Creativity | Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

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

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.

Nothing and No One is Beyond Redemption

By Anita Mathias

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.

Living in the Updraft of the Wild Goose of the Holy Spirit

By Anita Mathias

Wild Geese fly in a V formation. The lead goose reduces the wind resistance; the others glide, almost effortlessly, in the currents she has created.

During a storm, the eagle waits perched on the edge of its nest for the wind to gain sufficient velocity. And then it spreads its wings wide and effortlessly glides into the winds of the storm.

* * *

Have you ever seen hawks or eagles soar, wings outstretched, rising without a single beat of their enormous, magnificent wings, soaring, soaring? They are soaring on thermal currents—masses of air that rise when the ground rapidly warms up.

And sometimes, they soar on obstruction currents, when wind currents are deflected by mountains, cliffs or tall buildings. The resulting updraft lifts them to high altitudes at which they can glide.

* * *

The Wild Goose was an emblem of the Holy Spirit in Celtic tradition. And the eagle, in Scripture, is a symbol both of God, and God’s people.

Eagles rarely waste their energy flapping their enormous wings—they soar on thermal currents, obstruction currents, and on the wings of the wind…

I have been reading about “the anointing,” in R. T. Kendall’s splendid book, “The Anointing.”

He writes: “the anointing is when our gift functions easily. It comes with ease. It seems natural. No working it up is needed. If one has to work it up, one has probably gone outside one’s anointing. If one goes outside one’s anointing, the result is often fatigue, that is weariness or spiritual lethargy that has been described as ‘dying inside.’”

* * *

I find that with my writing on my blog, and indeed all writing. If I listen to what the Spirit is saying to me through the events of my life, record the mini-revelation or “revelations” given to me each day by the God who speaks continuously and is never silent (God is speaking. Not God spoke, but God is speaking. He is by His nature continuously articulate. A W Tozer) then blogging is quick, easy and delightful. And what’s more, it very often speaks to people.

But when I look at other people’s important mandarin posts, strategic posts that capture the zeitgeist and echo what everyone else is writing about, and wonder if I should go and do likewise that blogging feels heavy, a chore, work rather than play. Why? Because the wind of the Spirit is not helping me soar; I have to expend scarce energy with a mighty, exhausting flapping of wings.

There is a lightness to God’s work, an abounding creativity–tossing off creating zebras, giraffes, toucans, morpho butterflies or orchids. It is not fanciful to suppose that God was at play as these beautiful things came into being, step by step through the mighty forces of evolution. Work merging into delightful play.

* * *

In his book, Homo Ludens, or Man the Player, the Dutch historian and cultural theorist, Johan Huizinga, suggests that culture stems from man at play, man simply playing with words, or music or paint or the sketches of mighty cathedrals.

And when I record the whispers of the spirit, write in the updraft of the wild goose of the Holy Spirit, blogging is easy, light and delightful. And I am playing in the fields of the Lord, thinking aloud, possibly, probably making mistakes–but oh, it is all such fun!!

Stephen King’s Immensely Helpful Book “On Writing”

By Anita Mathias

Stephen King (2007) credit

King’s short book, On Writing, figures in many writers’ lists of the best books on writing. And deservedly so. It has motivated me to get my writing shoes on, and get writing.

I listened to it read by King himself on my iPod, while running—on pedestrian country footpaths, and, so far, with more luck than King whose lower leg broke in nine places, spine chipped in eight places, right knee split, right hip fractured, ribs broke, and scalp lacerated during a dreadful car accident while on a muse-wooing walk.

And in “the apocalyptic pain” after this, he continued writing, and writing proved a way back to life for him.

Here are Stephen King’s answers to universal writerly questions.

How much should a writer read?

King does not bother about being cool in this book on writing. So he will tell you prescriptive things that cool writers wouldn’t.

Read a lot. How much is a lot? I have kept lists of the books I’ve read each year since I was 12—and the most I’ve ever completed in a year was 62 (not counting academic books, which one reads rapidly, selectively). And probably another 25 or so on tape, on a good year for audiobooks. Of course, I am a promiscuous speed-reader, and buy many books (non-fiction or spiritual) with the intention of ripping the heart and marrow out of them, rather than reading every page.

Well, Stephen King reads or listens to 70-80 books a year, including about a dozen audiobooks.

King: “If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time or the tools to write. It’s as simple as that.”

“Reading is the creative centre of a writer’s life.”

“The real importance of reading is that it creates an ease and intimacy with the process of writing. Constant reading will pull you into a place where you can write eagerly and without self-consciousness.”

How much should a writer write?

How many words a day? Another uncool question. Well, King aims at 2000 words every morning, with revisions and reading in the evening. Some days he’s done by 11.30 a.m., some days by 1.30 p.m., and sometimes, rarely, it takes till tea.

“For me, not writing is the real work. When I’m writing, it’s all the playground, and the worst three hours I ever spent there were still pretty damned good.”

He keeps fit with long walks–well, until recently.

On Criticism

His teacher asks him about an early attempt at Sci-fi, “What I don’t understand, Stevie, is why you’d write junk like this? You are talented. Why do you want to waste your abilities?

“I had no answer to give. I have spent a good many years since—too many—being ashamed about what I write. I was forty before I realized that almost every writer of fiction or poetry who has ever published a line has been accused by someone of wasting his God-given talent. If you write (or paint or sculpt) someone will try to make you feel lousy about it.”

On Revision

“When you write, you’re telling yourself the story. When you re-write, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story.”

“Stopping a piece of work just because it is hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea. Sometimes, you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feel like all you’re managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.”

He does three drafts, the first getting it all down fast; the last one closer to polishing.

He uses this rigorous and enormously difficult formula:

Second Draft= First Draft -10%.

Other Writing Tips

“The biggest aid to regular writing is working in a serene atmosphere. It’s difficult for even the most naturally productive writer to work in an environment where alarms and excursions are the rule rather than the exception.”

Write with a locked door, no TV, games or internet. “Eliminate every possible distraction.”

Secrets of his success: “I stayed physically healthy, and I stayed married. The converse is true: My writing and the pleasure I take in it have contributed to the stability of my health and home life.”

“Life isn’t a support system for art. It’s the other way around.”

“Skills in description, dialogue and character development all boil down to seeing or hearing clearly and then transcribing what you see or hear with equal clarity.”

Do you do it for the money, honey? he’s often asked. Answer, “No. Don’t now, and never did. I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.”

And he discovers, after his debilitating accident, “Writing is not life, but sometimes, it can be a way back to life.”

Ah, and let me quote his beautiful last paragraphs,

“On some days, the writing is a pretty grim slog. On others, I feel that buzz of happiness, that sense of having found the right words and put them in a line. It’s like lifting off in an airplane: you are on the ground, on the ground, on the ground… and then you’re up, riding on a magical cushion and prince of all you survey. That makes me happy because it’s what I was made to do.

“After my accident, writing has continued to do what it has always doe: it makes my life a brighter and more pleasant place.”

“Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting laid or making friends. It’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over.”

“Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.”

“This book is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you are brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.”

Drink and be filled up.”

In which I Encounter the Angel of Writing

By Anita Mathias

Okay, I recently had one of the biggest sermon surprises in my decades of hanging around the beautiful, broken Church of Jesus Christ.

I came to RiverCamp to hear Heidi Baker, as well as Mark Stibbe because I am interested in his message of the Father Heart of God.

But what Mark talked about was—get this—writing!!

Yes, a whole sermon on writing!! Never ever heard one before.

That evening, the preacher Trevor Baker felt God told him he was going to heal someone with secondary cancer. And there was only one person in the huge tent with that. He said, “Well, that’s okay. Sometimes the message is just for one person.”

Stibbe’s message was so apposite that it felt as if it was also just for one person. Me.

* * *

Mark Stibbe spoke of writing as a spiritual gift, an anointing. He had attended a John Wimber conference as an ordinand from Nottingham and everyone else had a spiritual experience. But he did not.

However, when, on the last day, he went up for prayer, sad and disappointed, his right hand began shaking uncontrollably.

He asked God, “So, what’s going on?” God answers, “What can you do with your right hand which you cannot do with your left?”
“Write.”

And Stibbe said on that day, he received an anointing to write, an anointing, which, in R T Kendall’s phrase in his book, The Anointing, “makes the difficult easy.”

Stibbe then talked about an angel of writing, who would put its great golden wings around him when he was stuck, put a quill in his hands, and say, “Write.” Some pages from his most recent book, he says, were so “anointed” that he does not remember writing them.

He prayed for an anointing on us. Said part of an anointing is seeing things no one else sees. Seeing things before you write them down.

* * *

And in the course of the next two days, through talks on other subjects, through hours of “soaking prayer,” a vision jelled, clarified and solidified which filled my heart with joy. A re-vision, really. A recovery of lost dreams.

* * *

With a rush of sadness (because of how I’ve forgotten it) and joy (because God’s gifts and calls are irrevocable) I remembered how I began writing.

As a young woman, I had wanted to leave India to study abroad, and looked at several countries, the US, NZ, Australia, aiming low–and not thinking of the UK because of the exorbitant overseas student fees.

And then suddenly, I heard God say, “Apply to Oxford.”

Me, “Okay, I’ll apply to Oxford and Cambridge.” (Roy, now my husband, was then at Cambridge.)

Inner Voice, “No, just Oxford.”

Me, “And how will I pay for it?’

I hear, “You have your pen, haven’t you?”

And poetry came in a flood. Eight poems that evening.

(And the call to writing, and the call to Oxford are somehow intertwined, but in a way I do not understand. Yet!)

Later that month, I won a national poetry writing competition for a long poem I had written in three hours.

The gift came from God.

· * * *

But oh, how I have worried it and worried about it, tried to protect it, squeeze time for it, flog it, sinned in relationships to get time and space for it, necessarily and unnecessarily sacrificed for it.

And while—oh, I could cry—all the time it was a gift!!

* * *

As I have often written in this blog, I have two deep failures in my life. One is my failure to control my weight (though I have lost 13.5 pounds, and this is a battle I am going to win when the chairos time–is right).

The other is THE book. I had the idea for it in the late-eighties. I started writing it in 1991 and continued, off and on, until 2006, though, on the way, I got distracted and wrote and published essays, book reviews, film and theatre reviews. Oh, and had babies.

Chapters of the book met with success, the $20,000 NEA award, the $6000 Minnesota State Art Boards Award, prizes for the best article in the Catholic Press, many essay prizes, have been published in “Commonweal,” “Virginia Quarterly Review” The London Magazine, and magazines like “Notre Dame Magazine,” which paid $1000 etc. I once added up what I had already made from this unfinished, unpublished book—it was $35, 000.

And, yeah, if you detect a note of insecurity in the last paragraph, you are right!! I need to keep reminding myself there was goodness in the manuscript.

* * *

I took wrong turnings. I really wanted to write a story of my Roman Catholic Childhood in India. A teacher suggested I focus on my 14 months as a novice at Mother Teresa’s Convent. A leading editor and agent were very interested. I finished the manuscript in my life-blood through my pregnancy and the first year of my baby’s life. They turned it down. And in my naivete, I thought that that was the end of the world, instead of shipping it out again.

I then wrote the whole Indian Catholic childhood; again, agents were interested but each wanted changes which I couldn’t see how to make.

I had twisted my original vision of many short topical chapters into what the industry wanted—fewer, more thematic chapters. No wonder it was hard for me to formulate it in a magnetic proposal, write it or sell it. Also, I guess I did not try hard enough it to ship it, but crumbled with each rejection.

Crumbled too soon. Focusing on publication instead of finishing it. Focused on what the publishing industry wanted instead of my original vision. And, then, believe it or not, depressed, I shelved the project

* * *

And started selling antiquarian books in 2006, when I had bought my dream house I could not afford, and put both girls in a dream school I could not afford, either. I then founded a small publishing business in 2007. Which God blessed so much that within 3 years, my husband, Roy, was able to retire early at 47.

Which means I am writing full time, and have domestic support, the lack of which depressed and bedevilled me.

But I did not take up the book of my heart, which I have always been longing to write.

Instead, on guidance from God, I took up blogging!! Which for the last 40 months has squeezed out “real” writing. But taught me a huge amount about writing.

* * *

And then, as Mark Stibbe spoke, I clearly saw that the time had come to take up writing the book again.

And I saw the form it should take. Which was, interestingly, my original vision—many short chapters of 2-3 pages each. Roughly 800-1000 words each. In other words, the length of blog posts.

I am going to re-write the entire book, which is going to be so much easier than revising my original version. My style has changed over 40 months of blogging. It is less mandarin, less literary, less poetic, but easier to read. And to write!!

It will be too hard to revise the old manuscript. “Style is the man.” Or woman. It reflects your thinking and sensibility. When you change, your style changes. When you deliberately simplify your style and make it transparent, as one needs to in a blog, you also start thinking in shorter, lucid sentences and paragraphs.

Attempting to revise the old manuscript will be like revising someone else’s manuscript. I am a different woman now.

On the other hand, since much of the work of memory, writing and organizing into chapters is done, rewriting will be relatively easy. And very easy compared to writing it in the first place when I had masses and masses of notes and memories.

* * *

I am going to post chapters from the memoir on my blog as I write them.

I will plan to write 400-500 words of my book each day, posting each finished chapter on my blog as it’s done. 300 pages of 400 words each. 120,000 words. A page a day. And will be done with the book by September 1^st, 2014, so help me God.

And that is not an over-ambitious goal because A) the book is written. It just has to be rewritten into an easier and less mandarin style. B) I have been writing 800-1000 word blog posts every day for 40 months, and writing has now become quick and easy.

* * *

And I am so grateful to God for restoring my vision and enthusiasm for finishing my book at just the right time, the chairos time.

(Revised and edited, 31^st August, 2013)

The Best Writing Advice: Love your Reader

By Anita Mathias

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lesbryant2/4058975175/

Don Miller says that this is the best writing advice: Love your Reader.The golden rule is also a good blogging precept: Write the kind of posts you would really like to read. Ask yourself: Would I like to read this? What would reading this do to me? If you wouldn’t care to read it on someone else’s blog, chances are nobody will want to read it on yours.

* * *

I can’t get enough of grace, of the deep love and mercy of God. And that’s fortunate—because grace and the love of God are some of the few things I can’t get too much of which are actually good for me. All the others things involve spending too much, or eating too much, or sitting too much, or…you get the picture.

And this is one way to blog daily without exhausting oneself, without boring oneself, without repeating oneself. By dipping one’s cup into the deep wells of the loving creativity of God: God’s stream of thoughts, which outnumbers the stars. (Psalm 139:18).

* * *

How exactly do we love our readers?

Well, for starters, we give them grace, rather than the law. Peter, who knew the disgrace of failing—lying, betraying, being pushy and envious–in public, eventually had little time for the law. Didn’t work for him; won’t work for us. The question he asks the council of Jerusalem changes the course of church history: Now, therefore, why are you putting God to the test by placing a yoke on the neck of the disciples that neither our fathers nor we have been able to bear? But we believe that we will be saved through the grace of the Lord Jesus, just as they will.” (Acts 15:10).

Grace rather than the law. The positive rather than the negative. There is a place for negativity and opposition, of course. If Christians hadn’t bitterly opposed other Christians, slavery might still exist because of the scriptural injunction, “Slaves, submit to your masters.” Women would not be ordained because of “I do not permit a woman to teach or exercise authority over a man.” And how unfair for one gender to always be preached at by the other!

* * *

And speaking of preaching: Don’t do it in blogs. People do not come to blogs to be told what is good to do. They come because they are bored, they feel a little empty, a little depressed, perhaps; they come seeking stimulation and interest, inspiration and fullness.

If they are Christians, they probably have shelves of Bibles and Christian books, telling them what is good to be done. They do not come to your blog for that. They know the many good things they could be doing instead of reading blogs—housework, exercise, Bible study, prayer.

But they come to your blog for a little bit of beauty, a little bit of grace, a little bit of comfort, the energy to go on, perhaps.

So what is this reader offered? Law or grace? Preaching or the honey of the Holy Spirit? If a reader came to your blog weary and heavy-laden, harassed and helpless, exhausted and overwhelmed, would this be an energizing hope-filled post or make their shoulders sag deeper?

* * *

As I grow older, I dislike what smacks of the law and burden-loading. I dislike preachiness, and tacking-on additional burdens to simple faith and grace.

I like hope-filled blogs, full of the wonder of the spiritual life and spiritual discoveries. Because Christianity is really a hopeful religion, full of Can-do and God’s infinite power, which is available for us who believe. Full of the power of prayer, and the infinity of grace. It’s annoying when it becomes a soul-shrinking, guilt-inducing To Do list.

* * *

Sometimes I feel we need to hear “Relax, God loves you,” in a hundred different ways. Relax, God is your Father. Trust God. Consider the lilies. In everything, give thanks.

Is that all Christianity is? No, of course, not. But if it takes seven compliments to undo one negative word, then we need to hear that God loves us, and delights in us seven times for every time we are reminded of the good Christian things we fail to do.

* * *

There are two yardsticks for our endeavours: temporal and eternal. One might succeed brilliantly (or not) by temporal measures, which in blogging would be the quality of writing, readers, followers, ranking, and all that jazz.

But there is also an eternal standard. My friend, singer-songwriter Debby Barnes, ends her haunting song, In the End, by asking,

Was there any love there in the end?

And that is a scary and chastening question we will all be asked one day.

* * *

My blog post was first published in the Big Bible’s Digidisciple project.

“What I do is me; For that I came”: The Song of the Creative

By Anita Mathias

What I do is me; For that I came.

The wandering liquid notes

Of cuckoo and mourning dove

Float through our garden

High and full of joy.

They sing because they can,

They sing because they must.

On Milford Sound, I saw dolphins

Leap through the fjord

Like lambs at dusk in the Lakes,

They swoop up because they must.

They cannot contain their joy

As you made the cuckoo

Sing its insistent song,

As you made dolphins leap

With joy through the seas of the world,

You gave me the joy of words.

Help me to make them shine and sing,

As a bird thrills, as fish swish.

Let me use them to praise and play.

Let me rejoice like a bird in the gardens of your world,

Swish like a fish through your seas of mystery.

Help me make words swirl

In this world which sings with wonder

For it is what you have made me to do:

To create loveliness from loveliness.

When Forgiveness Unleashes the River of Creativity

By Anita Mathias

Waterfall Over Rocks

About four years ago, I attended a prophetic training day at a large Anglican Charismatic Church in Oxford. I was taken aback when Rachel, the self-described “prophetess” leading it, asked us to give the person next to us “a word from God.”

I do hear from God, all the time, in images and directives, but they coalesce slowly. It seemed presumptuous to require that God give me a word on-demand for the woman next to me, so I did not ask, did not receive, and did not share.

* * *

However, the pretty, heavily made-up young woman (not your garden variety Old Testament prophet) seated next to me shared a prophetic vision she had received for me.

She said, “I saw you in a river, and you were swimming deep in it.”

I got tearful, and here’s why.

While driving on a spectacular road to Milford Sound, South Island, New Zealand the previous month, I had stood spellbound in front of a waterfall. It’s like God, I thought, his power, his love, his freedom, and his energy.

And I saw rocks in the waterfall, and behind the rocks, sticks, leaves, little worms, stuck there, while the water rushed on.

Never let that be me, Lord, I thought, stuck somewhere, rotting, while your river of love and power and energy, and miracles rushes elsewhere.

Are there any barriers to the free flow of your love and power in me? Show them to me!

And God did.

* * *

I was going though “a great sadness” because of how I was treated in a toxic, abusive Anglican Charismatic church—lied about, slandered by a couple of women who wanted to run a ministry I was then running–and got to do so!! The rector’s wife, threatened by anyone she perceived as really gifted, lost no time in crushing giftedness in others. I should have been flattered that she perceived me as gifted and competition; instead I felt crushed by her abusive words and actions.

Had I forgiven? Gosh, not then!

I wanted justice. Oh, how I wanted it!

And I froze. My spirit froze. My creativity froze. I was cold and hard and frozen as I waited for God to avenge me. This state of affairs had lasted for 20 months.

And so I stood in front of that waterfall in New Zealand, and saw, as in a vision, my enemies moving on their lives, life moving on, while I remained stuck in a great sadness, waiting for God to execute vengeance, frozen, unable to settle down to writing.

And so I forgave them all, those rascals. (At least, I began the process, which is almost complete five and a half years after those events!)

But God saw my desire to forgive, and no sooner did I make the herculean attempt to do so, than the writers’ block which had plagued me vanished. Words began to flow. Easily. Writers’ blocks, like depression, can be caused by unexamined grief and rage.

I began to blog, which changed my life.

And how did the pretty young girl know that what I was writing on that very week was on the river of God? She said, “I was thinking of Ezekiel 47.”

I read it. Wherever water from the sanctuary flows, it turned the salty and brackish water sweet. Fruit trees grew on both banks of that river, bearing fruit every month because the water from the sanctuary flowed to them. And that river provided all kinds of fish.

Creativity, life, blessing, abundance from the river of God, flowing from the sanctuary.

And another young lady sitting next to me said, “I see a river, and a log floating in it. I don’t know if it’s a dead log, or…”

I asked God to remove that log (what else can I do about the secret mysterious recesses of my heart, which I don’t full understand, but pray?) and make of it a chair to sit on, a table to write on, a fire to warm me as I write words which will bless many. for many years.

LIVING WATERS

A waterfall, crashing from the heights,

dazzling energy, like the Spirit

of God. I am but toe-deep

in your lovely waters, Lord,

mostly dry, for most of the day,

but I want to wade, ever deeper

into your rivers of delight.

I want to live there, your waters,

cascading around me,

scouring out the ash in me,

irrigating my barren soul,

recalling me to life.

I want your waters,

to make the air iridescent around me,

bright, holy and full of joy.

* * *

I want to live in your waterfall, Lord.

I want your living waters to spring within me.

I want to dive through your torrents,

letting nothing hold me back.

Not sin, not sin.

Not unforgiveness, not bitterness.

I will let go of anger, once, twice,

and again, so I may not be a leaf,

rotting blocked by the rocks,

but a rainbow fish flashing free.

I will let go of my sadness. Let go

Of grief. For what men mean for evil,

you can turn to good.

So shall I swim in your great river, oh Lord,

And your great river shall swim within me.