Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Anita Mathias's Blog on Faith and Art

In which Christ can heal the fierce memories of the past

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“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.

 

A Beautiful Train Wreck into Grace

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Waterfall Over Rocks

Sometimes, my tongue runs away with me, and I use my words to express anger and frustration rather than bestow grace and life, and those words steal life and strength rather than lavish them,

And I see the red flag of Jesus at the level crossing of my heart, and am stopped dead in my tracks.

But sometimes, I don’t stop, don’t listen to Jesus, and 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 husband and I go on the attack

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, smashing past the level crossing, speeding towards the onrushing train of consequences, heading for a crash.

 

And that’s when I understand grace.

For what I sow I should reap, right?

But that was before Jesus came.

* * *

My train hurtles on,

I drive recklessly, blinded by anger, negativity and despair

And Jesus sees that I am going to crash.

He steps in.

 

And still my train hurtles headlong; I am out of control. If I reap the consequences of everything I have sown, terrible things will happen.

But Jesus absorbs the crash in himself.

And I crash into grace; I crash into Jesus.

 

I am redeemed.

My marriage is redeemed

My mothering is redeemed.

Because of the grace Jesus died to give me.

Because of grace.

* * *

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

Keeps 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 could stand?

But you stand between us and inexorable consequences

For this too 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

He is smashed,

Rises,

And in that resurrection is hope.

For the risen Jesus now lives in me, restraining me

Helping me die to my wild self, making ever more room for the risen Jesus in me.

Helping me bear “in my body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in my body,” (2 Cor. 4:10).

* * *

 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,

Grace for the asking,

The Holy Spirit for the asking,

Because you love me.

 

Have you experienced the inexplicable grace and goodness of God when you least expected it? 

The spiritual life is not a ladder I need to climb. It is the descent of the dove!

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A member of my small group has been invited to Buckingham Palace since her husband is going to be knighted.

One needs to be invited to the Queen’s famous garden parties, or you will be politely, but swiftly, ejected.

You can’t invite yourself to Buckingham Palace or the White House: you must be invited!

                                                                                                           * * *

I sometimes wonder if I am going about the spiritual life all wrong.

I am reading Mark Batterson’s The Circle Maker. Oh wow! It’s got me re-excited about praying about every area of my life, and a bit chastened as I realised how many things in my life were vague hopes, or pipe-dreams, or “one day” desires rather than prayers I wrote down, and prayed through consistently.

And so, over the last few weeks, I have been writing down my dreams, hopes, goals and wishes and am praying circles around them.

Already, I am seeing movement. Things I have been  praying for are happening. Things are changing. I keep saying to Roy,  “Wow! That’s what I’ve have been praying for.”

* * *

And then I wondered, “Oh Jesus, am I spending more time praying though my dream-list, than resting in your presence, seeking your face?”

Oh Jesus, I miss you. Am I sort of drifting away from the closeness we once shared, the harum-scarum time in your presence?

Oh Jesus, am I faltering in my love for you?

Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus!

* * *

And then I remember Buckingham Palace. Driving up there in a shiny new car, with my best dress and fascinator is not going to get me into the garden party. I have to be invited!

And I do not get intimacy with Jesus by all my spiritual disciplines, my rising early, my Bible blogging, my prayer, my lectio divina.

I get it because of his mercy. He and his Father deign to come to me, and make their home with me (John 14:23).  He offers me an intertwined life, him living in me, and me living in him.

I don’t have to hustle for this. It is a free gift.

The spiritual life is not a ladder I need to climb. It is the descent of the dove!

So in these tired days, when my spirits can sink, and so I need to take frequent breaks to ask his Spirit to come and fill my flagging spirit, I need to remember that it’s not my efforts at spirituality that cajole the King of Kings to let me live with him.  It is his mercy.

Come, beautiful Lord Jesus. Come, Holy Spirit. Fill my heart and spirit to overflowing.

In which Grace is like Manna, Given Day by Day, in our Time of Need, and Just Enough

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I have desired some real life fairy tales which haven’t happened.

And there are spiritual fairy tales I have desired. To be able to say: “Some one prayed for me, and the mathematical problem which has baffled me all my adult life: “How to eat less than I burn” was resolved, just like that.”

“I prayed for a baptism in creativity,  and someone laid hands on me, and it was as if the floodgates of heaven opened, and all that grace and inspiration flowed, and I began to write as if God were dictating, and I wrote a book in a weekend.” (Or a week, or a month, or a year!)

“Oh, someone prayed for me, and then grumpiness–oh, it vanished. I became Little Miss Sunshine.”

Ah, brilliant fairy tales!

Haven’t happened to me. And one reason possibly is: oh how insufferable that would make me!

If all our weaknesses were taken away, just like that, we wouldn’t need God, would we?

* * *

I have heard other people testify to these narratives, and who am I to doubt them? Because as far as I know, Jesus never refused anyone who asked him for healing. He seemed unable to keep his hands off them.

But healing comes in many ways. I am in the process of being healed.

And this is the way healing comes to me: Not in blaze, a sudden receiving of sight, but through daily leaning.

I have to ask for it every day. Have to kneel, collect it and eat it every day.

Take eat, this is my body, this is my grace, this is my love, Jesus says.

Like manna. Little flakes like frost on the desert floor (Ex 16:14). They appear each morning and are sufficient for the day (Ex 16:4). He who gathers extra finds he has no more the next day, but needs to come again with humility and dependence.

Manna: grace God gives us in our time of need.

Manna: grace for those who can’t do life without God. Manna to be eaten in your daily quiet times to remind us that man lives by every word from the mouth of God (Matt 4:4).

Eating manna. Eating Jesus. Eating his word.

Eating manna of grace, divine strength, through the day to remind me to bless my body in what I eat and drink, and how I exercise.

Eating manna through the day to remind me to use my words like pearls, carefully, thoughtfully, not foolishly venting, so I feel better and my listener feels worse.

Eating manna when weakened by the winds of emotional temptation—anger, fear, worry.

Eating the manna of faith against worry.

Eating the manna of surrender against anger.

Eating manna when I am tired, so I relax and open my mind to the eternal springs of creativity.

Grace like manna, given to us daily in our deserts. Grace to help us in our time of need. Just enough so that tomorrow we return to God needy and dependent again.

 

The Root of Peace (from Brennan Manning’s “Ragamuffin Gospel”)

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Philosopher Jacques Maritain once said that the culmination of knowledge is not conceptual but experiential: I feel God. Such is the promise of the Scriptures: Be still and know (experience) that I am God.

My own journey bears witness to that. I mean simply that a living, loving God can and does make his presence felt, can and does speak to us in the silence of our hearts, can does warm and caress us till we no longer doubt that he is near, that he is here.

Such experience is pure grace to the poor, the children, and the sinners, the privileged types in the gospel of grace. It cannot be forced from God. He gives it freely, but he does give it, and has given it to such as Moses and Matthew, to Roslyn and me.

In fact, there is no one to whom God denies it. Ignatius of Loyola said, “The direct experience of God is grace indeed, and basically, there is no one to whom it is refused.”

In essence, there is only one thing God asks of us—that we be men and women of prayer, people who live close to God, people for whom God is everything, and for whom God is enough. That is the root of peace.

When we start seeking something besides him, we lose it. As Thomas Merton said in the last public address before his death, “That is his call to us—simply to be people who are content to live close to him to renew that kind of life in which the closeness is felt and experienced.”

Nothing and No One is Beyond Redemption

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Madonna and Child - Sandro Botticelli

 

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.

 

 

My Train Wreck into Grace

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File:Hunt Light of the World.jpg

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

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File:Pompeo Batoni 003.jpg

 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. 23 Bring the fattened calf for there are no calories or cholesterol in heaven. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. 24 For 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.