Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Anita Mathias's Blog on Faith and Art

He Makes the Failures of Friday Beautiful in His Time

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Ravaged by grief,

she saw you standing right there,

but did not recognize you.

 

She was living in Friday,

That traumatic Friday.

 

But it’s Sunday now,

And there you stand,

In front of Mary.

 

It’s a new day,

The only day that really counts.

Today.

* * *

Lord Jesus,

I give you the Fridays of my past.

My Fridays of trauma and grief

The Fridays I was betrayed,

The Fridays I failed.

 

It’s Sunday now,

And there you stand in front of me,

Oh Lovely One!

 

And you make all things new.

* * *

Cleopas walks downcast,

His hopes have crumbled.

He has seen betrayal, and he has learned

Religious leaders can be evil.

He walks, sad, foolish

And slow of heart,

Thinking of crumbled hopes

And his beloved

Humiliated teacher

 

Who walks beside him,

Always walks beside him.

* * *

Forgive me, Lord,

For the times I walked in darkness,

Shrouded in self-pity,

Unable to get over past betrayal,

Past evil, past disappointment;

My vision darkened as I considered

Other people’s evil

Instead of clearing the logs from my eyes.

 

Living in Friday.

 

Not noticing you

Walking beside me,

Always walking beside me,

Even in my valley of suffering

 

Offering this heart,

Still puckered with yesterday’s vinegar,

Fresh bread.

 

It is Sunday, today,

And you feed me

With the breaking of the bread,

 

And beauty and creativity,

And you say, “Be not afraid of broken things.

Even the Christ had to suffer.

Be not afraid.”

 

“When you walk through the waters, I’ll be with you

And the floods shall not overwhelm you,

When you walk through fire, you shall not be burned,

And the flame shall not consume you.”

* * *

 Thomas says:

“Oh, the failure was dreadful,

Humiliating.

How could it be the Lord?

 

I saw hasty nails pierce

Those exquisite hands.

The impatient spear

driven into his side.

 

He failed

despite his prayer,

our prayer,

all the love, the preparation,

the hopes,

He failed.

They killed him.

 

But if prayer worked,

as he said it would,

If faith could move mountains,

as he said it would,

if his Father loved him,

As he said he did,

If he was God,

As he said he was

 

Would there have been that disgrace,

The mocking crown of thorns,

The mocking scarlet robe,

The stripping, the crucifixion?

* * *

 

“Thomas,” they say.

“He’s alive now.”

 

Faith!

I have no faith left.

I am bereft of faith.

 

Unless I see the nail marks in his hands

 and put my finger where the nails were,

 and put my hand into his side,

I will not believe, I say.

 

* * *

And then, I see him,

And words fail me

And I kneel,

 

And all I can say is

My Lord and My God.

* * *

Oh stupid Thomas!

 

Forgive me, Lord for my stupidity.

For believing you come

Only in day, and not in night,

Only in summer and not in winter

Only in success and not in failure.

Only in glory, never in shame.

 

My Lord and My God

Forgive me for needing

to see your radiant, risen body

 

To realize that there was beauty too

In the three hours on the cross

When you were the voluntary scapegoat

For a selfish world.

 

I believe.

Help my unbelief.

 

Help me to accept from your hands

Whatever you give me

With praise, and thanksgiving.

 

The lacerated hands,

The mauled side,

They too are part of the beautiful body of Christ

 

Things you make beautiful in your time.

 

May I never forget this,

lovely Lord Jesus.

 

 

 

 

 

Grieve No More For All That’s Broken

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File:Sainte Chapelle - Rosace.jpg

Wheat must be crushed to become bread

And bread broken to be eaten.

 

The chrysalis crumble for the butterfly,

The egg splinter for the chicken.

 

And sheets of coloured glass

Must be shattered

To become stained glass

Through which the love of God–

In rainbowed light–

Shines.

* * *

And I consider…

 

Did growth spring green

From my own brokenness?

 

It always does!

 

My rejected manuscript

Got me to hone my craft,

Again, more diligently.

Read more.

Write differently,

— simply.

 

The friendships which shattered

With shards of my heart–

Well, I sure won’t make those mistakes again,

But treat precious friendships as what they are–

Precious.

 

Burnt by fires I lit,

In the emotion of the moment,

I am learning to take

Emotion to Christ, and be

Governed by Christ, and by head

And spirit—not wild emotions.

 

* * *

There is much I have broken.

What stained glass,

what mosaic,

can I build from the shards?

 

I have extracted this from the fires:

And it is worth the pain

For the peace it gives,

 

I cannot do life by myself.

 

For if I do, I will drop and break

My beloved antique vases.

 

The best I can do

With my writing

Is hand it over to You

To blow through the molten glass

Of broken dreams:

Delicate faery things

 

I give you the rest of my life

More  whole-heartedly

Than if I had not mucked it up.

 

You manage my life, Lord.

It’s now your worry. *

 

* “ A man once worried so much that he decided to hire someone to do his worrying for him. He found a man who agreed to be his hired worrier for a salary of $200,000 per year. After the man accepted the job, his first question to his boss was, “Where are you going to get $200,000 per year?” To which the man responded, “That’s your worry.”

Blessed are the Failures

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Blessed are the broken,

Blessed are the failures,

Who set out to do glorious things

Everest, Antarctica… higher, faster, stronger, first

Whose bright promise was praised

And they believed their press.

Who have schemed and striven and intrigued,

Only to find themselves with empty hands

After they wrestle though the night with the Mysterious One

Whose face they cannot see,

Who will not share his name,

Refusing to let him go unless he blesses them.

 

And then he does.

And this is the blessing:

He wrenches the tendon of the hip

So that, ever after, one walks with a limp.

 

Ah, what kind of blessing is this?

You have disabled me.

I will never run again.

Climbs will exhaust me.

I will have to leave shepherding to others.

 

And this was the blessing:

You slowed me down.

I can no longer walk miles

I have to be deliberate about where I walk.

I tire easily.

I have to choose my projects carefully

For I can now do so few of them.

I will forever limp through life:

And that is my blessing!!

 

Limping, slow enough to see beauty.

Walking at a child’s pace,

Slow enough to listen.

No more running, no more sprinting

Just limping, at this slow, measured pace,

My routes considered carefully.

 

I will now always need to ask for help

From the Nameless Great One who crippled me

Because I have to!

I cannot manage without it.

 

My limp sets me free

From having to climb, scale, ascend

I have time for people.

Delivered from running,

from the possibility of ever running,

I will now limp though

an examined, reflective, contemplative life,

keeping pace with the slowest of these, the youngest of these,

with Joseph, with Benjamin,

learning, at last, to love.

 

“How is it possible to be a Christian and an Alcoholic?” (From Brennan Manning’s “Ragamuffin Gospel)”

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“Often I have been asked, “Brennan, how is it possible that you became an alcoholic after you got saved?”

“It is possible because I got battered and bruised by loneliness and failure, because I got discouraged, uncertain, guilt-ridden, and took my eyes off Jesus. Because the Christ-encounter did not transfigure me into an angel.

There is a myth flourishing in the church today that has caused incalculable harm—once converted, fully converted. In other words, once I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour, an irreversible, sinless future beckons. Discipleship will be an untarnished success story; life will be an unbroken spiral towards holiness. Tell that to poor Peter who, after three times professing his love for Jesus on the beach, and after receiving the fullness of the Spirit at Pentecost, was still jealous of Paul’s apostolic success.”