Justice | Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

In which there is Poetic Justice, for God is a Poet, but there is also Mercy

Even while Esau was out hunting his father’s favourite wild game, Jacob and Rebecca slaughtered and cooked two choice young goats. Jacob served these to Isaac, pretending to be Esau, stealing Esau’s blessing.

A cruel deception.

And, uncannily, years later, in his own old age, Jacob’s sons sold his favourite son into slavery, dipping Joseph’s precious robe in the blood of a slaughtered goat, claiming he had been killed by a wild beast.

Tricked with a goat, just as he had tricked his own father with a goat.

* * *

The seeds we sow, we reap, measure for measure. They lie dormant in the earth, sometimes for years, then yield their harvest.

The good we have done yields blessing, and the evil we’ve done conjures shadowy forces against us.

And that’s scary if we have sown bad seeds, have said and done less than luminous things, things we are now ashamed of.

* * *

But we do not live in a mechanical universe. We live in a just universe, shot through by mercy like a golden cord.

The law of sowing and reaping is the deep magic from the dawn of time, in C. S. Lewis’s phrase. However there is a more powerful force still: the force of mercy, unleashed by the willing victim who bore in his body the punishment for all the bad seeds we have ever sown.

And so mercy triumphs over justice. The deep magic from before the dawn of time.

Jacob recovers Joseph; Esau was, in fact, blessed.

* * *

For myself, I want to sow good seed for the rest of my life.

But the bad seed I have sown? The things I am ashamed of? The things I did because of my small, bewildered, wounded heart?

I confess them.

I ask God’s forgiveness. I ask Christ’s blood to cover them.

And I step into the waterfall of mercy, the mercy that triumphs over justice because the One who loves the world is good.

I ask him to let all the bad seeds I’ve sown, which are still dormant, die.

And I ask him for grace to overplant much good seed to crowd out the bad seed.

And I ask him, the ultimate genetic engineer, to somehow, even now, change the DNA of the bad seed I’ve planted, and bring good from them.

And I place my life and future in His hands.

Holly Grantham kindly hosted this. Thanks Holly.

In Which There’s Justice and There’s Mercy, and Mercy Triumphs

By Anita Mathias

Sometimes The Book of Genesis sounds both disturbing, and quite contemporary.

In Genesis 34, Jacob’s only daughter Dinah is raped. In revenge, her brothers Simeon and Levi slaughter every male in Shechem, and loot it “seizing their flocks and herds and donkeys, and carrying off all their wealth and all their women and children, taking as plunder everything in the houses.”

And what happens to them? What consequences do they suffer? Apparently none at all.

Jacob scolds them, “You have brought trouble on me by making me a stench to the Canaanites,” and moves from Shechem to Bethel.

When the powerful misbehave, they often get away with it, in the short run.

God’s justice sometimes operates at the pace of trilogies or epics, not in sentences or chapters.

* * *

So, in the short run: no consequences for Simeon or Levi. Jacob is probably a little afraid of his powerful older sons who, from this chapter onwards, increasingly take control of the family.

However, when Jacob blesses his sons on his deathbed, he essentially curses his first-born Reuben, (who raped his father’s concubine) and Simeon and Levi, his second and third-born (while passing on the Abrahamic blessing and rights of the first born to Judah, whom he lavishly blesses.)

“Simeon and Levi are brothers—

their swords are weapons of violence.
⁶Let me not enter their council,
let me not join their assembly,
for they have killed men in their anger
and hamstrung oxen as they pleased.
⁷Cursed be their anger, so fierce,
and their fury, so cruel!
I will scatter them in Jacob
and disperse them in Israel. (Gen 49)

And so, Simeon’s descendants were absorbed into the territory of Judah (Jos 19:1, 9) and Levi’s descendants were dispersed throughout the land, living in 48 towns (Nu 35:2). They did not get their own land, as the other ten tribes do.

* * *

That’s how our lives go, isn’t it? Simeon and Levi were deceitful, angry, violent, and vengeful. So, to some extent, have we all been.

And their children suffered: they were scattered, losing the tribal satisfactions of living among those who have the same background, culture, history, traditions and quirks. Both forfeited the blessings of the first-born, which would have come to them after Reuben forfeited his.

But they lived long in the land, had children, grew old, unlike those they slaughtered. And these violent men still got to be Patriarchs, fathers of two of the twelve tribes of Israel. And the priests who ministered at the temple were from the tribe of Levi!!

* * *

It is an orderly, organised universe of sowing and reaping. The evil we do has consequences, if only through the corruption of our characters which are our destiny. Through the scarring and maiming of our souls. Sooner or later, we reap what we sow.

But we do not reap exactly what we have sown. For most of us, as for Simeon and Levi, mercy triumphs.

“If you, Lord, should count our guilt, Lord, who would survive?” the Psalmist David writes plaintively.

If God were to punish us for every untrue or mean word, every act of anger or malice or jealousy, who should stand?

But mercy triumphs, and so weeds do not choke all food plants. Neglected orchards still bear fruit, and human life continues despite our environmental outrages.

And in our lives, mercy triumphs over justice, and so, having asked God’s forgiveness, we can continue to walk under the sun of his goodness.

Paradoxes, paradoxes. We must try to avoid all sin, for what we sow we reap. But never in full measure, never as much as we deserve, for mercy runs like a gold thread through our universe and through our lives, and it always triumphs over the strictest justice!

The Secret History of Hagar: When God Invisibly Comforts the Oppressed

By Anita Mathias

Image: Tissot, Hagar and the Angel in the Desert

Hagar, Egyptian maidservant of Sarah, has a hard life. Impregnated, basically raped by Abraham, she is bullied and persecuted by a jealous Sarah—so much so that probable death in the desert feels preferable. (Genesis 16)

And in the desert, the runaway slave, with only the clothes on her back, sees the Lord.

And she returns to her mistress, who is “very wealthy in silver and gold, sheep and cattle and male and female donkeys, menservants and maidservants and camels.”

The rich get richer; the poor get poorer. It sure seems as if Sarah has won and Hagar has lost, doesn’t it? Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

* * *

It is Hagar, not Sarah who sees “the Lord who sees me.” It is Hagar He advises. Hagar is promised not only life, but descendants too many to count. She goes back to Sarah, under the Lord’s protection, bearing his promises.

And Sarah knows nothing of this. Her maidservant has returned, that’s all she knows.

“What is essential is invisible to the eye,” Antoine St-Exupery wrote.

Our secret life with the Lord determines our happiness, and the course of our lives. It is, however, invisible.

* * *

I love the Bible, and I love teaching it. Last year, as I led a Bible study I said, “Ask and you shall receive,” “Give and it shall be given you,” nothing radical or reactionary, just word for word from the Sermon on the Mount. An academic in my group challenged me, “You say that because you live in the West. What about the starving people in Africa?”

And I asked, “Do you think everything Jesus said would not be as true and as valid in Africa as in Oxford, England?”

And an older, wiser woman, who has been to Africa on mission, numerous times, said, “Our African brothers are SO generous, and they have nothing.”

I am silent.

So are the righteous forsaken in Africa?

* * *

I am convinced that the same Gospel, the same promises are true for the world’s poorest as well as the world’s richest, but I am silent, because unlike Heidi Baker, who knows from experience that the same Gospel which is true in Southern California is true in Mozambique, I have not yet worked with the poorest people in Africa (though I have worked with the very poorest in India, with Mother Teresa, full time for 14 months, and hung out a little with the poor in Cambodia).

Hagar, the loser, ran away and came back starving. That’s what Sarah might have thought.

But the truth was that Hagar had been comforted by the pre-incarnate Christ himself, had received his promises, had returned at his command, and under his secret service protection.

We cannot say the Gospel does not work for the poorest because we do not know their secret encounters with God, the way he comforts him, the tenderness with which he looks at them, what he promises them in this life, or beyond. Certainly the way Christ looked at Hagar was so profoundly moving that that became her name for God—“ Lahai Roi. You are the one who sees me.” She is content to return to slavery and abuse because “I have now seen the One who sees me.”

God sees. God knows. At a difficult patch in my thirties, I was mentored by Lolly Dunlap. Discussing something difficult she went through, or I was currently going through, she would say, “God sees. God knows.” And sometimes, as it was with Hagar, that is enough. We are seen by the One who sees us. He has things in hand. He will bring about a kind of justice. The promises to Hagar mirror the promises to Abraham, “I will so increase your descendants that they will be too numerous to count,” (Gen 16:10).

* * *

The apparently forsaken Hagar has seen God, received divine consolation and a divine promise. She returned to abuse, strong in herself. Her eyes had seen God, and were watching God.

It comforts me. There is so much suffering in the world about which I can do little or nothing, so many stranded starfish on the beaches, gasping for the ocean.

Christ comforts us in our afflictions, and sometimes most deeply in our afflictions,

Father and Fondler of Heart Thou has Wrung

Hast thy dark descending and most are merciful then,

Gerard Manley Hopkins writes.

And, perhaps, most probably, just as he has his dark descending of comfort and mercy to Hagar, and to us, so too he descends to all the wretched of the earth.

* * *

At an Oxford party last week, I was talking to a World Vision Jerusalem worker, and mentioned I had been to Israel during the intifada in 1990. He said, “Oh, that was the easy time. The treatment of the Palestinians by the Israelis is profoundly disturbing now. It’s very cruel.” He described it. I was in shock, in tears, in the middle of that 60^th birthday party.

Can I do anything about it? Well, yes, a little because I know Someone who can. Lahai Roi, the God who sees: Please comfort those children of Ishmael.

Other situations sadden and disturb me. The treatment of the prisoners in Guantanamo Bay, some of whom have been waterboarded 183 times in one month, and put into inhumane and humiliating stress positions for prolonged hours.

Those in North Korean prisons

The women flogged under Sharia law.

The Indian and Filipina domestic workers in the Gulf, who have their passports confiscated, work long hours, are physically and sexually abused, and are often not paid.

Bonded labourers in India whose debts are transferred from generation to generation at exorbitant interest.

Slaves in Mali or restaveks in Haiti among the 21 million slaves in the world.

The Afghani single women and widows forbidden to work by the Taliban who become almost catatonic in their depression.

Lahai Roi, God who sees, comfort them. Intervene.

While we do need to share our money wisely, (the Biblical suggestion of sharing 10% with priest, widows, orphans and aliens is a good one) and raise awareness, and pray, it is some comfort to me that not a sparrow falls but his eye is on it. Not a human suffers, but his eye is on them. And how he comforts them, what he whispers to them, what promises he makes to them, we do not know.

* * *

Hagar was neither a Christian nor a Jew, but her plight did not escape the eyes of the benevolent one who saw her. She went back to slavery and abuse apparently unaided, but, in fact, having had a secret encounter, received secret comfort and bearing a secret promise.

And the same God looks on the 21 million languishing in slavery, with the same blazing eyes of love and comfort. He sees. Perhaps he speaks to them in their hearts…

And so we commend the Hagars of this world to his protection, because we cannot do a whole lot more, because as we trust him in our afflictions, we must trust him in theirs, and pray that he will wipe every tear from their eyes, in this world, and in the world to come.

Amen.

“Acting Justly, Loving Mercy and Walking Humbly”: a guest post by Matthew Currey of Tearfund

By Anita Mathias

Matthew Currey

I am honoured to host this guest post from Matthew Currey of Tearfund.

Matt Currey is a disciple seeking to follow Jesus. He works for the charity Tearfund as part of the IMPACT UK team, seeking to play a part in bringing hope and transformation to those living in poverty in the UK.

He lives in West London, and loves music, food, film, reading, writing, volunteering, good coffee, local parks, exploring life and playing with his amazing family.

He also blog/engages through The Breathe Network and is part of St John’s Church in Southall

* * *

“Jesus’ existence made it undeniably clear that changing the human heart and changing human society are not separate tasks” Henri Nouwen

I was inspired, heartened and challenged by Anita’s post and subsequent discussions last week to Remember the Poor. As someone who works for the charity Tearfund and who has a passion for issues of poverty and injustice it’s encouraging to see people really engaging, exploring and taking action in this area. For me, beyond any professional/work capacity, as a Christian the issue of Justice and God’s heart for the poor, the broken, the marginalised is something that in my view should be at the heartbeat and forefront of the outworking of our discipleship. It is integral to our whole life and an expression of our worship.

The writer Brian Draper this week helpfully reminded me of a poem called A Future not our own.

33 years ago this week, on the 24th March 1980, Archbishop Oscar Romero was gunned down by a government-backed death squad, while he was saying Mass in San Salvador. As Simon Barrow, director of the think-tank Ekklesia, writes, “Romero was a remarkable and brave champion of the poor. But his background was not in the least radical. Far from it. It was exposure to the reality and human cost of injustice that converted him to an understanding of the Gospel that has peace and justice at his core. He has inspired millions of people – Catholic and otherwise, religious and non-religious, across the world.”

Poverty is not a statistic or an issue. Poverty is personal. Poverty has a name, the names of people who live in poverty are real people and not statistics. People who have a story, who have hopes, dreams and fears just like you and me. I am thankful and mindful of how important it is to keep being reminded of this. Because I know that it is possible that we ‘Remember the Poor’ but do we really know the poor and get really involved in the lives and stories of the poor?

I am very mindful of the times I have had the privilege of travelling overseas with Tearfund and each time the opportunity to encounter and live with others who materially may have much less than I do but who have a richness of hospitality and community that I often lack. These experiences can be overwhelming. I am thankful for the people, stories and lives of hope that I have connected with on these trips. They are humbling and inspiring.

In an age of hyper individualism and hyper communication it can be easy to be both overwhelmed or conversely overly cynical or overly able to hibernate from the horrors all around us. I’ve done both and keep repeating that pattern. I wish I didn’t but I do. Learning can take time, for I am slow and also if I am honest I crave my comforts and my safety.

We cannot do everything
and there is a sense of liberation in realising that.
This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well.

Last year I embarked upon a series of 9 themed journeys throughout 2012, with each one lasting for 40 days. It was a really great experience and I am glad that I did it. However my reflection was that in being intentional we also have to be full of grace. In being passionate and compassionate we need to be shaped by Love, Mercy and Humility, not false humility, but characteristics that keep our service and our journey fresh, real and honest. I came to the conclusion, with thanks for the help from the brilliant book by Mark Powley called Consumer Detox, that less really is more.

It’s amazing what can be achieved when we focus on one thing and do it well. I love this film that is based on a modern day outworking of The Parable of the Great Banquet (Luke 14: 15-24). In it the two people who are set the challenge have to focus and do the one thing well.

What is the one thing that we might be being stirred or encouraged to do? How could we use our gifts to practice generosity, hospitality, creativity or something else entirely?

anita.mathias