He Still Hangs the Moon

July 22, 2016July 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The cares of this life are thieves. They rob from us while we watch, eyes trained on their every move.

I wish I could tell you I am too much a veteran of their schemes to be taken in anymore. At this time of life one would imagine experience has taught me its lessons, and all danger of being victimized is past.

One would be wrong.

For some time now, I have allowed those rascally cares to run amok in my soul, robbing me blind.

Really. Blind.

It is what they crave. The little creations of our tiny imaginations and self-centered natures are themselves blind to the reality of joy that fills our lives as humans made in the image of a loving God.

And, you know what they say.

Well, the red-headed lady who raised me said it all the time anyway, so I assume it must be true:

Misery loves company.

If the little monsters can’t see joy and truth, they are determined to steal the ability from anyone foolish enough to afford them shelter and sustenance.

And so, with my permission, they have been at work again in my own soul.

At times when they work their craft, the darkness is profound. The black of this night is, I think, made all the more encompassing by my willing participation in the malfeasance.

An evening or two ago, as light shone brightly—too brightly for me—in my house, I crept to my office to let the thieves practice. While the Lovely Lady and our guests worked and laughed and played happy music, I sat alone in the dark and pulled the misery over me like a blanket.

After the lights were finally extinguished at the house and all were asleep in their beds I left my office and, blindly walking hand in hand with the little unseeing pickpockets, headed toward home.

Three words. Really. Just three.

I know folks who hear a voice that speaks whole volumes. Entire poems. Sometimes, they carry on conversations with the voice.

Me? I get three words.

Lift your head.

I know. It seems a bit inadequate, doesn’t it? It’s kind of like saying chin up to a guy heading to the gas chamber.

Lift your head.

Then I noticed it. All around me, in what is normally a pitch black yard, the air fairly glowed with light. Long shadows were cast by the tree branches above me.

I lifted my head.

The brilliant and huge full moon hung almost directly above, washing the night time world in its reflected light. It was astoundingly beautiful.

He still hangs the moon. Every night.

He still wakes the sun every morning and sends it on its daily rounds.

I’ll admit it. The notion isn’t all that scientific, nor is it an accurate description of what actually takes place.

Still, it is His power that keeps all of creation doing what it was designed for. (Colossians 1: 6-17)

The realization struck me as powerfully as those beams of light had just seconds before.

His plan is still in place. I’m part of that plan.

His plan is still in place. I'm part of that plan. Share on X

I’m part of that plan!

Every one of us is.

I looked back down to check on my cares, but all the little felons had disappeared. They can’t stand to be in the company of light. Just as in nature, the darkness of doubt and despair flees at the coming of light.

I’m not naive. Darkness will come again. It always does.

Cares will crowd around to steal again. They always do.

But the truth is, light will come again as well.

It always does.

He still hangs the moon.

And, not just for me.

Lift your head.

But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
(Psalm 3:3 ~ NIV)

‘Now, lord,’ said Gandalf, ‘look out upon your land! Breathe the free air again!’

. . .Suddenly through a rent in the clouds behind them a shaft of sun stabbed down. The falling showers gleamed like silver, and far away the river glittered like a shimmering glass.

‘It is not so dark here,’ said Théoden.
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Ancient Passage

July 19, 2016July 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It didn’t seem the most intelligent course of action. Then again, I didn’t think there was an option.

The Lovely Lady and I had taken a lovely drive along the mountaintops in southern Oklahoma and, realizing we were near an interesting old steel bridge, made a slight detour off the highway to get a photograph or two. I assumed we would find a place to park on the near side of the structure and would walk over it, rather than driving.

The structure is, after all, nearly one hundred years old. On the day it was completed in 1920, likely the only vehicles to cross it were a few horse drawn wagons and a Ford Model T or two.

The Model T weighed just over half a ton.

The comfy big pickup truck the Lovely Lady and I were driving tops out at just over two and a half tons. I didn’t really want to test the bridge.

It was unsettling to drive up the approach to the old metal truss bridge and realize there was no place to park. We reached the first span and I thought momentarily about backing the nearly three hundred feet to the closest turn off.

But, I’m a man. Men don’t back up when they can go forward.

We went forward—over the rickety, rusty old bridge. As we drove over it, the Lovely Lady read the results from the last inspection performed by the state.

“It says the substructure is rated only 2 out of 9 points—critical. ‘Structurally deficient.’ Do you think we should be doing. . .”

Her voice trailed off, as we almost crawled across the river.

The steel and concrete span held our weight, but we held our breath until we were on solid ground again.

Almost a hundred years old, the man-made bridge has very nearly reached the end of its useful life.

Nearly done.

The thought of it makes me sad.

I’ve told you before how much I love bridges. You may already know that the walls of our den hold nothing but paintings of the wonderful structures.

In this room full of paintings depicting bridges, it is probably the least likely piece of artwork to draw the eye.

I usually gravitate to the complicated designs, preferring to consider the concepts and scientific knowledge required to construct such strong, yet beautiful, framework.

This is not one of those.

The little bridge in the old watercolor is merely a solid piece of granite, hewn, not by human hands, but by the Creator Himself. The form it retains today is largely the same form it had when it was laid over the muddy brown stream nearly five-hundred years ago.

It is a real bridge, still spanning the brook it crossed all those years ago.

A solid foundation lies under each end of the clapper stone bridge. Two flat pieces of granite, possibly quarried from the same location as the arched bridge itself, have stood, unmoved, through five centuries.

The old structure has carried carts and foot traffic of all sorts—human and otherwise—safely across the brook. In the spring floods, when the muddy brown water roared and whirled beneath it, safe passage was a guarantee. Even when the flow of the brook is reduced to a trickle, the ancient piece of stone gives assurance of certain transit from one side of the little valley to the other.

But, like the much younger, fabricated bridge we crossed the other day, this bridge will one day (many years hence, one would hope) fail. The flood may wash it off its foundation, or a crack may develop, the resulting fall of the stone into the brook bringing to an end its usefulness to mankind.

Again, the thought of it makes me sad.

All that man has established will, one day, come to nothing.

All of it.

There is one Bridge, though. One Stone, laid by the hand of God Himself.

Eons ago, the words were spoken. Today, they are still true:

Look! I am laying a stone, firm and tested. It is a priceless foundation that will never fail. Whoever trusts it will never be disappointed. (Isaiah 28:16)

A Bridge, laid across the gorge of destruction by the Creator—never to be removed—never to be inspected and declared structurally deficient.

It’s not complicated. There are no angles. No girders. No need for advanced mathematics.

Just a plain Stone and an invitation to cross.

And, all we have to do is trust it to hold us.

Go ahead. Take the first step.

You can hold your breath if you need to.

He will hold us.

Forever.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers,neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
(Romans 8:38-39 ~ NIV)

The time worn granite clapper bridge
Spans the peat stained moorland brook,
The Dipper bobs as it hunts the midge
People cross with no second look.

Feet from ages long, long past
Have trod across the trusted stone,
The dawn and dusk have shadows cast
The sun has shone and cruel winds blown.

Men have come with brush in hand
To paint the scene through expert eye,
People followed to this desolate land
In search of something they know not why.

The rook as it sits in the solitary tree
Looks down on all that pass below,
He knows the secrets of you and me
And silently lets us cross the moorland flow.
(The Lonely Clapper ~ Anonymous)

Crying In the Open

July 12, 2016July 12, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I never knew him.

The same could be said of many whose voices have fallen on my ears—whose hands I have shaken—whose eyes I’ve looked into.

Him, I never spoke with—never laid eyes on.

The young African-American man was moved by an article I wrote and was kind enough to send a note telling me so. We were connected only by the information superhighway, a mode of transport that never brought us closer than a note here, a click of the “like” button there.

Friends, they call it.

As if applying the label could tie the cords to bind individuals together. As if we could struggle past our differences in locale and in community.

He was a student of the martial arts; I a student of classical music. He was city through and through; I lock the doors to my car on the outskirts of any urban center, unlocking them only if there is no other choice or when I have passed the city limits sign on the other side.

And yet, it seemed there was something there—a connection of sorts.

Tears filled my eyes on the day he wrote the words: He’s gone. Sitting right across the table from me, and he dropped dead.

His best friend had died of a massive heart attack as they sat eating and joking. He never got over it.

I wrote a note, which he acknowledged. We exchanged other notes, but they were vague and disconnected. Something had changed.

A few months later, I was shocked to read the words from a relative in a message to the young man’s online friends.

Tonight, he decided there was nothing left worth living for. I’m sorry to have to tell you this way. Thanks for being his friends.

I know. I cry too easily. This was different.

A friend died, his life ended before he was a quarter of a century old.

I never knew him.

Still, he was my friend, my brother. The tears flowed.

They fill my eyes even now.

Can I tell you something? Even if I had never exchanged a word with him, we would have been connected. Even if his name had never been in the listing of friends I had made in my social network, it would be true.

If I haven’t made it clear enough before in my writing, let me say it again here:

We are all connected. All.

There was one Man who insisted on it. At the crossroads of history, He stood and said: If I do this—if I allow myself to be the sacrifice—it will be for every human whose heart beats within his breast. I will draw all men to myself. (John 12:32)

I am not a universalist. Many who are drawn will not come. I know that.

And yet, what if all that is standing between one who is drawn and the Man-God I claim to follow is me?

Or what if—on the flip side of the coin—what if I’m the one who will help that one who is drawn to make up his or her mind?

If I say I love God, but do not love my brother, I am a liar. The truth is not to be found in me. (1 John 4:20)

I watch with horror as the barriers are being erected. High and strong, the walls are being fortified.

Brothers dwell within every fortification, but few will venture out from behind their safety. Few can abandon their petty claims—to hold out a hand in friendship, to embrace family.

Family.

We argue about words and slogans, while people die. We insist on our version of truth while souls hang in the balance.

I’m convinced we will meet again one day, where no barrier stands. Together, beyond that dividing line between this earthly existence and eternity in Heaven, we’ll stand and will weep as we realize the powerful truth of His words.

All men. Black, white, brown—called out of every nation, every tribe.

Drawn to Him—away from worship of false gods, from following false prophets, from teaching false doctrines.

We’ll weep until He wipes away the tears from our eyes Himself. (Revelation 21:4)

I said earlier that I cry too easily. I wonder.

Perhaps we need to cry more while we’re here, not less.

We need to cry more while we’re here, not less. Share on X

My young friend who abandoned hope sat and listened to music right before he took his last breath. Missing his friend who had died before his eyes, he thought he heard in the words of the song an invitation to join him.

Perhaps, it seemed easier than walking a difficult, lonely road without him.

Another young friend, who also has known the horrible pain and emptiness of losing someone he loves, wrote recently of his struggle to comprehend a God who allows such things.

He has reached the conclusion—not lightly nor easily—that likely, it’s our understanding of God that is flawed and not the other way around.

We build a box and stuff God in it, much as we do with people.

Neither will stay in the boxes we have built.

He is too big.

People are too stubborn.

And yet, out in the open seems dangerous, doesn’t it? Too exposed, too brightly lit, too vulnerable.

But we’ve tried hiding. It achieves nothing lasting, leaving only suspicion and hatred.

Perhaps, it’s time to try openness.

There’s more room for hugging and handshakes out here.

There will even be some tears.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

So let the light guide your way, yeah
Hold every memory as you go
And every road you take, will always lead you home, home

It’s been a long day without you, my friend
And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
We’ve come a long way from where we began
Oh, I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
When I see you again.
(See You Again ~ Franks, Puth, Thomaz ~ 2014)

How wonderful and pleasant it is
    when brothers live together in harmony!
For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil
    that was poured over Aaron’s head,
    that ran down his beard
    and onto the border of his robe.
Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon
    that falls on the mountains of Zion.
And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing,
    even life everlasting.
(Psalm 133 ~ NLT)

Sacred & Profane

July 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The little towhead stood at the curb, library book in hand, looking first up one way and then down the other. Seeing no cars, he trotted across the blacktop on the naked soles of his bare feet.

Once safely across the street, the scruffy boy wandered, aimlessly some would have thought, along the row of citrus trees.

It wasn’t aimless. He had a target in mind, one specific tree with the sweetest fruit in the little orchard. Three trees from the end, he stopped and ducked under the low-hanging limbs, heavy with brightly colored oranges.

No low-hanging fruit for him. This kid had a spot in mind—one in which he could spend the next couple of hours in his quiet and private pursuit of two of his favorite activities: Reading and eating oranges.

Of course he knew he shouldn’t eat oranges while reading library books. The day would come when he would face the consequences of that transgression, but it wouldn’t be on this day.

Tucking the book inside his shirt, he shinnied up the bole of the tree until he found the little nest he had arranged the day before. Sitting on one sturdy limb, feet propped against another, and his back resting against the narrowing trunk, he settled in for an afternoon of delicious adventure with Tom Swift and his fantastic inventions.

But first, he reached out for an orange. Hmmm—there weren’t as many within easy reach as there had been yesterday. Oh well. He sighted a couple in front of him, and twisting his neck a little, a bunch more right behind. He snagged the two in front. The others would come later.

Was there ever anything quite so delicious as a sweet, freshly picked orange, eaten while sitting in the tree from which it came?

The two oranges were fantastic. So sweet and such a burst of flavor—he sighed with content and was immediately lost in his book. The second of the two followed the first without him even thinking about it.

Somewhere around chapter three, just as Tom and Bud were headed for the rocket launchpad, the juice-drizzled urchin realized he was empty handed except for the book he held.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the yellow-orange orbs hanging above and behind him. Reaching back and plucking it handily, he began to remove the peel.

It felt different. The other fruit had been smooth, with a thin skin. This one was rough and pebbly and had a thick layer of that useless white pith under the orange outer skin.

Well, at least it wasn’t rotten. There weren’t any holes to indicate wasps had bored into it. It came from the tree with the sweetest fruit he could remember finding. He wasn’t going to let a little rough peel detract from his enjoyment.

By this time, Tom and his friends were in Outer Space, orbiting the earth and working on an experiment which, no doubt, would explode and start a chain reaction that only Tom’s newest invention could halt.

The kid with orange peel under his finger nails bit into the orange wedge he had just freed from the strange peel.

Oh! Wow! Sour! Triple Wow!

He couldn’t spit the pulpy mass out of his mouth quickly enough. It was horrendous!

Tom Swift and his precarious mission forgotten, the little sun-bleached blond head swiveled around to view the other fruit behind him.

Every single one of the oranges back there were the same. Sour oranges!

He looked down below to see where that branch grew from. Surely it was a different tree, sprung up beside the good one.

It wasn’t.

From the same tree those fantastically delicious, sweet fruit had been taken grew the hideous, mouth-puckering sour bits of vegetation. Of course, at his young age, he had no knowledge of tree grafts and how they could grow out so the sweet fruit would be produced on one side of the graft and the sour on the other. He wouldn’t have cared one bit.

All the unhappy kid knew was that he was going to find another spot to finish his book.

He also needed another sweet orange as quickly as possible—to take the horrible taste of that last one from his palate.

The boy is a man now, long past his youth.

He doesn’t climb orange trees anymore.

Still, he does find trees that yield both good and bad fruit. It seems there are more around than ever before.

Sometimes, it’s his own tree. Sweet and sour.

It’s no surprise that we’re talking about different kind of fruit, is it?

I’m not the first one to write about this strange fruit.

Blessings and curses from the same tree. Sweet and bitter water from the same spring of water. (James 3:9-12)

Our world resounds with the words.

Love mixed with hatred. Concern juxtaposed with disdain.

Sacred and profane. From the same source.

It ought not to be.

Did you know that an orange tree which begins to produce sour oranges with the sweet will soon produce nothing but sour oranges? It becomes useless to the farmer.

Useless. Fit only to be uprooted and replaced.

Even Tom Swift didn’t have a cure for that.

Only the Creator can change the heart.

Of the tree.

And the man.

For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
so great is his love for those who fear him;
as far as the east is from the west,
so far has he removed our transgressions from us.
(Psalm 103:11-12 ~ NIV)

Two Sides

July 8, 2016July 8, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Starts.
Stops.
I write words.
They’re not right.

Peace.
Fear.
I claim one.
One claims me.

Justice.
Violence.
In my prayers.
Still it preys.

Love.
Fear.
It casts out.
Outcasts makes.

Love.
~~Fear.~~
It casts out.
~~Outcasts makes.~~

Love.

Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without, and know we cannot live within.
(James Arthur Baldwin ~ American playwright/social critic ~ 1924-1987)

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.
We love because he first loved us. Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen. And he has given us this command: Anyone who loves God must also love their brother and sister.
(1 John 4:18-21 ~ NIV)

I Remember Peace

July 6, 2016July 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

They were kind enough to invite me to ride with them recently. The seasoned riders have trekked many miles together in the years I’ve been aware of them.

I usually ride alone.

It’s not that I don’t like being with people, but simply that the logistics are less complicated when I’m the only one who has to agree to the time and length of ride.

It would be just another ride for me, I thought, but one spent in a group of men who, like me, enjoyed the spinning of the crank and wind of freedom blowing on their faces.

I never expected to be transported back fifty years as I rode.

It was my own fault really. One kind member of the group, noticing my problem, rode beside me for a few moments and explained the theory I obviously didn’t grasp.

“You don’t ride much with groups, do you? If you’ll stay with the other riders, the ride will be a lot easier.”

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand his meaning. Riding in a group reduces the effect of the wind, making the ride much less taxing. One has only to watch a professional bicycle racing team to grasp the idea. Drafting, following each other closely, is only a part of the benefit.

I never have been good at that—staying with the group. I’ve got my own ideas of what works, what corners to turn, how fast to ride on the downhills, and how hard to pedal up the steep slopes. But, perhaps the kind fellow is right.

I tried to follow his advice—really, I did.

But, they went slower than I wanted on the downhill parts. Then they went faster than I was ready to try on the uphill sections.

And, besides that, my mind was already a thousand miles away and fifty years in the past.

I guess I’ve always done it—ridden at my own pace. Still, the fear that knotted my insides on that long-ago day should have taught me a lesson to remember for life.

There were usually at least five of us who rode together—sometimes more. Through neighborhoods and across fields, down into canals and over levees, we pedaled our nondescript bikes. Brothers, neighbors, schoolmates—it didn’t matter. Whoever wanted to ride went along.

I heard the voices calling and jerked back from my daydreaming.

Oye vato!

The four young men standing at the corner toward which I was heading had suddenly become aware of my presence. It took only an instant for me to realize what was going on.

As I was riding ahead of the group of ragtag boys, I had turned the corner into La Paloma without knowing it. La Paloma was a barrio, or neighborhood, in my hometown famous for the gang that wandered its streets. It has gotten much worse since my childhood, but even then, we knew better than to meander down its avenues idly.

The young men were headed into the street, coming straight for me. I remembered passing someone at the corner behind as well, and glanced back. Sure enough, he had moved onto the pavement, blocking my quick escape that way.

I was terrified. No other word describes it.

Terror.

I was also alone. I can only imagine the conversation of my comrades as they gathered around the corner, just outside the neighborhood.

Can you believe he went in there? What was the idiot thinking? I’m not going in! No way!

Fortunately for me, they didn’t take long to decide that somebody had to come in after the idiot. Just in time, all of them came riding around the corner, about the moment I was trying to decide which one of the guys in front of me I might be able to knock over if I rode at him full speed. I never found out.

As soon as the rest of the group came into view, the other boys moved back onto the verge of the parking area and simply watched us ride past.

We rode, nonchalantly and quietly, down the street, turning the corner and riding straight home. After fifty years, my heart still beats a little faster, remembering the fear, but also the relief.

To this day, I remember the peace that rode around the corner with those brothers and friends. We weren’t out of danger—not by a long shot—but the relief I felt was almost palpable.

One might think the lesson I learned on that day was of strength in numbers. I know the truth of that, but it’s not what I remember.

I remember peace. While still in danger, I felt peace, full and complete.

Odd, isn’t it? The name of the barrio and its gang, La Paloma, means The Dove. Thoughout time, the dove has been a powerful symbol of peace. And there, in frightening circumstances, with disaster just moments away, peace fell over this young boy.

In danger, peace lives, unafraid.

Peace is not the absence of danger, but it is the assurance of safety.

Perhaps I’m not the only one who feels the danger crouching outside my door today. I hear it in the words, see it in the eyes of both friends and acquaintances. Fear can stalk us as we see death take those we know and love. Terror is set to spring as the world around us grows more unfamiliar and threatening.

And yet, the Savior told us He was leaving us peace. It’s not the peace the world craves—the complete absence of danger and of conflict of any kind, but is a peace that supports in the middle of the storm. (John 14:27)

He was about to be tortured, tried in court, and put to death. And, He told His followers not to be troubled and afraid. Their world was about to crash down around their shoulders and they were to continue on with peace in their souls.

It doesn’t make sense. It never has from a human perspective.

Once in awhile, the Lovely Lady and I feel the need to retreat. The world presses in, its cares overwhelming the spirit. Last weekend, we went to the mountaintop for a day or two.

We stood, overlooking the world below and heard the wind blow gently over the treetops. In quietness, God speaks eloquently to our spirits.

Creation reminds us that our Creator is as He has always been.

We walked the hillsides of a green valley in the morning, as raindrops began to fall. The sound of the water from heaven on the canopy of leaves and pine needles above soothed the hurts and fears in our souls.

Ah, sweet peace.

The solitude reminded me that peace has already been given us long ago. We have only to remember where our strength comes from and realization of our certain salvation is renewed.

The psalmist wrote of it in his own contemplation. I lift my eyes up to the hills and I realize where my strength comes from. It comes from God the Creator, who made the heavens and the earth. (Psalm 121:1-2)

Not only in the quiet, but in the hubbub, in the tormented days, and the fear-laden nights, peace can be ours.

Not only ours, peace can reign. In our very beings, the terror is silenced, the fear put to flight. Peace reigns. (Colossians 3:15)

When all about us, men whisper of danger and terror in the dark, we don’t disagree. They do exist. They do have power.

But, our safety is not in weapons, not in hoarded wealth, nor even in governments. The peace those bring isn’t peace at all. It never has been and never will be.

Peace comes only from the Giver of all good gifts.

Safety itself is ours.

Even when we ride ahead of the pack.

The Dove, on silver pinions
Winged her peaceful way.
(from The Pelican Island ~ James Montgomery ~ Scottish poet/hymnwriter ~ 1771-1854)

I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid.
(John 14:27 ~ NLT)

Just Standing Here

July 1, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Do you know where I can find a bar in this town?

The young man was wandering around my music store, having pulled down a guitar or two from the rack to whack at the strings a few seconds on each one.

He was agitated—angry, even.

We had talked about him being new in town and had even discussed his new profession in the construction business. He was almost smiling as he described his boss and how his new job was working out.

Then a shadow descended over his face as he told of being fired from the previous job which first drew him here, only a few weeks ago.

He showed me his arm and the evidence of a badly healed broken wrist bone, all the while ranting about the inequity of losing a job because of a previous injury. The job required repetitive motion and strength in his forearms and the company was not willing to risk the liability, so they let him go.

Anger spilling from his core, he asked me about the bar.

I told him where one could be found and waited for him to respond. I was pretty sure the bar wouldn’t help his state of mind, but it didn’t seem that my saying so would either. I simply waited.

Acknowledging the directions I had given him, he seemed to be searching for his next words. I expected to hear more vitriol aimed at the company that had left him high and dry, looking for a new job.

“I just ended my marriage. That’s why I’m headed to the bar.”

My mind raced, trying to change gears and catch up with the new direction this conversation was taking. As it raced, a completely new thought came to me.

I’m no bartender! Why does he think I want to hear to his sob story?

The internal conversation took me a minute, but I realized he was explaining this new twist in his biography, so I tried to concentrate on his words.

“Yeah. Just a few minutes ago. I walked out and told her to be gone when I get home.”

Four months, they made it before calling it quits. It’s not my story, so I’m not going to divulge any more of the details, but as he talked, my mind was asking questions.

Not of him. Of myself.

Okay. So you’re no bartender. But, you could say something about God. How about quoting some scripture?

Don’t you have any wisdom to share? Anything?

Sometimes, words won’t come. I just stood there, listening.

It’s a good thing.

When I try to fix things for others, I usually just make a mess. Most of the time, folks in his position simply need a listening ear. Somehow, in the quietness, God can speak into hearts what we can never communicate on our own.

The young man, calm now, looked at me and smiled.

“Thanks for listening. I’m going to go see if I can make some new friends, but I’ll be back.”

He reached out his hand and gripped mine. “My name’s Josh. Maybe you could pray for me or something.”

With that, he was gone.

I stood looking at the door. How did he know I would pray for him? Is that what bartenders do?

No, I guess not.

It is what I do.

It is what I will do for him.

Some days are like that. People don’t need your wisdom, don’t need your great store of knowledge, don’t even need your amazing skills, to make things better.

They just need you. To stand there.

Listening.

And praying.

Listening is such a simple act. It requires us to be present, and that takes practice, but we don’t have to do anything else. We don’t have to advise, or coach, or sound wise. We just have to be willing to sit there and listen.
(Margaret Wheatley ~ American writer/consultant)

So confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great effectiveness.
(James 5:16 ~ NET Bible)

Never Again a Stranger

June 30, 2016June 30, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I am a poor wayfaring stranger
While traveling through this world of woe.
Yet there’s no sickness, toil or danger
In that bright world to which I go.

Except, I’m not really.

A wayfaring person, that is. Not in the sense that I actually travel long distances.

I see the questionnaire in the feed of my social media once in awhile. I even took the test once. It was embarrassing.

The question asks, How many states have you visited?

I’m not going to tell you the answer. Let’s just say less than half of them. I don’t have a deep-seated desire to travel. I never really have.

I’m sure it says something about my personality. I don’t really want to know. Or possibly, I do.

Maybe, I already know.

The song lyrics with which we opened this essay speak of traveling in this world, but they really look to the one to come. And, the words used to describe the poet in the first line tell the story. They tell it for me, anyway.

A wayfaring stranger.

Were there ever two words juxtaposed to present such a bleak perspective? It is not the picture of camaraderie, fellow travelers headed for a common destination. It is, however, a tableau of a lonely figure wandering along the highway, shoulders hunched and coat held tightly at the neck to block the icy fingers of the frigid winter’s chill.

And, in that sad vision, I see myself clearly. I don’t travel with ease, for new surroundings put me in strange circumstances, a stranger in a strange place.

I’m not apologizing. I don’t even feel obliged to change.

There’s a reason I often feel uncomfortable here:

I simply don’t fit in very well.

I’m not supposed to.

The Apostle for whom I am named suggested that we who follow Christ will never be at home here. He, who historically was so bold as to claim citizenship in the Roman state even though he had never been in Rome, made an even bolder claim for us.

We are citizens of Heaven. (Philippians 3:20)

The poet called himself—and by association, each of us—a wayfaring stranger. My friends who live in foreign countries have a different word. Ex-pats, they fondly say, referring to themselves and folks who, like them, are not from the country they reside in physically.

Expatriates. It comes from the Latin expatriare, meaning out of one’s native country.

The Apostle speaks of being surrounded by those who think only about life here on earth. Somehow, they believe the journey all of us are on ends with death. The result is a preoccupation with comfort here and now. YOLO! You only live once!

As if.

Mr. Lewis suggests that, unlike nature which is mortal, we are immortal and will live forever. He is not wrong.

I cringe as I think about the number of times I have heard the YOLO phrase on the lips of others who claim to believe as I do, who say they follow the same Savior.

There are many who don’t seem like strangers here. Blending in like natives, they indeed, act as if today is all there is to live for. Certainly, they don’t seem like ex-pats, either to me or to the non-believers who surround us in this place.

But, I don’t speak for them. I can’t see the heart of any man or woman, and certainly wouldn’t presume to know where their journey will lead them.

I only know I’m looking for the day when my journey is complete and I arrive at my true destination, my native country. I don’t want to be an expatriate forever.

May I tell you a secret?

This is one trip I’m enjoying. Sure, I’m a stranger. The road is not always comfortable. Blazing hot days of struggling through the desert turn into the frozen blast as we scale the mountains between us and our destination.

There is pain and sorrow, there is loneliness and loss, along this road.

Ah, but the destination!

Like the Apostle and his citizenship in Rome, I have never been there. I’m not bothered by that in the slightest.

You see, I’m not a stranger there.

Home. It is my home.

They know me there.

How about you?

What springs from earth dissolves to earth again, and heaven-born things fly to their native seat.
(Marcus Aurelius ~ Roman Emperor ~ 121-180)

Beloved, I urge you as aliens and strangers to abstain from fleshly lusts which wage war against the soul. Keep your behavior excellent among the Gentiles, so that in the thing in which they slander you as evildoers, they may because of your good deeds, as they observe them, glorify God in the day of visitation.
(1 Peter 2:11-12 ~ NASB)

Never Much Hope

June 28, 2016June 28, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was a hot Saturday afternoon in the Rio Grande Valley. That, of course, could have described almost every one of the fifty-some Saturdays which occurred in any given year, but this one, I remember.

I remember it because it was the day the band geeks were going to show up the jocks in a game of two-below football. I was one of the geeks. Still am, truth be told.

You never saw such a group of unlikely athletes. Oh, there were a few who had the physique for it, but the coordination hadn’t come along with the build. On this day, we weren’t worried about that.

We were a team. A group of guys focused on the same goal. All for one and one for all. We had heart.

The jocks showed up, jeering and making predictions. Seventy to nothing, one big muscle-bound fellow taunted. Others foresaw pain in our collective future.

We weren’t afraid—much.

The game began. For a little while, we held our own and it seemed that the predictions were very much flawed. Then, little by little, our confidence faded.

Two-below football is a minimum contact form of the sport which allows blocking, but not much other hitting of body on body. The person carrying the ball should expect nothing more than the slapping of two hands below the waist to bring the play to a halt.

Somehow, the jocks had the idea that it meant you simply tackled with two hands below the belt-line. It turned out that one of the predictions had been right: There was pain in our future. A good bit of it.

I played for the entire first half. A fair portion of the second half was spent on the ground along the sideline biting back the groans that a knee to the groin had elicited. I was not alone on the sideline. But still, I did get back out and play, however hampered I was by the discomfort, to end the game.

Heart or no heart, confidence or not, we lost—big time. I don’t think the score was seventy to nothing, but it might as well have been.

There had never been a chance. We were beaten before it began.

What’s that?

You thought the story would end better? Perhaps a miracle finish? Maybe a secret weapon to unleash upon the callous football players?

It didn’t happen.

It wasn’t a Hollywood story, you know. It wasn’t even an epic fairy tale.

Happily ever after didn’t happen.

We lost. Utterly and completely.

That’s life. No, really. It’s what life is. Reality isn’t all parties and happiness. Nobody wins every time. Nobody.

Some of my friends will be unhappy with me as they read this. Many voices have spoken different words into their lives.

I will respectfully and (hopefully) gently insist that our Creator has a different path for us.

For the last few years, the muttering has been growing. Folks are unhappy with the thought that many good things are coming to an end. We expected, as followers of Jesus, to live peacefully and unharmed in a bounty-filled land.

Wealth and plenty have been ours. Our voices have been the only ones we heard, as we have grown fat and selfish.

Perhaps, I should speak for myself. I have heard my own voice as I spoke words I believed to be true. Speaking and not acting, I have grown fat. In the absence of opposition, I have grown selfish beyond belief.

And now, in a way my grandparents and my parents never experienced, the world just outside my front door has grown increasingly unfriendly to my comfort and ease.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not claiming persecution. I’ve seen—from afar—what happens to believers when they are persecuted. I haven’t experienced even a fraction of that, nor have most folks I’m acquainted with.

But, it may come to that. Being neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet, I cannot say.

Still, we are promised, not comfort, but discomfort. We are promised, not open arms from the world around us, but reproach. Folks we call our neighbors will turn on us.

I’m not talking about end-times prophecy. I’m simply averring that this is what life will be for us if we truly follow Jesus.

After all, He is the One who promised hardship. Promised it. (John 16:33)

He never asked us to win the battle for men’s hearts for Him. That’s His job. He simply asked us to stand firm to the end.

He never suggested that we would be happy and trouble-free because we serve Him faithfully, but He did promise that we will inherit His kingdom. (Matthew 5:10)

And, that brings us to the one other thing He did promise: The day is coming.

The day is coming when all of this will fade into nothingness. All the pain. All the sadness. All the jeering. All the hardships we’ve ever faced.

All of it. Nothing. Nothing at all.

The Apostle Paul wrote down the words he was given by the Spirit:

There is no comparison in any way between the passing inconveniences of this world and the unbelievable glory which will be ours in the next. (Romans 8:18)

There are days when I am overcome with weariness—with sorrow—with despair. This mountain I am facing can never be scaled, can never be conquered.

A friend reminded me tonight of that great fortress called Doubting Castle, kept by the Giant Despair. John Bunyan wrote of it hundreds of years past.

Many I know have been held captive there. Many I know are still chained in its dungeon.

Still, it’s as true today as it was in the days when Mr. Bunyan sat in prison for his faith—still as true as in the early days of the Church: The world has been overcome by the One we follow. The outcome has never been in doubt.

Our day is coming.

Hope’s spark still burns deep within each one who follows Him.

Our enemy doesn’t play by the rules. He never has. He seems so much more powerful than we are. That hasn’t changed, either.

We seem so easily injured and tired out.

But, the game is not over yet.

And, he has been fooled before.

And, defeated.

As it turns out, he’s the one who never had any hope of winning.

I’m going to stick it out.

You?

And if our hope in Christ is only for this life, we are more to be pitied than anyone in the world.
(1 Corinthians 15:19 ~ NLT)

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo.
“So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times, But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist ~ 1892-1973)

The Easy Stuff

June 23, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Always look for the easy stuff first, son.

Mr. Sims was under the hood of his wife’s car, a wide grin on his face. To this day, I have no idea what was wrong with my neighbor’s car, but he was pleased with the result of the few moments he had spent on his task.

There might have been a little chagrin in his manner, too.

Evidently, the problem had plagued the car for quite awhile. Other repairs had been attempted, but that day he had finally found the solution.

It was so simple. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!

Mr. Sims was a mechanic. A good one.

He was unhappy that his attempts to repair the car had gone amiss for so long, as he anticipated the worst. The repair was, contrary to his expectations, basic and inexpensive.

Why do we miss the easy stuff?

The young man set the electric guitar, case and all, down on my counter with a sigh. Disgust was written on his face. It would soon be written on mine, as well.

I’m sorry, but it won’t work at all. Everything was great at the rehearsal, but when we tried it at the gig, it just made fuzzy noises and then died completely.

My heart sank. I sold him the guitar just last week. It’s a very nice instrument. I didn’t want to have to refund his money. I would if I had to, but I didn’t want to.

Plugging the instrument in to an amplifier, I strummed a chord. It sounded great. For just a moment—it sounded great.

Then, the pretty tones started to sound fuzzy and distorted. The clarity disappeared and left in its place nothing but jangly discord.

I was going to give him back his money, wasn’t I?

As I squatted there in front of the amplifier, guitar perched on my knee, my mind darted this way and that.

What could be wrong? Circuit board? Pickup coil? A new Sustainer pickup and circuit would cost more than two hundred dollars.

What was I going to do?

I’m not saying I actually heard it then, but I can certainly hear his voice in my head as I write tonight. Mr. Sims was a genius. A genius in dirty coveralls.

Always look for the easy stuff first, son.

My mind switched gears. Easy stuff—easy stuff. . .

Dead battery! The pre-amp battery must be dead. I opened the little compartment and, pulling the battery out, checked it with my tongue. Well? It was quicker than finding a multi-tester. Besides, I was in no danger of being shocked—this time.

The battery was completely drained. Dead as the proverbial door nail.

Easy stuff.

Why do we assume the worst?

Our culture—and I’m referring to the culture of the day, as well as our spiritual culture—has somehow convinced us to look for the hard answers. We dig deep to answer the question that consumes us: Why?

The men who trailed after the Teacher saw a man alongside the road who had been born blind. They had deep questions. They wanted to know why. (John 9:1-7)

The Teacher wanted them to understand how.

There was no need to dig into the past. There was no need to determine guilt.

The man’s only need was for light. And sight.

Simple things.

That day, the blind man walked away seeing a world he had never before gazed upon.

The cynicism and pessimism in our culture, even within our circle of believers, is overwhelming.

Don’t hang around with him. He’s got a filthy mouth.

Don’t you know what she’s done?

I don’t see how you can stand him!

And again, we come to it. The religious men gathered around the Teacher, wanting to hear how complicated it would be for them to please God.

They were sure it would be a long discussion. It wasn’t.

Always look for the easy stuff first, son.

Okay. That’s not exactly what He said. But, it was just as simple, just as naive, in their opinion.

Love God. Love each other. (Matthew 22:36-40)

Maybe it’s simple and naive in our opinion, too.

We’re still arguing the deep questions today. And all the while, folks around us are stumbling around in the dark. Blind!

It’s time to get under the hood and get this jalopy going, isn’t it?

Mr. Sims knew how to make it run.

Always look for the easy stuff first, son.

It’s time to put in some new batteries.

Easy stuff.

When the solution is simple, God is answering.
(Albert Einstein ~ German-American theoretical physicist ~ 1879-1955)

He has told you, O man, what is good,
and what the Lord really wants from you:
He wants you to promote justice, to be faithful,
and to live obediently before your God.
(Micah 6:8 ~ NET)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips

He Still Hangs the Moon

Ancient Passage

Crying In the Open

Sacred & Profane

Two Sides

I Remember Peace

Just Standing Here

Never Again a Stranger

Never Much Hope

The Easy Stuff