a poetic reflection:
You would think
with someone chosen to replace Judas
as one of the apostles,
we’d know more about him – Matthias…
But he’s one of those saints
that I like to say
has a muddy hagiography.
Even the circumstances of his death
are unclear.
Some say he was stoned and beheaded.
Others say
he preached to Ethiopian cannibals
and was crucified.
What we do know
with some degree of certainty
was that he was one of the seventy
who tagged along
behind Jesus and the disciples
and was well-regarded enough
that the eleven
picked him out of the crowd.
Lack of recognition, however,
did not mean lack of faith or devotion.
He had been following Jesus
ever since John the Baptist
baptized Jesus in the Jordan River.
I think about all the churches
I’ve set foot in over the years
with their “Rogue’s Gallery”
of past rectors on the walls,
the stained glass inscriptions
indicating the source of their funding,
the plaques
commemorating generous givers,
and realize Matthias
wouldn’t have been
any of those folks.
Maybe he would have been more
like a member of the Altar Guild,
sometimes not even accounting
for a line in the Sunday bulletin,
always there well before worship
quietly preparing all that needs to be done
to make it seamless and meaningful
for everyone there.
Or perhaps…
he would have been more like the sexton,
always making sure things were comfortable and safe
for everyone attending,
spending a lot of alone time
making things ready.
Was he the one
like the ones I see on Sunday
who are often in their pew
quietly praying
while I’m making sure
the Gospel book
is marked to the correct page
and I’m not yet even
in my liturgical garb?
Who knows?
Maybe he was like
the person who faithfully
signs up time and time again
to do coffee hour,
even at the end of the month
when money can be tight,
digging through the fridge and the cupboards
to create something delicious
so everyone can feel nourished
and the post-worship conversation flourished.
Matthias reminds me
that the strength of the church
lies not with the headliners,
but with the folks
who will never have their name
beneath a stained glass window
or their picture on the wall.
It lies with the ones
whose visage will survive a little longer
in old photographs,
than the memory of their name and identity.
The ones who,
forty years later,
we look at the old photos and say,
“I remember them,
but I sure don’t remember their name.
I wish So-and-So
was still alive,
because she’d know who it was.”
Maria Evans splits her week between being a pathologist and laboratory director in Kirksville, MO, and gratefully serving in the Episcopal Diocese of Missouri , as Interim Priest at Trinity Episcopal Church in Hannibal, MO.
