Month: December 2017

Climb It

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Is that it?  I expected more.

There have been any number of nights over the last couple of weeks when I’ve sat and wondered.  Surely, I missed something.

I have written every Christmas season for the last few years about the Candlelight Service at the local university.  I’ve been privileged to play my horn in the brass prelude for the beautiful service several decades now.

A few years ago, I said the evening never fails to overwhelm, to lay my heart open before the Creator of the universe.  I never expected less.

I think it was less this year.

Oh, it wasn’t the fault of any of the performers or of the conductor.  The performances were wonderful.  Skillful even.  Well-prepared and talented, there was no fault to be found with any of the participants.

Still,  the big moment never came.  Three nights, I did my part and returned to my seat to listen to the end. 

It was nice.  Christmas-y.

But, there were no tears.  No ecstasy.  No wow! moments.

I did notice that, without it being planned, the first song—and the last—from the stage each night were the same song.  It wasn’t all that wonderful—just odd.

Go Tell It On The Mountain.

Our brass group played it to start the evening—a nice catchy version of the old spiritual.  It was fun.

The main choir sang a version of the song to finish their stage performance, upbeat and catchy as well.  It was fun.

I wasn’t moved by either version.  Not this year.

I’ve spent the year trudging along.  Manual labor and too many steps—every day. 

Somehow, after all the aching muscles and sore feet, I was looking forward to the euphoria of being carried away.  Kind of like a Calgon moment, if you know what I mean.

I did have the same thought in my head as I left each night.  I wondered if there was a reason the music on stage started and ended with the instructions to go and tell it on some mountain.  

I’ve said it at Christmas before:  There are no accidents.

Sometimes, I have to have things pounded into my thick skull.  I’m not the brightest crayon in the box, you know.

I packed up my horn the last night of the program and headed out into the cold to walk the few blocks home.  I was disappointed.

Nothing.  There were no visions, no spine-tingling solos, no ancient conductors who reminded me of the original Conductor.  Just a catchy version of an old spiritual.  A kid’s song, if you will.

It got worse.  I walked home in the cold and had the defining thought for the whole affair.  I even had Siri write a note for me on my phone as I walked.

To tell it on the mountain, one has to first climb the mountain.

Well.  There’s a bit of encouragement.  I’m getting old.  I’m already tired.  And, now I’ve got to climb another mountain.  And, probably another one after that.

Hmmm.  Does it seem as if I’m complaining?  It does, doesn’t it?  Perhaps, I am.

I’ve thought about this for awhile and I want a chance to defend myself.  I want to excuse my churlishness, my complaining.

Haven’t I done enough?

Somehow though, I’m remembering that He climbed a mountain or two in His time on earth.  Walking absolutely everywhere He went, He carried the good news, the gospel, to all who needed to hear—and experience—it for themselves.

He climbed the mountain in Samaria to sit by Jacob’s well and give living water to the woman there.  (John 4:4-26)

He sat on the mount and pronounced blessings to those who would listen to and heed His words.  From that mountain, He gave them, in essence, the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. (Matthew 5-7)

He went one day with a few of his followers to the top of another mountain and somehow met with a couple of men from history.  (Mark 9:2-8)

And then, there was that day He plodded, bloodied and beaten, to the top of the hill where He would die for the sins of the whole world.  (John 19:17-18)

This was a mountain He had been climbing since before the beginning of time.  From the foundation of the earth, He was ordained to climb to the top of that hill and be raised high above it.

It is the mountain He was born to climb.

This Baby we celebrate, with all our pageants and all our concerts—all our lights and all our decorations, was born to climb that mountain and declare good news.  To all people.

I suppose I might be able to climb another hill or two.

I don’t know how beautiful my feet are, but the prophet Isaiah suggested they would be by the time the task is completed.

To tell it on the mountain, one has to first climb the mountain.

To tell it on the mountain, one has to first climb the mountain. Share on X

He did.  The Baby, born in a stable.  The Man, carrying living water.  The Lamb, taking away the sins of the world. 

He did.

Time for me to start climbing again.

You coming with?

 

 

How beautiful on the mountains
    are the feet of the messenger who brings good news,
the good news of peace and salvation,
    the news that the God of Israel reigns!
(Isaiah 52:7 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

Down in a lowly stable 
the humble Christ was born, 
and God sent us salvation 
that blessed Christmas morn.

Go, tell it on the mountain, 
over the hills and everywhere;
go, tell it on the mountain 
that Jesus Christ is born.
(Go Tell It On The Mountain ~ American spiritual ~ adapted by John W Work ~ Educator and historian)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Please Don’t Dog Ear The Pages

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

“Oh, yeah.  Tell him I’d like to have a new copy of Watership Down.  I can’t read the one I have now.”

My son, kind man that he is, wants to buy his father a gift for Christmas, even though I’ve said many times that I need nothing.  The Lovely Lady knows better and sends him ideas by text—secretly, she thinks.

We were riding toward home this evening, after a trip to a neighboring town, and my brain jumped to the thought.  As I usually do, I spoke without considering the consequences.

Well, I guess they will not be, strictly speaking, consequences. However, the Lovely Lady now has a new aberration to consider in her husband’s character, thanks to my premature announcement.  (I’m not sure it’s well-advised to give her too many of these points of oddness to think about at one time.)

She probably didn’t expect me to see the eye-roll that preceded her next question.  I suppose I didn’t really see it as much as I felt it.

What’s wrong with the copy on the bookshelf?  It looks perfectly legible to me.

She knew the answer.  She just wanted to hear it from me.

I fell in love with the story many years ago, back when I was young and full of dreams.  I still enjoy reading through it, now that I’m old and full of dreams.  The only problem is, I gave away my old, worn paperback copy back a ways. 

I thought I wouldn’t need it anymore.

We had been in a favorite book shop one afternoon, looking for bargains, when I saw it.  No, I saw IT.

IT was a beautiful hardback, with the dust jacket intact—paper, covered with clear plastic—and crisp, clean pages.  The price, written inside the back cover in pencil was exorbitant, ten times what I would normally pay for a good hardback—fifty times what I’d pay for a decent paperback.

We couldn’t afford it. 

We bought it anyway.

We walked out of the little book store with a near-mint First American Edition of the book.  I would never need to thumb through that old, tattered paperback again.  Never.

The truth of the matter is, I’ve never read the beautiful hardback.  Never.

I never will.  The book’s value is in its rarity, its exclusivity, its pristine condition.

The thing is, when I read, I live.  I eat.  Chocolate and grease stains attest to the fact.  I drink coffee or juice—suitable evidence can be provided.

I carry my books out to the bench in the back yard and, if interrupted rigorously enough, lay them down to scratch the ears of my dogs or play a game of fetch with them. 

I’ve always been told books are your friends, meaning I should handle them with kid gloves, but I don’t treat my friends that way.  I live life with them. 

I leave my mark on them and they leave their mark on me. 

Not so with this hardback.  It may be the worst fifty dollars I ever spent.  I can’t read it, nor can I sell it.  You don’t sell your friends  (unless your name is Judas).

She understands me, the Lovely Lady.  She just likes to make sure I know that, once in a while.

I think she sent a message to our son as we rode.  I don’t know for sure.  My mind was far away.  Even farther away than Watership Down.

Have you ever wondered?  Many do.  I can’t understand how one wouldn’t.

Why did the Savior of the world have to come like this?  Why a baby, born in a stable?  Why did smelly shepherds have to come, and weird foreigners have to follow a strange star?

Why did He live, wandering the land of His birth, homeless and un-celebrated? 

Why did He die a criminal’s death, hanging in shame on a crude cross of wood?

I would have had Him come as a triumphant conqueror, dressed in white and ruling from His palace, far above the smells and cries and demands of the filthy, backward people who walked the roads and worked in the marketplace.

I would have had. . .

Oh.

He came to be a friend to sinners, didn’t He?   

Like any friend, He would leave His mark on us.

And, we would leave our mark on Him.

He would leave His mark on us and we would leave our mark on Him. Share on X

No pristine first edition, He.  Our very own volume, well-worn and dog-eared, to learn from firsthand.

The Word became flesh.  Living with us. (John 1:14)

His life an open book, one might say.

Maybe it’s time to read the book again.

I hope no one will mind if I dog ear a page or two.

                               

 

I wonder as I wander, out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die
For poor ornery people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander, out under the sky.
(I Wonder As I Wander ~ John Jacob Niles ~ © 1945 by G. Schirmer, Inc. All rights reserved.  Used by permission.)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

What He Said

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Well?  What is it?  Desert, or Babylon?

The preacher sat across from me, nursing the same cup of coffee he had purchased over an hour before.  I suppose one might forget the cup in front of him if the conversation was interesting enough.

Still, he wanted an answer to his question.  I didn’t have one.  Not then.

I think I do now.  Maybe I should let him know.  Oh, let him wait.  Our next coffee morning is sure to find us sparring a bit—verbally, I mean—and we’ll discuss it again.

I had mentioned that it was a little hard to pick up my old writing habits in a new place, somewhat unfamiliar to me, and then I referenced the Psalm which wonders how it would be possible to sing the Lord’s song in a strange place.  The people of Judah had been taken into captivity in Babylon and, being asked to sing their familiar praise songs there by the river in that foreign place, declined, breaking down and weeping instead.  (Psalm 137:1-4)

I have been feeling sorry for myself for a few months.  I think perhaps my nobody-loves-me-everybody-hates-me-I’m-going-to-go-to-the-garden-and-eat-worms lament was getting tiresome, so the preacher decided to shut me up about it.

Well?  What if you’re really in the wilderness on your way to the Promised Land instead of in captivity in Babylon?

We bantered about it for a few minutes more and I left—headed back to Babylon—or the desert—whichever.

And yet, like a Labrador puppy with a new toy (or, more likely, an old stick), my mind kept worrying at the question.

Babylon?

Desert?

Oh, what was the difference?  Neither was desirable.  I didn’t want to be in either place.

No. Wait.

Babylon was a place of punishment—a place to go and either die or repent.

The desert, on the other hand, was simply a part of the journey to a country dreamed of for centuries.  A reward, if you will.

Funny.  They complained in both circumstances.

Me, too.

Why is that?  Why do we complain about the process when we know—absolutely know—what’s coming is glorious?

I understand the unhappy folks in Babylon.  They have nothing to look forward to, only dimming memories to hold in their hearts.  It would be nearly impossible to sing their joyous tunes there.

I’m not being punished.

I’ve known, for many years now, I will never arrive at my goal here in this world.  Well, I say “I’ve known”, but I guess I never really believed it.  At least, I don’t live like I believe it.

It’s easy to become complacent, isn’t it?  To begin to be satisfied with less.  Less than what we’ve envisioned.  Less than what has been promised us.

Less.

Because, less is easier.

And the angel of the Lord told young Mary she would have a child and He would be the Son of the Most High—a King who would rule forever.  (Luke 1:30-33)

And Mary said, I’ll take that.  What you said, I’ll take that.  (Luke 1:38)

The angel didn’t explain about the stable.  He didn’t describe the terrifying flight to a foreign country to save the young boy’s life.  Nothing at all was said about the boy wandering off to the temple.

I didn’t read anything about that horrible, horrible day when the Roman soldiers would torture and kill him right before her eyes.

Gabriel, that bright messenger, never told her that would happen.  Not a whisper.

But, she had a promise.  And, she accepted the promise.

Funny.  I also don’t remember ever reading anything about Mary wanting out of the deal.  Ever.

She simply tucked the memories and confirmation away in her heart and she kept up her part of the bargain.  Through the pain and the heart-numbing sorrow, she did her part.

Somehow, I think I may have the wrong things tucked away in my heart.  Somewhere along the way, I’ve forgotten the original deal.

This isn’t the place the story is going to finish.

This isn't the place the story is going to finish. Share on X

Just as the story of Mary’s Baby never ended on that horrible hill, ours won’t be done until our Creator says it is.

Every step—every one—brings us closer to the place of joy and peace He’s promised.

And, along the way, we enjoy His provision.  In the midst of desolation and hardship, He feeds our spirits and sustains us.

The deal stands.

I’ll keep walking.

Milk and honey are still up ahead.

Through the desert.

 

 

I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams…
(from The Little Prince ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ~ 1900-1944)

 

The Israelites called the food manna. It was white like coriander seed, and it tasted like honey wafers.
(Exodus 16:31 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.