Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Anita Mathias's Blog on Faith and Art

What You Know Can Set Someone Free (A Guest Post By Shelly Miller)

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I first met Shelly Miller of Redemption’s Beauty through her much-needed Sisterhood of the Sabbath. She’s on my blog today with another necessary challenge. Welcome, Shelly!

(c) Shelly Miller

As I step over the threshold from my garage to the side yard, holding a full trash bag in my hand, the sound of something rustling in the leaves nearby startles me. I’m a bit jumpy this time of the year. I live in a part of the country inhabited by almost every species of snake. Walking barefoot in the summer is an extravagance I don’t allow myself.

As I look from side to side, scan the grass, inspect the flower beds and barbecue, I remember the source of the sound that reverberates. A blush-cheeked skink lives a few feet down the sidewalk, behind a drain pipe, nestled among leaf litter. Though the sight of a giant lizard isn’t less creepy than a snake, I can see his frozen stance like a picture hanging on a brick wall in the crevice. I know he is more afraid of me than I am of him.

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And I’m the only one who knows about the skink setting up residence in this secret place. I’m the gardener in our family.

It suddenly occurs to me that my son squawks in certainty about hearing a slithering snake, every time he takes the trash out. I just happen to be doing his job on this day and realize it’s not a snake threatening my son’s peace, but a harmless skink.

I wonder how many times I have done this; withheld information that seems trivial when sharing it would be a gift, like a prophetic word. When I offer prayerful, sometimes seemingly insignificant impressions with others, it is an act of the deepest kind of vulnerability and yet reveals the most profoundly courageous truth. God is asking me if I’ll risk looking foolish; if I’ll trust Him for the sake of love.

Perhaps He is asking you too.

There’s no equation where taking risks, braving uncertainty, and opening ourselves up to emotional exposure equals weakness. ~Brene Brown, Daring Greatly

The beautiful paradox: every time I dare to be vulnerable, expose my perceived weakness in sharing what I sense He is saying for someone else, faith grows strong like a shoot stretching tall toward the Son, for both of us.

Recently, I became reacquainted with a girlfriend on Facebook after a fifteen year lull in conversation. She reminded me of a time of barrenness, when she desperately wanted children and worried about not becoming pregnant. She says, “I still tell the story of how you had a prophetic dream that I was pregnant with our first child who is now 14. God is so good! Thanks for sharing that with me so long ago. It proves again the goodness of God and His ever present hand in our lives!”

She just had her sixth child.

Humanity shares a common trait: the desperation to be set free from ourselves, even when we don’t know it. Prophecy is the reminder that we aren’t alone; that your life and mine, they matter and He is listening.

Brene says, “We love seeing raw truth and openness in other people, but we’re afraid to let them see it in us.” And perhaps our sharing what we know, what seems insignificant to us, will transform someone’s perceived situation from a snake to a skink; help them breathe a bit easier when stepping into the unknown. It may even allow a person to release the trash they were holding back.

We are light bearers, holding torches we assumed were lit with the wisdom of our experience, when often we carry flames of truth from His tongue illuminating the mystery of the Kingdom. The Light you carry may set someone free. Share it.

What is worth doing even if you fail? Have you ever pushed away that inkling you perceived as coming from God for someone because of fear? Or perhaps you’ve been the recipient of someone else’s prophetic word in due season. Tell me about it in the comments.

Shelly Miller

Shelly Miller

Shelly Miller is a writer, photographer, clergy wife, mother of two teens, and a leadership coach.  She enjoys writing stories that make people think differently about life and helping women discover their calling. You can read more of her stories on her blog, Redemptions Beauty and in her column at Living the Story. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter.

 

A Richer Palette for Your Prayer Life: Martin Luther’s Advice ( A Guest Post by Gary Hansen, author of “Kneeling with Giants”

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I am honoured to host this post from Gary Neal Hansen, author of the marvellous book, Kneeling with Giants, in which he offers practical ways to apprentice ourselves to history’s great pray-ers, Benedict, Luther, Calvin, Ignatius of Loyola and Teresa of Avila, among others. 

background-72245_640Martin Luther, the catalyst of the Protestant Reformation, needed a shave.  And his barber, like the one I had when I had hair, liked to talk. Master Peter the Barber’s question was something like “Dr. Luther tell me: how can I improve my prayer life?”

The sharp blade scraping his neck might have put some pressure on for a clever response, but Luther’s advice was the same as he gave to theologians, ministers and parents: “Pray the Lord’s Prayer.” His full answer came in a lengthy letter, a little book actually, translated as A Simple Way to Pray.

His passion for the Lord’s Prayer knew no bounds.  In a preface to his Small Catechism he wrote that if ministers won’t make good use of it “we deserve not only to be given no food to eat, but also to have the dogs set upon us and to be pelted with horse manure.”

Well, Dr. Luther, tell us how you really feel.

Maybe you are thinking the same thing my students say whenever I teach about Luther’s way of praying: “But I already pray Luther’s way! We say the Lord’s Prayer every Sunday in church.”

For Luther, the Lord’s Prayer is not merely “a prayer” to be recited and be done with.  The Lord’s Prayer is a list of topics that we are invited to pray about; commanded to pray about, actually. It  is an artist’s palette, a full range of colours for our prayer life — more than the monochrome we find when guided by personal interests.

So how does Luther’s method really work? I say a lot about this in Kneeling with Giants but here’s the short version:

I recommend writing out the Lord’s prayer on an index card, no matter how well you know it. Hold it so your thumb is on the first line, and spend a few minutes talking to God about that first topic; then move your thumb to the next line and spend a few minutes on that; and so on.

What might you pray for in these almost too-familiar words?

Praying “Our Father in heaven” you can thank God for adopting you in Christ as a beloved child, and praise the mystery of God who dwells in light inaccessible.

Praying “Hallowed be your name” you can intercede for the Church and the world — God’s name is indeed holy already, but we ask God to help his glory be known.

Praying “Your kingdom come” we ask God to truly reign in our own lives, and in our families, and in our churches, and in all the world. God’s kingdom won’t be complete until he comes again, so here we also pray with the early Christians “Come Lord Jesus!”

Praying “Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven” can lead to confession: we all have ways of resisting God’s expressed will for us. This can also be a great tool for intercession: when praying for a sick friend we can remind God that the Gospels show Christ’s will is for healing.

Praying “Give us today our daily bread” reminds us to ask God for everything, even the food we eat — even if we don’t like to ask things for ourselves, here Jesus commands us to do so.  And we can pray for the millions who do not have even bread to eat.

Praying “Forgive us our sins [or trespasses, or debts] as we forgive those who sin against us” reminds us to keep at the hard work of forgiving others, since we set up our own forgiveness as the standard by which we ask God to abide!

Praying “Save us from the time of trial and deliver us from evil” reminds us that we have struggles, whether inner weaknesses and temptations, or oppressive outer circumstances. We admit that we need God’s help to get through.

Luther did not comment on the familiar conclusion “For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours now and forever,” but praying it we acknowledge that God has all the power needed to answer our prayers, and that what we really want in asking is God’s glory.

Luther always had a lot to say, however, about the final word, “Amen!” He said to pray it boldly, expressing the confidence that God has surely heard us and will surely answer.

There is not just one thing to pray for in any line of the Lord’s Prayer. Each clause can lead to praise, thanksgiving, confession, or intercession, as needed at the moment. Luther’s point is to pray all the parts, and let Jesus’ own prayer stretch us to bring God everything — even the things we usually forget to pray about.

You can pray through the whole prayer at a sitting, or follow Luther’s other suggestion and sticking to one line for your whole prayer time.  One clause per day will bring you through the Lord’s Prayer once a week.

Luther is right about one thing: we need something to guide us into a richly-hued conversation with God. That’s why he thought this was Jesus’ very best prayer. As he put it once, “If he, the good and faithful Teacher, had known a better one, he would surely have taught us that too.”

Give it a try. Take a week or two and follow Luther’s advice. I’d love to hear how it goes for you.

  • Which line of the Lord’s Prayer is most important to you — and why?
  • What helps your conversation with God take on more and richer colours?

 

Gary Neal Hansen

Gary Neal Hansen

Gary Neal Hansen is the Associate Professor of Church History at the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary.  He is the author of Kneeling with Giants: Learning to Pray with History’s Best Teachers (InterVarsity Press: 2012), winner of Christian Resources Together’s “Devotional Book of the Year” in the UK, and Hearts and Minds Books “Best Book of the Year on Spirituality” in the US.  His current book project explores movements in the history of the Church whose ways of being Christian community blossomed into effective mission and service in the world. He lives in Dubuque Iowa, USA with his wife and their two small children. (Blog: GaryNealHansen.com, Facebook page: Gary Neal Hansen, Twitter: @garynealhansen. Links to Kneeling with Giants (Amazon.com) and Kneeling with Giants (Amazon UK).)

 

The Secret of Life (A Guest Post from Kelly Belmonte)

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Singing robin

 “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.” ― Elie Wiesel

This is what I love about writing. Writers are so greedy for life, they live it three times: the first time in the flesh, the second on paper, and the third when they read what they wrote.

Writing is not only a greedy practice but a generous one. Beyond the third life of words, there ripples a wave of life as other readers take part in your original in-the-flesh moment. The writer’s magnanimity allows for this reliving.

You can’t be indifferent and be a writer. By living (and reliving) this life of words, the writer takes a stand against indifference. Each scribble is claiming, “This matters, and that matters, too.” It matters so much that I’m going to live it over and over again. It matters so much, I hope you live it with me.

***

I woke up on a morning recently when it was still the deep gray of pre-dawn. A nameless bird sang a tuneless melody of five tones: first three the same, followed by two that were both different, ending on the highest note. And then the bird would repeat it, over and over.

I lay there listening, not trying to understand. What’s to understand, except that this is a life and a song? This is not work, it is sabbath. The secret of life is in those sabbath moments of not having to be useful or successful or right or ever planning how not to be thirsty or afraid. It is in being fully alive – and not indifferent – to what is there before me.

I believe the poet e. e. cummings was on to something when he wrote poem number 53 that opens, “may my heart always be open to little / birds who are the secrets of living.”

***

In my non-sabbath time, when I am in full justification mode, having a reason for all my actions, I am what they call a “knowledge worker.” Perhaps that term is passé by now – I hope so. It basically means I get paid to know stuff, to understand stuff, to analyze stuff, and to somehow make decisions based on that stuff. Basically, I get paid to be right.

In the fresh wisdom of cummings – “…for whenever men are right, they are not young” – I get paid to be old.

And in this rightness – this oldness – there is a kind of indifference. We call it objectivity, but it’s a slippery slope to indifference.

By way of clarification, I do not mean to suggest that there is anything wrong with work, with hard work that makes us tired and long for rest, that aches our fingers, that makes us sweat (in mind and body). Such work is redemptive. Such work cracks us open to the secret of life, the meaning behind the job description.

And such work is rare, especially when we are old, or feeling old. It is nearly impossible when everything depends on our being right.

But if I were young (in my spirit, in my mind, my heart), perhaps I’d get paid to be wrong, to fail spectacularly – to make outlandish statements and extreme promises, to go to the edge of a concept and peer over it into unknowable possibility, to a place beyond simple declarations of right and wrong, to sing like a bird on a limb.

Perhaps I would be compensated for not being indifferent.

For me, this would serve as the perfect job description (a la cummings):

“Stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple.”

***

This noisy bird outside my window matters to me. I want you to hear those five tones. I want you to feel the soft heaviness of the deep gray of pre-dawn beneath flannel sheets.

And I want you to care about it. I want you to be “in on” the secret of life, and to love it.

If I can do that as a writer – care enough to prompt a caring in you – I have lived, and lived again.

***

Kelly Belmonte

Kelly Belmonte

Kelly Belmonte is a poet, blogger, and management consultant with expertise in non-profit organizational development and youth mentoring. She currently serves on the board of directors for Exeter Fine Crafts in Exeter, New Hampshire. Her first published book of poetry, Three Ways of Searching, is available through Finishing Line Press

 Image Credit: BBC

A City Set on a Hill cannot be Hidden: Focus on Working, not Networking

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The-City-on-a-Hill

So you are going to build a city.

Dig its foundations deep. Pour the concrete. Design your buildings. It’s your city: Put in whatever you like—the Alhambra, the Hagia Sophia, the Sagrada Familia, the Parthenon.  Throw in Notre Dame and Westminster Abbey.

Decorate your buildings as you wish—with the mosaics from Ravenna, or from the Topkapi Palacein Istanbul.

It’s your city. Put in the Pre-Raphaelites, the Impressionists, Botticelli and Raphael. Have your floors inlaid marble from Florence. Have indoor fountains and reflecting pools where goldfish glide.

Throw in chandeliers and floor to ceiling windows. Let your city be full of light.

You are building your city on a hill. It cannot be hidden.

* * *

You will, in moments of lesser faith, read blogs on how to hustle, how to promote your city, how to network, make connections, build a platform.

Oh builder of cities, beware. All these things steal time and focus away from learning the art and craft of city building.

Instead, seek God for the perfect blueprint for your city. Seek his inspiration for each tower and spire, each inlaid marble floor, each wall hung with Persian carpets, and each Tiffany lamp through which light glows.

Unless love runs through your city, and the desire to meet people’s needs for beauty, joy, peace, wisdom or rest, all the promotion and hustling you do will be futile. Nobody will long linger there, buy property there, and stroll through the boulevards under shady lime trees, hand in hand with their lovers.

* * *

There is a kind of networking which is sheer joy—if you connect with people whose work you love, if you praise them honestly, interact with their work whole-heartedly, then you make friends, and this whole city-building business become more joyful.

However, flattering people for their attention; making connections for the good things these connections might bring you; befriending people to use them to promote your work—how can one ask God to bless such endeavours? Oh woman of God, flee these things.

There is a sort of hustling and self-promotion that is practical atheism.  We act as if there is no God who can help people notice our city on a hill. We act as if God does not delight in good work and want people to enjoy it. We act as if God cannot even now give us twelve legions of those who will enjoy our work if we ask him. We forget the power of prayer.

And the worst thing about excessive self-promotion and connection-making? It devours the time and energy that should go into making your rare and beautiful city, set on a hill. So beautiful that at night, when the lights are switched on, and coloured fountains play, people cannot but look up and marvel; their feet itch, they yearn to walk up and explore.

And in spring, they will delight in walking through its gardens of cherry blossoms, and will sit under their shade, and look at the fields of daffodils, stretching as far as the eye can see.

* * *

Besides, the connections which matter will arise organically. Other builders of cities on hills will notice yours, and ask you managed that 150 metre spire without visible support, and you will talk about flying buttresses. And you will ask them what pigments they used for those impossibly large stained glass windows which flood their cathedrals with rainbowed light, and they will tell you.

* * *

God delights in your creativity. Build your city under his eye, as your worship to him, seeking his wisdom, in alignment with his stream of thoughts which outnumber the grains of sand on the seashore.

Let him smile, and say it is very good.

And as for the audience you’d love to have?

Remember, a city on a hill cannot be hidden. It glimmers during the day, and its light shines through the land at night.

When you’re waiting for the lightning and you miss the rain (A guest post from Kelli Woodford)

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Today’s guest poster, Kelli Woodford lives in the Midwest, with her husband and her seven blue-eyed children, and in the midst of it quietly chronicles grace on her blog The Chronicles of Grace

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Confession: I hate prophetic posts.

My heart yearns for story. The subtlety of its events, the conflict and resolution, the intimacy of character development. Story tugs at the heart in surprising ways. Ways unimagined and unseen. And I would suggest, produces a deeper, lasting change on its hearers than a prophetic, calling-it-out word, because it engages more facets of the intricate design of the human being: it engages the heart. Prophetic posts just can’t touch that.

But I’m about to write one.

Because I need to remember my size.

So often I labor and get weary trying to wrap my mind around a concept. The abstractions of sin and salvation; the depths of human connection and multifaceted relationships; bigger and bigger the questions, rising from a mind filled with all things notional. Everything from law and grace to faith and deeds to mice and men. I read and research, fill my days with ponderings, bounce ideas off whoever comes to mind – and then suddenly the sun goes down (what?!? how did that happen!) and I realize how much I have missed.

It might be part of my personality, it might be an old addiction dying a hard death, it might be that idolatrous yearning for certainty that we all find comfort in. But there is no life like the one at my fingertips.

And By God, I’m going to enjoy it.

So I’ve put my hands in the dirt and wiped bottoms and made delicious pinterest-quality dinners, only to burn the edges. I’ve tossed a wiffle ball to my kids and run and tagged them and tripped on sticks and felt grass coming alive. Felt me coming alive. I’ve thrown open windows and sucked huge lungfuls of summer wind and fresh black earth, turned over in the fields around my house. I’ve sung loud, old hymns and Mumfords, shower water warm enough to ease the ache of holding up more than I can. Believing hard in grace and choice. I’ve scrubbed carpet stains and toilet bowls and felt the dry tightness of my finger tips that lingers after the bleach is back under the sink. And I’ve missed these things.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I have done them all along. But doing them to get them done is different than doing them to relish the moments.

When my mind is afloat in matters too great for me, then I am not there with my kids in our rag-tag baseball game. I am not there to taste the west wind or hear my own voice off shower walls. I am not present for the moments of my life drifting humbly past while I surf the waves.

But, if there’s anything I hate more than a prophetic post (in which you find yourself elbow deep here), it is a guilt-trip post.

So I’ll not make this into that.

I will readily admit that there are times for big issues. There are moments when all the dailies must be abandoned in favor of the lightning bolt that just seared the snot out of my easy answers and left me scorched and smiling. There are times for study, and for prayer, and for solitude, and for mano-a-mano combat.

And there are times to cease.

For me, now is the latter.

Because when time and God have done their thing and I’m smelling the singe and wishing for more fire? I should hold the ash in my hand and call it a very holy thing. But not a predictable one. Perhaps the kind of dirt that rings a soul after an extended time in an ivory tower is harder to wash than a crusty toilet bowl. Perhaps it can only be sanitized by digging my bare digits into earth and pain and Velveeta and lilacs and the radical romance of everyday hope.

And when it’s time for this kind of soul-cleansing, I should walk into my bathroom, scrub brush in hand. I should walk into my yard, dragging the bat behind me. I should walk even into the church (eek!), armed only with love.

I should leave the wrangling words and the draining discussions and go out and plant a flower.

Then I should watch it grow.

Kelli
Kelli Woodford

I live in the midwestern U.S., surrounded by cornfields and love, with my husband and seven blue-eyed children. We laugh, we play, we fight, we mend; but we don’t do anything that even slightly resembles quiet. Unless it’s listening to our lives, which has proved to be the biggest challenge of them all.

I blog regularly-ish at Chronicles of Grace.  You can also find me on Facebook  and Twitter.

I am from the Sweet, Sour, Salty, Bitter Body of Christ

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 I am from the Sweet, Sour, Salty, Bitter Body of Christ

I am from earliest memories of Latin Masses in Jamshedpur, India

not understanding a word, and then, English masses,

I did understand, but was bored by,

and Post-Vatican II vernacular masses,

in Konkani, Kannada, Marathi on our travels,

understanding nothing, but doing our Catholic duty,

and saving our souls from hell.

I am from the painting of the Sacred Heart in the living room,
who followed me with his wistful eyes wherever I hid,
and I somehow knew He liked me, was for me.

And I am from luminous statues of Our Lady,
and Catholicism worn on the body,
scapulars, and medals of the infant Jesus of Prague
and showy rosaries of silver and gold,
and the infinite boredom of the evening family rosary,
and my mother’s eyes growing soulful as she said the “Memorare:” “Never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection,
implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided,”
and me, thinking, “Wow, if that is true,
that is amazing, and there must be a God.”

I am from Bible stories from before I could read
Abraham with his knife to Isaac’s heart,
David and Goliath, Daniel in the lion’s den,
and from the stories of the saints, a second language too,
Francis of Assisi, the Little Flower, and Father Damien.

I am apparitions of  the Virgin: at Lourdes,
and Fatima and Velankanni and Guadalupe;
and from the catechism, duly memorized and duly hated,
from imported Easter bonnets and Easter parasols,
and First Holy Communion with a white veil and white shoes,
and chasing George Kuriakose at communion prep.
singing “Georgie, Porgie, pudding and pie,
kissed the girls and made them cry,”
until, ironically, George cried.

I am from the One Holy Catholic Church,
which made my world more cosmopolitan,
with our Parish Priests, Spanish Fr. Calvo,
and Belgian Fr. Durt and American Fr. O’Leary.

And I am from St. Mary’s Convent, Nainital,

my boarding school in the Himalayas,

and being loved by beautiful Irish Sister Josephine,

a Protestant convert who adored Jesus and the Bible,

and was sceptical of all Catholic add-ons,

and taught me to be the same, in a Convent where

we walked to the nuns’ cemetery on All Saint’s Day

holding candles and praying both to and for the dead

in general confusion, and were sentimentally pious

about “Our Lady,” well, had a devotion to her.

 

And I am from Holy Weeks with the church
shrouded in purple for Maundy Thursday,
and late night prayer vigils because He had said

“Can you not stay awake one hour with me?”
and incense flung in the flames, and following
the Priest and the Paschal candle into the dark church
with our little candles (Careful, don’t burn your hair)
on Easter Saturday as the priest intoned, “Christ our light,”
“Thanks be to God,” we said
and we saved bits of palm as bookmarks
and nervously stuck out our tongue for the host,
sometimes withdrawing it too early,
and, “Oh, you dropped the body and blood of Christ!”

 

And I am from boarding-school Catholicism which made me cry with boredom, and which I recollect as torture—

Mass five days a week at 6.15 a.m.,

weekends devoured with Benediction, Adoration,

Stations of the Cross, Rosary, Blue Army and Choir practices.

 

And if any of us are still Catholics, well, that would be a miracle,

Wouldn’t it? And I am not.

 

And I stopped believing in God for a season,

Of course, I did.

 

But I am also from knowing the Bible, in and out,

fruit of all that enforced church time,

knowing hundreds of hymns by heart,

and Biblical wisdom surfacing from the depths of memory

when I least expect it.

I am from a religious conversion, straight out of school,
while reading Catherine Marshall’s Beyond Ourselves,
and The Cross and the Switchblade,
and straying into a charismatic meeting
and being baptized in the Holy Spirit
which I asked for, and receiving the gift of tongues
which I specifically asked not to receive.
and deciding that the best way to serve Jesus
was to work with the poor.

So I am from Mother Teresa,
entering her convent as an aspirant at 17,
where I enjoyed adoration and meditation,
and spiritual reading (an introvert’s spirituality,)
but struggled through lauds, none, vespers, compline,
vocal prayer, novenas for “a special intention,”
litanies and rosaries recited while you chopped vegetables.
Oh, the religious noise!

I am from Oxford, England,
revelling in English Literature in Somerville College,
listening to a lecture on how Christ
fit all the hero archetypes in Lord Raglan’s “The Hero,”
and deciding that he was a hero, not God,
and suddenly feeling all alone in the world.

But later, after earning a Masters’ in Creative Writing

in America, I realise that my life, without Christ’s help,

had been pedestrian, uninspired, and unsuccessful

and surely Jesus could have done a better job running it.

At a friend’s suggestion, I systematically try to do what Jesus says,

and faith returns, and how sweet it is.

 

I am from feeling my way into faith again

at a Pentecostal Holiness church in Williamsburg, Virginia,

where the baptiser insisted we destroy my Father’s copy

of the Bhagvad Gita, and Roy’s grandfather’s snake paperweight.

“Thou shalt have no other Gods before me,” he quotes,

And when he tried to baptise me, I was terrified

to have him push my head beneath water,

–loss of control and all that—

and he thought that the fear was of the devil

and halted the baptism for an exorcism!

And I am from two years in Minnesota,
faith still weak, trying out John Piper’s Bethlehem Baptist
which was too heavily theological:
“The pleasures of God are in bruising his son,”
and how does that get one through from Monday to Saturday
which should be one purpose of a sermon?

And then, back to Williamsburg: Grace Presbyterian Church,

and experiencing “Sonship,” brainchild of Jack Miller

and watching how theology made him come alive,

and made his eyes blaze as he talked about Wesley and Whitfield

my eyes filled with tears, for I realized I loved theology,

and there I was, a secular literary writer, and I had realized

that what I really wanted to do was play in the fields of the Lord.

And I committed to studying my Bible daily, and praying daily,
and I learn theology the best way,
from my own direct encounters with scripture,
not mediated through Calvin, Luther or Piper’s encounters.

And I am from being discipled over five years
by Paul Miller of SeeJesus and learning to ensure
that the rubber of faith hits the road of life.

And I am from St. Andrew’s, Oxford, my current church home,
Book of Common Prayer, liturgy, robed clergy, and Taize.

And I am also from the spiritual discipline of blogging,
asking, “What are you saying today, Lord?”
What is scripture saying?”
and writing it down.

And I am from the international body of Christ.
I learn soaking prayer from the Arnotts of the Toronto Blessing,
which has changed me more than anything else,
resting in the presence of God, receiving revelation,
for God speaks constantly, and is never silent,
and when we are still, we hear.

And I belong to the Wild Goose of the Holy Spirit,

whom I chase at Ffald-y-Brenin, at RiverCamp,

and at the Revival Alliance Conferences.

And I am, more recently, from the revival meetings at Cwmbran.

 

I am from the body of Christ,

tasted in three continents in all its wild richness,

all its flavours, sweet, sour, salty, bitter,

making me who I am—

a mere Christian.

 

I am from Christ.

I am in Christ,

a one-finger typist in the body of Christ,

part of it, as it is part of me.

  

Words in Social Media as Pearls, Stones, Swords and Life

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Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it. (Matt 13:45)

And if you had one of those pearls, what would you do with it?

Here’s what you would not do: You would not “throw it to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.” (Matt 7:6)

Words as Pearls.

We each have our own orientation—politically and theologically, and tweets and arguments aren’t going to change it.

If you come across a position you strongly disagree with, consider if your words are likely to change the person’s mind. If not, conserve your time and energy.

When argued with, consider if your retort is likely to change the other person’s mind. If not, keep your time, energy and pearls, and let the other person have the last word.

(Sometimes, of course, one is called to challenge harmful theological or political positions—that subjugate women, that harm the poor, and then one needs to use one’s pen as a sword).

Words as Stones

Throw enough pebbles, long enough, and the victim dies, as in the ancient Mosaic death by stoning.

Words, flung at us like stones, can sap, hurt and damage our spirits, and without being precious about it, we need to protect ourselves.

That best way to deal with passive-aggressive frenemies on Facebook or blogs–you know, who mock and contradict and shoot down pretty much every idea or post is to block them. If you know them in real life, politely explain why. Sadly, on occasion, perceived or actual success can change “friends” to frenemies.

If random readers are rude or abusive to me on Facebook or Twitter or my blog, I instantly block them, which is like flinging an invisibility cloak over myself, and offers a measure of protection. Life is short, and some people need meds and shrinks, not blogs and twitter.

Words as Swords

Here is a mighty use of words: For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.

Wow! The only way we Christian writers might write words which are alive and active, speaking to soul and spirit, is to slow down enough to overhear God’s spirit.

But here’s the catch. Writers have sharpened their verbal instrument. And when you cross them, when they are very angry? There is the temptation to use words, not as spirit-empowered swords, but as weapons.

And that’s when words are a double-edged sword. You cannot damage or destroy someone else without being damaged in the process, even if the damage is just in your spirit, the most precious, and often least-valued part of a person.  It’s measure for measure.

There are exceptions, of course, but it’s safest to only use words as swords after prayer and discussion with other Christians.

And what when your words as pearls are stolen?

Last week, I noticed a commentator on my blog had taken the idea, the tripartite division, the metaphor, structure, and some words and passed it off as her own work–on a site of Bible reflections, to add insult to injury. And it was the second time, this young woman had taken my insights, imagery and words from posts she’d commented on, developed them, and guest-posted them on larger sites, without attribution.

Me: “Jesus, do you see this? Do you see that comment, “It’s the most profound thing I’ve seen.” And look at her, just accepting the praise, as if she’d thought of the idea herself.”

Jesus, “Let her.”

Me, “It was my original thinking and living and writing. And instead of doing her own thinking, she’s passing off my insights and words as her own. That’s just lazy.”

Jesus, “Let her.”

Me, “Jesus, you are so pacific. You are of no help to a girl when it comes to plagiarism!”

And he, tenderly, “Anita, do you not think that I could even now give you twelve legions of blog ideas. My thoughts towards outnumber the grain of sands. Tune in. Listen to me for fresh ideas.”

And I relax, and I tune in to Jesus. Yes, “let her!” And I step into the waterfall of living waters, and let it course through my cantankerous soul, scouring it, cleansing it, filling it. And words of life begin to bubble up.

* * *

He is the Word. And his words are truth and life to my soul.

Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.

On Success and Failure and Accessing God’s Zany, Left-Field Ideas

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 I’ve had a bit of a nose-to-the-grindstone month, trying to outline a book.This was difficult as I’ve already written and fine-tuned the last third of the book, and have a first draft of the first two-thirds.However, I had written the chapters topically, dealing with each subject which interested me, but am now publishing with a hybrid publisher who suggested I send in an outline.

I think that a post facto outline would help me with a logical shape of the book, deciding which chapter goes where; which should be combined; the significance and importance of each chapter in the grand scheme of things, and, most importantly how much space I should give each chapter if I want the book to be no more than 350 pages. Also, in outlining, consistent organic themes and metaphors emerge.

I shelved the book 7 years ago, and when you have left a piece of writing that long, it’s easier to rewrite it than revise it because “style is the man,” (or woman).  You write who and how and what you are. Besides, your interests, priorities and sense of what is important and interesting change.

I start re-reading my mass of notes and outlining on April 10th, and finally I have an outline. Just have to make sure it makes sense to a reader, and will send it in today.

“Don’t spend too long,” Roy says, “It’s a single use document.” “A single use document:” that’s a strange concept for a perfectionistic writer.

* * *

This is a story of success and failure. I failed in outlining that book quickly. I got tired, I got bored, I have long ago hit that dreaded state of diminishing returns where, tiredness increasing, you get less and less done in each writing session. The right thing to do then is to take a couple of days off, go away if you can, and just walk and sleep. But heck, I felt stressed about being behind, and couldn’t do that.

If I had asked God from the start about the quickest way to do it, and surrendered and soaked and saturated it in prayer, would doing my outline have been quicker? Without a doubt.

And it is not too late to do that now, for the last day that I’m working on this outline.

* * *

However, in God’s mercy, I have had corresponding success, during these 6 weeks which compensates for the failure.

I took up blogging three years ago, after hearing God’s direction. I did not feel comfortable just letting my blog languish while I did that outline. Reading a blog is a habit, and once people get out of the habit of reading yours, perhaps they won’t return (judging by myself). And besides, you yourself will have got out of the habit of capturing your thoughts and life in words.

So I did a sort of schedule shift. I prayed and listened to scripture on my iPod as I walked.  And in my normal quiet time, I prayed and wrote.  Writing became part of my prayer and worship for the first time ever.

And this was a seismic shift in my writing.

Instead of exploring what I thought about things, I prayed and tried to hear what Christ might think about those things. I strictly limited my blogging to 90 minutes a day, and sometimes prayed about, and drafted a post over several days. I have written about  the Cwmbran revival, a prolonged failure in my writing life, anger, forgiving the dragons of my youth, what I hear Christ say about the sometimes strident pro-life movement, what I hear Christ say to those who struggle with their weight.

And in this month, in which I limited my time spent on blogging, and stopped  working out my thoughts, and tried to listen Christ’s thoughts, my blog has risen to its highest ever on every metric: unique monthly visitors, page views, facebook fans, twitter followers etc. And with the fewest posts ever.

Each time I throw up my hands in despair, and ask God for his wisdom on how to do things, I am astounded by the results. It makes me yearn to do this in every area of my life.

* * *

Zoe reminded me yesterday that I had told her that Martin Luther normally prayed for two hours, but prayed for three hours when he was abnormally busy. I guess he had learnt to pray in a way which accessed God’s wisdom. In prayer he was what was inessential, in prayer, God showed him better ways of doing things.

* * *

When an idea comes from God, it is: Beautifully simple. Something we would never have thought of, and never had the guts to think of. Bigger than what we would have dreamed of. Both so clever, that we could never have thought of it—and, sometimes, apparently so nuts that, ditto, we would never have thought of it.

 As I said, I am listening to whole swathes of scripture as I walk preparing for my pilgrimage in the hills of Tuscany in September. I listened to the book of Joshua yesterday.

And this was how God decided to hand over the ancient fortified city of Jericho to Joshua.: March around the city once with all the armed men. Do this for six days. Have seven priests carry trumpets of rams’ horns in front of the ark. On the seventh day, march around the city seven times, with the priests blowing the trumpets. When you hear them sound a long blast on the trumpets, have the whole army give a loud shout; then the wall of the city will collapse.” (Joshua 6).

Who would have thought, huh? Perhaps the trampling, the shouting, the racket of the shofar, created powerful sound waves and mechanical and acoustic resonance, which weakened and then destroyed the foundations. Perhaps it was sheerly miraculous. Either way, the walls fell down in a way no human being could have thought of.

 

Similarly, the strategy God gave Gideon was zany, and brilliant, and what terrified Gideon would never have thought of. He goes with just 300 men so that it is going to be abundantly clear that the victory was given to him by the Lord. The men have trumpets and torches in clay jars, and surround the Midianite camp at night. At a signal, they smash their clay jars, blow their trumpets, and shout. The effect of the flashing torches, the trumpets, the shouting was bewildering to the just-roused Midianites especially since there were normally just a few trumpeters in each army. The groggy army is slaughtered. (Judges 7)

A brilliant strategy, totally from left-field, and not one Gideon would have thought of.

It increases my longing to rely on God for ideas, both in the areas in which I am at a loss—how to do a left-brain outline quickly, how to find readers for my little blog, how to lose weight.

And I want to hear him in the areas of my life which are working well, in which I think I do know how to proceed, but, by proceeding on my own wisdom and strength, I am only getting second best-because God’s zany, left-field strategies are guaranteed to far surpass mine in brilliance and simplicity.