, gracious religion of Hinduism.

Because of the destruction of property, burnings, beatings, murder, rape of nuns, and atrocities committed against Catholics and Christians by the some of the violent and militant organizations which form part of the Sangh Parivar, to which his party, the BJP, and his original formative home, the RSS, belong.

Because just as Modi, a polarizing, divisive leader for a vast, increasingly powerful, secular democracy like India, wishes his supporters to vote for what would be best for Hindus, I, a Christian, who belongs to a family and town (Mangalore) converted to Catholicism in the mid-sixteenth century would vote for what is best for Indian Christians and Catholics. (So I must confess my motivation is as communal as the motivations Modi appeals to.)

Though forecasts of the winners in India’s elections have a history of being wrong, I fear Modi, the predicted winner, will indeed win.

* * *

And what should Christians do? Watch the signs of the times very carefully and get out as soon as they can, if they can. Jews under Hitler could not believe that Kristallnacht would occur until it did. Could not believe in the horrors of Auschwitz until too late.

Emigration, however, is difficult and costly: financially, emotionally, psychologically, practically. But there is something simple and practical that we can do.

Pray. Pray for protection from Narendra Modi and the violent religious nationalism he appeals to.

Pray for Narendra Modi. Prayer is the strong weapon of the weak.

Like Gandhi, Narendra Modi is from Gujarat. Like Gandhi, he is vegetarian, ascetic, experiments with celibacy.

Unlike Gandhi, he has had limited or contact with true Christians. Unlike Gandhi, he is quite uninfluenced by the ideals of Christ.

Introduce Narenda Modi to Christ, and His ideals and what a leader he might be.

Prayer. A weak hope. Prayer, the strongest hope we have.

Pray for India, with a population four times the size of America’s and twice the size of the E.U.’s. A giant rising from torpor. A nation which will be a world leader in my lifetime, whether we like the direction it’s going to take. Or not.

Let us pray that the direction it takes would be one that would make Mahatma Gandhi smile. And even more, make my personal hero, Jesus Christ, smile.

In which Christ can heal the fierce memories of the past

By Anita Mathias

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun.

Keats, sitting down to read King Lear again, feels torn between anticipation and the dread of immersing himself again in this scabrous tragedy.

Once again the fierce dispute,

Betwixt damnation and impassion’d clay

Must I burn through; once more humbly assay

The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit, he writes.

* * *

I feel like that when I work in memoir. Amid the richness of my childhood, amid its intensity, its chockfulness, memories of pain periodically surface, accompanied by pain and anger.

I have a file called “The Dark Side of the Moon,” for the major characters in my story, stuff that will not directly make it into my memoir. Because the golden rule and all that….

I read this file and feel the intense emotion that surfaces as one strips a scab from a wound. Anger, rage, fury, and discomfort bubble up. And sometimes I shake my head and smile. And in those cases, the hard work of forgiveness and understanding–hey, everyone in my story is as human and flawed and limited as I am–has been done. I remember as if it were a chapter in Jane Eyre–that I have read and read many times, and so no longer cry over. Once the stories have been processed and healed they no longer feel like my story.

* * *

Once, when I was 11, I woke, and “saw’ a silent figure cloaked in light stand at the foot of my bed. I decided it was my grandfather, who had recently died. I closed my eyes tightly, and he was gone.

Silly me, what if it were Jesus? Why didn’t I grab him and not let him go, as I do now when I “see” Jesus in my room (with the eyes of faith?

For, of course, Jesus was right there, standing there, through everything. The silent compassionate witness who stood there through all the pain and fury and despair, letting it happen, (but surely preventing worse). He knew that one day, he would take the clay of rage and grief and injustice into his own hands, shaping, shaping, shaping a redemptive jar from what seemed wasted mud.

Providing for those who grieve—
a crown of beauty
instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
instead of a spirit of despair.
(Isaiah 61:3)

I type out this passage from Isaiah, and I ask myself, severely, “Hey, do you really believe this, Anita? Or are you being poetic?”

And I answer, “Both. For I am healed, aren’t I? I am, indeed, in the process of being healed.”

* * *

God is good. All the time. This I believe. I know it partly from experience. And partly by faith.

And I believe the past is not really past. It is still alive, in memory, in the scars on our brains and spirit. And so, it can still be redeemed; diamonds can appear amidst the mire of the past, as diamonds are continually formed from the muck deep within the earth.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. All our lives are a continuum in his sight.

And he can today, turn with a smile to the mid-life woman who remembers events from her teens with rage and fury, and pour, pour, pour. Pour healing, pour forgiveness, poor restoration, so that I am entirely a new creation.

Come, Lord Jesus, journey with me into the past, the story of my Indian Catholic childhood which I feel compelled to tell. And as we go through it, pour healing, pour joy.

And when the past stretches out its long fingers, clutching me, preventing me from being who you want me to be, release me, re-shape me.

Healer of my soul, as you will one day make all things new, continue making me new.