Month: December 2018

Between

~ Paul Phillips ~ 9 Comments

On the mezzanine above my shop, I sit waiting for words. My head is inches below the corrugated metal roof—all that stands between me, the howling wind, and the driving rain tonight.

For a few moments earlier this evening, I ventured out into the weather. With an umbrella above my head, I took care of a necessary task before rushing back inside. My socks are still wet from the torrent that overflowed my shoes as I crossed the driveway. My arms still feel the pull of the umbrella as the updraft threatened to lift it (and possibly me), Mary Poppins-like into the atmosphere.

I’m happy to be where I’m safe. And, where I’m warm. The thing is, I have no guarantee of either. None of us do.

This mezzanine below me is not as sturdy as I’d like. Oh, I’m sure the structure would be up to the minimum building standards, but when I jump up and down, the floor bounces. The light fixtures hanging below me rattle and jingle. Something tells me perhaps I shouldn’t jump up and down.

I suppose it’s like the fellow who complained to his doctor of the pain in his finger. When the doctor asked when the finger hurt, the fellow bent the finger backward and said, “When I do that.”

The doctor replied, “Well, don’t do that.”

I’ll stop jumping up and down.

Still, I don’t feel quite safe up here sometimes, between the floor that bounces and the ceiling with pounding rain and howling winds assailing it from above. I wonder if I should go downstairs to the solid concrete floor until the storm has blown itself out.

Between. 

It’s not all that comfortable a place to be. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel all that safe a place, either. And yet, it’s where we spend most of our lives.

This week, the one between our annual celebration of the birth of Jesus and the beginning of the new calendar year always seems like between to me. The year is effectively over and yet, there is a week of days to live while we wait. For the new year, we wait.

Between.

I’ve spent some extremely uncomfortable days at the end of a year or two. Three years ago this week, my siblings and I were stuck between the last century and the future as we said goodbye to our childhood home. Two years ago, I waited with trepidation and even a little anger for the music store the Lovely Lady and I had poured our hearts into for all of our married lives to wind down to an untimely end.

Between isn’t comfortable.

Still, it is where we live if we are followers of Christ.

What we once thought secure—what we once deemed prudent—has been revealed to be the shakiest of structures imaginable. Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Still, we have not yet arrived in our destination.

Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Share on X

Between, we venture, carried on the wings of eagles and, curiously, sheltered under them, as well. (Psalm 91: 1-4)

On His path, we find safety; in His shelter, rest.

Between.

Looking back, there is nothing to convince us to return, no matter how solid—how safe—it appears.

Our home is up ahead. Up. Ahead.

From here, we look up there—up ahead—and know we are safe in His hands. Safe, on the way to safety.

Let the wind howl and the rain blow!

We’re not home yet, but you can almost see the light shining out the windows from here.

 

 

This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now…Come further up, come further in!
(from The Last Battle ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

 

I want to live above the world,
Though Satan’s darts at me are hurled;
For faith has caught the joyful sound,
The song of saints on higher ground.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright;
But still I’ll pray till heav’n I’ve found,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”
(from Higher Ground ~ Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American preacher/songwriter ~ 1856-1922)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

 

What is This Thing?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Not to seem like a Scrooge, but something’s bugging me.  Really.

In less than a week, it will all be over again for a year.  Parties. Pageants. Concerts. Shopping.  All done.

The post-holiday depression will soon have many folks in its grip.  It’s a real thing.  You could look it up.  Or, Google it.  Whatever.  We get used to the people, the good cheer, the busy-ness.  And then, just like that, life has us again.  It’s grip, tenacious and oppressive, threatens to choke the joy from our daily journey.

We crave the extraordinary, the fresh, the exciting.  Life after Christmas seems to offer less.

Less.

I hear the voice in my head.  I have written of it before.  Most readers will have heard it themselves, at one time or another.

“Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”

Linus, his ever-present blanket dragging the floor behind him, is walking to center-stage and calling out, “Lights, please.”

Word for word, he quotes Luke’s version of the angel’s announcement to the shepherds.  (Luke 2:8-14) Ending with on earth peace, goodwill to man, he retrieves his blanket (tossed aside during his monologue) and exits, stage left.

Spectacular! 

Angels!  Lights! Music!

That’s what I’m talking about!

Wait.  It is what I’m talking about, isn’t it? 

Perhaps we should move on a bit.  I’m not absolutely sure Linus had enough time in his moment under the lights to give us the whole picture.

You see, the shepherds got together and actually went to see the thing themselves.  This thing.  That’s what they called it.  This thing.  It’s all there in the verses that follow.  (Luke 2:15-20)

The excitement they felt as they went was palpable; they had to see with their own eyes what had been described to them in such an extraordinary fashion.  I would too, after a display such as that in the heavens overhead.

They got to the place they had been directed to and found—a baby.  A normal newborn baby with an exhausted mother and her worried husband-to-be.

It is what they were told to look for, but the Savior of the world?  This baby, squalling and wrinkled, red from the trauma of childbirth, the long-awaited Messiah?

But, it was exactly what the angel had described—exactly as they had been told.  They went on their way rejoicing.

But, I want to know the rest of the story.

The next day, did they awake and wonder about this whole thing? The Savior thing?  The Messiah thing?

What did they do the day after that?  And, the day after that?

Two or three years later, when the child’s parents had to flee with Him to Egypt, did they hear about it and wonder?  Twelve years later, were they still paying attention at Passover when the boy taught the Rabbis in the temple?  Did one of them taste the wine that had been water in Cana, or see the boats foundering under the weight of the fish in the Sea of Galilea?

Did they ever again feel the awe and joy in their lifetimes?  Ever?

Or, did they feel the let-down of disappointment, of expectations unmet?  They had felt the surge of emotion, of certainty that better things were to come. Did they live out their days in disillusionment and doubt?

And again, perhaps I’m focusing on the wrong thing.  I tend to do that, you know.  The red-headed lady who raised me could have told you that.

You just can’t see the forest for the trees, can you?

Details get in the way; peripherals seem to jump into the spotlight.  It’s what we do with our celebration, isn’t it?  Every year. 

Trees.  When the forest is spread out before us in plain sight.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible.  He wants us to see the thing.  This thing.

Unto you is born a Savior.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible. He wants us to see the thing. This thing. Unto you is born a Savior. Share on X

The spectacular thing?  He came as a baby.  Not a king.  Not a conquering hero.  He came as a crying, stinking, weak baby.

The incredible thing?  He came for us.  You.  Me.

Did I say life after Christmas offers less?  I did, didn’t I?  That’s not what I meant to say.  Without Christmas, the coming of a Savior—the thing the shepherds trooped to Bethlehem to see—there is no life. Well, not real life, the kind that matters in the end—in eternity.

The tidings of great joy had nothing to do with the frightening messengers.  It had nothing to do with the star-gazing magi who would wander into the narrative later.  It certainly has nothing to do with our parties and tinsel and gaudy lights today.

This thing is a baby lying in a manger—our Great God come down to live, and walk, and teach us.  Not in a flash of light and joyful celebration, this thing would take another thirty-three years to be fulfilled.  And still, there would be no flash of light.  In fact, it would become dark at midday as He died for us.

I’m trying to look for the thing this year.  Not presents.  Not music.  Not joyous fellowship.

This thing.

Savior.  King. Hero.

Baby sent from God.

 

 

 

Once in our world, a stable had something in it that was bigger than our world.
(C.S. Lewis ~ English author/theologian ~ 1898-1963)

 

And the angel said unto them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”
(Luke 2:10,11 ~ KJV)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Standing Out

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was, I want to believe, a profound moment of joy in the season of the same.

I want to believe that.  But, I’m the guy who looks on events and thinks he sees the truth when what’s really happening in the secret places is entirely the opposite.  I look at the image in the mirror and see a mature sixty-something man who is comfortable in his skin, but all it takes is two seconds of looking into the depths of my heart and the nerdy, twitchy fifteen-year-old is staring at me again through the wild eyes of terror.

Still, it must have been a profound moment. It must have been.

We’ll see.  Others will judge.

Sunday morning.  This confident, mature man had played the instrumental prelude with the Lovely Lady and then taken his place on the stage to sing with the worship team.  It was the second run-through, having already gone through it all in the early service that morning.  There was no need to stay in the sanctuary for a sermon he’d already listened to, so out into the foyer he went after the last song of the set.

Oh, yes!  I had really enjoyed the group who sang during the offertory during the first service, so I headed back in for another quick listen.  Standing at the back entrance, as the ushers quietly made their way through the crowd, I was not disappointed the second time, either.

The modern setting of Longfellow’s I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day was very well done.  The singers and instrumentalists were practiced and competent.  Very nice.

There was a movement to my left and in front of me a few rows.  I glanced over, watching the young man rise to his feet.  Surrounded by folks sitting comfortably, he stood up straight and, moved by the music and the text, raised his hands and his face to the ceiling and he worshipped.

As the folks on stage sang of peace on earth, the teen-aged boy stood in the crowd all alone.  As the rest of the people present sat watching and listening, he participated.

What a brave young man.  I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t agree.  He was oblivious of the people around him; he wasn’t standing for them. Still, I never would have had the courage.  For all of my inability to fit in in other ways as a teenager, I never had what it took to stand up while they sat down.  I was the nerdy, twitchy fifteen-year-old staring at you through the wild eyes of terror, remember?

I always just melted into the crowd.  Always.

Perhaps, I’m making more of the event than I should.  And yet, I know I was moved.  Tears filled my eyes as the young man worshipped the Prince of Peace.

Peace on Earth.

Oh.  I forgot to include one detail.  It seems important to me, too.

I watched the boy standing alone, arms spread wide and wiped the tears.  Then, I noticed one more person in the crowd, a couple of rows behind the boy.  He is a friend of mine, the father of children of his own.  I’m sure it was just my imagination, but I may have seen his son tugging at his shirt tail in embarrassment as he too stood to his feet.

He didn’t raise his arms, nor did he look to the ceiling.  He just stood respectfully.  That was all.

Then, when the song was over, the two fellows simply sat down.

I haven’t asked my friend why he stood.  I may not ask him.  It’s probably none of my business. But then, that never stopped me before.

Sometimes, we stand simply to let someone know they’re not alone.  And, when one has had the courage to stand out, it’s no small thing to know someone has your back.

After all, Moses had Aaron.  Aaron even helped Moses hold his tired arms up on one occasion when time needed to stand still.

Elijah had Elisha to carry his coat. David had Jonathan to plead with Saul for him. Paul had Silas to sing with him in jail.

I think I could carry the harmony—if I could get up the courage to go to jail with someone.

In my mind’s eye, I see those two fellows standing in church the other morning and a thought comes to me:  It is a profound act of worship to support those who stand by themselves in faithfulness.

Paul, the apostle formerly known as Saul, said it this way: Love others—genuinely love them. Take delight in honoring each other. (Romans 12:10)

Sometimes, it’s important to be the one who stands with the guy who stands out in a crowd.

Sometimes, it's important to be the one who stands with the guy who stands out in a crowd. Share on X

And sometimes, it’s just as important to be the one who sits with the guy who’s sitting down when the rest of the crowd is standing. 

That is so because we are called to stand with others who aren’t all that faithful, too.  We’re even called to walk on the road with those who take advantage of us and mistreat us, as well. (Matthew 5:38-48)

Enemies, we call them.  He called them, simply, neighbors. We will stand, and sit, and walk with them if we are to follow Him at all.

The One we call Prince of Peace was accused of being a friend of sinners.  He was both. 

Peace on earth comes when we love others enough to stand up with them.  Or sit down with them.

And the bells are ringing.

Peace on Earth.

 

 

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
     And wild and sweet
     The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
(from Christmas Bells ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~ American Poet ~ 1807-1882)

 

 

Oh Jesus, friend of sinners
Open our eyes to the world at the end of our pointing fingers
Let our hearts be led by mercy
Help us reach with open hearts and open doors
Oh Jesus, friend of sinners, break our hearts for what breaks yours
(from Jesus, Friend of Sinners ~ Mark Hall/Matthew West ~ Jesus, Friend of Sinners lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Essential Music Publishing, Capitol Christian Music Group)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Waiting For Hope

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Waiting.  It’s not my strongest ability.  It’s not even close to the top ten.

You’d think it should be.

For most of us, it is one of the activities in which we have the most experience.  Hours.  And hours.  Waiting.

She said she needed to go see the Social Security folks.  And, would I go with her?  I agreed, so earlier this week, we set out for our destination.

We expected a really long wait.  The full waiting room (don’t you just love that name?) didn’t allay our fears in any way.  Rows and rows of folks.  All waiting.

Everyone has been there.  No, not necessarily at the Social Security office.  I mean waiting.  We’ve all been there.  At the doctor’s.  The hospital.  The courthouse.  The DMV.

I love how the waiting rooms are full of lively conversations, laughter, and joy.  Oh, wait.  They’re not, are they?

Silence.  Dread.  Expectation of failure.  These are the emotions of the waiting room.

I sat, watching (in silence) the same people walk one by one out the door of the government office the other day.  Not one was crying.  Most were even smiling.

Still, the faces of those waiting were grim, with a host of feelings written in their eyes, on their mouths.  Impatience.  Disgust. Worry.

My companion and I sat, mostly in silence as well, our own emotions written to be read by other observers, I’m sure.  We sat and awaited the adventure before us—the adventure of the interview.

Yes.  I did say that. Adventure.  What is to come.  Anticipation.

They do come from the same place, you know—adventure & Advent.

The time before, when we wait.  Waiting, in hope or in dread.

This time of year is tricky.  With the rest of the world, we await the coming joyous event.

I look around me and I see a lot of emotions.  Somehow, folks don’t all seem joyous.  Many are downright sad.  Others seem disillusioned, almost bitter.

Somehow, even the folks who have been all happy-clappy through this season in years past seem a bit more sober.  Introspective, even.

I wonder.

Maybe I was the happy-clappy one.  The one who couldn’t see through my own giddy expectation to notice others weren’t enjoying the waiting.  Perhaps I, who awaited the coming day with wonder, couldn’t see that others just sat wondering when it would all be over.

I see them now.  

Sometimes, I am them.

We drove along this evening, the Lovely Lady and I.  It seemed they filled my vision, the Christmas lights spelling out the word HOPE in foot-high letters on the fence. 

She didn’t see them.  I motioned in the general direction and still, she didn’t see them.  Frustrated, I stabbed my finger straight at them and her eyes followed it across the field ahead.

Oh!  Now I see it!

I intended to take a photograph later, but I forgot.  It was well past midnight again when I wandered over that way.  This time I couldn’t see the letters.  Pulling my light jacket tight against the frigid north wind, I walked right up to the fence, a quarter of a mile away.  Then I saw that they were still there, just not lit up.  In the middle of the cold, dark night, they were still there.  Even though I couldn’t see them.

The letters are still there.  They’ll shine again tomorrow. 

They will.

HOPE. 

In letters that reached to the sky, He wrote it.  Some don’t see.  Some can’t see. Not without help.

HOPE. In letters that reached to the sky, He wrote it. Some don’t see. Some can’t see. Not without our help. Share on X

While we’re waiting, perhaps we could talk amongst ourselves.  It’s time to point to hope.  To talk about hope.  To live in hope.

We do.  We live in hope.  We live there.

The world is waiting in the dark night. (Isaiah 9:2)

Waiting for hope.

Hope will shine bright.

It’s time to point the way.  Time to speak up in this waiting room.  Time to walk out in joy and wonder.

While the world waits.

Hope will shine.

 

Hope looks forward to the Glory to come; in the weary interval of waiting, the Spirit supports our poor hearts and keeps grace alive within us.
(A.W. Pink ~ 1886-1952 ~ English theologian)

 

The people who sat in darkness
    have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
    a light has shined.
(Matthew 4:16 ~ NLT ~ New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 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. 2018. All Rights Reserved.