Gently Anchored
Gently Anchored
Rhea Sustar
What if faith was less like concrete
and more like an anchor that steadies -
held fast, yet remembering the weight is cast
into an untamable sea?
What if faith was less rigid than the chartered path on a map
and more like a compass?
No step-by-step consignments
only the whimsy of facing true north.
What if our hands loosened a bit -
holding the mystery without crushing it
helping ourselves to a little
while letting bits and pieces slip as seeds for others?
What if faith was less polite?
Sitting still
hands folded
eyes closed kind of polite,
and more a ravenous hunt
to find God in the unmistakable mark he makes -
the mountain peak
and goldenrod
crystal formations
and blood moons.
What if faith was sowing seeds
and not worrying about the rain?
No chanting or begging
pleading or bartering,
but trust
in a God who made the seed
and the soil
the rain and the happy magic that brings life forth
from a tiny little nothing that could get lost in your pocket
or mold in the laundry.
What if faith wasn’t a rule to break
or a denomination
or a particular translation
and more like wild tongues of fire
honey and locust
salt water in the eyes as you come out of the water
wearing peace and bearing fruit?
What if faith was less like a contained well
and more like a wild spring?
No effort in the drawing
no conjuring out
no muscling or using grit to force something up
but an outpouring
an unstoppable force
a baptism
a sound of life.
What if faith wasn’t about casting stones,
but building altars
establishing temples
constructing homes
putting more leaves in the table?
What if faith is removing the cap from the cathedral
tearing down the ceiling to see the stars
reducing the walls just to get a better view?
What if faith is the holy hand that haunts us?
That slaps our newborn bottoms and gives us breath
that nudges us along
that finds us when we’re hiding
that covers us when we’ve gone too far
that parts the seas
and sows seeds
and breaks bread
and takes the gun from our hands?
What if faith was more like a body
and less like an institution?
With a face like Jesus
and giving hands
that made you want to forget it all
and climb into the lap of the lamb,
who gave himself for you
to give yourself to him
in a symbiosis of gentle love
that you cannot ever escape from.
Could God be the gentle anchor
that steadies you in rough waters?
That keeps you safe without containment
that holds you without confinement?
Could you allow the fig leaves to be taken
and the veil to be torn?
Could you drink of the water
and live forever?
Could you fall into rest in the waves that no longer terrify,
but rock you
lull you into peace
knowing that you are tethered
in the arms of a gentle mother
who will always trade her life for yours
in a thousand ways
and with every breath.
Rhea Sustar
Writer & Poet
Rhea’s work has appeared in The Village Magazine, “Mama Bare: The Birth of Mother,” as well as several essays for The She Is Project’s various publications. You can read more of her work at www.rheasustar.com
Photography by Noah Boyer