Benedictus—Sometimes Louder is Better

July 29, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Some evenings I sink down in my easy chair and marvel.

Behind closed eyes—and sometimes tear-filled ones—I wonder at the gift of music. Music that quiets. Music that ushers in memories of days long gone. Music that washes away the years, and sadness, and pain.

Some evenings I sink down in my easy chair and do that. On others, I sit in that same chair and expect to do that, but there are different influences at work in the sequence of selections I hear. Perhaps, I should say, another Influence (with a capital I). At least, it seems so to me.

On a recent weekend evening, as I sat, prepared to be calmed and moved, the Influence was at work. I have a group of songs I enjoy. The service I use to bring them up simply would not cooperate that night. Neither the songs nor the artists I have preselected could be found, so I just gave up and clicked the control to play random songs.

I didn’t know the artist. Who is Hauser, anyway? And what was this Benedictus? It was neither a piece nor an artist I’ve ever encountered.

Solo cello with an orchestra.

So simple. So beautiful. So moving.

It began with a statement of the theme by the cello, followed by a restatement or two, and an echo from individual orchestra members (the horn was especially nice). Then with a wave of the conductor’s hand, a chorus—a lovely choir filled with children’s voices—took up the theme.

Quietly, with soft harmonies almost quavering under the pure, clear melody, the soul was lulled to sleep by the haunting music.

The last thing one expected was the pounding of the percussion. And yet, it came.

Instantaneously. Suddenly. Ferociously.

The voices in the choir and the instruments in the orchestra responded as well, leaping to a sudden fortissimo. It was almost frightening. Almost.

The listener in his easy chair—yours truly—was no longer calm or relaxed. The quiet glory of the moment before had become all sound and fury (sorry, Mr. Shakespeare) and there seemed little hope that the previous state would be attained again.

And yet, to my pleasure, it soon was—the bombastic section lasting only a moment before dropping back to the beautiful and simple melody that so enchanted in the beginning.

I was carried away once more. The surprise past, my joy at the beauty was restored. I was comfortable again. Was.

Still, this piece goes in my permanent list to be listened to again and again. I even shared it with my friends on social media. What a singular experience!

I said I was comfortable again, didn’t I? I’m not anymore.

I wish I could leave the matter there. I do wish that. But I never could. The red-headed lady who raised me often reminded me of it.

“Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”

Why, indeed?

But I can’t. And this is bothering me.

Why did the composer have to make that section so jarring? After the loveliness of the theme, why assault the unsuspecting listener with an onslaught of noise and activity?

Perhaps the lyrics will help. No, I won’t be violating any copyrights here. The words are straight from The Book. In the choral text, they’re in Latin, so I’ve made it a bit easier for our purposes, quoting the English translation.

“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Matthew 21:9, NKJV)

Lovely words. They are.

Calming words. Reassuring words. Words of comfort.

Sort of like settling down into that easy chair again, aren’t they? The phrase was originally spoken about our Savior one day, as He entered the city riding on a donkey.

Benedictus.

Blessing.

I write the word multiple times a day, expressing my desire for good things for my friends and loved ones.

Blessings!

May you be blessed.

Like a prayer, the word is, asking for action from our Heavenly Father above. I sit comfortably in my easy chair, and He does the rest.

But there’s more to this, isn’t there?

Life, especially life as a follower of Christ, is not all easy chairs and quiet words. Despite the proclivities of the modern church to be turned inward and feel good about the One who comes in the name of Yahweh and His love toward us personally, our mission—our task—has never changed.

We are to proclaim Him to the world around us. Sometimes, it will be loud. Sometimes, it will be clashing. Sometimes, it will be shocking to the listener.

Always, our intent should be to glorify our Creator and Savior.

The overwhelming drums I heard? The surprising section of music? The words are from the same place in the Gospels.

“Hosanna in the highest!” (Matthew 21:9, NKJV)

A shout of praise going up to heaven!

It’s difficult to do that from my easy chair. I need to act. I need to stand up. Quiet, peaceful me—I need to shout the news.

Cymbals may crash.

I’m not comfortable with that.

The Followers, those twelve men who trailed Him everywhere, had been invited to a quiet place, a place of rest. Yet, instead of comfort, they found themselves at the lake’s edge surrounded by more than 5000 people. And it was time for supper.

“Send them home, Master,” they pleaded with Him. They were missing their rest, the quiet moments, the harmony of shared hymns.

“Show them My glory,” the Teacher replied. “You feed them.”

And they did.

They did.

I don’t suppose it was a quiet affair; nor could it have been all that comfortable, either.

Can you imagine the shouts? The exclamations? The babble of amazement?

I wonder. When did I decide it was time to sit quietly and listen to the music?

Now is the time to be loud. It’s time to make the trumpet call loud and clear.

Really loud.

Especially clear.

It won’t be all that comfortable.

It will be beautiful.

Benedictus. Blessings.

Q: What is the chief end of man?
A: Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever.
(Westminster Shorter Catechism)

Sing a new song to the Lord!
Let the whole earth sing to the Lord!
Sing to the Lord; praise his name.
Each day proclaim the good news that he saves.
Publish his glorious deeds among the nations.
Tell everyone about the amazing things he does.
(Psalm 96:1-3, NLT)

There Was Even a Snake in the Garden

June 28, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was an almost perfect afternoon. Almost.

We had wandered, the Lovely Lady and I, along the trail, exclaiming about this rock formation and those beautiful wildflowers as we went. Everything was perfect—the sunny but cool weather, the scenery—even the best hiking companion I could ask for.

It couldn’t have been any better. And then, we headed up the hill along the rushing creek and the falls came into sight. It could be better.

Above those falls were more falls, with water tumbling from the higher rocks down into a pool shaped by years of the descending cascade. We leaned against the boulders and felt the spray hitting our faces.

Perfection. What beauty!

Later, as we trekked back down the hill, a side path diverged near the creek again and we followed along beside rapids rushing over a huge, barely submerged rock that was forty or fifty feet long. The sound of the water was enchanting as we stepped down the natural limestone staircase to the water’s edge, sitting down just above the flow to rest. The hypnotic sound of tumbling water and songbirds surrounded us in the woods.

Cares were washed away with the rushing water; troubles nearly forgotten and stresses began fading. It was as if the world had disappeared, and paradise had taken its place.

It almost sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? Perhaps, it was.

“What’s that awful stench?”

The words grated, ripping away the mirage of paradise, quickly returning us to the world we thought had been left behind. There was a definite odor lurking in the atmosphere around us. It smelled a bit like a sewer, or perhaps, rotten food.

I sat where I was, hoping the euphoria from the previous few moments might return. It didn’t. The moment was gone, and my mind had no intention of regaining the peace it had known for that short time.

After a few more minutes, we stood and, climbing the limestone steps, headed on down the trail. The folks who maintain the nature park had painstakingly installed markers along the way, labeling trees and natural habitat, describing the history of the place, and we took the time to read most of them. One stood out, as we headed back toward our vehicle and the world of reality beyond this oasis.

“Sulfur water. When the flow of the creek diminishes, one may smell a slight smell like rotten eggs, which comes from the natural spring that also feeds the creek from underneath the limestone and shale formations.”

It was the answer to the question asked as we sat along the water’s edge, lost in the beauty around us. The intruding stench was merely sulfur in the rushing water, itself a part of the natural environment.

If one explores the online comments about the nature park we were in that day, they will find a number of reviewers who dwell on the odor, as if it were one of the dominant features of the place.

It’s not.

The overwhelming beauty, the marvel of a Creator’s hand, the peaceful oasis mere moments away from one of the fastest-growing urban areas in the United States—those are the dominant features of the place. The smell is nothing more than an appendix, a single imperfection on the periphery of a stunning object of art.

And yet, it is what many choose to remember—and proclaim publicly—as the major attribute of the entire experience.

Why is that?

Why do we choose to discount the overwhelming beauty of life as we focus and amplify the negative, insignificant as it may be? We do it with places and things, forgetting the joy of visiting and touching and holding as we recall the times we were disappointed by them.

We do it with the people in our lives, as well. A lifetime of love and service may be wiped away by one single action they have taken or a word they have spoken, as we follow the sad and timeworn practice of the world, canceling them without an iota of grace or forgiveness.

People, broken and flawed just as we ourselves are, tossed on the burn pile awaiting their just reward. All because we can’t see past the fault to recognize the beauty and the need.

You know there was a snake in the first garden, don’t you?

The serpent was created by God, too.

Oh, I’m not going to argue any kind of doctrine about the devil here; I have no dogma to impress upon you. Many before me have already done that. It’s not my intent to convince you one way or another.

What I do know is that there was a fabulous garden, gifted by the Creator to His creatures, a place for them to explore and exclaim over, and to enjoy forever. Compared to Eden, the nature park the Lovely Lady and I visited the other day was a desert wasteland.

And yet, the pair in the Garden of Eden focused their full attention on the snake. All of God’s creation surrounded them, and they listened to the hissing snake blithering on about the one tree that wasn’t theirs to partake of.

We know how that story turned out, don’t we?

There are still snakes, and stenches, and steep climbs, and wide ravines here. We can focus on them if we want.

We can.

But look around at the glorious world He has given us to walk through! And the lovely humans He has given us for companions along the road!

The Teacher said the words, not to draw our attention to the negative, but to lift our eyes to the joy and the spectacular opportunities He puts before us:

In this world you will have troubles. But be full of joy and great gladness! I have overcome the world! (John 16:33 ~ my paraphrase)

We travel this foreign land beset with sorrows, but not overwhelmed by them. We are battered by fears, but they have no power to knock us to the ground.

Our Creator gives us songs in the darkest night. He provides light for the path ahead and good company to cheer the heart.

Our old friend, the Apostle, reminds us to keep things in perspective as he draws a word picture of a scale, each side of the balance beam bearing a bowl filled with items. One side is incredibly light, the other overwhelmingly heavy.

For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory… (2 Corinthians 4:17 ~ NKJV)

Not that we ignore the suffering of those around us—not that we bottle up the feelings and reactions we ourselves have when those sufferings visit us. We are to bear each other’s burdens, to weep with those who weep. But we don’t let the things that trouble us control who we are and how we live.

Strength, and peace, and joy are ours. For life. While we are in this world.

He’s given us incredible blessings—unbelievable beauty—as we travel His way. Those are what He intends us to be attentive to.

I do have to wonder, though. His Word tells us of a river that runs through that new garden He’s preparing for us. Will there be sulfur water flowing into it, as well?

If there is, who would notice it anyway?

There are far, far better things that lie ahead than any we leave behind. (C.S. Lewis)

And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise. (Philippians 4:8 ~ NLT)

Joy Over One

June 22, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I think I saved a life last night. It may not seem like all that much when it’s written down in black and white, but I felt pretty good about it at the time.

Now that I think about it, it seemed like the night outside was a little brighter. Just a tiny bit.

Perhaps, I should just tell the story before I break my arm patting myself on the back. The red-headed lady who raised me used to worry about that. She said she did anyway. It could have been an exaggeration.

I don’t sleep as much at night as most folks I know. It’s a lifelong habit I’m not about to break now that I’ve entered what we once called the golden years. I’m not unhappy to have the quiet hours of the night to read and to think. Occasionally, I even put down a few rambling words to share with my friends.

Which brings me to last night. Not sleeping, at about 2:00 a.m., I wandered through the house, checking the doors and appliances one last time. Walking into the darkened family room, I was startled by a bright, momentary light shining up on the ceiling near the outside wall. I wasn’t sure what it could have come from, but I waited a few seconds to see if it reoccurred. It never did but, still curious, I found a light on my phone and aimed it at the spot.

My mind had, in the few seconds I stood waiting, settled on the light from a firefly, or lightning bug, as the probable cause, but I thought it should have reappeared somewhere in the vicinity again if that was the case. Still, it wasn’t much of a surprise when the light from the phone revealed a lightning bug as the culprit.

There at the conjunction of the ceiling and outside wall, the bug hung, swinging unnaturally just an inch below the ceiling. It didn’t take long to see that it had flown into a barely visible spider web and become ensnared.

Before things get out of hand, I should inform you that the Lovely Lady assures me it hasn’t been very long since the cobwebs were last displaced by her brush, but the tiny arachnids can be persistent, constructing new webs in a matter of minutes when the mood takes them.

Did I mention they were tiny? Indeed, I laughed when I first saw what was happening. The lightning bug was jiggling back and forth as it hung there, and right beside it was the web-building spider, hardly one-tenth the size of its captive, busily spinning more sticky silk as it sidled around the body of the comparatively gigantic-sized lightning bug.

I like lightning bugs better than I do spiders. Who doesn’t?

We—most of us—chased fireflies as children in the twilight hours of the summer evenings, catching them and tossing them at each other, perhaps keeping them captive in a mayonnaise jar to light up our bedrooms later that night. I still love looking out over the freshly mown fields at night and seeing their flickering bodies lighting up the June landscape, making me think it could as easily still be fifty years ago.

But it’s not fifty years ago. And I can no longer bear the thought of even that one little bug dying to feed the tiny spider on the ceiling.

Reaching up gently, I pulled the bug and the web, spider and all, down from the ceiling. The spider, not to be denied its trophy, dropped down a few inches on a strand of web and then, crawled up just as quickly toward the lightning bug, ready to begin weaving the web-prison around his body again.

I shook the belligerent little assailant to the floor, making sure the connecting web was broken so it couldn’t make another trip up to the lightning bug, and then I examined the poor victim.

Motionless, its head was bent down towards its thorax, pulled by the sticky, nearly invisible web that remained around it. It wasn’t moving so much as a single leg.

I was sure it was dead. In fact, I considered simply tossing it into the trash basket nearby.

Instead, I gently reached down with my fingertips and pulled at the sticky web, all the while seeing the unmoving legs and body lying in the palm of my hand. It was hopeless, but still, I pulled at the stubborn silk. Being careful not to pull a leg off as I worked, the task took longer than I anticipated, but it was probably not more than ten or fifteen seconds later when the lifeless body was free again.

Did I say it was hopeless? Lifeless?

I did, didn’t I?

We give up hope much too easily.

Where once there was light, we see darkness; where there was life, death. Even though we have experienced reprieves again and again ourselves, we give in so soon to dismay and dread.

The last of the web came away and the firefly instantly righted itself and started walking in my palm. Instantly!

Not dead, but alive!

I closed my fingers around it loosely and headed for the door (nobody wants a lightning bug flying in their house while they sleep!) to return him to his natural habitat. I stood on the concrete slab outside the back door and opened my hand, waiting to see what the little bug would do.

He got to the ends of my fingers but didn’t fly away. In my experience, they always fly when they reach the edge. Always.

Well, almost always.

This little fellow had had a bit of a shock. Death had him in its grip. The foregone conclusion had seemed inevitable. And now, life and freedom beckoned.

He needed a minute to clear his head. I would have, too.

I lowered my hand a bit and then, after raising it quickly, reversed the direction again. He took the hint, launching into the night air. A few feet out from where I stood, the light from the chemical reaction in his body showed clearly. Once—twice—I saw his light, and then he had joined the other late-night beacons in Dr. Weaver’s field, lighting up the night as they have for so many centuries going back to time immemorial.

Back from the dead.

Silly, isn’t it? All this attention and emotion wasted on a little lightning bug. Still, my heart swelled a bit as I thought about the joy of seeing one who is as good as dead joining the multitude of the living again.

It reminds me of something…

It’ll come to me. Maybe to you, too.

But I will admit to one thought that dims my joy a bit. Just a bit.

I can’t get that tiny spider and its puny, thin web out of my mind. How is it that such a minuscule thing, armed with no weapon to speak of, can take down an enemy many times its size? And so effortlessly, too.

The preacher in me wants to expound.

The grace-covered sinner I know myself to be is certain there is no need.

Today is a day to rejoice!

Where there was death, life has vanquished it altogether. Darkness threatened, but the light has not been overwhelmed.

Life. Light.

Great joy.

“‘They cannot conquer for ever!’ said Frodo. And then suddenly the brief glimpse was gone. The Sun dipped and vanished, and as if at the shuttering of a lamp, black night fell.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

“And when she finds it, she will call in her friends and neighbors and say, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found my lost coin.’ In the same way, there is joy in the presence of God’s angels when even one sinner repents.”
(Luke 15:9-10 ~ NLT)

High and Holy

June 2, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

On a recent late spring evening, not long enough ago for the memory to have faded, eight friends gathered in a home for dinner. Dinner and dominoes. And laughter. Perhaps, a few tears. It happens.

We’ve known each other for forty years plus a few. There have been tears. Some of them have come from the laughter. Laughter that starts with a giggle—perhaps a shriek—erupting into full-body fits (you know the kind), and eventually calming down into gasps of amusement with eyes being wiped on sleeves and spare napkins.

Of course, many of the tears never started with laughter. We’ve all raised children; heartbreak was inevitable. Parents and siblings have left this life and we’ve comforted and mourned. All of us are carrying heavy loads of one sort or another by now. We usually share the loads with each other, and we pray about them.

And still, we sit and eat, and laugh. And cry.

And sometimes, we play a game of chicken-foot with the dominoes.

On this Monday evening though, it seemed that something was missing. Something more than a game of dominoes was called for. As we played a second (or was it a third?) round, someone suggested we just needed to sing a little.

So, we sang. A little.

Sometime during the hour and a half we sang, in between songs I wondered aloud if we could keep our friends beside us when we sing in that great multitude of saints in Heaven someday. It only seems logical to me. We’ve sung and harmonized together for over forty years here; surely, we’ll be able to hear these lovely voices when we get up there.

Someone suggested that the singing would be so much better there. I didn’t argue, but I’m pretty sure it can’t be all that much better.

We sang praises. We sang scripture songs. We even sang a kid’s song or two.

There weren’t any spare napkins close to the piano, but I saw some eyes wiped on sleeves a time or two. And, when we finally stopped, hoarse and sung-out, there were smiles on every face.

Somehow, while we sang together, the atmosphere was brighter—the air we breathed in just a little sweeter.

And as we said our goodbyes, all agreed that the time of singing was exactly what we needed to lift our spirits and turn our eyes away from our problems.

No. The children and grandchildren trapped in a foreign country at the epicenter of the pandemic hadn’t suddenly been flown out (that miracle would wait a day or two), siblings facing surgery weren’t instantly healed, and a grandchild dealing with the prospect of a lifelong disease hadn’t been given a reprieve while we sang.

And yet, our burdens were distinctly lighter. All of them.

The storm still raged, but there was joy in spite of it. And peace.

I thought about the evening throughout the week. And I struggled to explain it. I couldn’t.

Then today, on Sunday afternoon, the Lovely Lady and I made our way to the band room at the local middle school for a rehearsal. It was the first rehearsal I had been a part of since the start of the Covid pandemic, nearly a year and a half ago.

The entire group would practice six or seven songs. We (the Lovely Lady and I) had one to play for. The music parts called for a horn and a flute on one song. Only one. I wasn’t sure it would be worth going for.

We went anyway.

We sat, listening to the saxes, trombones, and trumpets as they worked out their parts. I can’t speak for the Lovely Lady, but for me, it was delightful. Yes, there were wrong notes. Perhaps, there might have been some intonation problems. It didn’t matter.

It was wonderful.

And, when it came time for us to play our song, we became part of that community of music makers. We contributed to the wrong notes, at least I did. I may have made an entrance on the wrong beat, or even in the wrong measure. It didn’t matter.

Together, we made music.

There is joy in shared music, a satisfaction beyond the act of combining tonal qualities and counting beats. The process of creating harmonies and countermelodies out of the silence moves well past what the scientific method can explain.

As the music ended and the Lovely Lady and I made our exit, my mind drifted back to that evening of music making with our old friends, wanting to make comparisons. But somehow, the comparisons seemed to fail.

I want to say that the experience with our friends was a high and holy moment.

And it was.

Praises offered to God in a time of storm are repaid with the certain knowledge, the reassurance, of His loving arms holding us tightly through the raging waters. A faith offering, if you will, affirming that our God is faithful.

Paul and Silas knew it as they lay imprisoned in the jail in Philippi. At midnight, they sang hymns. Locked behind bars, with their feet in shackles, they sang and prayed loudly. Knowing it was likely to earn them extra stripes on their backs, they still praised the One they trusted with their lives. (Acts 16:16-40)

We are encouraged, as followers of God, to let His songs fill our hearts and the air around us. Throughout life, whatever our circumstances, we sing, bearing witness to His faithfulness.

And what of the other experience, playing with the folks in the band room? If the singing was high and holy, how do I describe that?

Odd. I think it, too, is high and holy, albeit from a little more earthy starting point. We are God’s creation, designed by Him to live in community. Music is a gift from Him, as is all art, meant to raise our sights from the sweat and pain of everyday existence.

Mere survival was never his plan for humanity. We were designed to thrive and, moreover, to thrive with joy. From Jubal in the early pages of Genesis until modern-day prodigies, music has been a constant in history, a vehicle for faith, for history (storytelling), for entertainment.

As with all of God’s good gifts, many have used it for base, profane ends. And still, music and art have the ability to raise our spirits, to lift our hearts from the burdens of pain and lost love, to bring to mind things higher than our ofttimes drab and difficult circumstances.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights… (James 1:17 ~ NKJV)

Bill Gaither wrote the words I sang years ago in a men’s quartet. More than once, I’ve wondered if it was proper to add the part about making music with friends. I’m coming to believe it’s completely appropriate.

“Loving God, loving each other,
Making music with my friends.”

As often as not these days, the music I make with others of kindred spirits could best be described as joyful noise. Contrary to our human comparisons and judgmental spirits, God doesn’t ask us to offer Him perfection.

Rather, He asks us to come to Him with open hearts and hands, giving our sincere offerings freely. Joyful noise is a sweet offering to His ears.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the lands! (Psalm 100:1)

High. And holy.

Making music with my friends.

It is in the process of being worshipped that God communicates His presence to men.
(C.S. Lewis)

My heart, O God, is steadfast,
my heart is steadfast;
I will sing and make music.
(Psalm 57:7 ~ NIV)

Heroes Know How to Hug

May 21, 2021May 21, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There was another school shooting the other day.

I know. You don’t want to read about that here.

You see the news every day. I do, too. It’s all there—school shootings, police shootings, gang shootings—but I think you want to know about this one.

It was at a middle school in Idaho, what we used to call an elementary school. A little girl in the sixth grade brought a handgun in her backpack and opened fire, shooting two schoolmates and a custodian.

Just so you don’t bail on me too quickly, I’ll tell you now that no one died. All three individuals have been released from the hospital, having been struck by the bullets in their limbs, rather than in the torso or head.

But it could have been worse. Except for the quick thinking and big heart of one teacher, it could have been a lot worse.

When she heard the shooting start, she did what her training taught her to do; she got the students under her immediate care to a safe place. But then she went to see if she could help in another way.

She tried to help the shooting victims.

While she was with one of them, she looked up and saw the shooter with the gun still in her hands. She didn’t hesitate; she didn’t duck and cover. She walked to the girl and, ignoring the danger to herself, put her hand on her arm and slid it down to the girl’s hand, covering the pistol. Then, calmly and gently, she simply took the gun from the girl’s hand.

You think that was heroic? Wait until you read what she did next.

She hugged the little girl to her chest until the authorities came to take her away. Hugged her. Because the teacher knew that somewhere, there were parents who didn’t know their little child was hurting people and needed help calming down. She hugged her and talked to her and loved on her until others came and calmly took her away.

I read the story and I wept.

I do that a lot these days—weeping, I mean. It’s just not usually when I read the news. I’m used to stories of tragic events—bad people doing bad things and getting what they deserve, or disasters overtaking folks who, through no fault of their own, are in the wrong place at the wrong time (as we would put it, perhaps wrongly).

I—we—get jaded and hardened. We hardly feel it, unless it’s someone we know or someone we identify with.

Somehow, try as I might, I can’t keep my mind from wandering. It goes where it wants these days. Perhaps it always has.

I remember like it was yesterday (well, the main points, at least). My parents had come for a week’s visit, and one evening as we sat talking, the conversation veered to a current event in our area of the country. A group of teenage boys had been involved in a violent crime and their trial had recently come to an end with a guilty verdict.

“Good! They got what they deserved! Too bad that doesn’t happen more often!”

The words came from the cocky young father’s mouth with all the assurance of one who knew right from wrong and believed that justice was of the utmost importance. Others in the room agreed.

But then a voice, from the person in the room least likely (in my mind, at least) to be soft on crime, spoke up quietly.

“I’m glad there was a time, not too many years ago, when that wasn’t true.”

My dad didn’t need to repeat the words. This cocky young father looked at the floor, hanging his head just a little, and nodded.

“Oh, yeah.”

I haven’t always been the principled, upright person I should have been. An incident in my teenage years haunts my memories with images of mischief and destruction, along with a visit to the local police station and an interview session with a gruff old sergeant.

Guilty!

I was.

There had been thousands of dollars in damages and lost labor for a contractor whose employees had to wait, idle, for repairs to be effected to his property before resuming their tasks.

The contractor refused to press charges. He didn’t even ask for repayment of his lost labor expenses. I worked that summer to repay only the actual cost of physical repairs, a matter of a couple hundred dollars.

Mercy. Where I expected justice.

Grace. When my debt was beyond my puny ability to pay it back.

Love. When I intended harm to him.

And yet, in a matter of a few years, here was the guilty one calling out for a pound of flesh, for the stiff punishment of his fellow miscreants, without a thought for the debt which had been forgiven him.

Still, the years have passed, thirty or more of them since that day of remembrance and repentance.

The years have passed, and my heart again grows hard, driving forgiveness and mercy into the shadows. But, not so far into the darkness that the light of love can’t illuminate them.

Today, I remember again.

And again, I repent.

The Teacher, He who came with no other purpose but to shine that light, the light of Love (by His teaching, certainly, but ultimately by His sacrifice), into the darkness, made it clear to us.

“If you won’t forgive your brother when he sins against you, my Heavenly Father won’t forgive your sins against Him.” (Matthew 18:35 ~ my paraphrase)

I am without excuse.

I forget that, like the teacher holding that scared, guilty little girl in the school hallway the other day, our Heavenly Father pulls us to his breast, speaking peace and grace into our darkness while He loves us as only a Father can.

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”
(1 Corinthians 13:7 ~ CSB)

We will, in life, be disappointed in our trust in others again and again. Still, we trust and we hope. When we are hurt, we forgive. And we go forward in the company of other selfish, self-serving people who are just like us. We go forward knowing that Love is not weak but more powerful than guilt and shame.

A friend wrote the words on her social media page not so long ago, “I believe that love still conquers all.”

I don’t disagree. But, as I consider, I’m certain there is more.

Sometimes love simply wraps up the erring party in its arms and holds them close until they have no strength left to resist.

“Love never fails.”

Never.

God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
(Henry Ward Beecher ~ American clergyman ~ 1813-1887)

But God demonstrates his own love for us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:8 ~ NET)

More than I can Chew—Today, Anyway

May 18, 2021May 18, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

photo by Eric Prouzet on Unsplash

She asked me if I could fix the rotten trim on the exterior of her house. She’s alone now and the love of her life isn’t around to work his magic anymore.

And somehow, the sun keeps beating down on it, and the rain keeps seeping into it, and the paint keeps shrinking off of it, and the years keep passing.

She is overwhelmed. I get it.

But I am merely a retired shopkeeper and sometime writer. I don’t have any magic in my hands, and certainly, no carpentry skills honed by constant use over the years. When I have picked up a hammer and saw, I’ve usually been a helper, taking instruction from those who do have skills.

I may have attempted a few things on my own—sheetrock repair, laying a vinyl floor, even stripping a hardwood floor before refinishing it. But I promise you there was no magic—no great skill—involved.

But we’re talking about windows here!

Windows? I know how to look out of them at the world spinning on its way. While drinking my coffee. With a book in my hand. Sometimes, I yell at the unruly dogs through them. Mostly, I sit beside them and read.

I don’t have the slightest idea of how to replace a sill, or a sash, or even a casing. There are angles to get right, and joints to fit carefully. Gaps to be caulked (if the joints haven’t been fitted carefully).

And, there’s glass. Always close by. Always ready to be cracked. Or chipped. Or smashed outright.

Still, she is overwhelmed. I give in. Reluctantly. And, with reservations.

“I’ll come look at it. No promises.”

She smiles.

The looking thing I promised to do? It’s a disaster. There’s a rotted sill here, two rotted side casings there, and everywhere I look, cracked and ruined head casings.

I go from window to window, and then back to the ones I’ve already examined, exclaiming in dismay.

And, there are door sills. And, corner trims. And, even lap-siding.

She’s overwhelmed? I’m flabbergasted!

“I can’t do this! This is way past my capabilities. Sorry, I just can’t.”

She understands. We’ll find someone else to do it.

Still. I wonder…

A talk with my brother-in-law is in order. He knows me. He’s been the skilled laborer beside whom I’ve toiled, holding boards while they were sanded, and propping trim up in place while it was tacked securely. He knows what I’m capable of.

That, of course, also implies he knows what I’m not capable of.

“Exterior window trim? Oh, you can do that. Come look.”

I follow the man outside his workshop, around to the back where we stand in the tall weeds as we gaze at the old single-hung, single-pane windows lining the wall. Pointing here, gesturing there, he gives me a quick tutorial on what needs to be done.

After my mentor finishes his instruction, he reiterates.

“This is something you can do! But, if you do get into trouble, I’m just a phone call away.”

I can do this! His confidence becomes mine. Not to mention, I’ve now got back-up if I make a mess of things.

But, as I head home, with every intent to call her and tell her I’ll do the job, I see once again, in my memory, every single window, door, and wall that needs attention. Except, they’re not single; they’re one huge collection.

I can’t do this.

But, wait! That’s it, isn’t it? No, not that I can’t do this—that it’s a huge collection of labor to be tackled and not individual tasks to be accomplished.

Finally, I know what to tell her.

“I’ve decided to give it a shot. One window. To start. Yep, just one. We’ll go from there.”

She is not sure, but one is better than none, so she agrees.

I started with the worst window. The one on the southwest side. The sun beats down on it daily, even in the winter. The rain blasts against it nearly every time a storm blows through.

Last week, I started on it. The one window.

Tomorrow, I’ll brush a final coat of white paint over the new wood (which I’ve measured, and sawed, and nailed), the caulk (you knew the joints wouldn’t fit that well), and the primer (I may have had help with that). It’ll be finished.

I’ve even done the one beside it.

The red-headed lady who raised me, drawing an old saw (the word kind, not the wood-cutting variety) from her interminable collection, would have suggested that I bit off more than I could chew.

I didn’t.

I’m simply doing the job set before me. One window—one door—one piece of siding at a time, I’m going to do it.

One task at a time.

The one who knows me says I can do it. Who am I to argue with the witness of such a man? He’s seen my victories and my failures. He’s heard me crow about a job completed; he’s heard me mutter under my breath about several I couldn’t finish on my own.

But, there’s more to this than these old windows and a faulty door frame or two, isn’t there? Surely it’s clear I’m not only talking about a handyman job to be done.

All my life, the unattainable goals have risen before me. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

I can’t help but think about others (besides her) who are overwhelmed today.

The one he loves has been taken from him, and he has no clue how he’ll ever function normally again. But, he can set the alarm clock for tomorrow morning. And, see how it goes from there.

The doctor said the word to her yesterday. Terminal. The future is suddenly so utterly burdensome and black that she can’t imagine how she’ll ever cope. So many decisions. So many hard conversations that will have to be endured. But, maybe just one phone call today. Just one. After that? She’ll just have to see.

Does it never end—the waves that seek to oversweep us?

I have, numerous times, sat at the seaside and wondered. As far as the eye can see—waves racing to the shore. They seem never to diminish.

And, just as those literal waves seem so unassailable as we look at them, the metaphorical ones appear even more insurmountable as our spirits consider them.

Financial issues, family problems, sickness, loss. A college degree to be earned, a contract to be fulfilled, a parent with dementia to be cared for, a promise made that appears impossible to be kept.

And yet, the One who called us has guaranteed to see it through to the end.

With us. Beside us. In us.

For I am sure of this very thing, that the one who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:6 ~ NET)

But we have to run the course set out in front of us. One day at a time. Or perhaps, just one step at a time.

The Israelites, tired of wandering in the wilderness, had to put their feet into the water of the Jordan before the water moved out of their way. One step. And another one. And another one. All leading home. (Joshua 3:14-17 ~ NET)

Home.

The Promised Land lies ahead. Not very far, now. But, then again, maybe many miles. Still, we’ll get there one step at a time.

Overwhelmed simply means we’re ready to be overshadowed.

Most gladly therefore will I boast of my infirmities rather than complain of them—in order that Christ’s power may overshadow me.
(2 Corinthians 12:9 ~ Wey)

I have another window to do next week. One more.

After that, we’ll see.

Not overwhelmed.

Overshadowed.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, we must get rid of every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and run with endurance the race set out for us…
(Hebrews 12:1 ~ NET)

Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.
(Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. ~ American minister/activist ~ 1929-1968)

Still My Daily Driver

March 26, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I just need a vehicle that’ll get me from Point A to Point B.”

I made the casual statement while sitting at a streetside table at the local coffee shop the other day. Three other fellows, also in their sixties, were at the table with me.

They didn’t laugh. Utilitarianism is important to my generation. Functionality trumps aesthetics for us. But, perhaps that’s not universal, even in this group.

“Well, I’m thinking that, for my dad’s sake, I need to buy an old Chevy pickup and park it in my driveway, even though I’ve been driving that Dodge for nearly 20 years,” one fellow said.

We laughed. His father, dead many years now, was a Chevy man. His brother is also a Chevy fanatic, refusing to own any other make of car or truck. A number of his friends are diehard Chevy owners, eschewing any other make, either American or foreign.

With a sheepish grin on his face, he explained. “Dad would have been really disappointed in me for driving that Mopar trash. Maybe if I just had a Chevy parked in my driveway, I could get back some self-respect before I die.”

We laughed again.

He didn’t even want to drive the truck! He only wanted people to see it in his driveway.

My brain always chooses the rabbit trail when it’s offered. Without fail. This time was no exception.

I don’t know how much later it was in the conversation when I became aware I was still sitting with my friends. And, that they were waiting for a response from me.

I had no idea what to say, so I just blurted out, “Don’t ask me! I drive a Toyota!”

They laughed, not in a derisive way, so it must have been an appropriate retort for the moment. The conversation carried on, but I was still lost in my thoughts, and it went on without me.

Why do we live the way we do?

Why do we want folks around us to think we live differently than that?

If we don’t respect the choices we’ve made, why do we stick to them?

You do understand there are no trucks on the rabbit trail I’m following, don’t you?

I want to use the tools that are going to guarantee the achievement of the goals I’ve set for myself. And, in the process, I don’t want to have to utilize decoys to gain respect from those walking the path with me.

And somehow, this doesn’t seem much like a rabbit-trail anymore, does it?

So many today have looked into their past and have decided, since the “long obedience in the same direction” that Nietzsche (and more recently, Eugene Peterson) described is too difficult to maintain—and much too slow, they will change vehicles and take the shortcut.

Their faith in God is the first casualty in the surrender. The lifestyle of holiness follows in close order. Before you know it, the daily driver is hardly recognizable at all.

And yet, the vehicle they park in their driveway—for the neighbors to see—is the same one they’ve always claimed to love and depend upon.

They just don’t drive it anymore.

I want to say that would never be true of me. I want to say that.

But, once in a while, I do wonder what it would be like to sit in those luxurious seats and take a spin ’round the countryside in that sleek new model. I do.

I might have even taken a test drive.

Once or twice.

A short one.

But, as our friend the Preacher would say, here is the conclusion I’ve come to:

We’ll never reach the goal we have set out to reach in that fake, made-up vehicle the world calls truth. Never.

As a daily driver, anything but God’s truth is completely unreliable and will leave us stranded. Of that, there is no doubt.

I know it doesn’t look modern and sleek; the paint may be faded and chipped, and the dirt from all the miles still clings to its surfaces.

Still, I think I’ll stick with what got me this far.

The old daily driver’s got a good few miles left in it, yet.

It starts every time, too. Every single time.

And, I can still park it in the driveway.

Every person has a different view of another person’s image. That’s all perception. The character of a man, the integrity, that’s who you are.
(Steve Alford ~ American basketball coach)

Nevertheless, I have this against you, that you have left your first love. Remember therefore from where you have fallen; repent and do the first works… (Revelation 2: 4-5a, NKJV)

A Thanksgiving Amen

November 26, 2020November 26, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I sat tonight, prepared to write. Pages, I thought. Thanksgiving Day is upon us. The year has been brutal. And emotional. Sad—yet, filled with joy.

I had verses to quote.

Let the peace of Christ overwhelm all else in your heart…And, be thankful. (Colossians 3:15 ~ my paraphrase)

I will praise the name of God with a song, and will magnify him with thanksgiving. (Psalm 69:30 ~ KJV)

I have wisdom to share.

But, I can’t get past that voice I hear in my head. No, it’s not THE voices; it’s just a voice from the past.

You see, Mr. Kohler won’t let me write what I want to write tonight.

Many of my friends have already been posting the verses on social media. Some have even been sharing the wisdom in messages sent to my phone.

In the midst of this brutal, emotional, excruciatingly drawn-out year, they are grateful—giving thanks to a gracious God who has blessed us far beyond anything we deserve.

It’s all been said befo. . .What’s that?

Who’s Mr. Kohler?

I really don’t remember much about him. He’s been dead for nearly forty years by now. But, I can tell you the few things about him I do remember.

He didn’t sing. Well, no more than the usual church-goer would. Hymns on Sunday. Perhaps, a bit in the shower. Perhaps. I never heard him sing in a choir. Never knew him to sing a solo.

He didn’t preach. He and his wife sat in a pew every Sunday—morning and evening—like clockwork. Still, he never preached that I knew.

But, Mr. Kohler was the best amen-er I ever heard.

I’ve never been a member of one of those churches that was really vocal. We didn’t have an amen corner, didn’t have many folks who called out encouragement to the pastor as he preached—well, not much anyway.

But, Mr. Kohler now—he didn’t care if we weren’t that kind of church. When he agreed with something, he called out a hearty “Amen!”. Not quietly. Not timidly. Everyone in the sanctuary heard him.

The Lovely Young Lady and I sang together in the youth choir before we were married. She was the singer; I was just there to be close to her. No matter. We sang in the cantata (a choral presentation) the young folks put together that year.

The young choir director thought it would be nice if we had a recording of the performance. She called in a local band director who had a reel-to-reel tape recorder with microphones he was willing to set up and operate for the project. We were excited. This was about as uptown as we were ever going to get!

I don’t remember the songs. I don’t remember if I came in at the right places, or even if the Lovely Young Lady did. What I do remember is Mr. Kohler.

At the end of every piece (before the instruments ended), and sometimes in the middle—if the Spirit moved him—he called out an exuberant “Amen!”.

Well, of course, it was loud enough for the microphones to pick up!

What did you expect?

The band director/sound engineer was horrified as he listened to the recording later that week. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of the amens without also losing some of the music. He called the choir director to ask her what to do.

“What? Do? Why, leave them exactly as they are! They’re part of the performance!”

She was adamant. The amens stayed. If any recording still survives of that performance, I’m sure you can hear every single one Mr. Kohler uttered.

Every single one.

Mr. Kohler didn’t sing. He didn’t preach. But his joyous declaration to all affirming his agreement with the truth and beauty of our worship rings in my memory still.

Over forty years later, the music has long faded into the mists, but his Amen booms out loudly and clearly.

So, I hope my friends won’t mind if others hear my response to their exclamations of gratitude on this day. I know I’ve gone the long way around Robin Hood’s barn (as my dear mother-in-law would have put it) to say I have nothing to add to their declaration. But, there it is.

I have nothing to add.

Only this.

Amen.

And, again I’ll say it.

Amen.

For everything comes from him and exists by his power and is intended for his glory. All glory to him forever! Amen.
(Romans 11:36 ~ NLT)

God Loves a Good Metaphor

September 10, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Rain falls. Again.

The rain is falling outside, an answer to prayer for some—an annoyance for others.

I’m in the former category.

No, I’m not worried about wildfires, as my friends and family in the American West are. Fire has devastated, and continues to devastate, the landscape out there right now. Homes are burning. Livelihoods are scorching. Nature is being tortured. They are praying for rain. With good reason.

In my home area, we’ve had summer rains along during the hot months, not as often as we’d like, but often enough. The lawn still needs mowing, even now, as we approach Autumn.

No. My reason for desiring the rain is a bit more intangible and less weighty. Or, perhaps not. Less weighty, that is.

My soul is thirsty.

It is.

Oh, not in the sense that I’ve missed the source of the Living Water that the woman at the well craved. That fountain has satisfied my spirit for many years.

And yet, in this, the most desertlike of seasons many of us living today have seen, I find myself wanting—something I can’t quite put my finger on.

I know others feel it, too.

Cups of cold water are fine to quench the thirst when you’ve run a few miles in the heat, but over the course of the marathon, the body wants more.

Ah, that hits the spot doesn’t quite do it when the body is caked with dirt and grime, smeared over the pores with salty sweat. When exhaustion bears the body down as if carrying the weight of all the world, a swig from the water bottle just doesn’t satisfy.

But, a summer shower or downpour, bounty from the skies—or more to the point, from the One who rules the universe—now, that quenches the body’s thirst!

I like metaphors. The reader may have noticed that in my writing before.

Metaphors. Mirrors that reflect a picture of truth.

Life is full of them.

Our faith is full of them.

“The rain and snow come down from the heavens
    and stay on the ground to water the earth.
They cause the grain to grow,
    producing seed for the farmer
    and bread for the hungry.
It is the same with my word.
    I send it out, and it always produces fruit.
It will accomplish all I want it to,
    and it will prosper everywhere I send it.” (Isaiah 55:10-11, NLT)

Don’t tell me our Heavenly Father doesn’t love a good metaphor!

What a picture!

What a fabulous mirror of His love and provision! For our physical needs. For our spiritual life in Him.

Rain. From heaven.

Listen to the sound!

Rejoice in His certain love for His people.

And then, let our presence in the world today be the mirror of His certain love for everyone we meet.

To a world that increasingly views followers of Christ as aggressors and self-centered misanthropes, I pray we will show the face of our God.

Let it rain! Mirror His love and grace.

Be His metaphor to your world.

He does love a good metaphor.

The seventh time the servant reported, “A cloud as small as a man’s hand is rising from the sea.”
So Elijah said, “Go and tell Ahab, ‘Hitch up your chariot and go down before the rain stops you.’” (1 Kings 18:44, NIV)

The soul’s deepest thirst is for God Himself, who has made us so that we can never be satisfied without Him. (F F Bruce ~ British theologian & scholar)

Worthy of the Calling

August 30, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I made the mistake of replying to a friend’s post today, believing I was helping her feel better about her state of mind regarding the upcoming election. Before I knew it, I was defending my position to someone I don’t know. I would say a total stranger, but she is a follower of Christ. That means she’s family.

I didn’t get angry. She didn’t get angry. We both made two or three replies, parting on amicable terms. I’ll pray for her. She’ll pray for me. Blessings.

Still, I’m not pleased with myself. Tonight, I can’t help wondering why we, the Family of God, are wasting our time arguing/discussing/disputing about things as unimportant as who is to be the next president of our country. Or, whether our Governor has the right to make us wear a mask.

Unimportant?

Yes. Unimportant.

I know someone will say it. So, I’ll say it first:

“But, we’re in a battle for the soul of our country!”

I don’t disagree. But, if we’re in a battle for our country’s soul, why aren’t we fighting with weapons that have a chance to win the soul?

Why aren’t we in our closets praying? Why aren’t we at the prisons and jails visiting? Why aren’t we in the neighbor’s back yard working side by side with them? Why aren’t we on the main roads and back roads, compelling them to come share our table?

Where are the cups of cool water? The literal ones for the heat and the figurative ones that slake the thirst with Living Water.

I promise you, we won’t win the soul of our country by shouting at every person foolish enough to expose their opposing viewpoint. It won’t be won by posting nasty, hateful memes that demean and belittle folks with whom we disagree. It won’t be won by shouting about our rights and repeating our claims day after day.

Someone suggested earlier today that we should stop doing these things because the people we were demeaning and clashing with might be fellow believers. I think the bigger concern is, what if they’re not?

What if they’re not?

What if the very people we are fighting here are the ones we have been called to love? (They are.)

What if the very people we are calling names and demeaning are the ones we’re supposed to be telling of God’s grace and mercy? (They are.)

They are!

How is this who we have become?

How do we dare to throw the love of Christ back in His face and defy Him to do anything about it?

The Apostle Paul, in prison for the very cause we claim, begged us to walk in a manner that is worthy of our calling. Begged us.

It’s time for us to start. Doing that.

That walking worthy thing.

Today. This week. This year.

Now.

You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. (Matthew 5:14, NIV)

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