The mind is a funny thing.

One minute you’re sitting calmly, living in the present, enjoying God’s blessings, and the next, you’re thirty years in the past.  Not only remembering conversations, but feeling the same emotions you felt in the moment—all those years ago!

Many of my friends know that, with the help of my kids and grandkids, we built an outside deck in the last few months.  It’s a lovely space, leaving scope for the imagination, as Anne Shirley would have said.  (You folks who read about Anne with an “e” as a child will remember.)

We built the deck from reclaimed lumber, having torn down a much larger deck at a neighbor’s house (at her request, of course!) and salvaged the still-usable boards.

The labor was free.  Well, except for a few meals, prepared by the Lovely Lady and eaten around our old dining table, it was free.  And, now that I consider, even those worked out to my advantage.  What a joy, to achieve a shared goal with one’s extended family!

It is, as I mentioned, a lovely space.

A sister-in-law gave us wicker furniture which she no longer used.  Our sweet neighbor snuck in a couple of pillows while we were at church one morning.  Our generous-hearted son and his lovely wife even donated a beautiful fire pit, which we’ve enjoyed together several times.

I’ve spent many hours there lately, my mind and heart full, considering our Father’s blessings as I look out to the old barn behind us, past the overgrown fence, with its honeysuckle and poison-ivy vines intertwined.

And yes, just like the intermingling of beauty and danger those vines remind me of, my mind has often gone to the darker places as I’ve meditated on the bright, lovely ones.

Such was the case when, on this day, the whole process came to a screeching halt as the words of the old man came to my mind.

We were leaning against the bed of his old beat-up truck in the parking lot in front of my music store.  I had just pointed out my latest purchase, a twelve-year-old Chevy conversion van.  It was the perfect vehicle for my growing family.  The paint was a little faded and it had lots of miles on the odometer, but I was so proud of it.

I might have laid it on a little thick.  The shag carpet could have gone to my head.  Or, was it the dark maroon crushed-velvet upholstery that was to blame?

I really don’t remember, but it could have sounded a little boastful.  A little.

Soon, he had heard enough.

“You’re nothing but a plutocrat, Paul!”  The old man was blunt and opinionated, yet I was surprised. I never expected to be the target of his sarcasm.

And truthfully, I didn’t know exactly what a plutocrat was, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment.  Besides, I was sure I wasn’t that!

Whatever it was, I wasn’t that!

I told him so, lamely.  He laughed and drove out of the parking lot. I was offended.

I know what a plutocrat is now.  Funny thing;  I’m still offended.

A plutocrat is a person whose power is derived from their wealth.  The title is most often used to describe politicians, people who achieve status and authority because they are rich.

I’m not.

Rich.  Or powerful.

How is it that those words, spoken in jest, reach out over the decades to rile me up again?

Perhaps, there was a grain of truth in the accusation.  We were standing next to his old beater of a pickup truck, while I extolled the advantages of my plush, customized van.

I may have been proud of my purchase.  He may have taken it as an indirect slight. A putdown, even.

Those of us who are not politicians have a different type of power.  Don’t tell me we don’t.

We use our advantages, however slight, to pull ahead of our peers.  We look down on them from our privileged position, all the while knowing that the next wind that blows may leave them in that elevated place and us standing beside the beater.

How easy it is to forget, as we sit on our lovely deck looking down on the passersby, that nothing we have is ours to keep.  Nothing.

Job knew it.  He, having lost all he had amassed over a lifetime, told his friends that he had come into this world naked and that he would depart into eternity in the same condition.

It’s not mine!

This deck is not mine.  The house beside the deck is not mine.  The clothes I wear are not mine. The property, the cars, the art, the musical instruments?  Not mine.

None of it.

How could I ever achieve any real power using borrowed wealth?

Pride is a falsehood.  It will ultimately lead to desolation.

The Preacher knew it—he who was considered the wisest of the wise.

“Everything is meaningless,” says the Teacher.  “Completely meaningless.” (Proverbs 1:2, NLT)

We work for more than wealth or power.  We must!

As it turns out, I have been a plutocrat.  Just not in the way the world around us understands it.  They’ve never recognized any power, nor any wealth in my hands.

Not much of what is really important will ever make sense to anyone else.  And that’s how it goes on this walk we’re taking with our Savior and each other.

We’re not the blind following the blind.  But, only because of His gift of sight.

I don’t always get it right.  Sometimes, I’m confused by what I’m supposed to do and why I don’t do that.

And still, He gives grace for the journey.  No matter how many times I have to be reminded.

You, too?

Maybe you could come by and sit on the deck sometime to talk about it with me.

It’s not mine anyway.  And, that’s okay with me.

We could even roast a marshmallow or two over the firepit and share some s’mores.

Now—does that sound like something a plutocrat would do?

 

It ain’t the heat; It’s the humility.
(Yogi Berra)

Before a downfall the heart is haughty, but humility comes before honor. (Proverbs 18:12, NIV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.