Home and Warm

January 4, 2017January 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I nearly tripped over her in the dark.

The coal-black Labrador was lopped across the back stoop when I stepped out a few moments ago. Her brother, almost as black, wasn’t far away.

It is twenty-four degrees outside. The wind-chill (if you believe in such things) is below twenty.

Their heated doghouse, with its cedar-mulch covered floor is thirty-five feet away.

Why in the world are they lying in this corner of the yard with the wind whistling around them?

I, being much more intelligent, scurried to take care of my errand and get back to my fire-side easy chair. Warm.

Home and warm.

But, I sit beside my warm fire and absently-mindedly pursue an elusive shadow through the dark and chilly pathways of my memory. Now, what was that?

Dogs lying outside the door waiting for their master. . .

Sleeping in the cold when they could have been home and warm. . .

David was a man after God’s own heart. Now, where did that come from? Ah! Now, I have it!

Uriah (who was a fighting man from a pagan tribe) refused to go home to his warm bed and his waiting wife. Uriah the Hittite waited outside the door of the king’s house—cold and sleepless. (2 Samuel 11:9-13)

But, honorable.

More honorable than the man who dwelled within, Uriah was certain that comfort was not his until all could live in comfort. He would wait until he had completed his task. An honorable man.

Almost like the dogs who lie outside my back door. Their allegiance is to their master. All they want is a word from his mouth and his hand gently scratching their chest.

It is enough. Payment in full for waiting in the cold.

I like being home and warm. You?

Stupid question, huh?

Comfort is what we want. But, we have no promise of comfort. Yet.

This world can be a cold place. Cold and dark.

Our destination is anything but those. If, as our lessons in science led us to believe, light produces heat, we’ll have no lack of either light or warmth there.

The One we serve is (unlike me—or King David) honorable far above our understanding. He won’t leave us out in the cold one moment past what is necessary.

One day—one day—the door will open and we’ll be home.

Home and warm.

One day—one day—the door will open and we'll be home. Home and warm. Share on X

And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light.
(Revelation 21:23 ~ NLT)

Turn up the lights. I don’t want to go home in the dark.
(O. Henry ~ American author ~ 1862-1910)

Leaving

December 23, 2016December 23, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He had tears in his eyes.

I thought about that for many of the eight hundred and fifty miles it took to make the journey from my childhood home to the place which has been home to me for all of the forty years since that day.

Exactly forty years ago today, I arrived in this little town. One of my old friends jogged my memory of what day it was as we reminisced together one recent evening.

The first day of winter in 1976 saw me packing every possession I owned in the little yellow Chevy and leaving my home in south Texas to make the one day journey north. To what, I had no idea.

He had tears in his eyes.

The man I can’t say I ever really knew as a child, even though I had spent nineteen years living in the same house with him. The man who had taught me so much about forgiveness and grace, but from whom I never heard the words, I’m sorry. The man who was unmoved by the maudlin; untouched by the mushy emotion of human drama, was crying as he said goodbye to me.

I don’t remember ever seeing tears in his eyes before. I’m sure now that he had cried in that time, but he was never one to show emotion to his children. He disciplined and rewarded us; he taught and rebuked us; he provided all the necessities and encouraged us to be self-sufficient. We saw the different facets of what a father did, but he did it without undue emotion and effusiveness.

Yet, he was crying as I pulled out of the driveway. To say it was a moving experience (with absolutely no pun intended) would be a drastic understatement.

I don’t recall what he said as we parted. I don’t remember if he gave me any money or last minute advice on life. But, whenever I think about leaving home, I remember the tears in the eyes of the man whom I had always counted on to be rock solid.

Big boys don’t cry.

I reminded myself as I pulled away from the house. It didn’t work.

They do—and I did.

It was the best going away present a man could give his son. In retrospect, I wish he had been able to do that earlier in my life, so I could have started learning the lesson I’m still absorbing.

There is no shame in showing your feelings. None.

God designed us to feel emotions.

A lot of pain could be averted if we would simply allow the people we love to know how deeply we feel for them. Words are good, but the emotions which spring from our hearts and move us to tears—or joy—or even fear, teach and reassure so much more than mere words.

I realized on that day, a significant date in my journey to manhood, that real men aren’t afraid to cry.

There have been a lot of other firsts in the forty years since that day for me. First marriage (okay—the only one). First child. First snowstorm. First time I was fired (I keep telling myself it wasn’t a real job anyway). First day in business. First car wreck (the other car was parked). First time a policeman drew his gun on me (last time too, I hope). The list could go on and on.

Some of the firsts have been monumental, some coincidental. Not many have been more eye-opening than on that day thirty-five years ago, when for the first time, I saw my Dad cry over me.

This week we celebrate the leaving home of another Son.

This was no heading out without purpose, no going where circumstances took him. This Son left His home to perform a specific task.

His Father knew, as the child left to go on His journey, that it would end badly (from a father’s perspective). He also knew the journey and its end would achieve an amazing victory, a history-changing paradigm shift. So He stood by and let His Son go.

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Did He cry? I don’t know.

I like to think He did. Still, I don’t know.

I do know His heart was moved with Fatherly pride as the boy grew into a man (Matthew 3:17) and that in the pain of loss He couldn’t watch as the inevitable end came (what father could?), but turned away. (Mark 15:34)

I really don’t know if God cries the way we experience it.

I do know He cares about us more than any physical father ever has—that He wants us to be with Him in the worst way.

That’s what Christmas is about.

The manger, the shepherds, the wise men and the star? They’re just incidental.

The Baby came for one purpose. To die. For me and for you.

I’m thinking if God does cry, it might be because some of us choose to remain separated from Him. Grace is ours for the taking because of the Son who left His home that day so many years ago.

My journey from home, forty years ago, is of no consequence in the grand scheme of the universe—my father’s tears of little moment in history.

But, the reminder of both for me at this season, points dramatically to the real reason for our celebration.

I’ll draw my loved ones close. I’ll embrace some whom I don’t know, but who need to feel His love.

I even might, as I contemplate a Father’s love, shed a tear or two of my own.

I am, after all, a big boy.

And, big boys certainly do cry.

You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.
(Psalm 56:8 ~ NLT)

A little girl once asked, “Mommy does God cry?”
“Don’t be silly, God can’t cry, baby,” her mother replied.

“But what about when He looks down from Heaven above
And sees all the people who need His love?

And what about when He looks down and sees
The playground kids fall and scrape their knees?

Or how about Aunt Jane who can’t have baby girls or boys?
Or what about the poor kids who get no Christmas toys?

Maybe God would cry if He lived with my friend Tommy.
Whose daddy beats and bruises him and his mommy.

Or maybe if He looked down and saw people being killed,
I think He’d surely have eyes that are tear-filled.

But I think most of all, Mommy, what would have made God cry,
Is when He looked down at the cross and watched His baby die.”

The mother stood in silence as her eyes filled with tears,
For she knew her little girl was wise beyond her years.

Staring into deep blue eyes, the mother found courage to say,
“Yes baby girl, I think God looks down and cries every day.”
(Anonymous)

Listening to Linus

December 20, 2016December 20, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It’s almost impossible for the words and thoughts to come together when the well has run dry.

The statement comes from the preacher’s mouth, weariness in his eyes. It is a reality he knows in his heart. He does. He just buried his wife’s father. There is more—for him, an avalanche of trials. He knows.

I nod my head in agreement. I too, have felt it. The drought. Pain—and sorrow—and loss—all have drained the well dry.

No joy. No words. No voice.

Mute.

And yet, I hear another voice in my mind tonight. Strangely, it is the voice of a cartoon character.

Linus, the blanket-hugging friend of Charlie Brown, has taken center stage and called for the lights. Simply and clearly, he quotes the Christmas story from Luke 2 (verses 8-14), and walks offstage to tell Charlie Brown that’s what Christmas is all about.

Good tidings of great joy. To all people.

I’m part of all people. My preacher friend is too. Probably, you are as well. Okay, not probably. You are.

All means all.

I’ve said it before: There is joy in the journey.

It’s the kind of thing you say when things are going well. The kind of thing one writes about when the heart is full.

And still, I promise that it is ever the truth, and I reiterate it even tonight.

In the middle of the darkest night, with the path in front barely lit to see the next step, I affirm that joy accompanies us in the dark.

Even when the well seems dry, the voice mute, joy endures.

Great joy.

Even when the well seems dry, the voice mute, joy endures. Great joy. Share on X

The Baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger was in for a rough ride. For years, there wouldn’t be much joy to be found, either for Him or for all people.

It didn’t make the proclamation of the angels a lie.

Oh, there were moments of triumph. He would teach the teachers; miracles would be performed, storms quieted. Crippled folks would walk and blind men see. There were brilliant moments of joy along the way to astounding darkness.

Funny. The only way to the great joy that would be to all people was through the worst thing that could happen.

For the great joy that was set before Him, he endured even the shame of the cursed crucifixion. (Hebrews 12:2)

We follow Him. It’s what we claim, isn’t it?

Great joy lies on that road—the road of following. Sadness, too. Perhaps even, a good bit of disappointment.

Mostly though, joy.

And, in the end—all joy.

Great joy.

Still, we follow.

Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.
(John 7:38 ~ NIV)

Sure on this shining night
Of star made shadows round,
Kindness must watch for me
This side the ground.
The late year lies down the north.
All is healed, all is health.
High summer holds the earth.
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night I weep for wonder wand’ring far
alone
Of shadows on the stars.
(Sure on this Shining Night ~ James Agee ~ American novelist/poet ~ 1909-1955)

Conducted

December 9, 2016December 10, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It is a moment to be committed to memory—a moment filled with sight and sound—a moment to be returned to again and again.

The sound part of the memory, I can explain well enough. I am a musician and understand melody and harmony, attacks and cutoffs, crescendos and decrescendos.

I know how the members of musical groups interact with each other, listening—adjusting—blending. It takes all the skill of most seasoned musicians to simply begin and end a piece at the same time, with reasonable rhythmic similarity in between.

But, the tears coursing down my cheeks are not to be explained so cavalierly. The quietness that has fallen over the audience has nothing to do with the knowledge of tone and timbre, or with intonation.

But, I haven’t given much to go by, have I? Possibly a paragraph or two of explanation will help.

For the last thirty-five years, give or take a year or two, I have sat at Christmastime in the beautiful old cathedral, with its oak panels and stained glass. It has changed a lot in the last thirty-five years.

So have I.

Candlelight Service. It’s what they call it. A plain brown wrapper that hides a treasure waiting to be uncovered, nearly every time. I’ve been privileged to have a small part in the service for most of the years I’ve been there.

Tonight, after my small part was complete, I sat in the creaky old pew and waited for the whole thing to be over.

It’s been a rough year. I’m having a hard time accepting changes I didn’t ask for. I had a plan, yet things aren’t working out quite as I had envisioned. Well, now that I think of it, not at all as I had envisioned.

I’m not much in the mood to get in the Christmas spirit. So, I’m waiting for it all to be over instead. I know I’ll get my wish. Another few weeks and I’ll be home free. Right?

The choir, led by a man I love and respect, a man who after thirty years is leading for his last time this Christmas, has just finished a very nice rendition of What Wondrous Love. It was very nice.

Something is happening, though. The man leaves his podium to stand near the piano and a young fellow is assisting a feeble-looking woman up the steps to the stage. This is different.

As the octogenarian lady alights the podium, it is easy to see that she is anything but feeble. Her stance behind the music stand makes it clear that she is in her element; the attention of the young folks in the risers is riveted on her face and hands.

She holds no baton. She needs none. From the first quiet notes of the piano, that much is evident.

The First Noel.

Most in the audience have heard the carol a thousand times. Maybe more. I will admit, this arrangement is beautiful.

Most of the time, when I listen to this choir, I watch the musicians as they sing. Forty or fifty college students—some of them music majors, others following various fields of study—have worked hard to prepare for this event. They deserve the attention.

And yet, all I can see now is the lady on the podium. As it turns out, it is all the young people in the risers see, too. They will not take their eyes off of her for the next four minutes.

For my part, from the first notes the tears flood, literally flood, my eyes. Still, the lady fills my sight. Her hands, gnarled and aged, are beautiful in their communication of her wishes. A tiny wave this way and the sopranos are singing the melody. A little wiggle of her fingers and the volume drops as if someone has turned a knob on a stereo. Then she motions to the whole group and the beautiful sound fills the great cathedral.

Suddenly, in an insight that does nothing to help my tears abate, I understand. Taking nothing away from the abilities of the young singers, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the musician here is the ancient conductor standing in front of them. They are simply the instruments upon which she plays.

Every note—every whisper of a sound—comes at the whim of her direction. And these young singers understand that and give her exactly what she wants.

The result is nothing short of breath-taking. Literally. Breath-taking.

As the last notes die down in the cathedral, it seems to me that even the candles burning in the aisles momentarily flicker as the bated breath of nearly a thousand listeners is exhaled in the same instant.

What a sacred moment.

I’m not just talking about the music. That was indeed, nothing short of astonishing.

But, God speaks through His handiwork and His servants. If our eyes are open and our ears prepared to hear, He speaks. To us, He speaks.

If our eyes are open and our ears prepared to hear, He speaks. To us, He speaks. Share on X

I want to say more.

I don’t think I need to tonight.

It’s time for us to follow the Conductor.

What astonishing music He wants to make.

Astonishing.

And do not go on presenting the members of your body to sin as instruments of unrighteousness; but present yourselves to God as those alive from the dead, and your members as instruments of righteousness to God.
(Romans 6:13 ~ NASB)

A great work of art is made out of a combination of obedience and liberty.
(Nadia Boulanger ~ French conductor ~ 1887-1979)

Offerings

December 6, 2016December 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The young voices sing in tight harmony, the air surrounding us almost trembling with astonishment at the beauty of their song. We in the pews are in agreement with the atmosphere; to a person it seems, holding our breaths, not wanting to miss a note or a chord.

The carol began as a common Christmas song—with familiar words and melody—but it has become much more than that. The young artists, led by that genius with a stick in his hand, started with the simple familiar tune and turned it into a symphony, a masterpiece of beautiful music and brilliant poetry.

Quietly, scarcely louder than a whisper, the voices draw us upward until, with more volume than seems possible from those young throats and greater skill than seems imaginable from musicians so inexperienced, we are overcome with wonder and with awe.

We who sit in the hard seats and listen have been carried far beyond the restraints of our time and circumstances. For a moment which seemed an eternity, our spirits soared with the melodies and harmonies that have drawn us into the very presence of the King of Christmas.

It has always been so for me. This music has power—power to soothe the spirit—power to move the soul—power to draw the heart from its deepest, darkest hiding place and lay it open before the Creator of all the Universe.

I know it is not the same for all. My life has been full of music from the day I was born, until now in my waning years. Many have had different experiences and have also lived joyfully. I freely admit it.

Still—music moves me.

Can I go a step further and tell you what else moves me?

Just as much as the music.

It may come as a shock to the reader. It did to me.

You see, I sit in the beautiful cathedral and am moved to tears by nothing more than sound in the air—that and the Spirit of God—and somehow, it feels natural and right.

But just this week, in my place of business, I was also moved to tears. . .

The old man had been in before. He had The Look. You know, that look in his eyes—almost empty, but a little wild, a little confused, and perhaps even, dangerous. He shuffled in, shoulders slumped, a defeated shell of a man, without hope.

He is homeless, or nearly so. Drifting from one relative to another, living under the stars when the weather permits, he calls no place home, but any place he lies down his bedroom.

He had a guitar to sell. I’ve told his story before. Well, not his, but the same basic story anyway. No money, no food, the urge to find funds has led him to my door. The guitar would feed him for a few days anyway.

Or, so he thought.

I didn’t want his guitar.

It is damaged and worn now. It was not much better when it was new. If I had bought it, the guitar-shaped-object would have found a semi-permanent home in my back room, a room which is already packed full by too many cheap, broken guitar-shaped-objects.

I didn’t want the guitar. I told him so.

The wild eyes turned angry for a few seconds, and I worried that things might get ugly. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and looking dejected, turned to go.

I wasn’t done, though. I know, after years of sleepless nights and remorse-filled days, that it was not my place to turn him away without help. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple of bills which I laid on the counter for him. Immediately, the angry eyes were back and he waved away my offer disgustedly.

He didn’t want my hand-out. He wanted to sell his guitar.

Quickly, I explained my dilemma. Motioning with my arms at the guitars leaning against the back wall and the cases stacked in the aisles, I told him that I can’t—just can’t—acquire another guitar to repair. Without disparaging his instrument, I made it clear. I simply don’t need his guitar.

Again, I held out the money and begged—yes—I begged him to take it. I suggested he could still sell the guitar to someone else who needs it. For a moment, his demeanor brightened, as he saw a way to get more than he expected when he first came through my door.

Then another idea came to him.

“I’ll accept your gift. But, I’m not going to sell this guitar.” The old guy proudly gestured with the instrument. “I know this guy who’s staying down by the tracks. He says he plays, but he doesn’t have a guitar to use. I’ll give this one to him.”

He reached a gnarled hand across the counter, first to take the gift I offered, and then again to grip mine in that ancient symbol of equality and respect, a handshake.

I looked into his eyes.

That’s funny.

They were as clear as a bell. No anger. No confusion. No defeat.

Did I say they were clear? I meant to say that they were clear except for the tears that welled up in the corners of each one. As he let go of the firm grip he had on my hand, there were tears in my own eyes, as well.

He headed for the door. I’m pretty sure he was taller than when he came in. At least, his head was held up and the slump he had when he arrived was gone.

As he stepped outside, I heard his voice, “God bless you, friend.”

I can’t explain it, but I felt chills. Something like I felt when I listened to those young folks singing last night.

Something like it.

The apostle said that when we walk in love, our God smells a sweet aroma, as He did when His Son came for us.

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This Christmas, as I worship in the beauty and opulence of the cathedral, with its stained glass windows and high ceilings, and all of it trimmed in oak, I’m going to remember that somewhere, out there in the cold and dirty world, a man plays a guitar.

The music inside might be prettier and more skilled.

I don’t know.

Somehow, I think the Savior of the world—the One who came as a baby on that first Christmas—I think He might consider the sound of that guitar playing down by the railroad tracks just a little sweeter.

Just a little.

A sweet aroma.

A song will outlive all sermons in the memory.
(Henry Giles ~ American minister/author ~ 1809-1882)

And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.
(Ephesians 5:2 ~ ESV)

Of Advent—and Spit

December 5, 2016December 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Oh, that’s just gross! Why do you guys have to do that on the floor?

It was about this time of year, a few years past.

My little brass group had just finished practicing and were quickly moving our chairs and stands off the stage. The choir had a rehearsal scheduled right after us and we wanted to be out of their way. The young man speaking was one of several moving equipment back into the space we were vacating.

I looked at the floor, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Quizzically, I looked at the young man.

He gestured in a wide circle, indicating spots of liquid standing in close proximity to where the chairs had been moments ago.

“This—this—spit! What is it with brass players?”

He shuddered once for effect and turned away without waiting for an answer. The instrumentalists around me who had heard the exchange laughed, a condescending dismissal of the young vocalist’s squeamishness.

Yes. I want to talk about spit.

It’s a conversation I’ve been waiting to have for many years.

No one has ever wanted to discuss the matter with me. I wonder why that is.

Perhaps, I should begin by explaining the liquid which is left on the stage when wind players complete their performances or rehearsals. The liquid is not spit.

That’s right. Not spit.

It’s merely condensation. It’s what occurs when you blow warm, moist air into a cold metal tube. Almost exactly what happens when you enter a cold automobile on a winter’s evening. The windows fog up. Do you call that moisture on the windshield spit? Of course not.

So. The irate young man was wrong. Only condensation—not spit.

But still, I would like to talk about spit.

On a day in the music store not long ago, a mother stood with her brood of children, awaiting her turn at the checkout. She looked down at the oldest of the four urchins and noticed a black mark on his cheek.

Without hesitation, she licked her thumb and rubbed his skin. The black mark didn’t disappear, but it was less noticeable than before.

The same couldn’t be said for the young man’s indignation.

“Did you just put spit on my face?” He sputtered in his frustration. “Why would you do that?”

The mother’s attempt at an explanation was only met with more disgust, and the young man stalked out to the parking lot to await his family in solitude. He turned his face to glare back at the group as he exited. The black mark was still there—smudged, but very much in evidence.

My mind goes back again.

I remember hearing the story when I was a child, not much older than that indignant young man. You may find it in the book of John in the Bible. (John 9)

The blind man stood, as he always had, waiting for something. Something. But, he didn’t know what it was he awaited.

He had always been blind. From the day he had arrived, squalling and screaming, light had never passed from his eyes to his brain. Never.

He didn’t ask for anything. He just waited.

The Teacher let His followers argue the existential questions for a moment or two. Why? Who? How?

They were the wrong questions.

Jesus had been sent to bring light to the world. Here was His big opportunity.

Time to impress with big words and ostentatious prayers. He would wave His hands in the air and—Wait! What is He doing?

He spit in the dirt.

Spit. In the dirt.

Then He mixed up some mud and, hands filled with the gross mixture, stood and slathered the slimy stuff on the blind man’s unseeing eyes.

“Did you just spit in my eyes?”

The words aren’t recorded, but one wonders. Did the man hear the Teacher spit on the ground? His ears, acutely trained to be his guide since he had no eyes, must have heard. They must have detected the sound of dirt being mixed with the spit, and then recognized the rustle of robes, as the Master stood again.

Did he back away, putting his hand up to keep the ghastly stuff off of him?

No. He stood, listening to the Man speak, giving His instructions. He went, still blind, and washed the mud from his eyes.

What an astounding result!

Light, pure and clear, streamed through the once useless orbs. Familiar voices spoke to him and, for the first time in his life, he put faces with the voices.

He saw his home! And his family!

Light shone in darkness—just not in the way anyone would ever have anticipated.

Spit. What a gross thing!

Why would Jesus have used spit, of all things?

I have no answer.

I do know this. We who believe are even now in the time of year we call Advent.

Waiting.

Waiting for the Salvation of God to appear.

Just a warning. It won’t be pretty.

Or sanitary.

Not even a little sanitary.

A baby will be born in a barn, among the filth and stench. Dirty shepherds will come, not clean and freshly bathed, but straight from the dust and filth of caring for their livestock. Stinking and crusted with grime.

The end of the story won’t be any more sanitary. Bloody and sweat-covered, nailed to a cross of wood, He will die.

It won’t be pretty. It won’t be romantic. It won’t smell good, with aromatic candles fluttering in the breeze.

The little boy in my store didn’t understand that his mom wanted only for him to be clean. All he saw was the spit.

I wonder. We’re waiting.

With the blind man, we’re waiting—for light.

It might not be as pretty as we’d like. Perhaps not as dramatic, either.

A baby who is born in a barn can’t be all that powerful, can He?

His light comes softly, and in unexpected ways.

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I think I’ll stand here and wait.

You?

We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

…but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong, and the base things of the world and the despised God has chosen,the things that are not, so that He may nullify the things that are, so that no man may boast before God. But by His doing you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, and righteousness and sanctification, and redemption, so that, just as it is written, “Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord.”
(1 Corinthians 1:27-31 ~ NASB)

Only What’s Mine

November 30, 2016November 30, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

The preacher came to check on me today. His brother passed away last week, but he came to check on me.

He’s not my pastor. Well, what I mean is, he’s not the man who is the pastor of the fellowship where I attend services. My pastor checks on me too, but I’m not writing about him today.

The preacher came to visit me because he owes me. That’s the way he sees it anyway. It’s his way of paying a debt.

Did you know that on the worst day of his life, Jesus stopped to help a fellow who was just doing his job—and also having a bad day?

Jesus was being arrested, said arrest to be followed by a mock trial and, soon after, a very real execution. Yet, He stopped everything to make life easier for a man He had likely never even seen. (Luke 22:50,51)

He, who was about to die, stopped to heal a slave’s ear.

I marvel at the capacity to love. But, I have seen it again and again. The human heart, pummeled and battered by loss and sorrow, beats the stronger for those around who also hurt.

Did I say the preacher is paying a debt?

It’s a debt we all owe, one that will not go unsettled.

The Apostle, in giving instructions about temporal matters, gave us the words we must live by. The one debt we will carry throughout our whole lives is the debt to each other—to love one another. (Romans 13:8)

We love—because He loved us first.

And yet, I had other things to speak of with my friend. You see, I am struggling with many things right now, things I don’t want to accept.

There are people I love making choices I would change for them if I could. I’m sure if I could just lend them a bit of my brilliance, they’d understand and repent of their error.

And, as I suggest that to him, I suddenly remember that I don’t have a mandate to change people.

Lamely, I say the words: I guess that isn’t mine to fix, is it?

He smiles. But, as he smiles, he remembers why he stopped by. I’ve gotten him off track. He knows I’m still unhappy—perhaps even a little angry—at God for the changes which are being made in my life right now.

Looking around the music store where he sits, he waves his hand in a circle and asks a question I really don’t like.

Is this yours?

I don’t like the question because I know the answer. You do too, don’t you?

I smile, a faux-smile if ever there was one. I give him the right answer, the answer I know he wants to hear. I don’t grit my teeth as I say it, even though it is all I can do not to.

No. Not mine.

And then he is gone. He leaves me standing in the doorway of a music store that soon won’t be.

Worse than that, he leaves me with a revelation I didn’t want and never asked him for.

I only want what’s mine!

I’ve sulked all day.

I cleaned my French horn in preparation for upcoming events and the pride I have taken in the beautiful instrument dimmed as I realized it’s not mine.

After I closed the music store (still not mine) for the day, I climbed up into the driver’s seat of my pickup truck and thought, as I turned the key, this isn’t mine.

I helped the Lovely Lady clean up after supper and as a sparkling kitchen reappeared, I realized that none of the beautiful little home is mine.

I only want what’s mine.

I’ve been sitting here moping about what I’ve lost on this day of revelation, thanks to the preacher. I’ve come to a conclusion.

If I can lose it, it was never mine. Never.

If I can lose it, it was never mine. Never. Share on X

You might think it would be a sad realization. It’s not.

The freedom that comes from knowing what is mine and what isn’t is life changing. If my treasure is bound up in things which can be taken from me, I am the poorest man you’ll ever meet.

I’m not a poor man.

I only want what is mine.

Faith is mine.

Hope is mine.

Love is mine.

There are more things to add to the list. Gifts, every one of them—given by the Giver of all good things. They are things that can never be taken from us. And, in the words of that great theologian, Casey Stengel, you could look it up. (1 Corinthians 12)

We’re told that the greatest of these gifts is love. The more I consider it, the more certain I am it is true.

Funny, isn’t it? If we can lose it, it isn’t ours, and yet we’re told we must give away love.

So, is love ours or not?

Most decidedly, love is ours. You know what makes love the greatest gift? The more you give it away, the more there is to give away.

The more we give love away, the more of it there is to give away. Share on X

God has poured His love into our hearts in a never-ending stream. It should be pouring out in the same manner. (Romans 5:5)

I’m thinking that wealth which can’t be stolen or misplaced is worth more than any treasure trove to be found on this planet.

And, we get to give it away and keep it, too.

Funny. I still only want what’s mine.

And, like my preacher friend, I want to give it away.

Again and again.

Give it away.

Spread love everywhere you go; let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier.
(Mother Teresa ~ Albanian/Indian nun & missionary ~ 1910-1997)

Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.
(1 Corinthians 13:13 ~ NLT)

Ripples

November 22, 2016November 22, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We could go out and look at the leaves—or—you could stay there all afternoon and be unhappy.

Maybe it was the fact that we had just turned on the heat for the first time this fall. It could have been. The chill was creeping in from outside.

I’m not fond of the cold. Oh. I may have mentioned that before. I probably have.

I had sat, huddled under a blanket, as I watched the Lovely Lady leave to go grocery shopping that morning. I didn’t offer to accompany her. When she arrived back home an hour later I hadn’t moved.

She knows me well. A few well-placed inquiries, with a hint of concern, led me to the conclusion that I probably should take a drive with her through the countryside.

As I suspected, it was still chilly outside, but the sun was shining brightly. It was, as she had averred, a beautiful day. In the car.

Still. . .

I thought, as we drove out of town on the busy highway, that it didn’t seem the right way to experience God’s creation. In a car along with hundreds of other drivers speeding down the tarmac, the experience left much to be desired.

Then, I remembered the old bridge. The turnoff was only a couple of miles on up the road. She was all for it, even though she hadn’t worn her hiking shoes. We stopped.

There are some who would have you believe the world is a horrible cesspool of a place to live in, God’s creation marred beyond recognition by sin and degradation. They are partly right, but only partly.

On that brilliant afternoon, all I knew was I agreed with the Creator as He viewed the work of His hands in the beginning. (Genesis 1:31)

It was good. It was very good.

The Creator was right. It is good. It is very good. Share on X

We tramped through the brambles and brushed beside the reddening poison ivy, laughing at the annoyance of thin branches that smacked us in our faces as we passed. The sun on our backs felt wonderful and the scent of autumn woods refreshed our spirits as we breathed deep.

We had visited the old steel bridge only once before, but the way was clear and we didn’t mind the walk. As we approached the old structure, it was reassuring to see that it hadn’t altered—an old friend almost, standing firm in spite of change and shifting conditions all around.

But, somehow the river drew us today. We paid our respects to the old bridge and headed to the rock-covered landing up the waterway a few hundred feet.

Glancing down as we neared the water’s edge, I noticed a number of flat stones, worn smooth by years of tumbling against others in the current of the mighty river.

They were there for only one reason, of course. Anyone who has spent any time at all at the river’s edge can tell you what that reason is.

I picked one up and, holding it with the flat side parallel to the water’s surface, spun it toward the other side of the river almost like a frisbee. Just the slightest lift of the leading edge of the flat rock as it left my hand guaranteed that aerodynamics would do the rest.

I wasn’t disappointed. The stone struck the water’s surface and instead of sinking—as we say, like a rock—skipped up to smack the water anew and to skip again, and again, and again.

One stone wasn’t enough. Others followed the first. They weren’t all perfect attempts. On a couple, I didn’t get the front edge up and they quickly sliced into the water, sinking immediately with barely a plop.

Inadvertently, I picked up one or two rocks which weren’t flat. For some reason, I didn’t just drop them to the strand on which we stood, but tossed them into the water. They disappeared with a solid plunk, sinking down to the bottom to be tumbled along on their journey. Perhaps, in another century or two, when they have worn flat, some other old man, or perhaps even a young one, will feel the joy of skipping one of those very rocks across the surface of the same river. Perhaps.

The Lovely Lady took a photo or two of the result of my rock-skipping. I’ve posted one above. It’s a beautiful thing, showing the old bridge, along with the pretty autumn colors.

But the part that catches my eye, again and again, is the series of circular ripples on the surface of the water.

In my memory, I rub my fingers across the smooth stone that made all those ripples. Thin and without sharp edges, it is perfect for slipping across the surface, leaving evidence of its passage, but slowing hardly at all as it spins quickly on to its next place of impact.

I remember, with amusement, the other stones I tossed into the water. They too made ripples. One ring. Plunk.

Do you know what makes some stones suitable for skipping across great expanses of water? They have tumbled and scraped and banged, for ages, against other stones going through the same process.

If I were to carry a huge stone, as big as my head, to the riverside and drop it in, there would be a tremendous splash, but it wouldn’t have as much impact, overall, as one of those small flat stones that spun out of my hand on that recent autumn day.

Oh, it would make an impression, the initial result being a single ring which would multiply and repeat itself into the distance. But, it would still be only one circle, limited in its reach.

I want to shift the world around me. Not in a spectacular way, but enough so that when I’m gone, folks will remember the impact. Not me, but the result.

There are days when I feel old and worn. I’m finally realizing that those days—the ones when I feel especially useless and weak—may be the days when I am finally ready to go spinning across the water. In the hands of the Master Stone-Skipper, the ripples might be felt forever.

It’s possible.

The woman who poured expensive perfume on Jesus’ feet was such a person. The impact of her act is still being felt today, as He promised it would be. (Matthew 26:13)

You know—those plain, smooth stones were completely unimpressive as we walked over them on that riverbank. But, in the right hands, they had a far-reaching effect.

We, who are being worn smooth by life and its hardships may be given the same opportunity one day.

Will today be the day we leave the ripples that will be felt forever? Share on X

I wonder if today will be the day.

I’d like to make a few more ripples.

Success is more dangerous than failure; the ripples break over a wider coastline.
(Graham Greene ~ British novelist ~ 1904-1991)

Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is.
(Ephesians 3:17,18 ~ NLT)

Say the Words

November 17, 2016November 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

How was I supposed to know?

Perhaps they could wear signs. Cautionary words are always helpful.

Warning! Traumatic life event in progress!

That should do it. Now, there’ll be no untimely jests—no teasing sales pitches—no words to regret, as my friend walks away minutes from now. Give me a heads up; I’ll take it from there.

But, life’s not like that, is it?

No signs. No colored lights—green, yellow, and red—to keep us out of the danger zone. We’re on our own.

Or, are we? On our own, I mean. We’re not really. Those of us who are students of the Word, followers of Jesus, have already spent a lifetime in training.

Everything—every single thing—we have learned of following Him, has been to prepare us for the relational interactions we will have on every day of the time we have on this earth.

Love God. Love people.

Doing the first teaches us to do the second. More than that, choosing to fulfill the former gives us no option but to fulfill the latter.

Loving God gives us no option but to love people. All people. Share on X

Love is kind. (1 Corinthians 13:4)

Always.

Always—Love is kind.

The young man came in a few days ago, with his sweet wife and well-mannered children. I have known him for many years now, a relationship developed through his pursuit of becoming a musician. He was a boy when first I sold him a guitar.

That was several instruments and many additional accessories ago. On this day, I would break the news that our business relationship of many years is about to end. I didn’t like doing it, but I owed it to him.

As others have done, he reacted strongly, but perhaps, a bit more emotionally than I expected. The face that turned to me suddenly was covered with sadness, his eyes almost grief-stricken.

Almost without thinking, I reminded him that, as with all of my life, I trusted a God who had proven Himself trustworthy. For some reason, it seemed important to me to reiterate this truth I am convinced of.

“God didn’t bring us here just to walk away from us. He’s still got good things ahead. Good things.”

A short time later, as he and his family walked out the door, he stuck out his big, strong hand and held my slender one in that familiar strong, almost painful, grip. It’s happened many times before. Then, smiling at me, he walked out with his family, not saying another word.

If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was afraid to say anything else because he didn’t want tears to come. No. That couldn’t have been it.

I was busy with another customer when he came back the next day. Maybe, it was a good thing. He asked the Lovely Lady to give me a message.

It seems he had received news on the previous day, right before I had seen him, that a young friend had died a horrible death. He was overwhelmed.

He told the Lovely Lady to relay to me the message that the words I had said on that afternoon had been exactly what he and his wife needed. Exactly the message that would give comfort and hope, not regarding my temporary inconvenience, but for the very real pain they were already experiencing. They had left my store that day with renewed hope—renewed courage.

Even since that day, the number of folks who have shared their pain at losing loved ones has multiplied. A lady whose father died and left her with no opportunity to attain closure of a tragic situation. A man who doesn’t know how to comfort his teenage daughter after the death of his wife, her mother, less than a month ago. The father whose son died suddenly. The grandfather who will never go horseback riding with his grandson again.

The list goes on. And on. And on.

And suddenly it occurs to me—we don’t need the warning signs I wished for. No words of explanation are ever necessary for us to know who needs help.

We are all members of a fallen race. Every one of us carries our pain around inside. No one escapes the pain. It is our birthright.

We all need help. And, kind words.

And yet, we who carry this pain and horror inside have been called to be ministers of healing and ministers of grace. It is who we must be.

We, who carry this pain, are called to be ministers of healing to others who carry pain. It is who we must be. Share on X

Comfort ye. Comfort ye my people. (Isaiah 40:1) God said the words to Isaiah centuries before our Savior came. The message he carried was of comfort and hope.

And, what a hope!

At the end of your waiting on God, you will regain your strength and your resolve. You who are now weary and defeated will rise up on wings of eagles. (Isaiah 40:30,31)

We who follow Jesus carry the same message.

Perhaps, it’s time for us to deliver it.

We already know who the message is for.

Say the words.

He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.
(2 Corinthians 1:4 ~ NLT)

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.
O, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; it is in dying that we are born again to eternal life.
(Francis of Assisi ~ Catholic Friar ~ 1181-1226)

Heaven Comes Nearer

November 15, 2016November 15, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I still don’t understand it. I have been a musician all my life. Not a good musician, but still—a musician.

A friend posted a link to a recording the other day. Eight people, mortals every one, sang music notes—notes I’m certain are in the normal twelve-note chromatic scale we use every day.

I can sing any of those notes. Really, I can. Perhaps not in the octave in which they sang, nor with the clarity, but I can sing them.

And yet, I sat listening and could do nothing but weep. Someone asked me the name of the song playing on my computer, but I could not answer for fear my voice would crack as I spoke.

It is not a rare occurrence for me. Perhaps, not for you either.

We are moved by great beauty, whether in nature or in art. It is not easy to explain. Maybe, it’s not meant to be.

There are things that are higher. There’s no than to follow that statement—no comparison to be made at all.

Higher things. It’s all that need be said.

My friend who posted the video is a student of the Celtic traditions and often speaks of the sites those ancient cultures described as thin places—places where it seems that heaven is just a bit closer to earth. I love the idea and would never argue that such places don’t exist (I’m sure they do); I just think thin places are to be found in more than only those remote physical locations.

My office desk is a thin place—sometimes. The metal bench in the city park is a thin place—occasionally. Anywhere heaven comes close and raises the hem of the curtain between us and it—just high enough to get a glimpse—is a thin place.

With a catch in my voice, I will admit I don’t understand any of it. I suspect many reading this feel just as confused right now. Today, the world around us is dark and we couldn’t find a thin place if our lives depended on it.

Higher things? Ha! The cacophony of anger and hurt is so all-encompassing that it almost seems we could never smile again, much less have tears of wonder and joy well up and cascade down our cheeks.

Still . . .

David, in an hour of deep unhappiness, reminded us that deep calls to deep. (Psalm 42:7-8) Even from the depths of despair, our souls recognize their Maker’s voice and echo it. Our spirits respond to His Spirit.

He will give us songs in the night.

He will give us songs in the night. Psalm 42:8 Share on X

Where no thin place is to be found, our Creator surprises and opens the curtain just enough—just barely enough—for a glimpse of glory.

It is no small thing.

Hope springs into flame again; resolve is rekindled.

There is work yet to be done. Our destination still lies ahead.

We journey to the place where no veil is between us and our Maker, the place where the only tears to be found will be of awe and wonder.

Higher things call us.

Higher.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright.
But, still I’ll pray till heaven I’ve found
“Lord, lead me on to higher ground.”
(Higher Ground by Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American pastor ~ 1856-1922)

Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.
(1 Corinthians 13:12 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips