Hearts Racing

December 15, 2015December 15, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Another Christmas program night—somehow I always feel I’m at a recital.

Will Jackie perform his duet with his sister? Can the brass ensemble get through their piece without falling apart?

On this recent Sunday evening, the tension was not as palpable as some of those recitals I’ve attended, but the undercurrent still made itself known.

Parents sat with arms lovingly around their children—children normally aloof and independent, but now somehow in need of reassurance. Even adults who would take part sat, breathing a little rapidly, looking fixedly ahead at the activity before them. Periodically, their eyes would dart down to the programs on their laps, as if to assure themselves that their opportunity to participate hadn’t yet passed. I found myself wondering if their hearts weren’t beating a bit harder and faster than was usual.

I stood near the back, taking in the scene. I would share the stage with fifteen other men to sing an Advent anthem later. There being almost no danger of individual disaster with so many others to cover up my errors, I had no personal sense of impending doom.

Somehow, as usually happens, Jackie and his sister did wonderfully. The brass ensemble did an extraordinary job, their efforts being rewarded resoundingly by the applause of those listening. Parents were pleased and perhaps, a little proud. Even the singing men did their job admirably, sounding better than they ever had.

Perhaps the reason for elevated heart rates was past. It was all downhill from here.

Perhaps not.

Nearing the end of the program, a large group of folks, some old, some young, approached the stage. They were dressed alike, almost as if in uniform. The moderator of the program explained what was to come.

An elderly lady, who usually attends our services, has been too ill to be there recently. This group had prepared something—a song—to be recorded and played for her later in her room at the rehab center.

There were smiles all around the auditorium as her name was mentioned; this lady is a favorite of many. She always sits near the front of the building, and is visible to most who attend. Another young lady of our group always sits nearby, facing her.

You see, the elderly lady is deaf—her companion in the services, her interpreter. The sign language is a constant through the service, from the announcements, through the music and on, until the conclusion of the sermon. I’m often on stage for the musical part of our worship, so I can see her face beaming as she also participates in signing the words of the songs we sing.

The group on stage this night had learned sign language for the song we would hear. It is not a new song, but is contemporary in rhythm. (A link to the song may be found below.) There is a solo part and also several choral parts, coming in a different times throughout the piece. I assumed the performers would sign for the solo part only, understanding that our friend is used to having only that single line interpreted to her.

My assumption was wrong. Indeed, the entire group signed in unison for the opening solo part, but as the choral parts entered and then split, coming in at different times and layering in, one on top of the other, the “singers” on stage did the same. One group carried the solo part, others, on either side of the group signed for the different choral part.

It was a thing of beauty, almost choreographic in character. The evocative nature of hand motions is a natural thing for humans anyway. These just communicated exact language—no, not just language—even the rhythm and layering of the vocal parts were represented.

I admit it. It was a little hard to see through the tears.

I’ve told you that music does that to me. There is an emotion that music awakes and the tears flow, whether or not I wish them to. This was even more powerful.

But, something bothered me. I cast about for a few seconds and the elusive thought was caught. Our friend can’t hear the sound. She only sees the motions.

I wondered what that would be like. For a moment, I closed my ears with the palms of my hands.

Only for a moment.

Did I tell you the heart-racing moments were over for the night? Not true!

A split instant after my hands covered my ears, I realized I couldn’t hear the music.

I couldn’t hear the music. I couldn’t hear the words.

The beautiful movement on the stage continued, but I didn’t understand the language. Not only could I not hear, I was illiterate.

Quickly, I removed my hands from my ears, but it was too late. My heart was racing and the tears, which had only clung to the corners of my eyes before, ran freely down my face.

It was a good thing I had stayed near the back of the darkened auditorium. I dug my handkerchief out to wipe away the evidence of the tears, but still my heart thumped away in my chest.

I had felt that same panic just the day before. On Saturday morning, I laid under the sink in the bathroom, working on the plumbing. Completing the job, I leaned forward to rise to my feet.

The world spun.

It wasn’t the normal passing darkness brought on by the blood rushing to my head. The room around me spun in huge looping circles, causing me to lose my balance and tip toward the wall. I quickly grabbed onto the lavatory and held on for all I was worth.

With heart pounding and panic-filled, I made my way to my easy chair. I stayed there most of the day.

Not in control. It’s a terrifying feeling.

What if the vertigo never goes away? How will I work? How will I play my horn? How will I play with my grandchildren?

Not in control.

And suddenly, it occurs to me that Jesus, God with us, put aside the authority of His position and relinquished control.

For us. Of His own volition.

He put His hands over His ears and left them there. Well, not in reality, but in essence, that is what He did.

The powerful King of Heaven came to us as a tiny, weak baby. He was completely dependent on a mother and father for everything.

He learned the language as children do. He, who was the Word—from the beginning was the Word—had to learn words in the same way we do.

By rights, every cow on the hoof and every ear of wheat in every field is His to eat, but He was hungry in the desert. (Matthew 4:2-4)

The water of every mountain stream belongs to Him; still, He hung on a cross and cried out, “I thirst.” (John 19:28)

His sight is so keen that He sees to the end of time, yet He was blindfolded and beaten as they taunted Him to tell who had hit Him. (Luke 26:64)

I don’t know if His heart pounded, nor if the tears flowed. But, I do know He chose—He chose—to relinquish control.

For all of humanity.

Funny. My heart races a little again, as I consider it.

There are still tears in my eyes.

Perhaps, it’s time for me to give up control, too.

Again.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part.
Yet what can I give Him?
Give my heart.
(Christina Rosetti ~ English poet ~ 1830-1894)

…who though He existed in the form of God
did not regard equality with God
as something to be grasped,
but emptied Himself
by taking on the form of a slave,
by looking like other men,
and by sharing in human nature.
He humbled Himself,
by becoming obedient to the point of death
—even death on a cross!
(Philippians 2:6-8 ~ NET)

Bells Ring

December 14, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Nearly Christmas. All is well.

That’s what I’m supposed to write, isn’t it?

Am I the only one who isn’t happy?

It’s hard to write when one is gloomy. My mood matches the weather lately. Cloud-bound and gray.

The world around me is angry. Races are pitted against each other. The wealthy and the poor are caught up in a war of the classes. Friends battle with friends and brothers are angry with their brothers.

What’s not to be sad about?

I wonder. Would it be okay for me to just share a poem tonight? The writer of these words had reason to be sad. He had reason to be angry.

His wife had died from burns she received when her clothing caught fire. In putting out the fire, he himself had been burned badly.

The next Christmas, he wrote this: “How inexpressibly sad are all holidays.”

The year after, at Christmas, he penned these words, “‘A Merry Christmas,’ say the children, but that is no more for me.”

War raged in the countryside and his son was seriously injured in battle. At Christmas that year, he was silent.

Silent.

Ah! But the next Christmas–the next Christmas, these timeless verses came. And, with them–hope.

And, peace.

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;
“God is not dead; nor doth He sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!”

He wrote the words exactly one hundred fifty-one years ago this Christmas. Death and war, pain and hatred, were the language of the day.

The intellect of the poet said exactly what mine echoes today.

What’s the use? Nothing changes.

But the heart–no, the very soul–of the believer knows. It knows that the Child who was born on that first Christmas day brought with Him a message of Hope and Peace. And Joy.

Joy that shall be to all people. All people.

I think I’ll listen to the bells.

All is well.

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
(Luke 2: 10,11,13,14 ~ KJV)

Christmas Bells by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Same Baby

December 10, 2015December 10, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It is dress rehearsal night for the annual Christmas Candlelight service at the local university. As usual, nerves are frayed.

The veteran director, at other times a jovial prince of a man, is unhappy with what he hears. The handbells aren’t balanced well with the brass, nor even with the choir. His stress is handed off to the technical staff as they scramble to set up the correct microphone array.

Lighting, entrances, even the correct height at which to hold a music folio—all of these details must be attended to. A spectacular presentation depends on the tiniest of details.

There was a day when I too was caught up in the stress and nervousness of the moment. My part is so small, minuscule even, but the charged atmosphere has a way of affecting everyone.

Tomorrow, this has to be perfect! We can’t miss a step!

Funny. Tonight, I sit in my place and, instead of worrying about the details, I wonder when I got old.

No, really.

I was a young man when I started doing this. The members of the student choirs were my peers, young adults who had been sitting at their parents tables just weeks before. That’s no longer the case.

These students could be my grandchildren. My grandchildren. The thought hits home and I let it sink in.

What am I doing here? What purpose can be served by my presence in this gathering?

My mind forges ahead as I consider that many—perhaps most—of these young people would not agree politically with me. In fact, they would most likely oppose some of my most cherished ideals vociferously.

They probably even eat sushi!

Once started down this road, it is easy to barrel on to the bottom at full speed. I enumerate mentally all the differences I can see (and some I can’t) and suddenly, I feel as if I am surrounded by aliens. We are so different.

What am I doing here? I ask the question once more.

I jerk into cognizance, realizing that the white-haired man with the baton is back on the podium and the aliens, I mean—choir members, are standing and ready to sing.

Quickly finding my place in the printed music on the black stand before me, I begin to play the horn along with my fellow ensemble members. With a gesture here, and a short comment there, the man with the stick draws each musician further into the composition.

Before I know it, the answer I sought mere moments before is all around, literally all around, me. Beautiful music, no—soul-moving tonality, emanates from every point of the compass.

It is not seamless. One can sit back and pick out the trumpet notes. The bass voices singing in the back may be distinguished from the sopranos standing closer.

Not one of us—not one—loses his or her identity in the mingling of voices which has occurred. A mosaic, yes, even a patchwork of sorts has been assembled from all the diverse human voices, the odd shapes of brass instruments, and the different sized bells.

Did I say it is not seamless? I’m not sure that is true. The end product, for all its variegated shading and changes in texture, is truly unified. All parts, equally, are integrated into the stunning result.

This. This is why I am here.

Old man that I am becoming, I was intended to be here, at this moment. Each of the youngsters in the choir was destined to be part of this memorable composition of voices and instruments.

A short time later, as the instruments sit quietly and the voices begin an acapella piece, I marvel.

So many different voices. Such varied family backgrounds. Such diversity in religious doctrine.

All singing about one thing. One person.

One Baby. One Savior.

I close my eyes, listening to the young, yet ancient, voices. I can’t help it, I seem to hear angels singing. I’m not saying the choir sounds like angels. I have no evidence to base such a statement on, having never heard an angelic message.

The shepherds, on the other hand—the shepherds heard it. (Luke 2:13-14)

Do you never wonder about the eclectic mix of folk who knew about the little Baby’s birth? Angels certainly, and shepherds, and an inn-keeper. The magi would come, in time. Of course, there was Mary and her husband, Joseph.

All worshiping the same Baby. The One who came to save all of us.

All of us.

Soon, hundreds will sit in the hard wooden pews of this beautiful cathedral. Side by side, they will sit and sing, and listen, and worship.

Rich and poor, educated and illiterate, liberal and conservative, white and brown and black—they will worship. Together, they will worship.

Still worshiping the same Baby—the One who came to save all of us.

And then, from one candle, a thousand will be lit in this auditorium. What a picture!

A brilliant picture of His purpose in coming to earth. From one Light, all who live in darkness will live in light. (Matthew 4:16)

I’ve watched the worshipers with their candles. Some boldly hold them up high. Others sit gazing at the flickering light with their hands on their laps. Still others look to see what everyone else is doing with their candles before they position theirs.

It matters not. The whole room is awash in light. Every corner is illuminated.

The voices stop and again, my musing ends as I am brought back to reality. Tomorrow, we will make music together again, if the Lord wills it.

We will worship the child. Together.

Still, I wonder.

What if we held our lights high through all of our lives, blending the brilliance together?

Would it be possible to make beautiful music with folks who are different than us for all of the years we live?

I would love to see that beautiful patchwork quilt—and listen to that heavenly music.

Glory to God in the highest. Peace on earth to men.

It is what we were made for.

Worship changes the worshiper into the image of the One worshiped.
(Jack Hayford ~ American author/pastor)

. . . so that you will prove yourselves to be blameless and innocent, children of God above reproach in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you appear as lights in the world . . .
(Philippians 2:15 ~ NASB)

Afraid

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

Chicken! What are you afraid of?

The raggedy collection of boys was gathered around, mostly sneering at the skinny kid with bare feet. He looked at their grinning faces as he ran his browned hand nervously through his short sun-bleached hair.

There was nothing to be seen there but derision and scorn. Not one of them thought he had it in him. He knew that. They were certain the terrified little squirt was about to run home to his mama.

Squaring his bony shoulders and taking a deep breath, he looked at the biggest one of the bunch.

“I’ll do it. I’ll show you. You think I’m afraid of that old man? What’s he gonna do—call the cops?

With that, he turned and ambled toward the little convenience store determinedly. The boys waited to see what would happen.

Moments later, with a triumphant grin on his face, the skinny kid exited the tiny store. Taking his sweet time, he sauntered up the street to where they waited under the hackberry tree.

They gathered around him again. “Well? Show us!” they demanded.

Slyly looking back toward the store, as if to be sure there were no eyes peering from the doorway, he reached in his pocket and drew out a box—a box—of wooden toothpicks.

The boys howled.

Toothpicks? You stole toothpicks? What a loser! First, you’re too chicken to go; then, you’re too stupid to steal something good.

The derision coming from all directions was too much. The little squirt ran home to his mama as fast as his bare feet would carry him.

What are you afraid of?

I want to tell you the answer is—nothing.

Nothing at all. I’m not afraid—period.

It’s a lie.

I do not believe anyone walks this earth who has no fears. Fears come with being human.

Danger breeds fear. It’s not an unhealthy thing.

Fear of pain keeps me from putting my hand into the flame of the fireplace. That’s good. Burns are not healthy. People die from severe burns. You know—infection and all kinds of nasty stuff happens.

Still, there are some fears we keep hidden. I not entirely happy about these fears. You see, I have friends who are fond to suggesting that fear is not pleasing to God. They quote Scripture to prove their point.

Give all of your anxiety to Him, because He cares for you (I Peter 5:7)

Perfect love casts out all fear. (I John 4:18)

I’m not saying they’re wrong. Fear that paralyzes is not healthy. Fear that overcomes us emotionally and physically yields disastrous results.

Perhaps, the problem is that we put all fear in the same basket. I’m assuming it’s not all the same. After all, the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. (Proverbs 1:7)

Fear then, can be useful. It teaches us to exercise care. It admonishes us to consider carefully our course of action.

But, fear can also be harmful. Sometimes it makes us curl up into a ball and let the world go by without us. Often it takes away the impetus for doing good for others.

So, we come back to the original question.

What are you afraid of?

I want it to be something noble. I want to tell you I’m afraid I won’t have enough time to accomplish great things. I want you to believe I’m afraid of not engaging people for Christ.

It’s true. Those are, indeed, some of the things about which I’m concerned. The problem is that most of the things I fear are not nearly so noble.

Not nearly.

Someone asked me the question today. They were being facetious. I (also facetiously) told them I was afraid of what people would think of me.

It’s not a thing to joke about. I am afraid of what people will think of me.

It is the reason the skinny boy who became a grown-up me went into that convenience store nearly fifty years ago—terror of what his peer group would think of him.

Sometimes though, the fear of what people think about me has a positive effect. It causes me to think about how God would have me live. Other times—not so much. In those times, my fear is for my reputation, my image.

Then again, I have other fears which nag—nothing more—at the edges of my consciousness. I fear being left alone, being left behind, and I want never to experience that reality. I’m afraid of crying in front of other people, especially my children and the Lovely Lady. Who wants to be seen as weak?

They’re not all that pretty, are they? Not all so noble. There are still a few I’m not yet ready to admit publicly.

I wonder if I’m the only one. Perhaps not.

Here is what I do know. God uses fearful men to accomplish His purposes.

Moses was terrified of talking. Simply talking. He rescued an entire nation.

The prophet Elijah ran terrified from an already defeated king and hid in a cave. God took Him to heaven in a chariot of fire.

Peter was full of bravado and brag, but he was afraid of the waves when He walked with Jesus on them. He was terrified of a serving girl outside the trial of his Savior, soon to be crucified. Yet, Peter became one of the founders of the Church as we know it today.

If we put our trust in Him, our God will turn our fears into actions which will yield good things in our lives. Not just for ourselves, but for God and mankind.

The skinny kid, afraid as he was of what his friends would think, pulled one over on them. The quarter he laid quietly on the counter as he slipped out of the convenience store more than covered the nineteen cent price tag for that silly box of toothpicks.

Fear works in more than one way.

Sometimes, it is the beginning of wisdom.

The beginning.

What are you afraid of?

For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.
(2 Timothy 1:7 ~ NIV)

There are times when fear is good. It must keep its watchful place at the heart’s controls.
(Aeschylus ~ Ancient Greek playwright ~ 525-426 BC)

Dots—Again

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

During the morning church service, the beautiful little girl sits on my leg and moves her crayon confidently from one point on the page in front of her to the next. As she slides the brown-colored wax stick from number to number, the outline of a picture appears, clearly depicting a shepherd with his sheep.

It hasn’t always been like this.

A year or two ago the little tyke, one of my four favorite grandchildren, would have asked, in her version of a whisper (meaning: loudly enough for all nearby to hear clearly), “What do I do here, Grandpa?”

Grandpa would have explained that she needed to start on the number 1 and draw a line to the number 2. A little squiggly line that wandered off to the side and then back again would have been drawn tentatively. At that point, the crayon would be lifted from the page and the question repeated, possibly even a little more loudly.

Eventually the picture would be visible, although not nearly as neat as today’s, nor with as straight of lines from number to number. Clearly, she has learned to connect the dots much more skillfully in the intervening time.

The services are notably quieter too, since she has learned to whisper a little better, as well.

I smile as I think about the beautiful little girl and how she is growing. And learning. But, as I think, my mind wanders. Those dots remind me of something else. They make me think a little about other types of connections.

Human connections.

They’re not so different from connecting the dots, are they?

It has been a year ago. It hardly seems possible, so little has changed.

My young friend, Grace, is studying photography at the local university. She takes photos of what she sees. It is what photographers do. One of her photographs stopped me in my tracks. Dead. In my tracks.

The photograph will likely need some explanation. Then again, perhaps not much.

The news was full of events in Ferguson, Missouri for months. Then, riots and looting broke out as the racial anger boiled over and the filters that, in ordinary circumstances, would prevent such action were lost or discarded.

Windows were broken. Fires were set. Property was destroyed. Guns were fired.

Many words have been spoken and written about the situation since then–words which were and are hurtful and angry. My own emotions have surged as I have seen the images and have heard the angry words from many different perspectives.

I have stood in despair and wondered why those people would be so angry and destructive in their actions. I have listened in horror and wondered why those other people would be so angry and hateful in their words.

Those people.

graceinferguson — Photo: Grace Nast Used by Permission

My young friend went to Ferguson. Herself. Standing in the place where the horrible violence occurred, she took a picture of her feet.

That’s right. Her feet.

On the ground. In Ferguson. In the middle of the bricks and the ashes.

I glanced at the photo and shrugged mentally. Big deal.

Then it hit me.

Those same feet, the ones in the blue sneakers, had walked into my music store one afternoon the week before.

Funny. Her feet–the ones in the blue sneakers, on the ground in Ferguson– they stood on the ground in front of me just days earlier.

It’s the same ground.

Connected.

Suddenly, the miles and the man-made divisions seem insignificant as I begin to grasp the reality. These are not someone else’s problems, occurring in a different world than the one in which I live and move.

These are my people. What happens to them, happens to me.

To me.

In my mind the arguments pile atop each other; the evidence of connections between me and those people is overwhelming. (Romans 10:12)

I want to convince with logic. Perhaps, if I can overwhelm the reader with scientific proof of our shared ancestry, of DNA, of common history–perhaps then we’ll embrace each other. Perhaps then the violence, the slurs, the hatred can stop.

It won’t happen.

The words I would say have all been said, the arguments made again and again. The human heart is turned to evil and deceit, and only God can change it. It has always been so.

But today, for me, sitting on the knee of the one true Artist, I see the connection. Like my granddaughter, the skill at recognizing those points of connection may increase with maturity and practice.

It may.

I want it to be true.

Maybe we can help each other.

We are connected, after all.

We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.
(Martin Luther King Jr ~ American pastor/civil rights leader ~ 1929-1968)

Be joyful. Grow to maturity. Encourage each other. Live in harmony and peace. Then the God of love and peace will be with you.
(2 Corinthians 13:11 ~ NLT)

Does That Really Work?

December 6, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The old guy leaned against the fender of his car as he watched the display change on the gasoline pump. In itself, that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. People do it all the time. It was what he did when the pump clicked off, indicating a full tank, that surprised me.

Moving his hip away from the car, he smacked it back against the fender three or four times in quick succession. The car swayed and bounced violently back and forth a few times before settling into a little wiggling motion. Then the fellow clicked on the handle of the pump nozzle again.

I laughed. It might have been out loud. The old fellow sneaked a look back at me and I pretended to be fiddling with the gas cap on my own car. I couldn’t help it. It was just such an odd thing to do. And useless.

You see, the only purpose I can imagine for taking such action is to allow a little more gasoline to fit into the tank. The swaying motion of the car would slosh the liquid back and forth, dislodging any air pockets that might be trapped away from the spout.

He burped the car! Just like a tiny baby, he burped his car.

As any young parent can explain, babies should be burped while being fed. Air passes into the stomach along with the milk or formula, causing a couple of problems. One problem is that the child will often have gas pain resulting from the trapped air if not soon released. The other is, since the air takes up space in the infant’s stomach, the feeding may be incomplete. The child will be hungry sooner than is normal—certainly, sooner than the parent desires.

The baby is raised to the shoulder and patted or rubbed gently on the back. Experienced parents are almost always rewarded by the gentle (and sometimes, not so gentle) expulsion of air, and the feeding may be resumed.

While the method of feeding may have some effect on how often this should happen, usually it is essential to the well being of the child.

Not so with the automobile. At best, another few ounces may be squeezed into the tank, yielding another mile or two of travel before the tank is empty once more.

It is a useless thing to do. Still, I would venture to suggest that this man will never—not once—fill the tank on his vehicle without taking this action.

No doubt, at some time in the past, it was suggested to him by someone much older, who drove back when there were very few stations around, as an effective way to stretch a tank of gas. Habit has made it a way of life, in spite of the uselessness of the action.

As I did today, you laugh at the old man at the gas station. But, what about that friend who taps on the top of every can of pop he holds before opening it? His action is even more useless than the aging automobile owner’s. It will never, ever, stop the can from erupting into a spewing, foaming mess if it has been shaken beforehand.

I’m wondering tonight—wondering about what I know. Or, maybe I’m wondering about what I think I know.

We have so many practices, things we believe to be rooted in necessity, which we never give a second thought. It’s possible—just possible—that a fair number of these habits are only rooted in hearsay and myth. They may even be harmful without us knowing it.

By now, it may be apparent to the reader that I am not only referring to our physical quirks and routines. We have spent a lifetime, many of us, learning beliefs and practices which have only human repetition to recommend them.

If I were to attempt to name the silly things we do because it is what we were taught to do, this already-too-lengthy article would stretch on into tomorrow—to say nothing of the arguments it would engender.

You should feel free to let your mind run wild on the subject, though.

I wonder if it would be helpful to have a manual? Could we check that to find what activities would be of benefit or which would harm? (Proverbs 3:13-14)

You know, I’m pretty sure there is such a manual. (Hebrews 4:12)

Perhaps, it is time to refer to it again.

Maybe it’s past time.

But, don’t look for it in the glove box.

If fifty million believe in a fallacy, it is still a fallacy.
(Samuel Warren Carey ~ Australian geologist ~ 1911-2002)

All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness,that the man of God may be complete, thoroughly equipped for every good work.
(2 Timothy 3:16-17 ~ NKJV)

Two Forward, One Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

He got the point.

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

Two forward. One back.

It’s still progress. I did the math.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if all is lost?

Ah, but what if it isn’t?

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

Turn around.

The goal is out there. Up ahead.

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

Up ahead—it’s all up ahead.

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

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

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

Keep moving forward.

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

In time.

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

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

Children of Jubal

December 3, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, it takes me unawares, nearly every time.

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

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

What happened?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jubilate Deo!

Rejoice in God!

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

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

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

Spit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. I want to talk about spit.

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

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

Perhaps, I should begin by explaining the liquid which is left on the stage when wind players complete their performances or rehearsals. This is important stuff to all of you who are aspiring trumpet, or trombone, or even tuba players. Important perhaps, even for the parents of such folk.

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

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

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

Condensation. Not spit.

But, I still want to talk about spit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blind man stood, as he always had, waiting for something. Something. But, he didn’t know what he awaited. He had always been blind. From the day he had arrived, squalling and screaming, light had never passed from his eyes to his brain. Never.

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

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

They were the wrong questions.

He was sent to bring light to the world. Here was His big opportunity. Time to impress with big words and ostentatious prayers. He would wave His hands in the air and—Wait! What is He doing?

He spit in the dirt.

Spit. In the dirt.

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

“Did you just spit in my eyes?”

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

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

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

What an astounding result! Light, pure and clear, streamed through the once useless orbs. Familiar voices spoke to him and, for the first time in his life, he put faces with the voices. He saw his home! And his family!

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

Spit. What a gross thing. Why would Jesus have used spit, of all things? I have no answer.

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

Waiting.

Waiting for the Salvation of God to appear.

Just a warning. It won’t be pretty.

Or sanitary.

Not even a little sanitary.

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

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

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

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

I wonder. We’re waiting.

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

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

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

His light comes softly, and in unexpected ways.

I think I’ll stand here and wait.

You?

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

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

Saying Good Words

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

It was the perfect plan! Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

The older brother didn’t hesitate.

Amen!

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

It was time for brother number two to interject.

Hallelujah!

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

Praise the Lord!

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

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

Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

They are good words, are they not?

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

They meant nothing to the children. Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

Or, do we?

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

But, did they understand any better than we do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

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

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

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

Give thanks!

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

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

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Hearts Racing

Bells Ring

The Same Baby

Afraid

Dots—Again

Does That Really Work?

Two Forward, One Back

Children of Jubal

Spit

Saying Good Words