There’s No Fun in the Bible

October 13, 2015October 13, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“God wrote the whole Bible without once using the word fun.”

The old preacher never tired of reminding his congregation of the fact. I was just a young man, newly married, and I didn’t think much of the idea. Back then, anyway.

No fun? None?

Ever?

It wasn’t that the old fellow didn’t like to laugh. It wasn’t even that he didn’t enjoy spending time at a game of skill or two with friends. He just couldn’t find the word in the pages of the Book, so he decided it wasn’t something promised to followers of God.

I’m beginning to think he wasn’t far wrong.

That said, there is more to speak of on the subject. I hope you’ll stick with me here.

If you expect the conclusion of my little essay to be that we all should keep our noses to our grindstones, and wipe those smiles off our faces, you’ll be disappointed.

The pursed lips of the Church Lady—she of Saturday Night Live fame—are nowhere to be found in the words ordained by the Author of the Book we follow.

You see, laughing and dancing, joy and enjoyment, hugs and smiles are all included in the master plan for those of us who aren’t promised fun.

It would seem that, perhaps the problem lies in our definition of fun and not in the acts of enjoyment in the life with which we’ve been blessed.

His mom’s car pulled into the parking spot right next to the music store’s front door one day last week. I recognized the lady immediately—her face, once smiling and friendly, now distressed and cheerless. It took the man longer than usual to make it through the front door. When he did arrive, he was leaning on a cane.

A few years younger than I, the man has been a customer of mine for the last thirty years. I have never known him to hold a job. Until just recently, he was completely able-bodied, but just had better things to do than find employment.

He has fun.

In fact, on that day last week, he needed to find some supplies to get his guitar into shape so he could play at a party. No. Not to earn money, just to have fun. Copious amounts of beer, wine, and hard liquor will be available there. A fair number of the attendees at the party will leave inebriated. He may be one of them.

As the man made his slow, painful way to the cash register, he waved a couple of twenties in the air. Declaring that his mom had come through once again, he paid for his purchases with her hard-earned money and, struggling with the front door, departed to have fun at the party.

Fun? Really?

We might have different understandings of the meaning of that word. The old preacher liked to speak of joy, the joy that came from God Himself. It is an appropriate beginning. But, I think there is more.

Celebration, for instance. At relevant occasions, celebration is the activity in which we should participate. Births, life passages of import, successes in our endeavors, holidays—all these and more result in celebration, the culmination of hard work and partnerships. (Deuteronomy 12:7)

Indeed, we are told to enjoy the fruit of our labor. Food and drink is ours to enjoy. The wise person understands the limitations to such things, though. Many years ago, one wise man suggested that we not become one of those folks who drinks too much wine, nor who is a glutton. (Proverbs 23:20)

Mirth and laughter are also ours to delight in. A merry heart is as good as medicine for our bodies. Yes—words from that same wise man. (Proverbs 17:22)

So, tell those jokes (the appropriate ones).

Plan that birthday party.

Enjoy sitting at the table with family and friends.

Sing. Dance. Shout.

They all belong to us. All of them.

There is just one little thing. We earn them by our faithfulness to keep promises. We earn our food with our labor. Our marriages are kept strong as we work at them, loving our spouses and serving them.

The joy, celebration, food and drink, laughter, and music are the icing on the cake. They are the magnificent blessing of a loving Father who rejoices in our rejoicing.

My old friend? He counts his celebrations by the memories of “being wasted” and his sexual conquests. Someone else earned his ticket to those parties. He can’t even pay for the party favors himself.

Jaded and burned out, he knows nothing else but fun. And, it’s not even fun anymore, just another dark place in which he looks as he searches for fulfillment. In between the occasional rush of emotion, he lives in pain and unhappiness, always searching for more fun.

The old preacher wasn’t wrong.

I like his definition better.

Every day, I like it better.

There is not one blade of grass, there is no color in the world that is not intended to make us rejoice.
(John Calvin ~ French Theologian ~ 1509-1564)

There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God.
(Ecclesiastes 2:24 ~ ESV)

Physician, Heal Thyself

October 12, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I sat at the dinner table earlier today and let my tongue explore the new sensation in my mouth. A sharp edge that very definitely had not been there a few moments before caught the side of the exploring organ and let me know there was something very different. Painfully so.

I have broken the side off of one of my molars.

It is not a happy discovery. And, as my mind considers the possibilities—indeed, the probabilities—for the future, I sink rapidly in an almost depressed state.

At least, I would sink into that state if it were not for a thought that strikes me at about the same time as the inclination to be unhappy. The thought actually makes me laugh now.

No, my tooth still hurts a bit. My tongue is still rubbed raw where the jagged edge of the tooth abrades it at every opportunity.

Yet, the thought remains.

A young man sat at that same table with me less than a week ago and had a similar experience. A crust of his pizza chipped a tooth in his mouth. His reaction was much the same as mine, albeit a little more visible to the others in the room.

Frightened at what the near future would hold, he shed a few tears and let out a few moans. His mom attempted to allay his fears, but still, he wondered about what would happen.

Before my company left that evening, I wrapped my arms around the young man’s shoulder and encouraged him that most things we face are not nearly as bad as we imagine.

God takes care of us. In a week or two, you won’t even remember this happened.

Even as my memory of the event sharpens into focus, I find myself arguing. I have other problems, too. There are schedules to meet and expenses to pay. Appointments must be kept. This is too much!

It’s too much.

I’m chuckling to myself as I write. As if my problems are any worse than that young man’s. What arrogance!

Do I believe my words to him or not?

Does God take care of us or not?

The young man and I will both make trips to our dentist this week. I firmly believe my words to him. Still, I wonder why my first thought at the sign of a problem was to fret about it. It’s not like this is my first time around this particular block.

And, as my mind calms regarding my dental problems, the eyes of my heart begin to see other things more clearly: Things which have taken over my thoughts and my life over the last few days and weeks.

They are disastrous problems, to my mind anyway. I want nothing more than to turn back the clock and undo the process by which they appeared in my life.

Schemes and plans and worries consume me as I attempt to see a way through the troubles.

Somehow, I have to figure this out!

I sit here thinking, and with my tongue I worry the sharp edge of my broken tooth absent-mindedly.

Ow! That’s painful!

And stupid.

I don’t have to worry the tooth at all; it’s just a natural reaction to things not being as they should be in my mouth.

Do I need to write any more words here? Even though I have a multitude of thoughts to share on this subject, I’m nearly certain I’ve said enough.

Nearly certain.

The Teacher asked, “And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life?” (Matthew 6:27 ~ NASB)

Maybe it’s time for me to take my own advice to the youngster. It was, after all, passed on to me many years ago by folks much wiser than I.

God takes care of us. He’s got this. And me.

He’ll do the same for you.

In a week or two, we won’t even remember this happened.

Not half the storms that threatened me
     E’er broke upon my head,
Not half the pains I’ve waited for
     E’er racked me on my bed.
Not half the clouds that drifted by
     Have overshadowed me
Nor half the dangers ever came
     I fancied I could see.
(Anonymous~circa 1900)

Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.
(John 14:27 ~ NASB)

Full of Days

October 8, 2015October 8, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I never thought I’d sing in front of anyone—ever again.

The fellow wandered into the music store today with a sheaf of papers in his hand—lyrics and chords for a strange conglomeration of songs. In his Boston accent, a feature that certainly makes him stand out here in the foothills of the Arkansas Ozarks, the gray-haired man was telling me of his good fortune to be singing and playing his guitar for audiences again.

Four people last week. Four!

He wasn’t complaining. After a twenty-year hiatus from making music, he has heard the captivating song of the siren in his head and heart once again. His audience of four last week was the most warm and welcome environment he could imagine to ease his way back into the game. He can’t wait for next week to do it again.

His words are ringing in my head still tonight. You see, he’s not only taking up an old hobby he once practiced; he’s learning new things. The sheaf of papers in his hand were songs he needs to learn—songs he has never sung before. A few of them are oldies, but several are new—current hits playing on MP3 players and Spotify apps all over the country.

There are chords in some of the compositions he has never seen. He brought them in to me for help in learning the chord forms. We worked out a number of them and he caught on quickly. He even played and sang one of the newer songs for me, including a couple of the chords we had just gone over in his rendition.

It’s how I keep the Alzheimer’s away. If I’m learning, I’m not forgetting.

I’m not sure how scientific his reasoning is. I do know we are told by the medical experts that keeping the mind active and working is a key to fending off the dread disease.

It seems the old adage idle hands are the devil’s workplace applies to the brain as well. Who knew?

Moments after the budding club singer wandered out, another man pushed open the door. This fellow is a full two decades older than the first. He wanted to pick up a guitar I repaired earlier this week.

I can’t play two chords on it, but I’m going to learn if I die trying!

I laughed at his words and suggested that it might not come to that, but the old guy wasn’t done.

He wants me to find him a bugle. A bugle!

When I asked him if he already played either the bugle or another brass instrument, he shook his head.

No, I never have. But, my grandson does and he’s going to teach me!

Before I get carried away, I want to be sure and explain that this is not always the case. I’m not going to dwell on the flip-side, but I’ve had a couple of them just recently who are prime examples.

The first one called me the other day to find an item just like one he used in the 1970s. Just like. No, he didn’t care that there were newer models which functioned much better. It had to be just like the one he had in 1978. He knows how to operate that one.

Then, just yesterday, I took a phone call from a fellow who simply wanted some specific information. I advised him of the location the information could be found on the Internet, but he cut me off shortly. No, he doesn’t use the Internet and would I find what he wanted there and print it out for him? He would pay me for my time.

I can only shake my head.

Job died, being old and full of days. (Job 42:17)

I wonder. What if that verse just said Job died, being old?

Well? That’s what happens. People get old and they die. What else is there to say?

Somehow, I think the Author of the Book wanted it said like that.

Just like that.

Job was full of days. He didn’t fill his days; the days filled him.

There was no marking time—no waiting for God—for this man. He lived. Until he died, he lived. The time was spent wisely and in turn, his life was enriched.

What are you doing with your life? What am I doing with mine? Are the days filled with activity, spinning our wheels to get from one appointment to the next?

Is that what we’re here to do? Just fill our days up until we die?

Hardly. The prophet tells us we’ll have dreams—dreams of things still to come—as old people. That passage was quoted again by one of the Apostles in the time of the early Church. It sure doesn’t seem like it describes folks sitting and rocking away their lives.

How about it? Do you still have dreams for the future? God-given dreams?

I do too.

I’d like to die full of days.

Perhaps tomorrow will be one of those days.

I’ll try to use it wisely.

It will come about after this
That I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh;
And your sons and daughters will prophesy,
Your old men will dream dreams,
Your young men will see visions.
(Joel 2:28 ~ NASB)

Well, I learned something new today; now I can go back to bed.
(W Paul Whitmore ~ American educator/businessman ~ 1921-2006)

Jesus Wept

October 7, 2015October 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I wasn’t going to talk about it again.

Not today, anyway.

My thoughts tell me that no one wants to read about gloomy subjects. I wish I could say the sky has been overcast in recent days and I’m just depressed. But it hasn’t and, honestly, I don’t think I’m depressed. Somehow, I just realized that all around me people are dying. It is not a happy thought.

Actually, there are probably not any more people dying than normally do; it’s just that I can see it now. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, having been through the process of losing my own mother just recently, I think that, finally, I see those around me who are mourning their own losses. And, finally, I am sad for them.

Why embarrassed? And, why finally?

They are two questions which are tied up in one package. I wish I could untie it easily for you. I wish my answers to the questions wouldn’t simply lead to more questions.

But, I can’t. And, they do. I think though, if I never start, I’ll never get any answers. So, I’m starting.

I hope you don’t think me a hardhearted monster. I have attended many funerals. I have made many verbal statements of condolence. I was sad at the funerals. I meant the encouraging words. But, having attended and having spoken, I moved on. That’s the way it is, right?

Life goes on. We can’t live in the past.

You’ve heard the statements, perhaps even said them. So, I moved on and didn’t give it another thought. I lost myself in work, or play, or family, and life was good.

I lost myself…what a thought!

It’s not far from the truth.

You see, when we are not moved by the suffering of people around us, we’re not who our Creator intended us to be. He made us emotional people. He made us to feel empathy, to be sad when those around us are sad, to laugh when they laugh, to rejoice as they rejoice.

He Himself did just that.

As a child, I loved John 11:35 in the New Testament. Well, of course I did. It is the shortest verse in the Bible, so it could be quoted faster than any other when I was called upon to demonstrate a verse I had committed to memory.

Jesus wept.

I never once—not once—thought about what it meant.

I do now—frequently.

Jesus—God with us—shed tears.

The tears were not only, as supposed, in sadness for His dead friend, Lazarus. No, in one of the verses just previous to this truncated one, we are told that His spirit was deeply moved as He observed His friend’s sister and community in great sorrow for their loss. He was moved by their grief to intense grief Himself.

We’re encouraged to be like He is. We like to think that this means that we’re to be spiritually minded, and giving, and teaching. All true.

But, who He is, is also empathetic and feeling, and crying.

How did we miss that?

How is it that by insinuation, we have encouraged people not to cry at the death of a believer? How many times did I hear growing up, the words that came (sort of) from the Bible: We don’t weep as the heathen do, who have no hope.

Somehow, we turned the exhortation to remember our hope of eternal life as we grieve for a lost one, into an exhortation not to weep. People who cried too much, or too loudly, weren’t focused on the important things and surely needed to be reminded about them. Perhaps that’s the reason we hear so many platitudes, reminding those who have lost people they love that they shouldn’t grieve too much.

I’m reminded of the beautiful note that a friend sent me after the death of my mother-in-law a few years ago, voicing her appreciation that we gave her permission to be joyful. We did that. But I also want you to know that you have permission to weep. It’s not a sin and you shouldn’t feel guilty about doing it. We have His example. It’s okay.

Some time ago, I stood in front of my church on a Sunday morning, leading our time of worship. As I looked out on the crowd, filled with folks, young and old, I realized that something was wrong.

The young folks, usually animated and involved with the music and words, stood subdued as we sang songs they love. I wondered what had happened. Then, that afternoon we learned of a tragic death on their college campus and I understood.

I wept that night for parents bereft of their daughter for the rest of their life; for siblings who would long to make phone calls and give hugs, but could not; for classmates who would miss conversations and laughter, along with all the events which make the experience at college memorable for a lifetime.

And then again, just days ago it seems, I wept as friends in our church lost their son, suddenly and tragically. Even today, they weep…and for years to come, I’m sure. Still, I weep for parents, and siblings, and friends, all bereft of the presence of the young man they love.

Today in our town, there will be a memorial service for a young man who, looking at issues too great for him to face, made a final and tragic choice. People who loved him are left behind and I weep for them, just as Jesus did.

As I said, I’m surrounded by death, and it seems at times that I am overwhelmed with the sadness. And, that’s as it should be.

But—and I like this but—but, all around me, babies are also being born (or expected), children are growing and learning and reveling, friends are rejoicing in good news from family, and new jobs, or the return to health after long illnesses.

The same empathy which requires that I cry the tears of shared sadness, also requires that I smile with shared pleasure, and exclaim with shared joy.

I don’t want to lose myself in my work; don’t want to bury myself in my schedule. I need to live, realizing that the life we’ve been blessed with includes great joy, as well as great sadness. To insulate ourselves from either is indeed, to lose ourselves and to be buried prematurely.

Are you rejoicing? I’m with you! Are you grieving? I feel that too. I’m not all that great at either, but I hope you’ll be patient with me as I continue to learn. There are a lot of hard lessons ahead. I still have questions which need answering. I’m desperately hoping I’ll be prepared for the tests.

I’m reminded of how Red Green always ended his commentary on his television show. Somehow, it seems to fit tonight.

Remember I’m pulling for you. We’re all in this together.

Rejoice with those who are rejoicing. Cry with those who are crying.
(Romans 12:15~ISV)

Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say; do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.
(from The Return Of The King ~ J.R.R.Tolkien~English author/educator ~ 1892-1963)

My Father’s House

October 6, 2015October 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I joked with the Lovely Lady as I headed for my office tonight.

“I’m not sure there are any words left in me, but the morning light will tell the tale.”

“Ha!” The humorless laugh burst from her lips. “You said that awhile back, and I’ve had to proof thousands of your words since then.”

She has a point. Only days ago, I felt the well was bone dry, and my efforts at pumping the handle utterly futile. I had said all I had to say, shared all the wisdom I have gathered over my lifetime. Hopelessly, I gave the handle one more push. One final, desperate attempt. I don’t know from whence the words came (I never have anyway), but suddenly they gushed out. Like water on the parched earth, they washed away the dust and debris, leaving fertile ground in their tracks.

For awhile. You may have read some of them. They may even have made sense to you.

I hope you enjoyed the experience.

The well has dried up again. Or, so it seems to me.

I remember when all I had to do was to walk up to the warehouse where the nouns, the adjectives, the adverbs, and the verbs were stored, and yell at the building. Immediately, they all piled out the door in a long conga-line of letters and punctuation, ready to swing into action. I could always find a few conjunctions to hold them all together, as well.

Tonight, I stood outside and yelled, but nothing stirred. Then, like the police SWAT team, I even walked through the building clearing each room, but only turned up two or three words in my search. They’re lined up outside now, after I ordered them out of the building.

I wonder if they’ll be any help to me. I’ll hit them with the spotlight just in case.

father. house.

That’s it? No wait. There’s something hiding behind the first one. Yes, I see it. An apostrophe and the letter s.

Father’s house? Oh. I know what this is about. I don’t want you guys. You can go.

What’s that? You want to know what it’s about?

I warn you. It won’t be pretty. They’re only a couple of scrawny little words right now, but as soon as I use them, they’re going to be joined by a lot of other words you don’t want to hear—words like memories, the past, sadness, moving on, maybe even death.

I’ll tell it, but it won’t be a pretty picture, I can assure you. I know I don’t want to see it. In fact, that’s the reason the words were hiding. I stashed them there in the dark myself and told them to stay out of my sight.

I was going to say the story started just a few days ago, but suddenly I am aware that it really began over fifty years in the past.

That’s when we moved into that home. Seven of us moved in, fresh from a tiny mobile home on the two-acre lot across the street. Seven. We thought the place was a mansion. Well? After cramming seven people in that little two bedroom trailer, it was a mansion.

Fifty-two years of living, loving, arguing, yelling, crying, singing, eating, playing, talking, listening, sewing, writing, hair-cutting, nursing, reading, sleeping, cleaning fish, plucking chickens, and—well, you get the idea.

It all happened there, and a lot more. A lot more. Cousins came to visit, along with grandparents, aunts and uncles, friends, preachers, missionaries, and tattooed men riding motorcycles.

Mostly, it was the seven of us. Making memories to last a lifetime, some warm and fuzzy, some not so nice. We’ve all got the good with the bad. For many of us, time rubs the rough edges off and the good memories shine brightly, while the bad ones fade into the background.

And, what’s so bad about all that, one might ask? I told you it wouldn’t be pretty, didn’t I?

The not pretty thing is that it’s all coming to an end. I mentioned the story begins a few days ago. That’s when the letter arrived.

The place is going to be sold. It sounded so calm and businesslike. Clean. Painless. My intellect agrees. I told the man so.

“It’s a great idea, Dad. You should have done it years ago.”

My intellect doesn’t rule my heart. My heart wants to know how you sell your memories. My heart wonders if perhaps it would be less painless to cut off a hand.

I sit and look over all the words which have trooped out to join the original two and the truth dawns.

I haven’t set foot on that property for nearly ten years. Except for sporadic periods of time, no one has lived in it for nearly twenty years. Yet somehow, my memories of my time there are still intact and clear as they ever were. The loving feelings for my parents and siblings, nurtured and tended to there in that two-story residence, remain to this day.

The old ramshackle frame building is in need of someone else to inhabit it. Perhaps it will, one day soon, be home to another young family who will abuse and test its structural limitations, much like the Phillips brats did.

It’s time. Still, the act of selling it is so final. We can never go back. Never.

Except in our memories.

It’s time.

Those two words are still slouching against the warehouse, though. They haven’t been used yet. Perhaps, I can put them back away for another day. But then again, maybe not.

Father’s house.

Funny. The words never described the building I’ve been writing of. That was my family’s residence. Sure, it was a home, as far as homes go here. It was a great place to live and love and share.

It was always temporary.

You see, my mom has already moved on to the Father’s house. My dad is recognizing that it won’t be many years and he’ll be changing his address permanently, as well. Going to his Father’s house.

My intellect knows that it is a better residence than what they’ve had here. Absent from the body. Present with the Lord. (2 Cor 5:8)

My head knows this.

Still, my heart aches to think of it. It is so for all of us.

And again, I look at those words and contemplate others I also believe, and I know the memories will have to do.

For now.

We’re all just here temporarily—pilgrims—nomads—headed for our Father’s house.

We're all just here temporarily—pilgrims—nomads—headed for our Father's house. Share on X

It’s not for sale.

But there are mansions to live in there.

My Father’s house.

Good words.

There are many dwelling places in my Father’s house. Otherwise, I would have told you, because I am going away to make ready a place for you.
(John 14:12 ~ NET)

Where we love is home—home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
(Oliver Wendell Homes, Sr. ~ American physician/poet ~ 1809-1894)

The Messenger

October 1, 2015October 1, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I’ve been doing the same job for almost thirty years.”

The astonishment in the pretty little girl’s eyes was almost amusing. I was just happy to see a different emotion there than the sadness which had surfaced just moments before.

She had been told she could find a piano teacher at my store and came by, her dad and little sister in tow, to see if she could make arrangements to start lessons soon. When I told the eight-year-old youngster our teacher had just retired, she was heartbroken.

I explained that the teacher had been doing the same thing for many years and needed a break. The explanation was not enough to brush aside her profound disappointment. For some reason, perhaps because I’ve been thinking a lot about the passing years in my own chosen profession lately, I mentioned our upcoming anniversary of running the music store in our little town.

Thirty years! It was unfathomable!

In her young brain, doing the same thing for nearly four times the number of years she had been alive couldn’t be imagined. When I told her I was nearly sixty years old, she just shook her head in disbelief.

“You don’t seem that old.” She meant it as a compliment.

I took it as one.

Moments later, as the little family prepared to take their leave, the sweet girl approached me, sticking out her hand to shake mine. I was surprised, but took her tiny hand in mine and gave it a little squeeze.

“My name is Cynthia. This is my sister, Sara (she pronounced it for me a second time—Sah-rah), and you already know my father. I’m happy to meet you.”

Stifling a little laugh, I told her to call me Paul. Satisfied that the formalities had been covered, she followed her dad and sister out the door, still talking as she went.

Cynthia came back to see me today. Her dad had some business to take care of, but she had business with me, as well.

The young lady had been thinking about our conversation yesterday.

“You know, this thing about you being so old? You shouldn’t worry about that. When you die, if you know Jesus, you’ll go to be with Him and you’ll never get any older. Ever again. Forever and ever. That’s how long we’ll live there.”

I thought about hugging her right there in the music store, but that’s not the proper thing for a nearly sixty-year-old man to do with little girls they’ve only just met. I had to be content with thanking her and assuring her that I did indeed, know Jesus.

You know I’m not worried about dying, right?

Still.

The tears have been close to the surface for awhile now. I’m not sure why. Maybe I don’t need to know why.

I am keenly aware that time is getting shorter. What once seemed an eternity before old age arrived, along with the specter of death which will naturally follow, has now compressed into only a decade or two.

I know that all around me the reminders of our fragile hold on life in this world are multiplying. Tonight, as I read a friend’s account of his wife’s flight from this world exactly a year ago, I wept. I hardly knew her, but I read of his sadness mixed with hope and I remembered that, in the natural course of things, the days are moving to that unbreakable appointment for all of us.

I remember also, none of us has even the promise of tomorrow. As I hear almost daily of friends who are struggling with diseases which threaten to cut life short, the tears rise again.

Sadness? Yes, but also the razor-sharp awareness that time is flying past.

What does all this sappiness have to do with a little girl talking about me having one foot in the grave? Not much.

What it does have to do with is the fact she was concerned about this old man enough to ask if I knew Jesus.

A little eight-year-old girl.

When was the last time I shook hands with someone and reminded them that He is the Way, the Truth, and indeed—the Life?

Do I really believe that time is getting short?

This old man has talked enough for one night. Perhaps, we’ll speak of this again soon.

Then again, just a handshake and a question or two might be better.

Time is flying.

…taking advantage of every opportunity, because the days are evil.
(Ephesians 5: 16 ~ NET)

If I should speak then let it be
Of the grace that is greater than all my sin
Of when justice was served and where mercy wins
Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in
Oh to tell you my story is to tell of Him.
(from My Story ~ Mike Weaver/Jason Ingram)

Back to the Basics

September 29, 2015September 29, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.
(As Time Goes By ~ Herman Hupfield)

Life is complicated.

That’s what I hear from folks. It’s what I say myself, when I get confused about events in my life. Relationships get tangled; children grow up and have adult problems, or they grow up and have children of their own—which yields the same result.

Wherever I look, the rest of the world encroaches on the boundaries I was careful to set—for myself and for my family. Overwhelmed, I throw my hands up in surrender and declare it’s all too complicated for me.

Life is complicated.

Or, is it?

Perhaps, I could give an example or two from real life—my life—just today. Since much of my life revolves around music, the examples will too, but I promise to attempt to avoid too much technical detail in the telling.

This morning, two vehicles pulled into the parking lot at my music store at the same time. Out of one, my preacher friend exited, holding two to-go cups of coffee. From the other, another friend, about whom I’ve written before, alighted. They had been at the local coffee shop and decided they should share a cup and some conversation with me.

I always enjoy their fellowship, and today our conversation ran the gamut from memories of days long past to the preacher’s need for a rhythm instrument for his worship team. We also talked about music a little, while our other friend strummed one of the vintage acoustic guitars he had taken from its hook on the wall.

The conversation turned to guitar playing, the man strumming the guitar explaining his finger-picking technique. The preacher is also a guitarist, so we stopped our conversation to listen and watch for a moment.

As I watched, my mind began to race away on a tangent. In the nearly forty years I’ve worked in the music business, I have seen many changes come in the way guitars are played, not the smallest being the blossoming of alternate tunings.

I was taught that a guitar should always be tuned in a standard form. The chords I learned fit that form. The strings I install fit that form. The way I tune the guitars which hang on my wall fit that form.

Life used to be so simple.

Nowadays, anything goes. Drop the pitch on a single string, but leave the rest in standard tuning—Keep the intervals the same, but drop all the pitches a half step, or one step, or two steps—Add strings to the neck and use higher and lower pitches for the additional strings—Anything goes. If you can figure out how to play it, use whatever tuning you want.

I was just getting ready to suggest that playing the guitar was getting awfully complicated when the preacher brought things back into perspective. Apparently, watching our mutual friend play his complicated fingerings was more than he was prepared to contemplate any longer.

“The technique I like best when I play guitar,” he said, “is the one where I don’t drop the pick.”

I almost wanted to hug him. Almost.

In that moment, the light broke through the darkness of my confusion about playing guitar. The profundity of the preacher’s statement stirred a common note within me.

Guitar playing is only as complicated as you make it! When you strip it down to the basics, you play the chords and you don’t drop your pick.

All the rest is just fluff.

Sure, there’s some good stuff which may be played later on, but you get there by mastering the basics.

One would think that moment of clarity would be enough to last me throughout the day. One would be wrong.

I walked into the house tonight and, even before sitting down to supper, headed for the living room and opened up my French horn case. I have been invited to play in the pit orchestra for an upcoming musical at the local university.

Rehearsals begin next week. I don’t want to be embarrassed.

“This music is complicated!” I groused, as I pulled out the score. “Look at all those odd time signatures! I’ll never get this right!”

And, for the next forty-five minutes, I proceeded to prove my statement. Wrong notes were the least of my problems, as I fumbled my way through the music. To say I was overwhelmed would be like saying there are a few Razorback fans in the state of Arkansas. Overwhelmed doesn’t nearly cover it.

As usual, the Lovely Lady came to my rescue. As I explained my issues to her, she looked from me to the music, and then back at me again, smiling—you know, the kind of smile a teacher puts on when the solution to a math problem is as simple as one-two-three.

No really. That simple.

“You can still count, can’t you? So there are more counts here than you’re used to. Whether it’s two beats to a measure or ten to a measure, you still count it. Slow it down as much as you need to work it out. But, just count.”

Again the light came on!

Basics. Nothing but the basics.

I’ve got a long way to go on that music, but for now, I’m going to concentrate on the basics. I do know how to count.

I thought today about the Man the religious leaders of His day called Rabbi—Teacher—and how confusing must life have been during His days on the earth. One might think there were just ten laws to follow, but one would be wrong. The Ten Commandments had turned into a mountain of rules, depending on which sect you followed.

On the day I’m thinking about, the learned men—men who specialized in making life complicated for their followers—from two different sects came to the Teacher. Both tried to trap him in error. It should have been easy, given the convoluted maze of rules and regulations they had exaggerated from the original Ten.

The first group was silenced quickly and soon thereafter, the second gave it a shot. Almost as if they were holding out a deck of cards, they asked the Teacher to pick one.

“Make sure you pick the most important one,” they warned.

He did.

“Love God with every part of your being: Your heart and your soul, as well as your mind.”

Before they could remind Him that life is not lived on just one plane, He picked one more card.

“This one is a lot like the other. Love people the way you love yourselves.”

Is life complicated?

Perhaps it’s time to get back to the basics.

Okay, so it’s not as easy as falling off a log. Loving God involves learning what He requires of us. It involves putting that into action. And, loving people is one of those things—the major one. There will be action required there, too.

Sometimes, we complicate things ourselves.

I hope the light stays on for awhile.

While it’s on, I’m going to learn how to hold on to the guitar pick.

And, I’ll practice counting.

I may still be embarrassed as I take care of the basics. Both in life and at my musical.

Neither will be fatal.

He still knows that we came from dust. He still offers second chances.

Even if we drop the pick a time or two.

Truth is ever to be found in simplicity, and not in the multiplicity and confusion of things.
(Sir Isaac Newton ~ English physicist/mathematician ~ 1643-1727)

Hearing that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, the Pharisees got together.One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question:“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”
(Matthew 22:34-40 ~ NIV)

More Where That Came From

September 28, 2015January 20, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There’s more where that came from!

The older ladies in the kitchen had it in for Wilma from the start. She was a cook’s helper, meaning she did whatever they needed done. From fetching pots and ladles, to carting the prepared dishes out to the serving line, the tiny lady with the energy of a squirrel storing nuts for the winter did it all. Mostly, she did it without complaint.

From my nearby station, where I washed the pots and pans, I listened to the abuse she took. Day after day, the cooks, who were the royalty in that little domain, made snide remarks—about her size, or hair color, or mental abilities. And, day after day, the hard-working lady went about her duties patiently and quietly. I knew she couldn’t be happy, but didn’t think it was my place to interfere in kitchen politics, especially given that I was a newcomer there.

Then one morning, the cooks stepped over the line. One of them made a rude comment about Wilma’s daughter. It was common knowledge that the girl had made some poor decisions, the result being an unwanted pregnancy at an early age. The other cook started to comment as well, but Wilma ended her long silence in that instant.

It seemed the weeks and months of abuse she had endured were like gunpowder packed inside her, and the comments about her daughter, the match to the fuse. She exploded in fury.

I can’t repeat her words here.

Within seconds, the kitchen supervisor was out of her office, inviting (with no option of refusal) the ladies into her inner sanctum. We heard voices raised again and again from the other side of the door, but half an hour later, we were hard at work (or pretended to be) when the three returned to their stations.

For the remainder of that morning, if the cooks spoke it was only to ask for a necessary ingredient to go into a dish, or for a container to transfer the food into on its way to the serving line. Wilma didn’t utter another word, but scurried about her duties as if nothing had happened.

When it was time for our dinner break, the other kitchen employees gathered around her on the way to the dining room.

“Wow! Wilma, I’ve never seen you so worked up!”

“I hope everything is going to be all right. They’re not going to fire you, are they?”

“Boy! You told them!”

Wilma just smiled wryly, her lips pressed tightly together. It seemed that, perhaps, she had been sworn to secrecy about what had transpired in the office. When she spoke, it was just to mutter a few words. It was all she ever had to say about the event.

Six words. “There’s more where that came from!”

The cooks never mentioned her daughter again, nor did they dare to abuse the slight lady as she went about her duties. Apparently, they had had more than what they wanted from the little lady’s store.

More where that came from.

Many years down the road of life from that detonation, I find myself wondering if there is more for us to learn from Wilma’s words than the lesson those cooks acquired the hard way.

Odd. I’ve never heard the words used in a positive sense. I’ve only heard them when people have either told others off, or even attacked them physically. The words are usually said as a warning to beware of lighting the fuse within a second time.

But, one has to wonder—why would we only have more anger and vitriol stored up? Why would we only promise more of the same when we physically overcame a rival?

Are we so full of ugly things? How did we get that way?

Surely, there should be more good things where that came from? Are there more compliments? More hugs? More slaps on the back? More blessings?

I’m just full of questions tonight aren’t I?

I suppose one could say the questions are mostly rhetorical, meant to inspire soul-searching, rather than requiring answers.

You see, I already know the answers. Oh, I know. Perhaps you do too. You do, don’t you?

From deep down inside, we know what we have stored up. From the darkest places in our souls, we have intimate knowledge of the nasty stuff—the powder ready to explode, with a short fuse.

It is there. We have carefully stockpiled it over a lifetime of interaction with folks.

We’ve tamped it down carefully, in preparation for the time when it will be needed. Packed it tightly in the wadding of our excuses and justifications. The explosion will come.

It will come. Unless we do what it takes to render it harmless.

Do you know how to keep a firecracker from exploding?

We might try removing the fuse and leaving it where it’s stored. It’s not completely futile to do that. Without a fuse, there is nothing to touch the match to.

Still. The device can explode when exposed to the right amount of heat, or pressure. It has exactly the same explosive power it always had. Exactly the same.

But, there is a simple way to disarm that little explosive device. So simple. Get it out into the open air. Tear open the paper tube. Let the breeze blow the powder away. Exposed to the light and air, the destructive components of the firecracker become harmless.

I’m thinking it’s time—for me, at least—to empty the arsenal.

But, I have lived my life as a follower of the Christ! He began a good work in me decades ago. He has continued to do that work. (Philippians 1:6)

What about that?

What about the good things down there?

The Apostle—you know, the one who wrote all the time—suggests that we need to be tireless in doing good if we want any result worth working toward. Tireless.

The good is already down there. All we have to do is share it. And then do it again. And again.

Perhaps it’s time to make the words a promise. Not a threat.

A promise.

There’s more where that came from!

A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.
(Luke 6:45 ~ NIV)

To be doing good deeds is man’s most glorious task.
(Sophocles ~ Ancient Greek playwright ~ 496 BC-406 BC)

Not Far Now

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

The message from my fitness program caught my eye as I clicked it off after my run tonight.

“Paul ran 3.99 miles.”

I set out from home tonight with a goal of running four miles. I failed to meet that goal by one one-hundredth of a mile! Only fifty-three feet.

I failed.

It’s not a moral failing. The four-mile goal was an arbitrary distance, set by an ambitious energetic man, unburdened by the weight of fatigue. It hadn’t come down as an edict from Heaven, with grim repercussions to follow, should the course not be completed.

My decision to stop short was not a calculated one. The last two blocks of my run were spent alternating between gasping for breath, holding my side, and muttering a plea for the voice on my fitness program to announce the four miles already. The need for air and relief from discomfort won out over the desire to meet my arbitrary goal.

Still, I failed.

Tonight, from my comfortable office chair, rested and hydrated, I look at those numbers in the statistics. They mock me.

3.99 miles. Not 4 miles. Not 4.1. Three point nine-nine.

At the speed I was running tonight, it would only have taken six more seconds to reach the goal. Six seconds!

I’ll get over my disappointment with myself. I hope I can do better. That said, this is not the first time I’ve quit before reaching a goal. One would think a fellow would have learned his lesson.

My mind (and heart) has moved on to other things, even as I consider your disappointment in me, just now learning I’m a quitter. You’ll simply have to get used to the feeling. I have.

Tonight though, I’m wondering about how many people have spent a lifetime working toward a goal, only to give up within a stone’s throw of their objective. Tired and disheartened, uncertain of how much further their destination will be, their attention is stolen away by the attractions along the road.

Comfort could be theirs. They’ve never cared before, the reality of their mission imprinted indelibly in their hearts. But now? Now they’re tired—tired and lonely. Everyone around them is inside and warm, safe from the perils of the quest.

I know folks like this. Many glance at the roadside attractions and recognize them for what they are—nothing but bait in a trap. Focusing on their goal and the prize awaiting them, they turn away and go the extra distance, shunning the alternative. Be it fifty feet or fifty years, they will finish the course laid out before them.

But some—some no longer have their attention centered on the right thing. Somewhere, over the years, the focus has moved from the Author and shifted to the runner.

Look at me! I’m giving up everything to participate in this race. I’ve trained; I’ve sacrificed; I’ve put all I have into running.

And, they have. A lifetime of doing what is required of the athlete. A lifetime. But the focus is lost, the goal becomes fuzzy. The spirit begins to hope for other things, other prizes.

The race is lost. The runner is defeated—a failure.

So close. So close, but so far.

Years ago, I read a book called Watership Down. I thought it would be about adventures and battles at sea, but it turned out to be about rabbits. Rabbits. I went ahead and read it. I read it again. And again. You might want to do it someday yourself. It is a story of trial and triumph—a story of perseverance, and of finding home.

One of the long-eared creatures, Hazel, who has become the leader of the ragtag band of rabbits, is leading them to a place most aren’t sure even exists. Throughout the nightmarish journey, he keeps repeating the words not far now again and again. For hours he guides them through the dark, not sure himself of just where the goal will be found, but certain in his heart that the place for which they’re bound is very real.

When they reach their goal, they are ecstatic, admitting that even they weren’t absolutely certain the place to which he was leading them would be there.

They had followed anyway, trusting their leader, even when they weren’t sure of the destination.

How about it? Is the path growing dim, the road harder to make out? Do you have a catch in your side? Are you gasping for breath yet?

Sure, there’s a comfortable stop just over there—a place where others are relaxing and enjoying the evening. We could rest here.

But we haven’t reached our goal yet. That’s up ahead still.

Let’s keep going.

Not far now.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.
(Hebrews 12:1-3 ~ NIV)

I was so tired and confused, I actually began to wonder whether you knew where you were going. I could hear you in the heather saying ‘Not far now,” and it was annoying me. I thought you were making it up. I should have known better. Frithrah! You’re what I call a real Chief Rabbit!
(from Watership Down by Richard Adams ~ English novelist)

Simon Says

September 24, 2015September 24, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Take one step forward.

I loved rainy days. As a kid in third grade, any change from the monotonous routine was welcomed. Recess in the hot sun consisted of games of tether ball or freeze-tag. One might get a turn on the swings, but that was for the little kids. And, it was always hot. Always.

No. Rainy days were great. We took our recess in the combined cafeteria/auditorium. The long dining tables were shoved to the walls and the concrete floor between them was our playground. Instead of the usual every-kid-for-himself chaos, we played organized games there.

On the day my old brain is reliving tonight we were all playing the game called Simon Says.

Sixty-some participants stood side by side, awaiting instructions. The teacher called out the order.

“Take one step forward.”

From one end of the cafeteria to the other, no one moved. Except me. One step forward.

Well? That’s what she said to do.

“No. I didn’t say ‘Simon says.’ You’re out, Paul. Go sit on the edge of the stage.”

One step. Just one and I was disqualified. The game lasted the whole period.

“Simon says, ‘Jump on one leg.’ Simon says, ‘Stop.'”

I sat, joined eventually by others who were also foolish enough to make a move without the authority of the mysterious Simon. For the whole hour, I sat.

I remember now.

I hate rainy days.

That was many years ago. A lot has happened since those days—some good, some bad. I’ve done some things I am proud of, and more than a few of which I am not.

Sometimes we get chances to make amends. I have learned that most of those chances have to be approached purposefully. Still, I don’t always know if I should make those moves or not. Often, I wish there were someone standing to the side, saying stupid words like Simon says to give me the nudge I need—perhaps, even permission, or at least, someone to blame.

Just a couple of months ago, I had one of those times.

While wandering through the never-never-world of Facebook one evening, I happened to look up the name of an old friend. I say he is an old friend, but I only knew him for a bit over a year’s time, nearly forty years ago. We were in a bible study together during that year.

I was a know-it-all kid, certain I had all the answers. I had a concordance and I wasn’t afraid to use it! When my friend and I disagreed in our group about a certain passage in the Bible (and there were many such disagreements), I wasn’t adverse to attacking the character of the man, rather than sticking to a rational discussion of the meaning and context.

I’ve spent most of the forty years since wishing I had treated him better. I wondered if I would ever get a chance to apologize for my arrogance and insensitivity. Our Teacher told us if we knew of anything another person had against us, we were not even to offer our gifts to God, before we went and made things right. (Matthew 5: 23, 24)

I have placed my offering in the basket many times since that day.

But, on that evening when I found my friend’s name on Facebook, suddenly the never-never-land turned into a haunted house, with ghosts and scary memories galore. It is easy to be petrified in such a place and simply do nothing.

I could just close the browser window on my computer and get on with my life. No blood visible, no foul committed. Keep playing!

It was my move. And, wouldn’t you know it, there was no teacher around to say Simon says, ‘Move one step forward.’

I never was all that good at waiting for the Simon says instructions, anyway.

I took the step. Friend request sent.

The next morning, there was an answer. Friend request approved.

And then—nothing happened.

Nothing. Until this morning. I received a personal message that said in effect, Who are you? Do I know you?

He didn’t remember me! He’s not angry. He can’t even remember sitting with me in that living room.

I sent a reply. Sorry. Request sent in error. Then I clicked the unfriend function.

That’s the end of that. I’m washing my hands and moving on.

You know that’s not how this works, right? Obviously, I didn’t do any of that.

But, here was my problem: Where was the person who would tell me Simon says to take another step? When would I get some clarification? My old friend wasn’t angry at me. Did I still need to make things right?

I took the step. Hard as it was, I jogged his memory and accepted the responsibility for my actions.

Can I let you in on a little secret? Obedience is always the correct response to God’s prompting. Always.

Does it always turn out with a storybook ending?

No.

But today, I have gained back a brother. We’re going to get together the next time either of us is anywhere in the vicinity of the other. We’ll eat a meal together. We’ll shake hands. We may argue over something, but it will be over something and not about the other person in the discussion.

Values are important for us to hold onto. They don’t require that we beat people over the head with them. Speaking the truth in love will never look any different. If a personal attack is involved, love is not.

I have gained back a brother. It took a step on my part. And, one on his. And, another on mine. That’s the way it works.

Do you have something you know needs to be accomplished? Resolved? Repaired?

Take one step forward.

Oh, sorry.

Simon says, “Take one step forward.”

Rather, speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and knit together by every joint with which it is supplied, when each part is working properly, makes bodily growth and upbuilds itself in love.
(Ephesians 4:15,16 ~ RSV)

What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step. It is always the same step, but you have to take it.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ~ French author/poet ~ 1900-1944)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips