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)

Big Enough

April 20, 2018April 20, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lord, get me through this day.

It was the first thought I had when I awoke this morning. The first one.

My morning prayer.

No thank you for waking me up. Not a word about this being the day and my intent to spend it in enjoyment of its Maker. (Psalm 118:24)

Just a reminder that I need to get to tomorrow. And, a little more quickly wouldn’t hurt—if you don’t mind.

You’re nodding your head. You know what I mean, don’t you? Maybe you’ve even done it yourself a time or two.

How did I get in this condition? Why would I want to blow through the next twenty-four hours just to get to another twenty-four hours after that?

I’m not sure I’ll like the answer. You may not, either.

I could tell you about pressures of work, but they’re no worse than usual. I could suggest that more money in the bank account would help, but it wouldn’t. I could remind you of the concert I’m playing in tonight and suggest that the pressure is too much, but that’s not the problem either.

Here’s what I’ve figured out.

My God isn’t big enough.

Really. Not big enough.

God should fill the days, eclipsing all the puny activities and concerns, but in my mind, He’s only enough to tuck around the edges. The rest is full of fear, of frustration, of disappointment. And, when challenges come, when the days promise hardship and even loss, the emptiness looms larger than God’s ability to keep His word.

In my mind, anyway. Maybe, in yours, as well.

Perhaps, we need to talk about what we know. Truth is always better than speculation.

The thief is the one who comes to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. The Savior came to give us life, not just any old ho-hum life, but one that satisfies completely—a life full to capacity with all He wants to give us. (John 10:10)

We know that.

God wants good for us. Every good gift comes from Him. Always. (James 1:17)

We know that. I know that.

So why is my prayer when I awake only to get through? Why would I not ask Him to fill the day with what I need?

Today is a gift. Not a terrifying period of time I need to hurry through so I can get to another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by another twenty-four hours of the same, followed by. . . Well, you get the picture.

It is a gift. Filled with exactly what is necessary to keep me—to sustain me—on my journey home.

I don’t want to get through it.

I want to live it. Fully. Abundantly. With passion.

The Psalmist understood that. For all the terror and fear he had lived through, all the doubt and guilt, he knew the fullness of a God who only wanted good for him.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life.

Goodness and love is mine. All the days of my life. Share on X

All. The. Days.

One day after another. Every one I wake up and pray to him.

He will fill the days, not just get me through them. He fills them with Himself. With goodness and love, He fills them.

Full.

Today.

How big is your God? The size of your God determines the size of everything.
(Howard G Hendricks ~ Theology professor ~ 1924-2013)

Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me
all the days of my life,
and I will live in the house of the Lord
forever.
(Psalm 23:6 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Basking

October 6, 2017October 6, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

A year ago, life took a turn. Let’s just say it was a turn I didn’t want to make and leave it at that.

A year.

A wise man I know sent me a poem early on in that year. Something about being called aside. I didn’t want to be called aside.

We closed our business—and waited. We worked in a yard—and waited. We emptied a house—and waited. We watched our bank account empty—and waited.

Many would say it’s been a hard year. If you pressed me, I might agree—for a few seconds.

Earlier this week, when a hint of good news arrived, a friend called it a blessing from God.

He’s not wrong.

Good news—hope for the future—is a blessing from God. It is.

Still, I wonder. Why do we assume only the things we want and desire and then receive from the hand of God are the blessings?

Why not the yard work? Why not closing down the business? Why not the filthy, heavy labor?

Why not the waiting itself? Couldn’t that be God’s blessing?

I’m not going to argue theology; I won’t break any new ground here. Still, there is one thing I need to say. Well, one thing before I say other things.

God gives good gifts to His children. (Matthew 7:11)

Always.

Good gifts aren’t defined as wealth or power, or the good life.

The Teacher sat down on the mountain one day and began with a list of blessings. It is a famous list. Most who are seeking blessings don’t seem to want to consider it in their search. Matthew 5 has the complete list.

At the top of the list? Those who are broken, helpless, and destitute in spiritual resources. Knowing we bring nothing of our own, we are blessed.

The blessing of God is Himself. Himself.

The blessing of God is Himself. Himself. Share on X

Everything else is peripheral. Anything more is simply icing on the cake.

He blesses in the waiting. He blesses as we labor and as we pray. He blesses as we walk in faith—painfully placing one foot in front of the other.

And, when He answers our prayers, the blessing is no more spectacular than when we walked with Him in the dark.

When He answers, the blessing is no more spectacular than when we walked with Him in the dark. Share on X

I would be lying if I told you it’s not good to see the hint of dawn on the horizon. But, in the dark I knew He was there.

I basked in His presence in the dark.

The morning will be no different.

You see, God is good.

Always, He is good.

Bask.

Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously…
(from Anne of Green Gables ~ L.M. Montgomery ~ Canadian author ~ 1874-1942)

Thou art giving and forgiving,
ever blessing, ever blest,
Well-spring of the joy of living,
ocean depth of happy rest!
Thou our Father, Christ our brother,
all who live in love are thine;
Teach us how to love each other,
lift us to the joy divine.
(from Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee ~ Henry Van Dyke ~ American author/poet ~ 1852-1933)

But the Thorns!

August 28, 2017August 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

What a beautiful tree! It’s absolutely the perfect place to put a treehouse!

A few of us were spending the morning helping our friends move. It wasn’t that big a deal—loading a U-Haul truck with furniture and boxes, along with a pickup truck or three—since we were only going a mile away.

Still, we welcomed a minute to stand in the cool shade of the stately tree and savor a long drink of cold water. It had been a morning filled with laughter and joviality as we labored together, but hard work in the sunshine seems to be a recipe for sweat and thirst. We stood under the branches of the flourishing tree and were refreshed—by the water and the shade.

Looking up, I noticed the configuration of the sturdy branches where they joined the massive trunk. The branches all came out of the trunk at something close to a right angle before sweeping upward, where they spread out to the leafy extremity of the tree’s crown.

Ah! At sixty years old, I would be stretching credulity to claim the title of tree climber, but in a past life, I would have been up that tree in a minute.

Perfection! What a magnificent tree!

The children quite obviously shared my opinion; one of the taller boys was already giving the younger ones a leg up onto the lower limbs. Within moments, the branches were teeming with youngsters above our heads.

What a delight! What I wouldn’t give to have such a tree in my yard for my grandchildren to experience. Why, if it were in my yard, I might give it a shot myself—when the neighbors weren’t around to see my foolishness, of course.

And, the possibilities for a tree house! Although, it seems such dreams may actually be governed by building codes and city ordinances in this bureaucratic age in which we live.

Still. A tree house!

What a perfect tree!

The teenaged young man who had lifted up the younger kids was still standing nearby as I expressed my admiration. Even though he is just moving into the house, he had done his homework regarding the majestic tree.

Yes. This tree is a sweetgum. So are those next door.

He tossed the words out carelessly, as if they weren’t nearly the sternest denunciation he could make of the ancient giant. Perhaps—in fairness—to him they weren’t.

What a shame. How unfortunate that some uneducated homeowner had planted such an unsuitable specimen right in the middle of his front yard.

I looked around in the leafy ends of the branches. Sure enough, hanging down, I spotted them. Those spiny seed pods! Horrible things!

I wouldn’t have that tree in my front yard! Not for anything!

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? Go ahead. Laugh all you want. I hate cleaning up those spiny things. They drop off the tree in the fall and the yard will be full of them.

Did you know, the sweetgum tree is often and vociferously named by homeowners as one of the worst trees to have in your yard? It’s all because of those spiny seed pods, gumballs, some folks call them, which might even be dangerous. They roll underneath your shoe and make you twist your ankle. They hurt your head if you happen to be under the tree when one falls. And, don’t even think about going barefoot in the yard where one of those horrible trees is growing.

You’re still laughing. You should be.

Moments before, I declared the tree perfect. That’s right. Perfect.

As in, every good gift and every perfect gift is a gift from above, coming down to us from God, the Father of Lights. (James 1:17)

And now? If it were gift-wrapped and planted in my front yard, I’d turn up my nose at the horrible thing.

Silly, isn’t it? The tree is magnificent, with spreading limbs and foliage providing wonderful shade, growing straight up to heavens, fifty or sixty feet above my head. Yet, here I stand, repenting of my admiration for it because of a little seed pod an inch and a half in diameter.

I think they call this incongruous. It certainly demonstrates a lack of perspective on my part.

It seems to be a common trait for humanity. My mind jumps to examples of our fickle approval or disapproval of other people and situations. Yours will too, given a moment or two of introspection.

Perhaps, there is even one which hits very close to home, maybe even painfully so. I know I have too many of my own.

And, even though I’m glad for the company in my foolishness, I’m disappointed in myself—and us. I’m even more than a little embarrassed.

How is it we stand face to face with amazing blessings which we recognize clearly but, having noticed the tiniest of flaws, can see nothing else?

And soon, the imperfection becomes an annoyance. As the annoyance grows, our sense of being blessed diminishes.

Before long, we have exchanged our blessings for curses, our joys for anger, our gifts for punishments.

It’s impossible to be grateful when one is critical of the gift they’ve been given.

It's impossible to be grateful when one is critical of the gift. Share on X

He gives good gifts. They are gifts which bring joy. They are gifts which build character. Sometimes, both at the same time.

Our old friend, Job, understood it when He answered his wife, who wanted him to curse God for the disasters which had destroyed the life he once had known.

Does it seem right to accept good from God and not the hardships also? That’s foolishness! (Job 2:10)

I understand. A spiny seed pod on a beautiful tree is not the same as having your entire family wiped out and losing all your wealth. Still, the principle applies.

God is for us.

He intends good. For us.

He does good. For us.

If He is for us, what do the inconveniences matter?

If He is for us, we can abide the testing, the hard spots.

The apostle, for whom I am named, said he considered these passing hardships as not worth comparing to the glorious expectation of what will one day be ours. (Romans 8:18)

I’m with him. At least, I want to be.

One day—on that day—all of the things we complained and griped about here will seem as a hazy fog blown away by the morning breezes. Gone in an instant, leaving no proof that they ever existed.

He gives good gifts. Good.

And, we are forever grateful.

I’d still keep the rake handy for the spiny seed pods, though.

I beg your pardon. I never promised you a rose garden.
Along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometime.
(from Rose Garden ~ Joe South ~ © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC ~ All rights reserved.)

But Job replied, “You talk like a foolish woman. Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?” So in all this, Job said nothing wrong.
(Job 2:10 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

The Lawnmower You Gave Me

July 28, 2017July 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I’ve never used a riding mower before. I never had a lawn big enough to need one.

For most of my life, since I was nine or ten, I’ve pushed a mower to get the grass to a manageable length. Back and forth, step after plodding step. Leaning forward, hands spread across the push handle, row follows row until the task is completed.

It has always been a hot, tedious chore.

I have always been careful to say so too, after each session. The Lovely Lady usually has a cold drink ready for me when I’m done and she stands there smiling as I complain.

The yard I mow now is done with a riding mower. I sit down to do the job. No more do I take step after step while following the roaring lawn implement. I let the clutch out and the machine carries itself (and me) back and forth across the expanse of green, chewing up and spitting out all that exceeds the height I want to see when I’m finished.

What could be better? Like day and night, the two methods are. Or, are they?

Somehow, she still gets the same complaint from me at the end of the afternoon.

It’s a hot, tedious chore. And yes. I tell her so.

…and that seat just beats me up as it throws me from side to side over the uneven ground…

She smiles and hands me my cold water.

As I think about it, the red-headed lady who hands me my water is replaced—in my inner sight, that is—by another red-headed lady I loved—the red-headed lady who raised me.

She just looks up from her crocheting as she sits in her rocker and reminds me that I’ve always complained. Always.

You’d complain if they hung you with a new rope.

I didn’t ask. Sometimes, it’s just better to work things out on your own. Maybe it had something to do with that other thing she always said about ropes.

Give you enough rope and you’ll hang yourself.

Nope. No help there, either.

In time, though, I think I’ve worked out the new rope saying. Simply put, it means we complain about the most absurd things at the most inappropriate moments. It’s an absurd statement meant to point a spotlight at an absurd action.

The red-headed lady (the one who raised me) was right. I do complain about ridiculous things when, in fact, they are the very things for which I should be grateful.

Leftovers again? Again?

Why are they coming to visit tonight?

I just bought gasoline for this thing last week!

If I have leftovers, I have plenty to eat. More than plenty.

When they come to visit again, be it friends, or grandchildren, or even the in-laws, I have companionship—a wondrous gift ill-suited for disdain of any sort.

If I need to purchase gasoline again, I have had need of a vehicle and am blessed to have access to one—a luxury most in this world do not have.

I’m not preaching. I’m not.

Still, I am ashamed of myself, but I think I’m not alone.

It is some comfort to not be the only one. Really, I think if I didn’t complain, then I might be the only one. From the beginning, humans have complained.

The woman you gave me…the complaint Adam made, implying that if God had only had better sense than to burden him with Eve, everything could have continued as it was. (Genesis 3:12)

We’ve complained ever since.

The Children of Israel in the desert did it, again and again. Moses did, too.

Elijah hid in the mountains after an astounding victory and trotted out his accomplishments while complaining that He hadn’t been treated very well.

Jonah preached a better sermon than Billy Graham could ever hope for, with appropriate accompanying results, yet he complained that God allowed the repentant sinners to live.

It wasn’t only the men. Sarah suggested Abraham should take her servant as a surrogate mother, but then complained about the result of that relationship—so much so that her dutiful husband drove the child and his mother into the desert to die.

Martha complained that her sister was a slacker, leaving her to do all the important work.

I’m not the only one. But, here’s the thing.

I don’t want to be one at all.

Besides the infamous squeaky wheel, I see no lasting benefit to complaining.

It’s not what I want to be remembered for. And, that’s just what the Apostle, my namesake, reminded the good folk at Philippi of—that they were the focus of their generation’s scrutiny.

Everything—every single thing—you do should be done without complaining or grumbling. Live exemplary lives, with nothing to criticize. You are in full sight of the world, blazing like stars in the sky as you walk daily in the middle of sin-filled and perverse communities. (Philippians 2:14-15)

It’s not just complaining about the inconveniences of life he’s talking about, although given the nature of the creature, that seems likely enough.

Implied is the directive that we shouldn’t mutter against the folks around us, both followers of Christ and non-believers.

Selah.

Complaining is proof of an ungrateful heart. It is evidence of an unforgiving spirit.

In short, it shows a heart unchanged by grace and love.

Complaining shows a heart unchanged by grace and love. Share on X

My heart. Ungrateful. Unforgiving.

Unbowed.

I would not have it so.

I want to shine. Like a star on the horizon, I want to blaze clearly and distinctly.

I think I’ll start by thanking the Lovely Lady for the cold water. Perhaps the ride on the mower wasn’t as rough as all that, either.

All good gifts come from above.

It’s hard to complain when I’m saying thank you.

I personally believe we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.
(Jane Wagner ~ American writer/director)

Let everyone see that you are considerate in all you do. Remember, the Lord is coming soon.
Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done.
(Philippians 4:5,6 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Never Satisfied

June 26, 2017June 26, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I wish I knew how it happened. Maybe I’m just too competitive. Someday, I’ll learn.

Nearing the end of a bicycle ride today, I noticed an athletically-built young man on his bike some distance ahead of me. Going the same direction as I, but with the interval between us lessening steadily, it appeared I would be ahead of him fairly soon.

He rounded a curve in the road and glanced back to see me a couple hundred feet behind. Immediately, he stood up on his pedals and began to pump away, swinging the bike wildly from side to side with his muscular grip on the handlebars.

It was hard to misinterpret his intent. There was no way this old man was going to pass him!

Oh, man! Challenge accepted!

I didn’t stand up. I didn’t throw the bicycle from side to side. I simply spun the pedals faster, exerting myself where I had been on autopilot a moment before. As I reached a higher speed, I flipped the right-hand brake lever (also the shifter) to the side and the derailleur on the back wheel dropped the chain over one sprocket, sending more of my expended energy to the wheel propelling the lightweight machine of metal and rubber.

Within a quarter mile, I had overtaken the young man and, acting the part of the gracious winner (merely acting, mind you), greeted him in passing, only to hear his backdoor criticism of my feat.

“That’s an awesome bike, man!”

I sputtered out a comment about it being a great day for a ride and pedaled on past. He turned a corner moments later and was lost from the view of my little rearview mirror.

I pedaled on at the same speed for awhile, but slowed gradually as the short, odd interaction took over my mind.

He’s not wrong.

It is a wonderful bicycle.

It’s a lot more bicycle than a rider like myself deserves. It was offered to me for a very reasonable price by an old friend just over a year ago. Since the Lord had recently blessed me with an extra sum of money earned playing my horn, I had the wherewithal to afford it and I purchased it.

I understand how nice the bike is. That’s not my problem.

The thing is, the bicycle didn’t overtake the fellow on the road today.

I did.

Lest you think I’m getting a size or two too large for my lycra shorts, let me assure you I understand very clearly my limitations as a cyclist.

I’m not that good a rider.

But, here is what I know, mostly from long periods of time spent doing just the opposite: If one rides regularly, one develops the ability to ride faster and farther.

You have to ride your bike.

A month ago, the young athlete would have pulled away from me easily, showing up this old man on his awesome bike.

That beautiful bicycle sitting in the storage barn could never have passed anyone by itself. And, ridden by a cyclist on the road for his first outing in a year, the result would certainly have been a losing effort.

As often happens, while my mind was still chewing on the remnants of this earlier event, a seemingly unrelated activity later in the day gave me something new to contemplate.

I was glancing at my smartphone, and decided it was past time to clear out the notes reminding me I need to pick up eight-penny finishing nails (the 8d nails are in the pine window jamb already), or that I couldn’t forget to buy a new battery for my truck’s key fob (I did that six months ago). There were lots more, but most are just as mundane—and outdated—as these, so I won’t bore you with a recitation of them all.

One note caught my attention as I flipped past though, so I quickly scrolled back up to it. It was a little blurb I wrote months ago, thinking about who-knows-what? at the time.

Be content with what you have, but never with where you are.

Somehow tonight, the words jumped off the screen at me. I’ll delete those other notes later. This is important stuff!

The apostle who once was called Saul made the statement. Well, he actually made two different statements, but both are rolled up in this one.

Thanking his friends for sending a gift to him, the letter-writing apostle hastened to let them know he had no problem functioning with whatever God provided. I have learned, in whatever condition I find myself—with that, to be content. (Philippians 4:11)

Earlier in the same letter, he had encouraged them to keep moving—leaving the past and its accomplishments behind—to the goal, never staying in the same place. (Philippians 3:12-14)

The two statements stand, seemingly in opposition to each other. When combined though, they form a principle with the capability of radically changing the way we live our lives.

Be content.

Never be satisfied.

It messes with the brain a bit, doesn’t it?

Be content with what you have, but never with where you are.

Never.

I have a very nice French horn which sits in its case on my floor. Well sure, I have the horn, but why didn’t our Creator make me a prodigy so I could play it effortlessly and flawlessly (and even earn money for more nice cycling equipment)?

I wonder. I have the horn. Perhaps, I could practice and then possibly, I might someday be able to play it adequately.

Some may wish they could execute beautiful counted cross stitch projects, having needle and thread already in their possession, but lacking the ability and the training to immediately achieve their dream. I wonder if such a person might start by sewing buttons on shirtsleeves and then see what comes next.

If I gaze longingly out toward the storage barn, remembering the awesome bicycle out there, but wishing for the strength and understanding to operate such a conveyance, I’ll never have more than that bicycle—sitting idle in storage.

It takes time and dedication to be able to use His gifts properly.

And somehow, when we commit ourselves to moving forward, He seems to give better gifts with which to make the journey.

Be content with what you have, but never with where you are. Share on X

It’s time to take what He’s blessed us with and move in the direction He points us.

Towards Him.

Closer to home.

It is an awesome bike.

Time to get in the race.

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
(On the Road ~ Jack Kerouac ~ American novelist ~1922-1969)

Of Prisms and Vacuums

January 18, 2017January 18, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I closed the door behind the man, having shaken his hand and offered a spoken blessing in reply to his.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I locked the latch and turned away from the door. Looking through those translucent prisms, by then running down my cheek, I walked over and flicked the light switches to the off position.

The rainbow-hued prisms disappeared along with the light overhead, but the vision in my mind remained.

I talk too much. That won’t be news to many who know me. But, as the men had wrapped plastic around the old glass counters before carting them out to the moving truck in the parking lot, I couldn’t help reminiscing aloud.

They are the very same glass counters which were in the little music store the first time I walked into it, nearly forty years ago. Then, the slight, white-haired old man leaned on the edge of the counter in front of him, a quizzical smile playing across his lips.

That is the vision that will not leave my head—the smiling man leaning, hands flat on the glass top of the counter.

Today (perhaps by coincidence; perhaps not) is the anniversary of the old man’s death. I told the men as much as they worked.

I still miss him. He was friendly and jolly, as well as stern and thoughtful. I loved his stories. I was frustrated by his stubbornness.

I love his daughter. I love being part of his family.

But, this is not a sad tale, even though I began it in tears. It’s not.

It is a story of blessings—blessings I can’t begin to count. They are blessings that are likely to pass on to the third and fourth generation. Or, so it seems to me.

You remember? You who were raised in a church and Sunday School? The words are right there in the Old Testament.

The sins of the fathers will be passed on to the third and even to the fourth generation. (Exodus 20:5) Years after the perpetrators are dead, their children will be dealing with the consequences.

You’ve seen it happen, haven’t you? Perhaps not in the extreme that passage brings to mind, but if you’re anything like me, you’ve seen it.

I’ll never be like my father! How many times did I say it, growing up? Fathers can make children so frustrated. And, in our childish frustration, we make promises—assuming we’ll never ever do that thing that made us angry.

Fast forward ten years, perhaps fifteen. A member of the current crop of teenagers in the house says or does something amiss, and the response comes from deep within us, without consideration. Immediately, the brain spins back over the years and the chagrin sets in.

How is it possible that I opened my mouth and my father came out? How?

But, wait! I said I would write of blessings, didn’t I?

So, I shall.

Just as the negative habits of our fathers and grandfathers are often stored up to be released at some later date, so too, good habits work to the benefit of future generations.

A heritage of blessings becomes to each succeeding generation a blessing, a way of life, a habitual practice of blessing those who come after.

A heritage of blessings becomes to each succeeding generation a blessing. Share on X

My father-in-law was no exception, nor was my father. Mothers, grandmothers, grandfathers—not a day goes by that I don’t recognize the blessing of a Godly heritage.

It is part of God’s natural law, if you will. And, it does not in any way deny His power in changing hearts and in saving by His astounding grace.

But, with His own hands, He set the worlds in motion, designing the way their inhabitants function, down to the minutest detail.

And, just as those tears in my eyes earlier today made me see momentarily through rainbow-colored prisms, I realize that we see our world with the collective sight of those who have shaped us.

Good—bad—their influence is unmistakable.

We function, not in a vacuum (if there is such a thing), but in a constantly changing and ever-expanding world of influence, seen and unseen. Our every action and reaction has an effect on those around us.

Every one.

There is more, I know.

When we are drawn by the Spirit and saved by God’s grace, everything changes. His presence makes us want to do right, and even gives us the power to do it. (Philippians 2:13)

His presence in our lives makes all the difference.

Still, it should increase our understanding of our responsibility to those around us, rather than diminish it.

We have the power to affect the world for generations to come. We get to choose.

Good. Bad.

Blessing. Cursing.

I like Joshua’s thoughts on the matter as he made his choice and declared, with no ambiguity whatsoever, as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. (Joshua 24:15)

Many who have come before in my life have chosen well—some, not so well. Most of us can relate.

There is no vacuum in which to live.

There may be tears to see through.

I pray they’ll be tears of joy. And, tears of temporary sorrow.

Prisms of light through which we see the world clearly.

Blessings.

I saw behind me those who had gone, and before me those who are to come. I looked back and saw my father, and his father, and all our fathers, and in front to see my son, and his son, and the sons upon sons beyond.
And their eyes were my eyes.
(Richard Llewellyn ~ Welsh novelist ~ 1906-1983)

Debt Piles Up

July 27, 2016July 27, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

God will reward your generosity.

The words came unexpectedly. I didn’t even know the man was paying attention to the transaction which had just occurred in the music store.

I’ve mentioned on several occasions, that with increasing regularity, opportunities pop up to help folks in less advantageous circumstances. Believing that we have been put where we are with a better purpose than amassing wealth, I attempt to make a habit of helping when I can, usually in a mostly insignificant way.

“God will reward your generosity.”

Without thinking, I glanced up at the man in front of me.

“He already has.”

I said the three words that came to me. Nothing more. A total of eight words were spoken on the subject.

We moved on to our business and the terse conversation was forgotten.

I think it needs to be revisited. In a way, it actually was for me later in the day.

A customer from Pennsylvania called to request a CD we didn’t have. I found a company which could provide it and walked the aging man through the process to purchase it on their website.

He was extremely grateful and said essentially the same thing the fellow in my store had earlier.

“God will bless you for this.”

I wonder.

All my life, I’ve listened to the talk of rewards and blessings. I’m confused.

God has given—given—us the magnificent gift of grace. The penalty for our sins has been paid in full. The gift of God is salvation, not of works, but by grace through faith. It’s all Him. All of it. (Ephesians 2:8-9)

And now, if all I do is obey Him, He owes me more?

If I love my neighbor, be he in my music store, or across the country in Philadelphia, I get to keep track of it and present the expense statement for repayment?

I don’t mean to be cynical and I certainly don’t mean to ruffle feathers. Still, I’m looking for the day when we look at the good that others do and simply acknowledge it’s what we all should be doing all the time.

I want us to realize that our love for each other is simply servicing a debt we owe to a Creator who loves us more than words can express.

It’s a debt that can never be paid off.

Never.

I want to be very clear. God owes me nothing.

If I did nothing but good for those around me until the instant of my death, there would never be a hint of any blessing owed me in the ledger kept for such things. Not a feather’s weight would tip the scale in my favor.

I owe Him everything. I always will.

It is true for every saint and sinner who ever walked this dusty earth.

We owe.

But, understand this as well. He never forces us to lift a finger in repayment of the debt.

His love though—His love—makes us into people who cannot help but recognize the claim He has on our actions and attitudes.

We love. Because He loved us first, we love. (1 John 4:19)

Period.

Blessed? Beyond any ability of man to describe.

Rewarded? In ways I will never know—so far out of balance to what I owe.

I owe. Maybe you do too.

We need to be paying up every day we live. Without coercion and without a profit motive on our part, we should give. God loves a cheerful giver. (2 Corinthians 9:7)

We pay on our love debt by helping others. It’s the way the system is designed to work.

The world is sitting with their hands out, waiting for them to be filled.

It’s time for us to pay up.

He’s already blessed us for it.

Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for whoever loves others has fulfilled the law.
(Romans 13:8 ~ NIV)

The world does not understand theology and dogma, but it understands love and sympathy.
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist/pastor ~ 1837-1899)

Still Vanilla

June 7, 2016June 7, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We had an argument at the dinner table the other day. Well, not so much an argument, as a discussion—No—It was an argument.

I’m assuming some of you will want to weigh in, so you may get your keyboards and smart phones ready to make your comments. We were arguing, strangely enough, about ice cream flavors.

I will admit to being no connoisseur of gourmet foods. I am not a foody in any way.

I eat food. Real food.

I’m not fooled by a little raspberry sauce drizzled around a dish so tiny you have to use the lowest section of your trifocals to find it on the plate. Presentation has nothing to do with the meals I like.

Flavor and texture. Those are the most important attributes I’m seeking in the substances which pass my lips.

For instance, corn on the cob, fresh from the garden, husked and boiled in water, with a little salt and butter added—now that’s real food. Creamed corn? Not at all! While there is a slight corn-like flavor to the recipe, the dreadful mushy, slimy dish resembles corn not at all—to my palate.

A fresh tomato is good for any number of things.

Eaten by itself in wedges? Sliced and laid atop a freshly grilled hamburger patty? One of a few select ingredients in a plain dinner salad? All wonderful conditions in which to consume the enigmatic fruit/vegetable.

But, stewed and breaded? I think the Valley Girl of the Seventies said it more delicately than I can put it: Gag me with a spoon!

You begin to see a pattern here, don’t you? I like plain food. The honest flavors and natural textures of foods are a treat to the palate and need very little embellishment.

I think I’m what used to be called a meat and potatoes man. I’ll eat those other dishes when they are on the menu; even enjoy them at times.

But, for comfort food, for feeling all is right with the world, I’ll have the fried chicken with mashed potatoes, thank you! Sure, a little white gravy will go nicely on the potatoes, but not too much.

I want to taste the food I masticate.

Vanilla ice cream.

It’s what I prefer. Actually, what I crave, since it’s not really supposed to be in my diet at all now.

If you’ll promise not to tell the Lovely Lady, I will admit to having a serving of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla just recently. I had passed on it at dinner that day.

But, it called my name for the rest of the day, so I answered. Just a little.

Vanilla is an amazing flavor.

If you must know, it was the reason for the discussion at the dinner table.

One of our guests refused the offer of this food-of-the-gods after our meal, with one word: Yuck!

It was her contention that vanilla is plain, a non-flavor, if you will. And, while there was a day I would have agreed with her assessment, I will readily confess now that I have seen the error of my ways.

My sister-in-law (aided by her husband) creates an incredible home-made vanilla ice cream, the memory of which will make you want to spit out any Cookies and Cream you taste thereafter. I have had Butter Pecan I thought was really good, but one spoonful of Aunt Jan’s homemade recipe drove away any fond thought of that plastic flavor which remained.

I’ve thought of this phenomenon numerous times, while consuming unseemly quantities of the fat-laden nectar. I’m convinced that when we start to add flavors to the original, we begin a journey down a path leading to all kinds of excess which make us forget what we loved in the first place.

A teaspoonful of chocolate syrup added today, turns into a couple of tablespoons the next time and before you know it, you’re consuming some substance unidentifiable as ice cream, with a name like Chocolate Chunky Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Nightmare, and wondering how you could have sunk so low.

You may press “send” on those angry notes any time you are ready now. . .

What’s my point, you ask?

As usual, I employ the ridiculous to illustrate this plain truth: It is so simple to leave the path of clean, straightforward joys, mingling them with gaudy, overpowering extravagance, and before we know it, we no longer recognize the original product as real, or even as desirable.

Plain vanilla we call it, implying that it is somehow lacking.

The concept holds true throughout our culture. Clean cut, wholesome young men and women are replaced by Hollywood with surgically enhanced and painted caricatures with attitude problems. A criminal record is a plus, not an embarrassment.

If pets are important to you, it is no longer acceptable to just have a dog in the backyard, buying dry dog food at the local supermarket when they run out. We must shop at stores which cater to the pet’s whims, offering amazingly expensive toys, clothes (yes, clothes!), and food. Don’t leave that poor pooch alone at home all day! Doggie Day Care is the only loving way to treat Fido in this culture!

Families who enjoy the simple pleasures of spending time together playing at the park are replaced with the Madison Avenue image of the family who spends together at the amusement park, while wearing costly mouse ears and hugging imaginary princesses who have no interest in returning the adoration.

Bigger, better, more flavor, more excitement—all these are desirable, while plain, clean, pure, and simple are pejoratives used to poke fun.

The add-ons eclipse the original, making it seem obsolescent and passe’.

I’ll have two scoops of vanilla, please.

I’m fairly sure that great things are more often accomplished by just plain folks. Heroes are more likely to be normal people with simple values than they are to be the fake, embellished stars on television. Honest and responsible young adults are reared in the homes of honest and responsible parents.

We follow Christ in simplicity and purity. When the world intrudes, it’s only too easy to be distracted by the dressing and bling, forgetting that our path lies in a different direction.

He calls us to remember what first drew us into the way.

On second thought, make that just one scoop. (Watching my calories and fat intake, you see?)

Still vanilla.

It’s an amazing flavor. . .

But I have this complaint against you. You don’t love me or each other as you did at first! Look how far you have fallen! Turn back to me and do the works you did at first.
(Revelation 2:4-5a ~ NLT)

“White,” Saruman sneered. “It serves as but a beginning. The white cloth may be dyed, the white page may be overwritten, the white light may be broken.” “In which case, it is no longer white,” Gandalf answered. “And, he who breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.”
(Lord of the Rings~J.R.R. Tolkien)

‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free,
’tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…
(Simple Gifts~Elder Joseph Bracket~American Shaker songwriter~1797-1882)

An Ill Wind

October 21, 2014January 12, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The little girls rolled on the floor with laughter.

Literally.

The younger one at least, was lying on the carpeted living room floor convulsed with laughter as her grandpa attempted to play his new French horn. It was her first experience hearing the odd instrument. She and her sister were having problems with the similarity in sound to a bodily function which I shall not describe here.

The reader may be able to draw his or her own conclusion upon further consideration.

I’d rather they didn’t.

In short, I am the owner of the French horn. I am also the person who expelled the sounds in question from the bell of said horn. It was not one of my proudest moments.

There is a description of the horn which is trotted out periodically. It usually gets a laugh at the expense of the one who manipulates it.

An ill wind that nobody blows good.

I want that not to be true. I have spent a lifetime in an attempt to dispel the rumor. Alas, at times each of us who picks up the wayward instrument would have to agree.

An ill wind.
__________

The mind goes wandering.

An ill wind–somehow, I see the red-headed lady who raised me when I think of the words. It was one of her phrases–one of hundreds.

It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.

She explained the meaning to her offspring by reminding them that often, bad things which happen to some people help others. I’m sure she gave examples. I don’t remember what they were.

I do remember the wind.

She called it the gulf breeze. To her, in a land where the temperature was eternally sweltering, the wind blowing off of the Gulf of Mexico, some sixty miles away, was a Godsend. The sun heated the earth faster than it did the water of the Gulf and the resulting inequity in pressure caused the wind to blow off of the water and into the Rio Grande Valley. Constantly.

I hated it.

I spent my childhood riding my bicycle in a northerly or southerly direction just to avoid it. To ride east meant that you fought the wind. Fifteen to twenty miles per hour it blew. All day. Every day. At least, that is what I remember.

An ill wind, I thought.

To the red-headed lady, salvation from the torture of the unbearable heat. To this young man, a hardship that would never end.

An ill wind. That blew good to my mother.

I will admit that I think of that gulf breeze with a different attitude these days. Oh, I still wouldn’t want to ride against it for very far, but when I remember it, I smile.

Why would I not?

It pleased my mother.
__________

The mind wanders again, and I think about how I make a living. Frequently, I buy used musical instruments from individuals to sell in my store. It has supported my habit of eating and sleeping in a bed with a roof over my head for some thirty years.

One might ask how that could be a problem. Perhaps one example will suffice.

A young lady carried in a saxophone case one day recently. Her children followed, each carrying another saxophone, except for one of them who had a case in each hand. Five saxophones in all. Different sizes–alto, tenor, baritone, and soprano. There was even a melody sax in the key of C.

An ill wind was blowing on this young lady’s family. Not only financial want, but the death of her father in recent months, had left them casting about for an answer.

I examined the instruments as she talked about the old man. My examination was professional and unemotional. Not so, her monologue. She was distraught, bereft of her father and her children’s grandfather. Soon, she would be bereft of his beloved horns.

It was all she could do. When the ill wind blows, it is futile to attempt to withstand it.

I made her a fair offer; she accepted it and left with tears still in her eyes.

I have profited.

From the ill wind.

The thought gives pause.
__________

I understand the balance which exists. Mortuaries profit because of the death of our loved ones. Nurses and doctors are able to pay their bills because we become ill. Florists thrive because hapless husbands will never understand their wives.

I understand. Still, I struggle.

Around me, friends are suffering. Parents have died, or are grappling with the weight of old age and the loss of independence. Just tonight, a friend shared the sad news that his daughter-in-law passed away today, leaving behind an infant and my friend’s son. They are sad and confused, wondering what the future holds.

Do you know what it’s like to feel guilty because things are going well? I look at my friends in their struggles and I tell you, I do.

At these times, it feels wrong to rejoice in the good fortune I am experiencing, while I know others are in the grasp of sadness and pain, and yes, even anger. But, I’m doing just fine.

And, that makes me feel bad.

I’m not sure that there is a really good answer. Well, not one which completely satisfies what I want to know, anyway. But I am, finally, rejoicing with my mother over her gulf breeze. The time comes when we learn to walk in the shoes of the ones on the other side of the wind.

We rejoice as our friends rejoice. Our tears flow when theirs do. The two may occur within moments of each other. To participate in both is not to live a lie, but to feel empathy and love. Our Savior did the same.

The ill wind is blowing, but some also benefit.

One ship attempts, unsuccessfully, to sail into the storm and leave port. Another, battered and beaten by months on the sea, makes its way into the haven, aided by the gale.

The same wind blows. Ill and good.

I will weep with my friends, as I rejoice at the blessings of a beneficent God.

Weep with those who weep. The day comes when they do the same for us. Share on X

The day will come when they will do the same with me.

We live. We learn to walk with each other.

The wind keeps blowing.

To perceive is to suffer.
(Aristotle ~ Greek philosopher ~ 384 BC-322 BC)

Rejoice with those who rejoice. Weep with those who weep.
(Romans 12:15 ~ ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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