Softly

September 9, 2015September 9, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger. (Proverbs 15:1)

And, with those words from the Preacher, you already know enough about me to write my biography.

Funny. I used to think I was the only one. Today, I look around this brave, new world in which we live, and I observe a tsunami of grievous words.

Surely the only possible outcome can be a firestorm of anger.

They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. Not my words—the prophet Hosea used them centuries ago. The truth hits home more today than at any time I can think of.

Daily we see it. In the public square, there is little civil discourse, only incendiary agitation. Names are called, accusations made, and arguments proclaimed with arrogance and demeaning language. And the other side simply sits quietly and waits their turn.

What? They don’t wait quietly? Well, of course they don’t.

In social media, on television, and through the radio waves, the volume is increased until no one can listen. The only way to inject a viewpoint into the conversation is to scream at opportune moments.

Aided by the instantaneous and public nature of our technology, the clamor is amplified exponentially.

The din is spectacular. And deafening.

And astonishingly pointless.

Quiet communication calms the brawling spirit, but argumentative voices fan the flames.

I still have the old Bible at home and use it frequently. The black leather cover is frayed and ragged at the edges and the binding is separated. And yet, the words on the flyleaf still jump out at me every time I open it. As if it had been written yesterday, the reminder still grips and convicts.

The beautiful script is the handwriting of a loving father who understood, all too well, his teen-aged son.

The words of which I speak are those of the Proverb which you see at the top of this essay.

My father knew his son. He knew what I was made of—knew my bent to argument and arrogance.

I have spent a lifetime trying to tame the beast within, the beast of pride and defiance. But, like the Apostle who was called the brother of our Lord, I have lost the battle with the tiny tongue again and again. James suggests there is not one of us who is able to tame our tongue. (James 3:3-8)

But, it must be tamed. Must be. And the tools are within reach.

The wisdom of our Creator is pure, peace loving, and considerate. (James 3:17)

You see, our Father knows His children and what they are made of. He knows our bent to arrogance and argument.

But, He wants better for us.

I chuckle as I recall the conclusion of James at the end of his disheartening exposé on the untameable tongue. The contrast with the prophet Hosea’s words is striking. James avers that peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness. (James 3:18)

We don’t have to sow the wind. We don’t have to reap the whirlwind. That crop is not profitable in any way.

Sowing peace, we reap righteousness.

Sowing peace, we reap righteousness. Share on X

Many of the voices I hear raised in rage today claim righteousness. I wonder.

Softly, softly. Our friends across the pond use the term to describe the approach most likely to yield the positive results we seek.

Perhaps we could try that.

Softly.

Shhhh. Be vewy vewy quiet. I’m hunting wabbits.
(Elmer Fudd ~ Loony Tunes cartoon character)

People’s minds are changed through observation and not through argument.
(Will Rogers ~ American humorist/columnist ~ 1879-1935)

Painting the Dirt

September 8, 2015September 8, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Dust are our frames, and, gilded dust our pride.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ 19th century British poet)

The newlyweds moved into the little two bedroom frame house and began to learn about life together. They laughed. They cried. They argued—a little. They cried some more.

Mostly, they laughed.

Sometimes, all they had to do to find something to laugh about was to look across the lane to a tiny house just like theirs. The elderly lady who lived there was a nice neighbor, as friendly as they could hope for, but she had a strange habit.

She dusted her yard. With a dust mop.

They laughed and wondered what possible benefit there could be to dusting one’s yard. Now, nearly forty years later, the young man (who is growing old) wishes he had asked the lady herself. Well? Who wouldn’t wonder why she dusted the lawn?

It doesn’t make much sense, does it? The yard was just dirt and grass, and more dirt than it was grass.

He has some questions still:

How would one know when the job is completed?

Is it a job which must be done daily? Weekly?

Would the neighbors notice if the job were left undone?

He’ll never know the answer to his questions since the dear lady has been in Heaven many years now. But, the couple still laughs when the seemingly useless task comes to mind. Surely it was a complete waste of her time.

It’s a futile thing to do, dusting dust.

Kind of like painting tombs, isn’t it?

The Teacher laughed at the old men with their paint brushes. The graves of His day weren’t much like ours. Caves and hollows in the hillsides, covered with stones to keep out the varmints and grave-robbers—that was all they were. No amount of paint could quell the stench that wafted to passersby.

Whoa! I wonder what died!

I say it to myself frequently as I ride my bicycle in ever-widening circuits around our little town, especially along the narrow country lanes. I can’t see the culprits, but I can certainly smell the odor left behind by death. Skunks, raccoons, o’possums, even the occasional armadillo—all add their noxious fumes to the fresh country air.

I wonder if the white-wash on the stones over the grave openings fooled anyone back then. I’m thinking not many were hoodwinked into thinking there was anything desirable under that big white rock.

Dust mops and paint brushes are useful tools. For the right purpose.

The high-school-aged boy lugged the heavy black case in from the parking lot last week. He seemed a little embarrassed to be bringing the huge instrument into the music store.

“Could you get me a lyre to fit this tuba?” he asked. “I bought one the other day, but it’s the wrong shape.”

I laughed humorlessly. It is a problem I have struggled with for many years. I never seem to remember the essentials from year to year, though.

I pulled out a long, straight brass-looking lyre from the appropriate location.

“Give me a minute. I’ll make it work.”

They say pride goes before a fall. They are right.

I put the tail of the music holder into my vise and pushed on the other end of it, bending it in the approximate direction I knew it needed to go.

Snap!

The long rod, a foot long just a moment ago, was now only eight inches long.

That can’t be right! Brass is soft and bends easily! How could I break it so quickly?

You already know the answer, don’t you?

It’s not made of brass—only covered with brass plating. Underneath? Pot metal. Cheap trashy metal made from a mixture of soft metallic substances, cast into the shape of a costlier steel and then plated to be appealing to buyers.

Whisking the dust away from dirt doesn’t make it any cleaner.

Painting a stinking grave doesn’t make it any less offensive.

Plating pot metal gives it no additional strength whatsoever.

Dust are our frames,…

Lord Tennyson understood the premise. Who would argue that we are, indeed, dust? Even those white-washed graves can’t keep our bodies from returning to their beginnings. Eventually.

And yet, here we stand—arrogant things—boasting of who we are and what we have done. Merely dirt, yet we would have anyone else believe there is no longer any residual dirt underneath the decorated surface.

…and, gilded dust our pride.

Gilding causes the article it covers to appear as pure gold. Pure gold!

There is a test for gold, just as bending will show the difference between brass and pot metal. The test for gold?

Job knew the answer to that. And, when He has tried me, I shall come forth as pure gold.

Through the fire, the mettle of the whole piece will be known.

I’m not sure I’m ready for the fire. Yet.

I want to be. I want to be sure that I will prove to be pure gold, just like Job.

But, I’m confident there are a fair number of refinements which will need to happen first.

I want to be ready for the fire.

We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.
(from The Breakfast Club ~ American movie ~ 1985)

Now if any man builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw, each man’s work will become evident; for the day will show it because it is to be revealed with fire, and the fire itself will test the quality of each man’s work.
(I Corinthians 3:12,13 ~ NASB)

In My Shoes

September 4, 2015September 4, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I walk around like everything is fine, but deep down, inside my shoe, my sock is sliding off.

Kind of warms the heart, doesn’t it? No. Perhaps that’s not the right way to put it. I saw the little photo of a pair of shoes the other day and stopped to read the text. Heartwarming isn’t the way I would describe my reaction.

Confused, maybe…

My first thought was that I was going to feel sympathy for the person who wrote the sentence. But the gotcha phrase at the end made me laugh.

Ha! Just another touchy-feely sentimental moment turned into a joke.

I shared the picture with my friends, and went about my day. But, something made me go back to the photo again. And again.

Somehow, I wasn’t laughing anymore. Sad. That’s the way I began to feel inside.

The simple fact is, the event described is exactly the kind of thing that usually ruins my day. Oh, I don’t necessarily mean that I’ve got bad socks, but I’m saying that minor inconveniences visible to no one but me are the catalysts for more bad moods than anyone will ever know.

Minor inconveniences.

They’re kind of a big thing. For me, anyway. Maybe for you, too.

All day long, the slightly too-small shirt I put on this morning keeps pulling out at the waist. Each time I reach for something on my work bench, or stretch overhead to put in a light bulb, or bend over to pick up that penny I dropped while making change, the shirt tail, without any warning at all is hanging over my belt.

I hate that!

And, nobody cared. In fact, none of you knew it was happening. Not even the Lovely Lady.

I feel bad mentioning this at all. Sort of. It pales beside other issues.

One of my new author friends mentioned some serious personal life events in a note she wrote to me today. Beyond serious, they have been catastrophic. After that, it seems awfully silly for me to focus on the trivial and the mundane.

But, we live life as it happens. The catastrophic events come. For some, they last for many years—perhaps never to pass from our experience. Dealing with and responding to them is paramount.

Still, the minuscule events come too, annoying and chipping away at our patience. I wonder if they will also someday be a part of the record of how we responded and carried on in our walk here on this sphere of water and dirt.

The world keeps spinning. We keep walking with the socks bunched up in our shoes. Discomfort, inconveniences, and annoyances pile up.

You know I’m not really thinking about cheap socks now, right?

Who are we—really—when the trivial, the mundane, problems of life begin to wear on us? How do we treat our fellow travelers?

When I have big problems—the kind everyone can see—it’s not all that hard to keep my footing, relationally speaking. Folks treat me with deference, the kid glove treatment we’ve all heard of. All the warning signs are obvious and even I can remember to exercise self-control in dealing with others.

But, what about when my shoe comes untied?

Walking along the trail, side by side with the Lovely Lady, I don’t even notice it for awhile. Oh, I know something is not quite right, but it really doesn’t matter.

I keep walking. We keep talking.

Little by little, the brain becomes aware of the problem. Finally, in a moment of epiphany, I realize my foot is sliding around in my shoe.

And just like that, I am angry.

Well, who wouldn’t be? The person by my side, the woman who stood beside me at an altar all those years ago and promised to love and help me, won’t slow down. My shoe is untied and she keeps striding along like there is nothing wrong.

My shoe is untied!

“Slow down!” I snap.

She looks at me in surprise. Just a moment ago, we were enjoying our outing in the beauty of God’s creation. Nothing has changed, to her mind. There is no reason she would have seen my predicament.

My world, on the other hand, is turned upside down. Of course, she instantly slows to a stop and waits while I kneel down and make the necessary adjustments.

But the damage has been done.

I’ve spent a lot of words on feet, haven’t I? Perhaps you already realize the feet aren’t the problem. The heart is.

The heart.

We’re a self-centered lot, aren’t we? Oh, we talk a good game, pretending to care more about others than ourselves, but let just one little personal issue flare up and no one matters in the world besides ourselves. Nothing is more important in that moment than our comfort.

God is working on my heart problem. I’m trying to let Him. You see, the Apostle who loved letter-writing passed on the words God had for me long ago:

You can’t be looking at your own problems, but need to be focusing on what those around you need. Think like He did, the God-man who gave up everything so you could have everything.

As He’s working on my heart problem, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind waiting up while I tie my shoe.

I’d like to walk beside you for awhile.

You can pull up your socks if you need to.

I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.
(Jane Austen ~ British novelist ~ 1775-1817)

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests, but each of you the interests of the others.
(Philippians 2: 3,4)

Not Broken

September 2, 2015September 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The world is broken. lens-755539_1280

Broken.

A friend mentioned that his close friend died yesterday. There was a torrent of sympathetic responses, mine among them. Then, as the torrent subsided, he added one fact: She had been killed by her husband—shot three times.

Broken.

In Arizona this week, a mother drowned her two-year-old twin sons and tried to drown another boy, because she thinks no one loves them—or her. This happened the same week a court case began in California to try a mother who also drowned her son. That woman says she acted out of love—to protect the boy from a horrible life.

Broken.

The list could go on for page after page—people of one religion killing people of other religions, folks of one race killing and torturing folks of another race, ethnic groups with power abusing others without power—There seems no end of examples.

Closer to home, we live in a society of brokenness. Broken families, broken friendships, broken children, broken health, broken promises, broken computer programs—even broken pencils.

All broken.

To the minutest detail, all of creation is susceptible to the brokenness inherent in every part. The Preacher, in the Old Testament, added his endorsement when he told us that all is useless.

Broken and useless.

I will admit it. I am overwhelmed by the broken world in which we live. I suspect, when you take time to consider it, you are as overwhelmed as I.

And then I realize we too are broken. Overwhelmed and battered, as is all the world, our brokenness cries out for someone who can set things right.

And it turns out there is Someone who has already done the deed. We simply have to put ourselves in His hands. They are, after all, the hands of a Creator—a Potter who knows His craft, and His material. (Jeremiah 18:3,4)

He knows that we are dust. He knows that we shatter too easily. And, He already knows what the vessel we will one day become is to look like.

He already knows what the vessel we will one day become is to look like. Share on X

From the broken shards, a thing of beauty. Or perhaps simply, a thing of usefulness. I think that might be better.

Broken, made useful. Efficient. Filled with purpose.

In a broken world, we can serve His purpose.

May we be no longer broken. That was the way we came to Him. Not the condition in which we are to leave His wheel and kiln.

Useful.

In a still-broken world.

All of God’s people are ordinary people who have been made extraordinary by the purpose He has given them.
(Oswald Chambers ~ Scottish evangelist/teacher ~ 1874-1917)

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
(Psalm 34:18 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Month: September 2015

Softly

Painting the Dirt

In My Shoes

Not Broken