Two Forward, One Back

December 4, 2015December 4, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The last time he came through my door, he was pushing a walker. Slowly. His leg was in a plaster cast and walking was painful.

Today, he wielded a cane. There was no cast, so I could see the scar running the length of his calf muscle. He was moving better than the last time I had seen him and I told him so. His reaction was almost instantaneous.

“Whoa! Don’t let this cane fool you! It’s been nothing but two steps forward and one back. I wouldn’t call that better.”

I admit it. It wasn’t the kindest thing I could have done. I’m not always tactful in making my point.

I simply stuck my right hand out in front of my face and lifted the fingers, one at a time. First one, then two. I shook them a little, then put one of them back down. The index finger still stuck out and I waved it around, half playfully.

He got the point.

Making a nearly-grumpy comment about it not being me dealing with the pain, he laughed and headed outside after finishing his transaction, leaving me to contemplate the condition of all humankind.

Two forward. One back.

It’s still progress. I did the math.

One plus one minus one equals one. One is more than zero, right?

Just to be sure, I even made a little diagram in my head.

The little stick-man is standing on Point A. He takes two steps, to Point C. He turns around and takes one step back in the direction he came, to Point B.

He started on Point A and is now standing on Point B. That’s what we would call going in the right direction. Positive movement.

Can anyone tell me why it feels so much like being a loser, then?

I always wondered about that. The red-headed lady who raised me used to spit out the words, as if they left a bitter taste on her tongue.

Well there you go. Two steps forward and one back! Again.

I was an almost-bright kid. Loved number problems.

If John has one apple and Mary gives him two more, but he has to give one to the playground bully, how many apples did he lose?

Be careful how you answer that question. You might be surprised at how many people get it wrong.

From a safe distance, the answer is obviously none. He actually gained an apple from where he started. From a safe distance, that’s the answer.

Ah. But what if you had held all of those three apples in your hand? What if you had been the victim of that muscle-bound thug?

He stole my apple! Thief! I had three; now I have only two.

How quickly we claim ownership! How soon our hearts become fixed upon the thing in our hand.

And the Teacher told them not to hold tightly to the treasure in this transient place where thieves steal,and where bugs eat and rust corrodes. (Matthew 6:19-20)

But, what of my injured friend? All he is doing is working toward a goal. That’s a worthy purpose, is it not? Surely, that is what we should all be doing?

It is. But, just as in all of life, if we begin to count the steps (either forward or back), we lose sight of the goal and also of how far we’ve come.

It matters not what the goal is—sobriety, fitness, a promotion at work—when we have a setback. We think of it as a loss, regardless of how far we have come in our pursuit of the prize.

How easy it is to take our eyes from the goal when we experience a defeat.

Earlier, as I drew in my head the chart of the little man advancing, my mind’s eye was drawn to the action many of us take in our two steps, one step dance.

We face the goal for our two steps forward, but turn back to take the one step back. Suddenly, all we can see is the proximity of total defeat, the looming shadow of complete failure.

What if I’m done? I only made it two steps before. Maybe I can’t do it again.

What if all is lost?

Ah, but what if it isn’t?

You know something? No one ever achieved his goals by walking backwards. No one.

Turn around.

The goal is out there. Up ahead.

There is nothing behind us we’re headed for. Nothing.

Up ahead—it’s all up ahead.

And the Teacher told them they would have troubles as long as they were in the world.

Not to worry though. I have overcome the world. (John 16:33)

He’s got this. He’s already done the math. He’s already lost the apple to the playground bully. And still, He finished—victorious.

Keep moving forward.

Yeah, two steps forward and one back will still get you exactly where you need to go.

In time.

Hold everything in your hands lightly, otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open.
(Corrie Ten Boom ~ Dutch Holocaust survivor ~ 1892-1983)

We are kept from our goals, not by obstacles, but by a clear path to a lesser goal.
(Robert Brault ~ American writer)

Children of Jubal

December 3, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He’s not all that impressive a man in the history books. You’d have to look a long way to find any reference to him.

Once—just once, he is mentioned in the Pentateuch, and to my knowledge, never again is his name mentioned in the Scriptures.

Jubal, they called him. The father of all who play the harp and pipes. (Genesis 4:21)

Did I say he was never again mentioned in the Bible? That is not, strictly speaking, truthful. The name actually means trumpet in the Hebrew language. It is the root for the word jubilee, a word used again and again in the history of God’s people.

It is, almost certainly, where we get the word jubilation in the English language.

I needed a little of that today—jubilation, I mean. It has been a series of long, hard days stretching back for months now. Things are not as I would have them; my ducks refuse to get into the rows I have planned for them.

And once again, in the news today, we heard news of atrocities, of people dead and others injured, lying in hospital beds. The physical wounds are not all the damage which has been done; many still walking are wounded to the depths of their spirits.

Indeed, jubilation has been a commodity in short supply for too many in this damaged world.

Exhaustion and a lack of ready capital in the emotional bank are pushing multitudes to the raw edge of despair. I have approached that precipice myself a time or two recently.

Tonight, as I closed my business, I suggested that I might call the worship leader to let her know that I couldn’t be at our scheduled practice later in the evening.

I’m tired. I’ve got nothing left to give.

I didn’t make the call, instead determining I would fulfill my responsibilities. A fifteen minute nap would have to suffice to recharge the batteries. I could only hope to last the hour at my practice.

Again and again, I am surprised by it. I shouldn’t be.

Still, it takes me unawares, nearly every time.

I walked into that worship center dragging and forlorn. I wasn’t the only one.

We didn’t walk out in the same condition. Logic tells me we should have been even more tired after our efforts. The reality is that we were recharged and ready to face a sad and flawed world once more.

What happened?

We spent time with the children of Jubal is what happened. Music happened. The blending of individual’s gifts and talents into a single purpose and direction.

I have always believed that music is one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind. Oh, there are some better. I imagine a list could be compiled. But, there are not many more helpful in keeping us centered and headed toward the completion of our calling.

Music comes directly—directly—from our Creator. His very creation sings and gives testimony to His genius. It did so long before humans walked this earth.

Even before the earth was shaped, the stars and angelic beings formed one great celestial choir in praise of their Creator. (Job 38:4-7) We only continue in the steps of those who came before us.

I know some will say it’s a waste of time, even a slap in the face to those who still are in pain.

Surely, it’s simply a way to mask the pain, to escape reality?

I wonder; When a man has a cut on his arm, would you deny him the opportunity to put salve on it? The purpose of salve, or ointment, is not only to ease the pain, but to begin the healing process.

I can attest to the reality that music is the application of ointment to the whole spirit of a man or woman. It salves the pain of sadness, of loss, of despair. It heals the broken spirit and give courage to face the world once more, whole and strong.

Are you sick of pain? Wounded by death? Scarred by terror?

The prescription I recommend is to come away and spend some time immersed in the original salve. Better than Burt’s Bees or Gold Bond, this ointment leaves no unpleasant greasiness behind.

The poet tells us that musick hath charms to soothe the savage beast. I don’t doubt it a bit.

The children of Jubal still populate the world today. It’s a good thing. May their tribe increase.

Jubilate Deo!

Rejoice in God!

Even before we call on thy name
To ask thee, O Lord,
When we seek for the words to glorify thee,
Thou hearest our prayer;
Unceasing love, O unceasing love,
Surpassing all we know.
Glory to the father,
and to the Son,
And to the Holy Spirit.

Even with darkness sealing us in,
We breathe thy name,
And through all the days that follow so fast,
We trust in thee;
Endless thy grace, O endless thy grace,
Beyond all mortal dream.
Both now and forever,
And unto ages and ages,
Amen.
(Pilgrim’s Hymn ~ Stephen Paulus ~ American composer ~ 1949-2014)

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
(Psalm 23:5 ~ KJV)

Spit

December 2, 2015December 2, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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 instrumentalists?”

He shuddered once for effect and turned away without waiting for an answer. The brass players 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. This is important stuff to all of you who are aspiring trumpet, or trombone, or even tuba players. Important perhaps, even for the parents of such folk.

The liquid is not spit. That’s right. Not spit.

It is nothing more or less than condensation. What would you expect to happen when warm, moist air is blown into a cold metal tube? What happens when you enter a cold automobile on a winter’s evening? The windows fog up, do they not? Do you call that moisture on the windshield spit? Of course not.

The water an instrumentalist empties out of his horn is simply condensation which has gathered in one spot and must be emptied, unless he or she wants to hear the burble of water having air blown through it.

Condensation. Not spit.

But, I still want 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 merely met with more disgust, and the young man stalked out to the parking lot to await his family in privacy. 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 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 about the existential questions for a moment or two. Why? Who? How?

They were the wrong questions.

He was 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.

And 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.

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)

Saying Good Words

November 25, 2015November 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was the perfect plan! Perfect.

The Phillips Brats were in fine form. Mr. Olson, the patient and gentle teacher of their primary Sunday School class, wouldn’t know what to do. They were sure of it.

The eight and nine year-old boys normally were on their best behavior on Sunday mornings, since their father was acting as the Sunday School Superintendent that year. They never knew when his strong fingers would slide through the portable cloth panel behind their chairs and pinch an arm to quiet down his rowdy offspring. The man knew how to pinch!

Today, though—today—his work with the Post Office guaranteed there would be no pinched arms. The busy holiday season required more hours of all the employees, and their dad, a clerk at the main office in town, was no exception. He wouldn’t impede them in their mischievousness today.

They drafted one of the more courageous girls in the class to help with their plan. It was a simple plan, but one guaranteed to disrupt progress.

Mr. Olson began to teach and they went into action. Well, it wasn’t really into action. Each of the three children simply had an assigned word to whisper. Just one.

The older brother didn’t hesitate.

Amen!

Their teacher stopped in mid-sentence, but only for a second. His eye-brows went up quizzically, and then he was off again.

It was time for brother number two to interject.

Hallelujah!

The result was the same. No verbal response was forthcoming, nor was any expected. The lesson simply went on.

Praise the Lord!

The brave little girl carried off her part admirably. Mr. Olson didn’t even hesitate this time. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he would fulfill his responsibilities, regardless.

The entire half hour went in much the same manner. The alternating voices, sometimes louder—sometimes softer—interjected at appropriate (or not) intervals, and the lesson was completed at last.

Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

They are good words, are they not?

The plan was genius. No Sunday School teacher in his right mind would deny the children the privilege of using those words in response to the lesson. The boys knew that. The problem is—the good words were not in response to anything.

They meant nothing to the children. Nothing.

An entire lesson was wasted. All while only good words were spoken.

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless who takes His name in vain. (Exodus 20:7)

It is one of the Ten Commandments about which we are most vociferous. In my house, growing up, we had a list of what my father called minced oaths—words mimicking the sound of God’s name—which were prohibited. I cannot bring myself to say them aloud to this day. You will, no doubt, be able to bring them to mind without me listing them here.

Frequently, I see written comments or hear them in conversation from well-meaning folks, who are fed up with the constant barrage. I don’t disagree. It is disheartening.

We understand what it means to take the name of God in vain.

Or, do we?

Well, at least the ancient men of God understood it, right? They wouldn’t even utter His real name, choosing instead a euphemism. The rationale was that they couldn’t inadvertently be guilty of trespass that way.

But, did they understand any better than we do?

What if taking the Lord’s name in vain has nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with the language that erupts when we smash our thumb with a hammer, or are spattered with hot grease?

What if the foul words that come unbidden when we are angry and out of control are not even remotely connected to the principle God intended for us to take away from His instruction to mankind?

I wonder. Is it possible that we will someday have to justify our passive invocation of God’s blessing upon our gatherings in which we do nothing but further our own well-being?

Will He reprimand us for the actions we have demanded of others in His name? Our list of spiritual do’s and don’ts has grown sophisticated and somewhat unmanageable over the centuries.

Somehow, I hear the voice of the Teacher castigating the teachers of the Law for their lists and demands, as He clearly tells them that the burden the people carry is not God’s, but theirs—and you yourselves will not lift one finger to help them carry it. (Luke 11:46)

What if our gatherings for giving thanks are not that at all, but simply a time for us to gaze fondly at our wealth and physical blessings, all the while closing our hearts—and hands—to those who have nothing?

The day we set aside as a country to celebrate our giving of thanks is upon us.

Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

The children, perhaps, may be pardoned for their youthful misuse of the words.

What if, this time, we really meant the words? I trust it will be so.

On this day, and throughout the year, may our gatherings be blessed with thankful hearts, out of which flow generosity of spirit and a love for others.

Give thanks!

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful. Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts. And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.
(Colossians 3:15-17 ~ NIV)

To speak gratitude is courteous and pleasant, to enact gratitude is generous and noble, but to live gratitude is to touch Heaven.
(Johannes A Gaertner ~ German born poet/theologian ~ 1912-1996)

Frosted Glass

November 24, 2015November 24, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I woke up this morning and, looking out the window, wondered about the fog.

Didn’t the weather man say it would be sunny this morning?

Mere seconds later, the fog cleared. No, not the fog I was seeing through the window. The fog in my brain.

Looking at the window again, I remembered that the exterior storm windows, set at a distance of a few inches from the original single-pane glass, hold in the moisture of the night. On cold mornings, the view through the windows is dim and foggy, regardless of the weather outside.

Sunny. There was no fog—no mist.

A beautiful morning.

It would not be many more hours before the fog was back. The fog in my head, I mean.

I read the words once. “Saying goodbye to my father…”

I read them again, this time through tears. His father is a friend, an encourager, a tease. One of my favorite people.

It’s not true. He can’t be dead.

I don’t know what happened to the sun. Perhaps the tears that came unbidden fogged up the view, but it was dim even after I wiped them away.

The rest of my day was viewed through a dark lens. Tears, sarcasm, anger—all of them were close to the surface and likely to be unleashed without provocation.

I argued with two young men on separate occasions this afternoon. They needed to know how dark the world is.

I took care of that task.

One of them, a man in his late twenties, now clearly understands that his days of carefree happiness are numbered. The reality of death, which will close in to take scores of his friends as he ages, has been explained thoroughly to him.

The second, a slightly older father of two, now grasps fully the ugliness of sin hidden inside every person he respects and loves. I did my best to explain to him that it would be every person who would disappoint. Every person.

The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested at this juncture that misery loves company.

I wasn’t done yet.

Late this afternoon a longtime friend about my own age related his enjoyment at watching a documentary of a famous singer who, though struggling with Alzheimer’s, still finished his farewell concert tour. It seemed, to my friend, a triumph in the face of overwhelming odds.

Astounded that anyone should see even one ray of sunshine on such an obviously dark day, I set him straight, citing my mother’s experience with the horrible disease before her death last summer. I wasn’t gentle, helping him to understand with graphic descriptions of the horror.

I have apologies to make.

More than that, I need to learn to trust a loving God, who sees the beginning and the end. When events overwhelm, He sends messengers to offer words of comfort, but I, drowning in the dark waves, attempt to pull them down as well.

I will make my apologies.

Learning to trust will take longer—perhaps a lifetime.

Tonight, I’m in agreement with the Psalmist, who suggested that he had some complaints to make and asked that they be heard. (Psalm 64:1)

Funny thing. He got to the end of his complaining and found there was light at the end of the darkness. (Psalm 64:10)

Light. And hope.

It is not so dark here as I thought.

I’m hearing from lots of my friends who believe the entire world is dark and without hope. Events and fears have colored the glass through which they view all of God’s creation.

This morning, as I walked out of my house, the sunshine was brilliant beyond description. The storm windows, designed to protect, had given an illusion of a world covered in cloud.

Beyond the illusion, the sun is still shining.

The light has shined into darkness and has not been overcome by it.

It is not so dark out here.

Following the light of the sun, we left the Old World.
(Christopher Columbus ~ Italian explorer ~ ca. 1451-1506)

Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
And lean not on your own understanding;
In all your ways acknowledge Him,
And He shall make smooth your paths.
(Proverbs 3:5-6 ~ NKJV)

Raunchy

November 19, 2015November 19, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was in a quandary. The nice young lady had asked me if I would play my horn with the pit orchestra for a musical at the local university. Flattered, and hopeful I would be able to cover the part, I agreed.

I would regret my decision very soon thereafter.

My personal preparation for the production (which ran for four nights) would involve many hours—painful hours—of practice. I’m an old man who has coasted for many years, playing easy, pretty things—the kind of music that makes folks sigh and exclaim that the French horn is their favorite instrument.

This wasn’t that kind of music. I wasn’t able to cover the part without the personal wood-shedding of the pieces over and over.

I wish that had been the hardest part of preparing for the production. It wasn’t. The hardest part had nothing to do with the music, or the time involved, or even the people who would participate with me.

It’s a raunchy story.

Raunchy.

The story of a demented man who wanders the countryside pretending to be a knight. It’s the story of people who steal what they want from fellow travelers. The demented knight is robbed and beaten, and he dies.

He dies.

All of that wasn’t a problem for me.

What was a problem was that one of the main characters, a serving lady in the inn, is also a prostitute. I didn’t like that she has a filthy mouth. I didn’t like that the songs seem to make light of the sinful state of the folks who populate the stage play.

I almost called the nice young lady and told her I couldn’t be involved in her production. You see, I’m not a raunchy person. I don’t want to be identified with that type of stuff.

I’m not raunchy. Right?

I didn’t call the nice young lady. Instead, I listened to a recording of the play one last time before making a decision. I sat through the fight in the inn’s courtyard as the knight sought to protect the serving lady’s honor, a laughable attempt at a vain undertaking, I thought. It was especially futile, given that the first man he did battle with had already paid the cash price the woman demanded for her services.

Moments later in the track, the crude musical explanation of who she knew herself to be left me nodding my head in agreement. She was crude, the crudeness almost overshadowing the shock of her being raped at one point during the story.

No. I just couldn’t do this. I couldn’t be a part of this thing. I would call the nice young lady in the morning and back out as gracefully as I could.

But the recording was still playing.

The mad knight would not be swayed. The lady, his dream of womanhood, could be none other than his sweet Dulcinea, even though she insisted she was neither pure nor sweet.

I never expected to cry.

It’s not a religious story. It’s a raunchy tale of twisted humanity.

And redemption.

Really. Redemption.

An impossible dream.

The prostitute becomes the lady the deluded knight envisioned.

How is that possible?

I cried every night of the production. Every night. As I played my horn, tears ran down my cheeks.

The story of mankind is a raunchy tale of twisted humanity. You may read the whole story in the Bible. Don’t say you haven’t been warned though.

The pages are populated by adulterers, prostitutes, murderers, liars, cheats, and thieves—to say nothing of insane kings and philandering judges.

Yes. The Holy Bible. The same Book that says, whatever is true, honest, just, pure, holy, these are the things to contemplate. (Philippians 4:8)

Here’s the thing: The raunchy tale of twisted humanity is also the story of a Holy God who looked at what was and saw what would be. A God who would take the flawed and filthy and make it pure and whole.

Redemption.

And, raunchy becomes righteous.

Somehow, we don’t want to talk about the dirty stuff. We avoid the filth—as if we’ve never been filthy ourselves. I sometimes wonder if it makes us feel better to think about how perfect we are, comparing ourselves with others who haven’t experienced His Grace. Or, perhaps it simply reminds us of hard truths and sad experiences we’d rather not remember.

But, this I know: Without the depravity—without the raunchiness, there would never have been the redemption. Without sin—no grace.

We do Him a disservice when we sweep the story under the rug, as if it never happened. We lie when we lead people to believe that we are any better than the rest of the raunchy world.

We discount the value of the astounding gift given us when we avoid the stigma of our past lives, as if it had never happened.

What a gift to a people who deserved nothing better than to wallow in their own filth!

Raunchy?

Once I was. Not any more.

Redeemed.

Redeemed.

“Once, just once, would you look at me as I really am?”
“I see beauty, purity. Dulcinea.”
(from Man of La Mancha ~ Dale Wasserman ~ American playwright ~ 1914-2008)

. . .just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless.
(Ephesians 5:25-27 ~ NIV)

Cream and Sugar?

November 17, 2015November 17, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Did we save any room for dessert?

The young lady waiting on our table clears away the dishes, while asking the question. I wonder a moment if she is including herself in the query, but it is clear she uses the word we to avoid any hint of accusation that we would have stuffed ourselves while eating our meal.

We did, in fact, save room for dessert on this occasion and we tell her what we would like. To carry on the charade of not being gluttons, we will share the giant-sized portion of the brownie sundae.

I want a cup of coffee and tell the young lady so. She writes a note on her pad and asks if I’d like cream and sugar with it. I don’t.

I never did.

That is changing, though. I’m remembering that my mother always liked a little evaporated milk and a spoonful of sugar in hers. I have wondered why that was.

On a recent visit to the grocery store with the Lovely Lady, I suggested we buy a container of flavored creamer. Italian Cream. You know—for our daughter and her husband, when they came to visit. And to satisfy my curiosity.

Wow!

Can I tell you a secret? I drink coffee—the habit of many years, but it’s not my favorite flavor. Oh, the slightly bitter taste is palatable, but I can’t drink it very quickly. I sit and nurse a cup for an hour. By the time I’m ready for another, the dregs in my cup are cold and I toss the useless liquid into the sink before pouring my next cup.

On that fateful day we arrived home with the flavored creamer in our grocery box, I wasn’t all that hopeful. Cream was for wimps.

May I say it again? Wow!

I poured a little into the bottom my cup and filled it up with coffee. Ten minutes later, I was back for another cup.

Ten minutes.

She’s still buying the creamer at the grocery store. Two bottles last week. I refuse to look at the calorie count on the label.

I still get that old familiar coffee flavor in my cup. Only now, it’s a smooth, mellow flavor. The bitterness is not evident at all. And the sweetness? I love sweet things.

Now I can drink so much more!

What do you mean, I shouldn’t do that? It tastes great! Smooth and sweet—how could that be bad?

The realization was a real wake-up call. No. Literally.

A wake-up call.

On a recent night, as I sat and wrote into the wee hours of the morning, I consumed five cups. Five.

I lay on my bed and stared into the darkness until daylight.

Did you know that, even though the tan-colored liquid in my cup tastes so much better and goes down more smoothly, it’s still coffee?

It’s still coffee. With caffeine. And acid.

Did you also know that there is more to talk about here than just coffee?

I’m a little embarrassed to admit my little affair with the coffee creamer to you anyway. But, not nearly as embarrassed as I would be if I had to admit all the other lies I tell myself everyday.

I’m not gossiping. I’m sharing concerns. We can pray for them, too.

I’m not really a glutton. I’ll run an extra mile to make up for it later.

It’s not actually a lie. I’m really just bending the truth a little. It’s for his own good anyway.

It’s not really envy. I simply need to work a few extra hours each week, so I can have the same nice things my neighbor has.

These are only the tip of the iceberg. In so many ways, I twist the truth and present myself in just the light I want you to see me. The creamy brown sweetness is so much more appealing than the bitter, blackness of my heart.

Pour all the milk and sugar in you want. It’s still coffee in the cup.

Put pumpkin flavoring in it with the milk and call it pumpkin spice latté.

It’s still coffee.

And, it still keeps me awake at night.

The heart is more deceitful than all else
And is desperately sick;
Who can understand it?
(Jeremiah 17:9 ~ NASB)

For a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,
The medicine go down, the medicine go down—
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way.
(from Mary Poppins ~ Robert/Richard Sherman ~ American songwriters)

Keep Walking

November 13, 2015November 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Yesterday was Windsday. I know, I know—that’s not how it’s spelled, but it is what happened yesterday.

My late father-in-law would have shoved the door open, leaves floating around his white hair, and announced that it was a bit air-ish out. He would have been right, too.

Throughout the whole day, the wind blew at least fifteen miles an hour, sometimes with sustained winds of over thirty. There were even a number of gusts blowing at almost fifty miles an hour.

Trash cans flew over, canvas signs flapped noisily, and the black walnuts falling on the tin roof made a racket like a kid throwing rocks at a stop-sign.

The black monsters in the back yard eventually got so tired of disengaging themselves from the debris and struggling to stay upright that they spent most of the day inside their doghouse.

I wasn’t as bright as the dogs. Needing to conduct business with one of my instrument technicians, I headed out into the blowing night after work. Flying in the same direction as the wind in my pickup truck, I hardly noticed it at all. It would be an uneventful evening ride.

That was before.

Before I turned the other direction to head for home. Before I felt the buffeting wind lifting the body of my truck.

Before I began to see things.

In the wind. I saw things in the wind. Coming right at me.

It is fall in the Ozarks and the leaves are barely clinging to the branches as it is. The blustery wind needed to do little persuading to convince the trembling foliage to turn loose. The problem is, I was driving into that gusting blast.

It wasn’t only leaves that attacked me. Plastic shopping bags of all sizes danced on the wind, spinning and diving madly. In front of me and beside me, they tore past, along with other unidentifiable objects.

It was, to say the least, disconcerting. I didn’t know whether to brake the truck and creep into the wind, or dodge the debris, swerving right and left, hoping against hope that there wasn’t something solid about to crash through my windshield.

I wasn’t the only one. The scariest moment on the twenty-five-mile drive home came on a busy four-lane highway, as all of us motorists scooted for our destinations at sixty or seventy miles an hour.

In the lane beside and just ahead of me, the car suddenly swerved toward the shoulder. Looking at the road right in front of where he had been, I saw a huge mound of some sort of reflective material. Relieved that he hadn’t hit it, I continued on.

Suddenly, I realized the mound was moving quickly into my lane, shoved over in his wake. Worried about the cars in the lane beside me and riding my bumper, I held my ground, heading straight for the object as I steeled myself for an impact.

Swish! The air-filled mass of flexible plastic sucked under my truck and blew up and over the cars following me.

Only a huge plastic bag blowing on the wind! Nothing more.

Say the word. Say the word and I’ll come.

The man nicknamed The Rock was speaking to his Teacher. Impetuous and not a little blustery himself, he was sure it would be safe.

The Teacher waved a hand. Come on, then.

You know the story. Peter walked on the water. Until he noticed something. No, it wasn’t the water. He was fine with that.

Walk on water? Pssssssh! Easy stuff!

No. He saw something else. It was there when he set out. It had been there when he blurted out his challenge to the Teacher to let him walk with Him. But, now it worried him.

The wind was blowing. Hard.

What if the Teacher hadn’t figured on that when He called him? What if the wind made him lose his balance? What if he got salt water in his eyes and couldn’t see where he was going?

What if?

The wind outside has stopped blowing. The weather system moved on to the east during the dark hours last night. It was sunny and warm by this afternoon.

Not so in my soul.

Inside there a storm was brewing. Events and conversations this morning stirred up the storm to an intense blast within a small amount of time. A hurricane of epic proportions.

It’s not my imagination. The storm is real.

I’m seeing things in the wind—Coming right at me.

Do I stop going the way I’m headed? Swerve off on a tangent? Go back?

You know what I’m going through, don’t you? You’ve been here, too. I suspect every one of us has been in the storm.

So—what of the options? Do we stop? Should we go a different direction? Maybe it’s time to just turn around.

No. None of those are any good.

The place we need to get to—Home—is out there, ahead of us.

I’ve thought of that old story I learned in Sunday School years ago a lot. Do you realize that the guys back there in the boat were in the storm, too? The wind was blowing stuff at them just as hard as at Peter.

They just weren’t out there with Jesus. They were still in the storm—still on their own.

Who was safer?

I think I’ll keep walking. Against the wind.

You, too?

WIND
Voiceless it cries,
Wingless flutters,
Toothless bites,
Mouthless mutters.
(J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English poet/author ~ 1892-1973)

“Goodbye,” said Eeyore. “Mind you don’t get blown away, little Piglet. You’d be missed. People would say, ‘Where’s little Piglet been blown to?’—really wanting to know.”
(from The House at Pooh Corner ~ A.A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

“Come,” he said.Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”
(Matthew 14:29-31 ~ NIV)

The Dark Inches

November 11, 2015November 11, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The young man sat on a stool in my music store the other day, strumming a guitar. As I had already done earlier, I simply looked over momentarily to check on him, and turned back to my work. The music continued.

He wasn’t the best guitar player to sit on that stool. Some incredibly difficult and flashy pieces have been played by other musicians there. Still, he was certainly competent. And, he was happy. He smiled the whole time he sat there, fingering the chords and lead lines to the songs, as he hummed along.

I had been on the telephone when he and his brother had walked in the door, so I hadn’t really seen them come in. Glancing up, I had waved a quick greeting before focusing again on the items I was entering in the computer program open before me.

If I had been free, I might not have been as surprised later when the happy young man finished playing. Instead of replacing the guitar on its hanger against the wall, he just sat there with it dangling from his hand.

His smile was gone. While he had been playing, his brother had moved around the corner in the shop and was looking at something against the far back wall.

After sitting uncomfortably for a moment, the young guitarist called out to his brother, “Hey! I’m ready to move!”

Immediately, the other man turned and, walking rapidly, came to his brother’s side, touching him on the shoulder. The guitarist held the guitar up and the fellow hung it with the others on the wall.

Then I saw it. The young man was sightless.

I understood now. His brother was his eyes in a strange environment. As he stood, the brother moved close, standing right in front of him. From there, with a hand on his brother’s shoulder, the young blind man moved easily through the store, back to the guitar strings hanging on the slat-wall display.

If you’ve been in my store, you will understand this is not as simple a journey as it sounds. Amplifiers jut out from the wall and instrument cases clutter the aisles. The stack of instruments awaiting repairs is formidable even to sighted folks.

Still, the sight-impaired young man, smiling again, navigated his way easily to and from the back of the store. His hand never left his guide’s shoulder and the guide didn’t fail him.

The young guitarist trusted his brother.

He trusted him and the brother lived up to his expectation. Not once did the duo run into anything. Never did the blind man get hung up on the corner of a counter, nor did he trip over any unseen obstacle in his way.

He trusted his guide.

What is it like to have to trust someone else completely?

Some who read or hear these words already have an intimate knowledge of the experience. The absence of physical abilities have made laughable the claim of being captain of their own ship. Without any act of their own will, they must depend upon others for their well-being. Every day.

I consider that circumstance and I marvel, not only at the courage to face every day of their lives, but also at the helpers who have come alongside these folks and have said by their actions, count on me; I’ll be here for you through think or thin.

Put your faith in me.

But, you know there is more to it than the physical, don’t you? Before the brothers had walked out my door, my mind was racing.

I trust the God who sees all.

I do.

When I can see it, too.

The disciple named Thomas, the one we have dubbed Doubting Thomas, had nothing on me.

I want to see it. I’ll believe it, sure—after I see it. (John 20:25)

Thomas was the same man who had suggested they needed a better roadmap earlier. The Teacher suggested they already knew the way to where He was going and Thomas objected.

We don’t even know where You’re going. How do you suppose we’d know the way? (John 14:5)

I like the practical way Thomas’ mind thought. I’m all for this trust and faith stuff, but first, give me a GPS and let me see the evidence.

We call it blind faith for a reason.

Mostly, it’s that we can’t see more than a step ahead, but we trust that our Guide will lead us well. Without seeing the obstacles, nor even the dangers in the dark, we know He won’t run us into anything that will hurt us.

Funny, isn’t it? I stood on the edge of a life with Him and looked out into the distance and told Him I would trust Him to get me there. It was a glorious future. Relationships and family, jobs and ministry—even physical well being—I trusted Him with all of it. For years ahead, I would walk the road with Him.

I just didn’t expect I’d have to trust Him in the dark.

Surely, He needs my help and advice. Surely.

As if.

Faith demands that we trust the same for the dark inches as we are willing to trust for the brilliant miles. Either we trust Him or we don’t. It’s that simple.

So, here I am with my hand on His shoulder, putting one foot in front of the other.

Trusting.

And hopefully, smiling as I go.

I’ll work on that, too.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
(Hebrews 11:1 ~ NRSV)

Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
(Civilla D Martin ~ Canadian-American hymnwriter ~ 1866-1948)

Finished

November 9, 2015November 10, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I am ashamed. Mortified, even. I may not be able to bear the embarrassment.

I paid the fine today. I only hope no one finds out. If word gets out that I’ve been fined, I may have to leave town.

You know, it has just occurred to me that the use of that word, fine, is an odd thing.

The judge brings his gavel down as he intones, “The fine will be $150; you may pay the clerk. Next case, please!”

“How are you doing?” “Why, I’m just fine, thanks!”

There is a fine line between cruelty and discipline.

The local restaurant only serves gourmet food and fine wine.

When we play certain pieces of music through, the last time a repeat is taken, we end the piece at the finé mark. It actually says fine right above the music staff. Yes, I do know that there is an accent on the e in that usage, but you will see that it makes no difference at all. The word is still fine.

What a lot of things we use that word for. They don’t all seem to mean the same thing, either. One has to wonder if the word even comes from the same place for each usage. I wondered too, so I did a little research.

“Finé: circa 1300, from Old French fin ‘perfected, of highest quality;’ Also from Latin finis, ‘end, limit,’ hence, ‘acme, peak, height.'”

They all come from the same root word. When something is perfect, it is complete. Completion is the limit to how far a thing can go. The best, the top, the height of achievement. Oh, and the fine we pay in court is the end of the matter. There is no other punishment to follow, the subject is closed.

Fine.

A smile comes to my face as I remember Azalee Hammerly, more than forty years ago, noticing that word in her copy of the choral octavo we were reading through. There weren’t many real musicians among the rag-tag volunteer choir at the little red brick church, but they gave it their all.

Our long-suffering director had done just that–suffered–through our initial reading of the new piece. It was awful! No—worse than that! Horrendous. Mrs. Hammerly wasn’t really trying to be a comedienne, but it didn’t matter.

The sound of our voices had hardly died away, when she leaned over to Helen Wagner and whispered, not very quietly, “You see, we did fine! It says so right at the end there!”

The whole choir roared with laughter.

We knew the truth. It wasn’t fine. We just reached the end. Given what had preceded the end, it seemed like being finished was a good thing to all of us.

Fine.

I still like the word. I like the idea of completion. I’m looking forward to perfection. Okay, maybe not perfection in the way that we understand it, but the day will come when all my deeds are written in the book of my life. The limit will be reached and nothing else, either good or bad, can be added.

As I thought about all these things tonight, another memory leapt to my mind. In that same old red brick church, all those years ago, I remember being taught about the Son of God on the cross. As He paid the penalty for my crimes against God, He spoke one last time. (John 19:30)

“Fine!”

Yeah, it’s a bit of a paraphrase from what you may be used to hearing. But, that is what He said. Read it how you will; try to change the meaning if you wish. It means each of them individually and all of them at once.

He said that it was finished, and the final act accomplished. He said that the penalty was paid, never to be levied again. He said that it was the absolute best that could be done, a work that needed no improvement. (Hebrews 10:10-14)

Fine.

Whew! I’m not sure how we got way down here. I only wanted to come clean about my crime and punishment. Still, it’s nice to know that I’ll not have to face any further penalty. In more ways than just this little matter.

What’s that? What was the fine for?

Oh, I kept a library book for an extra day. The Lovely Lady is returning it for me tomorrow. I laid a dollar atop the book so she could clear my besmirched name with the other librarians where she works.

It will be the end of the affair.

Everything will be just fine.

Really.

Fine.

“There are two kinds of people; those who finish what they started and so on.”
(Robert Byrne ~ American author & billiard instructor)

“No one has a problem with the first mile of a journey. Even an infant could do fine for a while. But it isn’t the start that matters. It’s the finish line.”
(from The Flinch by Julien Smith ~ American author/public speaker)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips

Two Forward, One Back

Children of Jubal

Spit

Saying Good Words

Frosted Glass

Raunchy

Cream and Sugar?

Keep Walking

The Dark Inches

Finished