Good to all People

March 11, 2016March 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The old man is rumpled and smudged.

You might think I’m only speaking of his clothes, but indeed, the man himself fits the description to a tee. His clothes are themselves rumpled, but so too, is his demeanor and his facial features.

Wrinkled and sad, he pushes inside my store to stand before me—his dirty, smudged clothes hanging from him as he asks me his favor.

“I have some things to sell. Do you think you might be interested?”

It is a question that comes with some regularity these days. I tell him I’ll look at what he’s got and follow him out to the old battered pickup truck—itself rumpled and smudged. Another man, looking much like my new friend, is sitting in the cab, awaiting the verdict.

As I look through the hodge-podge of items which he pulls, one by one, from the bed, he tells his story. They’ve all got a story these days; it seems to be a requirement to include one in their pitch.

“I can’t pay my insurance. If I don’t have insurance, I can’t work.”

I ask him what kind of work he does and he tells me that he buys junk and resells it. I should have guessed. Everything he has shown me fits that description—junk.

I am tempted to leave it all in the truck and walk away, but I cannot. We make a deal for a couple of items and he returns with me inside the store to take care of the details.

I am surprised as I view his ID (a legal requirement for me) and learn the old rumpled man is less than a year older than I.

With his own filthy, gnarled one, he grasps my hand in gratitude as he takes the small amount of cash. Turning, he walks out waving the bills above his head triumphantly to show his bounty to his companion. I shake my head, knowing that the scene will be played out several times more, either today or in the very near future.

The stories will vary; the players will be taller, or fatter, or of a different gender, but all will be rumpled and smudged, and all will need my help. I stare at the side of my store building, looking for the mark which I often suspect is there, but I cannot see it.

The mark?

Go back in our country’s history nearly a century. We were in the midst of a depression, with high unemployment and many folks losing their homes and businesses. It seems that it may have been a lot like the present day, only a good bit worse.

Many of the unemployed took to the highways and country roads in search of temporary work, but little was to be found. These people, mostly men, were forced to beg for food, a practice which soon turned many of the more fortunate against them.

The hobos soon developed a system of signs to communicate to others coming after them by the same way. The signs would be placed along the road and on buildings, written with coal or chalk. They would warn of antagonistic officers of the law or stingy housewives, as well as declaring the location of a generous soul.

This last category came to be known as an easy mark. We use the term today. I often use it to describe myself, when thinking about people who are in need. Perhaps, they do too.

Apparently though, there is no necessity of a written mark for my location. Word of mouth seems to suffice, as more come each week.

Can I let you in on a secret?

Recently, I have grown weary of it. To be blunt, I don’t have a lot of ready cash. I’m not what you would describe as a wealthy man, a fact my banker could easily corroborate.

Wherever the mark is, I wish they would remove it. I might even erase it myself, if I could locate it.

But, as I sit and wallow in self-pity, almost enjoying the little party it inspires, I am reminded that there is much more to this than the simple transaction of handing over a bit of cash.

I am a follower of Jesus, with all that is attached to that statement.

Specifically, it’s probably a prerequisite that I follow His teachings.

Many of my fellow believers have come to the conclusion that only the doctrinal, intellectual part of their religion is of importance. I am not able to separate the intellectual from the physical.

The Teacher gave instructions—indeed, He gave an example—as He walked with his original followers. He used words like cups of cold water, hungry and feed, naked and clothe, thirsty and something to drink. (Matthew 25:31-46)

His instructions were not for us to provide intellectual comfort, but to actually do something.

If I claim to be a follower, I must do just that—Follow.

Follow His instructions—His example—His Word.

I know many who give much more than I do, many who are actively involved day after day in helping those in need. Mine is not a heavy burden; I just seem to be getting weary of bearing it.

Every once in awhile though, I remember what the Apostle said as he encouraged the folks under his care.

Don’t grow weary of doing what is right. At the proper time, a harvest of blessings will be ready to reap, provided we don’t give up. (Galatians 6:9)

The day for harvesting doesn’t seem to be much nearer, but who can say?

Tomorrow might be the day.

I’ll be here, either to do the work or to enjoy the bounty. There is still plenty of work to go around. You looking for a job?

Oh, when you do come by, could you look to see if you can find that mark on my building?

I’d still like to have it removed. . .

Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people. . .
(Galatians 6:10a~NIV)

Charity never humiliated him who profited by it, nor bound him by the chains of gratitude, since it was not to him, but to God that the gift was made.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupery~French author~1900-1944)

Side By Side

March 10, 2016April 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Today, he seemed smaller somehow.

He was never a big man. Still, the wizened little fellow who had wandered inside from the gray day wasn’t the man I remembered. Something was missing.

As we talked, I remembered what it was that had made him bigger.

She was always with him. Always.

I asked him how he was doing, really wanting to know. It seemed he could tell that, so he answered as honestly as he knew how.

I’m lonely. Just—lonely.

Fifty-seven years, she had been at his side. The farmer’s wife works harder than the farmer, and is concerned over twice as much. Still, they raised a family, side by side. They went to church, side by side. They slept in the same bed, side by side.

He took her hand as they sat, side by side, one day a couple of months ago and told her he loved her, and she just went to sleep.

Just like that—gone.

His days are still full of people and activity, but as the daylight ebbs and evening approaches, the sense of coming night takes hold in his spirit. He returns to his empty house—alone—and prepares to lie down in an empty bed and it envelops him, leaving him again in black darkness.

He is alone for the first time in nearly sixty years.

Alone and small.

And God said, It is not good for man to be alone. (Genesis 2:18)

I will make a companion who complements him.

He was bigger when she was with him. I’m sure of it.

He knows where she is. The hope is in his eyes when he speaks of her being well and whole now. Still, as he starts for the front door, I see the wistfulness that lingers. He had plans for more time with her—side by side.

He knows she is side by side with another whom she loves now. He wouldn’t take that from her for the world. And, tonight when the loneliness begins to settle into his spirit once more, he will remember it.

Side by side, we labor through the brightest days of our lives. Still side by side, we lean on each other through the darkest times, as well.

And, for a time—in the grand scheme, merely a moment—we may walk alone again to complete our task here in what some call a vale of sorrows.

But, know this: The day will come.

The day will come when we stand side by side once more and rejoice. There will be music, and shouting, and worship.

Side by side, we’ll see Him face to face.

Ah, sweet hope!

Somehow, I don’t expect my friend will be small in that place. Every person there will stand tall.

Side by side.

The days of our lives add up to seventy years,
or eighty, if one is especially strong.
But even one’s best years are marred by trouble and oppression.
Yes, they pass quickly and we fly away.
(Psalm 90:10 ~ NET)

But life will call with daffodils and morning glorious blue skies.
You’ll think of me—some memory, and softly smile to your surprise.
(from When I’m Gone by Joey & Rory ~ Sandy Lawrence songwriter)

Stand and Wait

March 8, 2016May 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I can count. I learned how to do it in first grade. Really.

With a wry smile, the orchestra conductor waved her hand in a circle to cut off the entire group. The entire group! Most of the musicians waited to hear what the problem was, but I knew. I knew.

The wry smile was aimed at me. Twenty-one measures, I had counted. Twenty-one groups of four beats, following the movement of her baton.

I counted—one-two-three-four, two-two-three-four, three-two-three-four, four-two-three-four—all the way up to twenty-one and then three more beats before I played my notes. At least, that’s what I was supposed to do.

I had only to play five notes—just five—one after another, at the same time the flute soloist played her melody. It should have been heavenly. Should have been.

It wasn’t.

When I played my notes—my five notes—the flute wasn’t playing. Well, not until the last one I played.

She came in when she was supposed to. I hadn’t waited long enough.

My job was to wait the correct number of beats and play just five notes.

I came in too early. I was supposed to wait.

Do you know how hard it is to wait? All around me, the instruments were making music. I counted fifteen-two-three-four under my breath, and they played music. When I got to twenty-two-three-four, they were still playing and I wasn’t.

I was supposed to wait. It would have been great if I had waited. Instead, we went back to the beginning of the section and everyone—except for me—played their notes again.

I counted. And waited. The right number of beats this time.

It was a thing of beauty. My five notes, played in harmony with the flute part.

A thing of beauty. Because I waited.

Do you know why orchestra music sounds so good? You think it’s because of all the talented musicians, don’t you? Perhaps, you think the beauty comes because of all the top-quality instruments they manipulate? Some of them can cost thousands of dollars.

May I tell you the real thing which makes the music wonderful?

The musicians know how to wait.

That’s right—they know how to wait.

The composer has given each a part to play. The correct key signature is designated, the perfect time signature for the style of piece, even the speed at which they will proceed is decreed.

It is true, they must read the notes and play the correct pitch. The instruments must be in tune with each other, and a good quality violin—or trumpet—or oboe—helps to achieve that purpose.

But, all those things are of no consequence if one thing does not happen.

The individual musicians have to know when to sit silently. They have to wait.

The composer writes the rests into the music with just as much intent, just as much purpose, as he/she does the actual notes which are sounded and heard.

When an individual neglects to wait the correct number of beats—exactly the right number—no more, no less—the result is disastrous. Harmonies are lost. Counter-melodies become simply melodies out of place, with nothing to complement them.

What should have been heavenly is horrible.

All because one horn player left his place four beats early.

I hate rests.

I do not take well to waiting.

All of life is an orchestra, isn’t it?

The Composer has set into place each activity, each opportunity for service, and we have but to enter at the correct time. Sometimes, we get to sit on the sidelines and wait.

I’m not the only one who hates waiting, am I?

I’m sure I’m not.

I read tonight about King David’s men who fought and won a great battle, while a fair number of their group stayed behind with the gear and the food. After the battle the king, against the wishes of those who had actually fought in the battle, gave the men who stayed with the stuff an equal share of the spoils of battle. (1 Samuel 30:22-25)

An equal share—because they waited.

He made it the law of the land. Those who stayed in the camp and guarded the food and equipment were to be given an amount equal to those who actually marched into battle and won the victory.

A well-known phrase comes to mind; They also serve, who only stand and wait.

The poet John Milton wrote the sonnet, as he lost his eyesight. He realized that, before his strength was gone, his light was spent. Wanting to serve actively, reality dictated what his role was actually to be.

He would wait.

And waiting, he would serve.

It goes against all our society teaches. Move quickly! Be efficient! Work! Produce! Never slow down!

Against that frantic activity, the backdrop of rest—of waiting for the moment when one is most needed—is almost anticlimactic. We hate waiting.

Sometimes, the score tells us to wait. For us to jump in with our frenetic busy-ness would be completely wrong. The result would be disaster—chaos.

Wait.

I’m practicing counting my measures for the next time I play with the orchestra. It will please our conductor immensely.

I wonder though—do we have as much interest in pleasing the Composer/Conductor who has the score all written out for our lives?

From beginning to end, we enter to play our part and it can be beautiful, as well as harmonious. It will, however, be that only if we have come in at the right time.

I’m learning to wait. Still.

He’ll give me the cue when it’s time to come back in.

I can count on it.

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
(John Milton ~ English poet ~ 1608-1674)

Wait for the Lord;
be strong and take heart
and wait for the Lord.
(Psalm 27:14 ~ NIV)

Paying Taxes

March 7, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s that season again. All you need do is turn on your television and watch a network show for awhile any evening. At some point, you will see an ad about taxes.

Get your refund! Pay less to the government! Use our service and we guarantee you’ll pay less and get more!

Funny how words change meaning over the years, isn’t it? Did you know that taxes and tribute are the same thing? Well—were the same thing—once.

For forty years, it has been right in front of my nose. Forty years and I never saw it.

I was in high school the first time I heard the song, but I’ve never really thought much about the title. I simply considered it a strange thing to call a song.

My Tribute.

That is the title of the song, but over the last thirty-eight years—the number of years I’ve been in the music business—it has rarely ever been asked for by name when a customer has needed the sheet music or accompaniment track for it.

Do you have a copy of “To God Be The Glory”?

We know by now to just go to the file and look up My Tribute. The song was written in the early 1970s by Andrae Crouch. It is still sung on occasion today. I’ve included the lyrics to the first verse somewhere below.

But, why would he name it My Tribute?

The words appear at no place in the lyrics of the song. Not once.

We have come to think of a tribute as a voluntary statement of esteem for a person.

Nancy Reagan, the widow of President Ronald Reagan passed away today and the tributes are thick on the Internet and in the editorial pages of the newspapers.

Frequently, songs are offered in tribute to the vocalists who first made them popular. We pay tribute to our mentors and teachers.

All these things are voluntary. We may refuse to offer these tributes, if we choose.

It hasn’t always been so.

The Teacher was approached by the followers of the religious leaders in His day. They, trying to trap Him, wondered aloud if He thought they should pay the tax to the hated enemy occupying their land. (Matthew 22:15-22)

Is the tribute to be given?

The Teacher knew their hearts, but still He would speak the truth they needed to hear. He asked them to show him the coin of the occupying forces—the very payment they were required to give to Rome. The denarius was produced and He held it up, asking what seemed a rather easy question.

Whose image and inscription are on this coin?

The would-be trappers were, instead, snared by their prey. Anyone could see it was Caesar’s image and title on the misshapen piece of metal. The answer given, they immediately had their own answer—one they could not twist to their own purposes.

Give to Caesar what is his. Give to God what is His, as well.

Do you suppose that last was added on as an afterthought? Did He intend only to tell them they must pay their taxes, but added the part about God only to seem pious?

Hardly.

I said He spoke the truth they needed to hear. All of it.

Do I need to ask the question? I will anyway.

In whose image are we made?

In our culture, we don’t think of it in the same way the religious Jews would have, but whose title is written clearly on us?

They had been commanded to put His Law in their hearts and minds, as well as writing them on their arms and their foreheads! (Deuteronomy 11:18-20)

Whose image and inscription are to be found on us?

The tribute will be paid. Without fail, it will be paid.

One day, every knee will bow and every tongue will pay the tribute. By force, if necessary. (Philippians 2:10-11)

Today, we may pay it freely, giving up the tribute to One who has loved and given Himself for us.

How would we not want to do that openly and joyfully?

Mr. Crouch had the right idea. We, who are made in His image and have His love written indelibly in our hearts, give our tribute.

Our tribute.

What we owe. Nothing more, nor less.

To God be the glory!

Praise God from Whom all blessings flow.
Praise Him, all creatures here below.
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!
(Thomas Ken ~ Anglican bishop ~1637-1711)

…and he asked them, “Whose image is this? And whose inscription?”
“Caesar’s,” they replied.
Then he said to them, “So give back to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”
(Matthew 22:20-21 ~ NIV)

How can I say thanks for the things
You have done for me?
Things so undeserved yet you gave
To prove your love for me
The voices of a million angels
Could not express my gratitude
All that I am, and ever hope to be
I owe it all to thee.
(from My Tribute ~ Andrae Crouch ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1942-2015)

The Artist

March 4, 2016March 4, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Perhaps it’s time we yield the brush back to its proper master, the genuine Artist. From blank page to finished work of art, He has never wavered in the vision and scope of the entire composition.

The Apostle said it best when he wrote, “I am confident of this one thing. He who began the good work in you will carry it through to completion.”

The spatters of paint and mismatched colors will one day coalesce into a masterpiece so fine all the pain and sorrow will fade into nothingness.

Trust the Artist.

His eye sees the completed canvas. And, it’s beautiful.

Really.

Beautiful.

God is the one who began this good work in you, and I am certain that he won’t stop before it is complete on the day that Christ Jesus returns.
(Philippians 1:6 ~ CEV)

Where’s My Stetson?

March 2, 2016March 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

C’mon Bermuda! Move on up to the gate, now!

The farmer, his wrinkled visage aged well beyond his years, gave the old cow a gentle slap on the flank and she immediately acquiesced, edging forward six inches to allow the slats to close around her muscular neck. The sweet-natured Holstein knew she would find food in the trough on the other side of the wooden stall anyway, so she didn’t mind expending the effort of shifting a few inches.

While Bermuda (named for the black coloration that extended down just below the knees on her front legs) settled in for a snack, the gnarled hands of the middle-aged farmer deftly pulled down the cups which would attach to her milk-filled udder and manipulated them into place.

The phhhht-phhhht-phhhht of the gentle vacuum started and then it was on to the next donor.

Uncle JoJo had run this farm for more years than he wanted to talk about, having learned the trade from his father before him. As he ran the milker and moved the gentle cows through the barn, his son worked the cows who were awaiting their turn.

Outside the barn, the beasts weren’t quite as docile.

Hey, Cutter! Get back there!

Jody, with his long, curly shock of hair flying about his sweaty face, wasn’t exactly docile either. His job was to keep the cows in the yard, awaiting their turn in the barn. They had been happy enough to make their way to the yard from the fields, but patience wasn’t their best attribute.

I noticed though, that the animals seemed to know where they should be, and were, for the most part, happy to stay in a fairly well-defined line. All of them, that is, except Cutter, named for obvious reasons.

She kept moving from her place and shoving in between other cows, who didn’t take kindly to the intrusion.

“What’s going on?” I asked Jody.

The big-boned, good-natured fellow laughed.

“These ladies all know their place. Except for Cutter. She’ll learn—someday.”

The thought hit me instantly.

“What? They stand in the same order all the time?”

He chuckled again. “Of course they do. Everyday as we call them in from the field, no matter where they are when we call, you can see them getting into line as they come. By the time they get to the barn door, they’re in the same order as they’ve always been. Young Cutter there—she’s new to the herd and just hasn’t found her place in line yet. Like I said, she’ll learn.”

That was nearly forty years ago.

I thought of Uncle JoJo’s cows again recently, though. I was on my way to Los Angeles when the memory hit me. Sitting in an airport in Houston, I watched in amazement as the dumb animals lined up outside the barn door to await the farmer’s invitation into the familiar building.

No. That’s not what I meant to say!

What I intended to say was that I watched sixty human beings as they followed the instructions of a disembodied voice.

Please line up in the order of the number on your boarding pass. Numbers one through thirty on the right, and thirty-one through sixty on the left. Five people between poles, please.

The human cattle dutifully lined up, finding their places as they approached the numbered poles. Once they were in place, they waited quietly for further instructions. Yes, there was a Cutter or two in the crowd, but they soon learned where their place was and dutifully stood there.

When the plane was ready, the voice once again gave the instruction for each group to move forward. They did so with such obeisance that I couldn’t get the image of the old cows out of my head.

It was all very funny until my flight was called and the voice without a body started giving instruction to the new herd, of which I was a part. I almost laughed again as I considered what the reaction would be if one of the attendants had appeared with an electric cattle prod to keep the cutters in line.

Months have passed and I’ve had a little time to consider the implication of that mental picture.

The cattle entering that barn all those years ago had a reward in mind. They were going to be fed. The inconvenience of waiting and of being hooked up to the vacuum line was of no consequence to them.

They got what they wanted and were content.

I, along with the other humans who awaited the flight, also had a goal in mind. Besides arriving at our destination, we wanted to save money and were willing to give up a little freedom to keep the price of our ticket down.

There are airlines which do not herd their passengers through the loading process, but allow them to board as they come and to sit in an assigned seat. I was willing to give up that luxury for the reward of saving a few hard-earned dollars.

I’m still debating if the reward justifies the humiliation.

My assumption is that the next time I travel, I’ll save the money again. Some habits are just hard to break.

The sad thing is that I see parallels all about me.

Folks hold paper numbers in their hands as they sit in the Driver’s License Bureau, awaiting the time when the rude person behind the desk will call that number.

When we go out to eat at many restaurants, we are given buzzers which vibrate and flash, indicating our turn to sit and masticate has finally arrived.

At amusement parks, we actually go through the same sort of chute system used by sale barns to guide the livestock to auction.

Our lives are—day in and day out—lived as domesticated stock, standing where we are told until allowed to move closer to the goal.

Well, a lot of us live that way.

As time goes by, I’m starting to take notice of a few folks who refuse to live by the herd rules.

Back in that airport, as I watched the people line up for the flight before mine, I noticed a blue-jean clad fellow sitting off to the side with a Stetson hat on the seat beside him. He had a smile on his face as he stretched out, arms behind his head and legs pushed out as far in front of him as they would go, his shiny cowboy boots pointing into the air.

The noisy, grumpy people stood waiting, then filed through their sequences of sixties, one at a time, as he relaxed there.

After the line had disappeared down the jet-way and the hubbub had died down, he stood up, set the cowboy hat atop his head and strode leisurely to the gate.

In my imagination, I can hear the Texas drawl as he replies, in answer to the obvious questions.

Well shore, I had a number. But there wasn’t no reason to stand there waitin’ when a body could be sittin’. Didn’t figger ya’ll would be leavin’ without me anyhow.

I’m not sure that’s how he would have talked, but I’m pretty sure that cowboy knew a herd when he saw one.

He wasn’t part of any herd.

We’re not intended to run with a herd.

We are, each and every one of us, designed as individuals.

Our Creator made me and He made you to be peculiar—unique.

King David assures us that all of the days ordained for us were written in His book before even one of them dawned. (Psalm 139:16)

I’m confident we weren’t made to be part of the herd. And, knowing that, it may be time to break out of the corral we’ve allowed ourselves to be put into.

Maybe Cutter had the right idea after all.

And, I’m not sure I know how to break out of the mold, but I do like the way the cowboy thinks.

Now, if I could just find my Stetson.

For You formed my inward parts;
You wove me in my mother’s womb.
I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well.
(Psalm 139:13-14 ~ NASB)

Good judgment comes from experience and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.
(Cowboy logic)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Month: March 2016

Side By Side

Stand and Wait

Paying Taxes

The Artist

Where’s My Stetson?