In Which I Count my Blessings | Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Why I Am No Longer a Roman Catholic

I was brought up Roman Catholic, was taught that missing Sunday Mass was a mortal sin, except when you were sick. (And a mortal sin meant you would burn in hell, for eternity, unless you confessed it, and were absolved.)

How could I have believed that? Children believe what they are taught.

It’s taken me years to learn not to accept other people’s theology, but to question everything, including other people’s interpretations of Scripture. (As I’ve blogged in Inerrancy and Me, I’ve been to Catholic, Presbyterian, Baptist, Charismatic, Anglican and non-denomination churches. They all believed in inerrancy, and all taught different things.)

* * *

The first time I skipped Church (to study for an exam!) I was 21. And—incredibly–I wondered if I would go to hell if I died before I went to confession. (The whole system–missing Mass is mortal sin; we are only forgiven through confession–of course, bolsters the power and authority of the priesthood. But I didn’t see that then.)

And then, after skipping Mass again, I realised that since I was so often excruciatingly bored by the ancient words of the liturgy that I knew by heart, it was extremely unlikely that a just and merciful God would send me to hell for missing Sunday Mass.

Or that he would forgive me upon the say-so of a priest, when I wasn’t truly, truly sorry. Or that he would not forgive me without formal confession, if I were sorry.

Being a Catholic Charismatic had me reading Scripture, and Scripture did not say that missing Sunday Mass was a mortal sin.

And so I didn’t go the next Sunday, or the next…

In fact, because of memories of almost unbearable boredom during 21 years of Catholic Masses, I simply cannot force myself to go to a Catholic Mass now, even when I visit parents, in-laws, Catholic relatives or friends. (A minor case of post-traumatic stress syndrome, I suppose!)

* * *

As Martin Luther discovered, once you start questioning the extra-Biblical doctrines of the Catholic Church, there is no end to it. I questioned other things.

An aspect of my family’s faith which annoyed me was their large donations for masses to be said for dead relatives to spring them from purgatory. My mother still pays for masses for my little family, so let me not totally discount any spiritual blessing from this, because we have certainly been blessed.

I thought of Sister Josephine in school, who told me that she loved me best of all the students she’d taught over 40 years, and would use her discretionary “pocket money” to buy masses to be said for me in perpetuity in Rome. I would look at the Mass cards dubiously, and wish she had bought herself (or me!) chocolate instead.

But she would be delighted with the woman I now am, the life I now live, and my durable faith, so perhaps her intention of buying prayer for me was honoured by God—or perhaps there are still priests in Rome praying for me. Perhaps.

* * *

The shawl of faith kept unravelling.

Come on, did the words spoken by a priest change the host to the very Body and Blood of Christ? If it did, if I were indeed eating GOD, wouldn’t I be radically changed?

But after Mass, I, and everyone else at boarding school, was as bitchy as before. I mentioned that to Sister Josephine, and she said, “But how do you know what you would have been if you had not received Holy Communion?” And that indeed, who knows.

Nah, didn’t believe in transubstantiation any more. We do it in memory of him, that’s all.

* * *

Gotterdamerung. The Twilight or Destruction of False Gods. It’s very sad, very stressful, very painful—and very liberating!

And what was all this praying to saints? Wasn’t Jesus, God himself, who died to atone for our sins enough? Who could have enough devotion to pray to Therese, Catherine, and Francis in addition? To Anthony when you lose something, Jude when the cause is hopeless, Monica when your children are wayward? And why, why, why pray to this crowded communion when you can go up the waterfall, through the veil, to the presence of the Most Holy God himself?

* * *

And the dreadful Rosary, the dreaded recitation of 50 Hail Marys, 5 Our Fathers and 5 Glory Bes, which so marred my childhood with its unutterable noisy boredom, which blocked out the possibility of quiet communion with God.

Didn’t Jesus say we shouldn’t be like the pagans who think they will be heard for their many words? Instead how I suffered through the gabble, the noise of the Catholicism I was brought up in, the Novenas, the Litanies, the Rosaries, the Masses…

* * *

And all the extra-Biblical dogmas men with too much time on their hands have conjured up—the Infallibility of the Pope, the Immaculate Conception of Mary, the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary into heaven, these “infallible dogmas” were mere invented ideas, conceits.

Oh, let me not get started!! Especially on the sentimental, ubiquitous, extra-Scriptural reverencing Mary. The prayers to her. Where is all this in Scripture, I used to ask? an anguished, roaring bull–knowing little of Luther, little knowing he asked the same questions 500 years ago!!

* * *

So what is coming from Catholicism to Mere Christianity like?

Imagine the Lord Jesus sitting by a quiet, still mountain spring.

You walk to him through the noise, the chaos, the cacophony, the music, the poetry, the art, the kitsch. Through all the apparitions of the virgin, dogmas, novenas, litanies, rosaries. The terracotta army of saints. The noisy crowd of witnesses . That was Catholicism for me.

And how grateful I am to the tormented Martin Luther for pointing out that a man is saved by Jesus alone, without all this paraphernalia.

We can come back to the heart of worship, which is all about Jesus.

* * *

And we must make sure we ignore the moneychangers and those selling doves in Protestantism too, steer clear of the noise of too many festivals, conferences, retreats; celebrities, big name speakers, big egos, all flogging their course, book, blog, their way to the Way. Their Latest Greatest Shortcut to Heaven. For the house of prayer always risks becoming a den of thieves.

But you, Man and Woman of God, flee all this, and come back to the Jesus you’ll encounter in the Gospels, those simple sparse first century narratives. Come back to the heart of worship.

Image Credit

The Words Which Change Everything

By Anita Mathias

Words which take the hard shell of the present

When it feels devoid of nourishment, just hard, just hard

Take it and crack it,

And reveal the sweet meat within it:

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.

Though my day is not panning out as it should,

Though my work is not panning out as it should,

Though my nerves are fraying,

And energy and love leaks from my heart,

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

For your goodness endures,

For the sun rises painting the sky,

For the sun sets, making it blaze,

For the mind you given me to praise you,

For the people who love me,

For the people I love,

For this world so full of beauty,

Though all is not as I want it to be,

Thank you.

You take the hard shell of your cantankerous heart,

And with the nutcracker of thanks split it open into joy,

Giving thanks for the glad moments and the hard moments,

For there is nothing He cannot redeem.

Thank you that this world is full of goodness.

Though much is taken,

And much may never be as I want it to be,

Much goodness remains,

And for that:

Thank you!

Thank you Jules Middleton for hosting on your blog, Apples of Gold.

The Power of Praise, Even in the Animal Kingdom

By Anita Mathias

“Orpheus Charming the Animals”Jacob Hoefnagel ( credit )

I keep learning and forgetting and learning again the spiritual power of praise and gratitude—eucharisteo.

It’s one of those spiritual practices that unleashes disproportionate power—like prayer, or the power of love.

Why it even works in the animal kingdom.

Several feisty horses live in the field behind my garden. Many villagers bring them apples and carrots, and stroke them. But I have not grown up with horses, and while I enjoy looking at them, and love the placid, gentle, almost bovine look in their eyes, I do not voluntarily pet them. I consider my small delicate hands, and their long mouths and enormous teeth, and the disproportion alarms me.

Well, as I cross their field on my walks across country footpaths, the horses come up to me, snorting, snuffling me to see if I have brought them crunchy treats. If I have a water bottle, they go for it, assuming it’s a treat for them. They surround me, I freeze, and they come closer, putting their noses into the red hood of my coat, as if it’s a nosebag! Talk about up close and personal!

I have called Roy on my mobile to come and rescue me, the horses trying to get hold of the mobile, and have then just stood there frozen, waiting, snuffled by horses, because if I moved, they followed me.

And then I took to avoiding the field behind our orchard, the natural gateway to field after field with public footpaths through them. Garsington has more public footpaths through fields than any other Oxfordshire village!

* * *

Well, this week, the horses came, majestic and determined, with their characteristic snort. “He sayeth among the trumpets, Ha, Ha.” (Job 39:25.)

I decided not to give way to fear, because they probably smell it. All animals instinctively seek dominance, and to assert a pecking order (the bullying primate behaviour which Frank Schaeffer sees in conservative Christians who insist on male headship and female submission. Okay, digression over 🙂

And so this week, instead of turning around as the horses trot towards me from every corner of the field, or saying, in a somewhat quavery voice any horse worth its salt could hear through, “Nice horse, good horse, let me go,” I decided to genuinely praise the God who made them.

And so I stroked that long, long nose, as long as my arm, and said aloud, gingerly at first, but gaining conviction, “Lord, I praise you for this beautiful horse. I praise you for its tranquil, dreamy eyes. I praise you for its strong body. I praise you for its (oops, over-) friendly temperament.”

And as I stroked, and praised, I genuinely began to calm down, and to see the beauty of that huge, gentle plaintive-eyed horse, and it too began to calm down, and—hallelujah!!–let me go on my way without following me.

Wow, he had realized that I wasn’t afraid, that I had grown to like him. He had sensed that I was calm, and so did not feel the need to bully me by following me, in his snorty Ha-Ha way.

The music of Orpheus was meant to calm the animals. Well, apparently, so is the music of praise to their creator.

1001 Gifts #8–A May Walk around my Garden, and the fields around my house

By Anita Mathias

Jake, my collie, in the buttercup meadow.

England is traditionally glorious in May—and actually was so today, the hottest day of the year to date

And here are some images from a glorious walk this afternoon through my garden, and little orchard, and around the fields surrounding our house.

I have substituted prayer walking for prayer in a locked room, and am listening to Scripture on my iPhone. I really enjoy prayer on the hoof. Being out in May with the birds singing in happiness, and the fields and trees full of flower and blossom fills my heart with joy, even ecstasy.

I am grateful for the gift of living in the English countryside which is so beautiful, and so rich in history and literary association!

Buttercups with a flowering hawthorn hedge in the background

Looking down at the buttercups

A glimpse of the rape seed field

another view from our balcony

field of rape seed

Tractor tracks left by the farmer when spraying

close up of the rape flowers

Three views of the hawthorn hedge

Queens Anne’s lace by the vegetable garden

Queen Anne’s lace, sticky weed (Galium aparine), and a few bluebells in the woods under the birches

A fallen nest

Columbine under a still dormant mulberry

Judas tree (I think)

Purple asparagus, almost the same color as the soil, sprouting.

A shady nook with giant solomon’s seal

In Praise of Naps (1001 Gifts: #7)

By Anita Mathias

In Praise of Naps

I remember reading this cool story about Edison. He didn’t have a firm separation between day and night and kept a bed in his office. When he was tired, in the middle of the day, he had a 15 or 20 minute nap, and then woke up, full of bounce. If he was wide awake in the night, he worked. As a result, he was usually fresh, and alert.

I am a great believer in that—and find it hard to believe that anything is worth running ragged and tired.

And so, I am also a great believer in—and practitioner of!!—naps. Generally one a day, for 13-20 minutes, but on a tired day, I might have 2 or 3 short 15-20 minute naps, just to regain bounce and read or write or think or live at full speed.

My favourite description of a nap is from Iris Murdoch’s “The Good Apprentice”—“two days for the price of one.” That’s what a long nap, 30-60 minutes gives me. The morning’s turmoils, tensions, happenings and work now seem far away; it’s like starting a new day afresh!!

It’s exactly what I feel on resuming my day after an hour of prayer. Yesterday’s hurly-burly, this morning’s frustrations now seem far-away, past history. He has made all things new!

* * *

Napping may seem slothful to the Western mind but in the East, it’s been part of the way of life for millennia, probably. The sun streams in at 5 o’clock; the noise of life begins. And then, not surprisingly, by mid-afternoon, sleepiness overwhelms you, and a nap restores you for the rest of your day.

My father, a Chartered Accountant, was the Controller of Accounts at Tata Steel, and walked home every day for lunch, and laid down, flat on his back, his hankerchief over his eyes, and slept soundly for about half an hour. At two, he walked back for his second shift. He and my mother quite unnecessarily woke at 5 a.m. to read their newspapers, with bowls of mangoes beside them, so I guess they adapted to this biphasic sleep.

* * *

Many contemporary solutions to modern life are counter-intuitive. For instance, people often recommend that you go out for a run or garden when you are depressed. And when I do do that, I feel immeasurably better. However, the trick is getting myself to do it.

I am afraid what I do when I feel depressed is have a nap (with a timer) resting with God, telling him the Go has leaked out of me, but I do want to do this and this and that and please would He restore me. It is a quiet rest with God—I guess it’s prayer, because I certainly feel God’s closeness and enveloping—and I am restored after it, and feel happier and motivated again. Though to call it prayer feels a bit of a con. I lie down guiltily– knowing I am doing the very thing one is not supposed to when depressed or out of motivation: take to bed. And I guess it’s God’s mercy that I regain my bounce and motivation.

I am afraid I no longer resonate with the things I read about waking early, Bruce Wilkinson saying that you will stagnate and not reach spiritual heights unless you wake at 5 (in The Secret of the Vine) or Jeff Goins’ advocacy of early rising to write.

These are the verse which speak to me on the subject, from Psalm 127

Unless the Lord builds the house,

In vain do the builders labour

In vain is your earlier rising,

Your going later to bed

For he gives to his beloved sleep.

* * *

Only a fraction of writers who write are widely read by their generation. And only a fraction of those writers will be read by successive generations.

And yet we have a mandate: To bear fruit which will last.

And how are we to do that?

It’s counter-intuitive and paradoxical. By hanging out with Jesus, resting in Jesus, remaining in Jesus, learning from Jesus, talking to Jesus, listening to Jesus, being one with him. Abiding, dwelling in him.

And my time of this rest and unity, beyond words, is often when I am dozing off on a brief 15 minute nap I’m taking because I am too groggy, too mentally tired, or simply too sad and limp and listless to do anything else.

And in the still waters of the nap, he makes me down to rest. He restores my soul. Again.

I love Him!

With the night falling we are saying thank you by W.S. Merwin

By Anita Mathias

My daughter, Irene, as a four year old, thanking God for the Rhine Falls in Switzerland!

Thanks

by W. S. Merwin

Listen 
with the night falling we are saying thank you 
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings 
we are running out of the glass rooms 
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky 
and say thank you 
we are standing by the water thanking it 
smiling by the windows looking out 
in our directions 

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging 
after funerals we are saying thank you 
after the news of the dead 
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you 
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators 
remembering wars and the police at the door 
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you 
in the banks we are saying thank you 
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us 
our lost feelings we are saying thank you 
with the forests falling faster than the minutes 
of our lives we are saying thank you 
with the words going out like cells of a brain 
with the cities growing over us 
we are saying thank you faster and faster 
with nobody listening we are saying thank you 
we are saying thank you and waving 
dark though it is.

Becoming a person full of joy, overflowing with thankfulness is a matter of practice!

By Anita Mathias

Irene, delighted with and thankful for the sash of her new dress!

About 15 years ago, I was on a women’s retreat at which we were asked to write down what we wanted our lives to look like in 5 years. Along with ambitious, pipe-dream goals which have not come to pass, I included this, which has not come to pass either, but to which I am closer, “I want to be full of joy, overflowing with thankfulness.”

* * *

Three years ago, at Christmas, we were visiting my mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law in New Zealand at Christmas. They were both depressed and exhausted, so we did all the shopping, cooking and washing up.

So we go to the grocery store, planning to buy duck which is what our family eats at Christmas, but was apparently not what Kiwis eat at Christmas. They apparently do not eat turkey either. So, another spanner in the works.

But then I looked around at all the amazing things they did have–crayfish, paua (abalone) and kumaras, chinese gooseberries, South Island wines–and lamb, lots of lamb, very cheap. It’s the country in which there are more sheep than people after all!

And it was one of those watershed moments. If I were ever going to be full of joy, overflowing with thanksgiving, well, I would just need to start practising right now. Start thanking God for my blessings, in that unfamiliar crowded Christmas Eve grocery store in Gisborne, New Zealand.
* * *

“Full of joy, overflowing with thanksgiving”–that describes a very attractive person, doesn’t it? The sort of person you would love to spend time with, to be with.

And I guess we get to be that kind of person, arithmetically, by just counting one blessing after another.

We become people overflowing with joy and thankfulness by practising, by keeping on thanking God for his goodness, as revealed in our lives, and in creation.

For my new joy in walking, thank you, and for my increasing pace, and very slow and very steady weight loss, and for the very slow and very steady growth in my blog, thank you, and for the girls happily and quietly reading, thank you, Lord, and for being able to taste your goodness in the land of the living, thank you, Lord!
* * *

While physical beauty, like intelligence, is given to us by God according to his plans for our life–the beauty of being a person “full of joy, overflowing with thankfulness” (Col. 2:9) is an equal opportunity thing.

As Jesus said, God sends his sun and rain on the good and evil alike, and gives good gifts open-handedly (though unevenly) to everyone.

So anyone, rich or poor, brilliant or so-so, healthy or infirm, naturally cheerful (as I am) or naturally low-key, can choose to count their blessings, to be thankful everyday for the goodness of God, nature, the world, and people, can become a person, full of joy, overflowing with thankfulness.

Like everything else, it just takes practice!

Changing the Story: Seeing the Pain of Life Through a Filter of Thanksgiving

By Anita Mathias

Image Credit

I was suddenly reminded today of a painful episode of my life, and shed a few tearsAnd then I thought of something else, and felt overwhelmingly grateful.

* * *

When I was a young girl and then a young woman, I had an older mentor who invested a lot in me—telling me about books, encouraging me to read. He invested a lot of hope in my writing, and desperately wanted me to be successful, perhaps, I now see, to somehow compensate for his own sense of failure.

Well, I was a disappointment to him. I did read English at Oxford, but he expected me to publish a dazzling book in my twenties. I didn’t. And then in my early thirties, a leading American editor, Ted Solataroff of Harper and Row expressed interest in a book from me.

I wrote one in blood through my first pregnancy, and the first year of my baby’s life, sent it to my childhood mentor, who got it bound, and to Ted, who rejected it. When he did so, I remember lying on my carpet, thinking, “I want to die.”

Well, I did not. Instead I visited my childhood friend and mentor. I had gained weight through my pregnancy, and had clawed 22 pounds off through walking 4 miles a day, and studiously avoiding fat. I was on an upswing, reading again, enjoying writing.

* * *

Mentors and tormentors. Be careful who you choose as a mentor, for there can be a thin line between them.

This man was bitterly disappointed in me, and let me know it. “You gained so much weight; it’s repulsive.” “I read your book, it’s piffle. And you thought Harper and Row would publish that.”

Gosh, just what I needed with a one year old daughter, a marriage under strain from our new daughter and both our fierce ambition for our own work.

I crumbled. I lost the plot. Gained back those twenty-two pounds, and another twenty-two. Slipped into a bleak, bad negative mood. Over-worked, and overworked myself into depression.

* * *

And my friend? Well, four days after my visit, he had a heart attack. He lived for another 9 years, and we resumed a friendly relationship through letters and phone-calls.

But I never visited him again.

When he died, I cried and cried for a few days. Partly, that I had never visited him again. I felt that I had been a poor return on investment. I felt guilty. I thought about the love that had been between us, and forgot that, because of that, he felt free to speak to me with such vitriol.

He was depressed and downcast towards the end of his life. In fact, with some trepidation, I had been considering visiting him around the time he died.

* * *

He died about 8 years ago, and I have always regretted that I didn’t see for the last 9 years of his life.

And today, I am letting that regret go.

Why should another visit have been any different? He was depressed, and dissatisfied, and so would have been even more likely to lash out at anyone who would take it.

To try to feel alive through rage. To feel powerful by trampling someone else down. To channel uncomfortable emotions about the frustrations of his life into a rage-filled demolition job.

But could I have stood it? No, it would have been very hard to deal with it. The last visit took me back several steps. Why do that to myself?

Why put myself into the path of a volcano of someone’s negativity and dissatisfaction, knowing I would have to put myself together again, once more?

Interestingly, I had known this intuitively. When I felt perhaps I should go and visit him, I didn’t because I didn’t want to.

For the last eight years, off and on, I have scolded and castigated myself for ingratitude, for not wanting to go and visit him one last time.

* * *

And today, I actually feel thankful I did not go. The visit could have been like the former one, tears, drama, and exhaustion. I have children. I cannot afford emotional setbacks.

And so I cast out remorse, and was thankful that I was spared more misery, more emotional turmoil, more tears!

When such as I cast out remorse

So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.

W.B. Yeats

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