Christian life

We Can’t All Walk on Water

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I hoped the squelching sound of wet socks in my leather walking shoes wasn’t audible to Charlie as we found a table on which to set our cups.

I couldn’t believe I had been forced to ford a raging river of water in the alleyway outside the coffee shop.  I was on a city sidewalk!  I mean—who would have expected that?

But, as I seem to do frequently, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?  Let me see if I can do a better job of setting the scene for this uncomfortable event.

Ever have one of those days?  I mean the good ones—the kind of day when nothing can go wrong.  The sun is shining; there’s time for all the activities you have planned, and you have an appointment later with a good friend you haven’t seen for months.

What could possibly blemish such a shining day?

For most of the day, right up until just before the appointment with my young friend, nothing would have been the answer to that question.  Nothing at all.

But then the sky, bright and sunny before, dimmed with clouds and the rain fell. 

No.  That’s not right.

The deluge descended.  The skies opened up and the water poured out over us.  The metal roof above us sounded as if it were a hailstorm, but it was nothing more than sheets of rain from above.

I had been awaiting a message from my friend to say he was headed to the coffee shop.  And wouldn’t you know, in the midst of that deluge, his message arrived.

I laughed. 

Oh, well.  I wouldn’t melt.  Grabbing an umbrella, I kissed the Lovely Lady and headed out to the car.

Looking out from under the edge of the little umbrella, I noticed the light.  The sun was shining.  Rain coming down in sheets, and the sun was shining!  Well, at least that meant it would stop soon. 

It meant something else, too.

From the front door, I heard her voice follow me out to the car.

“I bet there’ll be a rainbow.”

I wasn’t counting on it.

I want to be an optimist; really, I do.  I want to think everything will work out for the best—all hunky-dory and A-Okay.  I want to, but I can’t.

The day was headed downhill faster than a road bike down the Illinois River Hill.  Neither is all that good a feeling.

Downtown, I couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere in the block the cafe is on.  I circled the block, hoping someone would vacate one.  No such luck.  So I parked around the corner, more than a block away, with the heavy rain still coming straight down.

No.  It wasn’t, was it?  The wind had picked up a bit and the still-heavy rain was blowing from the west.  I was protected on the east as I walked—no help at all.

And then, as if being cold and wet from the blowing rain weren’t enough, I reached the alleyway two doors down from the little shop where I was to meet my friend. 

Only, it wasn’t.  An alleyway, I mean. 

It was a raging torrent of rainwater pouring down from the hill above town.  The alley was the only unimpeded path the water could find into the valley, and it took advantage of the lack of impediment.

Six inches deep and eight feet wide, the current rushed, whitewater roiling on top, pebbles and debris tumbling underneath.

I can’t jump eight feet.  I also don’t think that well when the wind is blowing rain sidewise against me.

I wanted a bridge.  Failing that, I wanted to be able to walk on water.

Neither option was available.

I saw a large stone sticking out of the water, probably a piece of concrete washed out of a pothole further up the hill, and stepping onto it, assumed I could push off and jump the rest of the way over the current.

Did I say the day wasn’t going as I had hoped?

The stone rolled under my foot, submerging that shoe all the way to the bottom, ensuring I wouldn’t be jumping the rest of the way to the other side.  I just plopped the other foot down and walked through the flood onto the sidewalk.

Squish, squelch.  Squish, squelch.

My friend, when he arrived, was happy to inform me that there wasn’t a drop of rain falling half a mile away in the direction from which he had come.  He also had found a parking spot right in front of the cafe.

I have since seen photos of the rainbow (you remember—predicted by the Lovely Lady), a double one to boot, that formed in the sunny/rainy sky to the east.

I didn’t see it.

I was busy looking at the rain soaking me.  I was angry about the soggy walk through the current in the alley.

I’ve had time to dry out now.  I have a few observations which hadn’t occurred to me before.  Sometimes, it takes me awhile.

You see, I know I have a tendency to make more of things than I should.  The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested it was a tempest in a teacup.  Mr. Shakespeare might say it was much ado about nothing.  

Neither would be wrong.  

Still, I’m not alone in being overwhelmed by the storms which take me by surprise, am I?  We all have things which are important to us and when we can’t achieve them in the manner we planned, we despair of reaching the goal.

Sometimes, our joy is stolen by the arrival of a letter that threatens to change our blueprint for the future completely.

Family members become ill and schedules are interrupted.

Friends drop out of our lives and we want them back.

The wrong politician won the election and we’re overwhelmed with apprehension for the future.

The list of potential sources of the rain falling on our parade is endless.  We—all of us—fear the storm in varying degrees, and for very different reasons.

And, besides that, just when we’re learning to cope with the rain, we realize we have to go through the torrent.

Through it.

We can’t all walk on water, you know.   As far as I know, only two men in history have done that.  And, neither of them is named Jim Carrey. 

And, bridges aren’t always conveniently located to trip across without getting our feet wet.

Why does God do that? 

Why Peter but not me? 

Why Moses and the Children of Israel but not us?

Funny thing.

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper. Share on X

Sometimes trusting God means we just keep walking when the water gets deeper.

Sometimes through is just as good as over.

Sometimes through is just as good as over. Share on X 

We trust and we obey.

And, we get wet.  But, we get where He wants us to go. 

We will. 

Because He promises we’ll not be overwhelmed by the flood.  Or the fire.  When we go through. (Isaiah 43:2)  

Through.  With Him.

The rainbow comes later.  We may not see it at all.  It doesn’t matter.

His strong arms hold us close.  Still.

Even when we’re soaked.  And, when we squelch with every step.

Storms won’t last forever. They won’t.  (2 Corinthians 4:17,18)

Keep walking.

It might not hurt to wear your galoshes.

 

 

 

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.
(Helen Keller ~ Blind/deaf author ~ 1880-1968)

 

When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.
(Isaiah 43:2 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Alternate Routes

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Paul!!! Help!!!!

The message from my friend wasted no empty words in letting me know his need was extreme.  The power was out in part of his house and he was desperate.  I’m no electrician, but I have a limited knowledge in the art of tracing down a circuit, so I get an SOS from friends and family from time to time.

It was Saturday.  My day was planned out. The last thing I needed was a detour.

But, he is an old friend.  We go back a lot of years. 

I took the detour.

As I prepared to go help my friend, the Lovely Lady received a note from other friends.  Would we have time to eat with them that evening?

Another detour.  More old friends. 

We took this detour as well.

Why is it we love the comfortable, the well-worn path?  Why do we tense up when we see the familiar sign with an arrow above the word detour?

For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord.  Plans to benefit you and not to make things harder.  Plans to give you vision and to ensure future blessings. (Jeremiah 29:11)

I think those words apply to the detours, too.  Don’t they?

My friend with the electrical problem was waiting for me, anticipating the worst.  Explaining the steps it had taken to get into the mess, he led me to the room where the sparks had flown.

Minutes later, the power was back on.  I explained the problems to him.

You turned off the switch, but should have turned off the breaker.  That box has live wires in it that aren’t connected to the wall switch.  

Then I delivered my favorite truism regarding electricity.  It is my go-to quote when I deal with friends who don’t understand and are fearful of working with the source of power.

Electricity always does what it is supposed to do.  Always.

Hmmm.  It does have a well-worn path through which it travels.  Always the same.  Always predictable.  Maybe even comfortable. 

It’s true.  It is.  Electricity is a lot like we are.

But, as I stood there, I couldn’t help but see in my memory a time—now nearly forty years in the past—when I stood on a ladder in a school hallway, my head and arms stuck up through the false ceiling.

I had a junction box open and was loosening the wire connector on a bundle of wires.  They all had white-colored insulation, which indicated they were neutral wires.

Colored insulation warns of a hot wire; white signifies neutral.  Hot wires carry power to devices, like lights or motors.  Neutral wires complete the circuit, giving the expended current a path back to the breaker box.

I had been doing this for a few months.  I knew what electricity did.  Well, I thought I knew what electricity did.

I unscrewed the connector, exposing the wad of bare conductor wires.  Reaching for the wad with my bare hand, I was stopped in mid-air by a shout from my supervisor.

What are you doing?

I explained how electricity worked to him.  Funny, huh? 

I was going to separate the wires and isolate the circuit to the room I was standing outside of.  It was, after all, only carrying used-up electricity, going back to the power source.

The man laughed.  I don’t think he intended it to indicate he was amused.

The instant you separate those wires with your bare hand, that used-up electricity is going to take a detour through your body to whatever ground it can find and you’ll find out how much it still bites.

Isn’t that odd? 

Electricity loves detours.  It loves them.  Takes a detour in less time than it takes a man to blink.

And, in another blink, I was back at my friend’s house, flipping the main breaker back to the on position, restoring power to his dark rooms.

My little mental detour over, the time at my friend’s house passed quickly as I gave him some pointers on acceptable wiring practices for ceiling fans.  I only hope his spins in the right direction when he gets done.

Instead of an objectionable experience, the detour to his house turned into a learning time—for me and for him.

Take the detour.

An hour or two later, we took the other detour with our friends.  There were tasks we could have accomplished by staying home, things which still need to be done, but we rode to a nearby town with them and ate dinner.

We sat, throwing our peanut shells on the floor (truth be told, the Lovely Lady made a neat pile of hers on the table), and laughed until we cried.  We talked about old people stuff—you know, doctors and prescriptions—and we talked about young people stuff—things we did thirty or forty years ago and things our children and grandchildren are doing today.

And, when we were done, we laughed some more and came home healed—for awhile—of the hurts and sorrows of life.

Take the detour.

Sometimes, detours offer a respite from the journey.  A refreshing ride along a riverside on a two-lane road, when we had been hurtling down the freeway to exhaustion.  A glance at an old house that reminds us of home, long ago and many miles away.  A reminder of family, as we pass a park full of children chasing each other and going down the slides, or over the jungle-gym.

Sometimes the detours teach us a valuable lesson, giving us tools for the journey yet to come.

Not by coincidence, one of our fellow-travelers on the second detour that day was the very same man who had yelled—and laughed—at me in the school hallway all those years ago.

I reminded the electrician that, as I had helped my other friend earlier, I had only shared information he had taught me as a young man.  He said he didn’t remember teaching me anything.  Seriously.  Not anything.

He did teach me.  I can’t begin to count the folks with whom I have shared that knowledge in the years that have piled up since. 

Sometimes, on our detours, we get the chance to remind other folks of how important they are in the lives of those around them.

Take the detour.

Take the detour. You might find your spirit renewed at the end. Share on X

As with electricity, there are paths laid out before us.  Those paths stretch out into the future, a journey that must be taken, with a goal that can’t be missed.

Point A to Point B.

But sometimes, the alternate route opens up suddenly and He asks us to come aside with Him.  The goal will still be there, in time.  The road will still be traveled. 

But, for now, we slow down and take the back lanes for a ways.

With Him.

I’m taking the detours.

You coming with?

 

 

Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit. (Man proposes, but God disposes.)
( from The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis ~ German cleric/author ~ 1380-1471)

 

The strength of patience hangs on our capacity to believe that God is up to something good for us in all our delays and detours.
(John Piper ~ Pastor/author)

 

You can make many plans,
    but the Lord’s purpose will prevail.
(Proverbs 19:21 ~ 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.)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

What if my Best Isn’t?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Don’t you know that’s a youth song?  You sang it like an old hymn!

The silver-haired lady didn’t actually shake her finger in my face, but I had a vision of it being waggled there.

I almost laughed.  It was an old hymn.  To me, it was.  Why—right there on the page, beside the author’s name, it told when he wrote it.  1902.  

Really. 1902

It was an old song.  For old people.

Then I read the words again.  And again.

Give of your best to the master.
Give of the strength of your youth.

I apologized to the dear saint.  The next time I led it, with the Lovely Lady accompanying me, we sang the song with a tad more pep, and just a little more vigor.

I learned a lesson that day.  It’s profound.  You’ll want to save this.

Old people were young once.

Most of them still remember it.  Some, vividly.

I know young Timothy’s instructor didn’t mean for me to take it this way, but I can’t help but think it.

Let no man despise your youth.  (1 Timothy 4:12)

It is disrespectful to the aging and elderly for us to disregard the experiences they had as young folks.  The things that shaped the adults they would become haven’t diminished in importance in all the ensuing years.

It is a youth song.  Written in 1902.

I dare not speed on past without revisiting the words our old friend, my namesake, had to say to his youthful protegé, though.

Don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. (1 Timothy 4:12) 

I wonder how many times a day I hear—or read—disparaging words directed at the younger generation.  The generalizations are rampant, the vitriol nearly universal.

All coming from old folks.  Okay, aging folks.  People who once were young themselves.  People who can’t stand to have the days of their own youth ridiculed.

I’ve done it myself.  

These kids today. . .

I repent.
                              

A young friend sent me an invitation a few weeks ago.  The local university, as it has for a number of years, was sponsoring an evening dedicated to promoting writing and the arts in a faith-based environment.

I glanced at the two guests who were on the schedule.  A comic-book illustrator and a spoken-word artist.

Lightweights!  This is what passes for writing and art?  Pass.

I repent.  Did I say that already?  It doesn’t matter.  I may do so again.

The Lovely Lady encouraged me to go.  Friends were going to be there.  There was ice cream.

I went.  Don’t tell the friends, but the ice cream is what tipped the scales (no pun intended).

May I tell you what happened?  

Surrounded by young folks who could be my grandchildren, I saw respect.  They were attentive.  They were appreciative.

My eyes were opened.  Well, when they weren’t filled with tears, they were opened.  The tears were a surprise.

I detest spoken-word poetry.  All angst and anger and foul language, it falls somewhere on a scale with rap music, without the music.

I thought.

The young man, in his jeans and untucked shirt, skull-cap pulled over his head tightly, looked for all the world like a street punk to this old man’s eyes.

I sat back, arms folded across my chest, and dared him to move me.

I dared him.

He moved me.  

No.  That’s not right.

The Spirit moved me.

It was all I could do, when the young poet, arms windmilling above his head and waggling in front of his face and hanging down at his side, spoke the names of Jesus—it was all I could do—not to jump up and shout like a Pentecostal in a Holy Ghost revival.

And, I’ve never been to a Pentecostal Holy Ghost revival.

I looked down and I was sitting on my hands with my legs to keep them still, the tears streaming down my face.

There is a power that comes, not from experience, nor from age, nor from practice, but from the Word.  From the mouths of babes, through the writings of old men, by the witness of all who are His, He speaks.

From mouths of babes, writings of old men, & witness of all His own, He speaks. Share on X

Disregarding our differences, ignoring our preferences, and brushing aside our objections, He will be heard.

Disregarding differences, ignoring preferences, brushing aside objections, He will be heard. Share on X

I wonder if it’s time for us to realize that our Creator uses—He always has—the methods He thinks best to ensure an audience for His words.

I wonder if it’s time for us—young and old—to close our mouths about those methods we don’t especially like.  

I haven’t always given of my best for Him.  Sadly, I may have left it a bit late to give of the best of my youth.

I’m grateful that all the young folks aren’t waiting around until their golden years to work on it seriously. 

Still, I have begun to look at youth a little differently.  I wrote recently about that great cloud of witnesses the writer of the book of Hebrews in the New Testament describes.  I realized that these men and women are my peers.  

Really.  Moses, Abraham, Rahab, Sarah, and all the others—all of them, my peers.  Yours, too.  

We’ll join them one day, to live without any time limit there. 

If we’re to live forever, and I believe we will, we’ve only lived a minuscule percentage of all the days we have ahead of us.

I’m still young.

There’s still time.

I’ll give it my best.

                              

I invite you to watch the video linked below.  Powerful words—from the heart of the poet and directly from God’s Word.

 

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
     Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
     Than when we’d first begun.
(from Amazing Grace ~ English clergyman ~ 1725-1807)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Turning the Screws

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It’s not like I’m a light weight.

In pounds, I mean.  And yet, all it takes is the turn of a screw and I’m carried away.

All the way to forty years ago, I’m dragged back.  Nineteen seventy-seven.  And all I did was insert the blade of the Craftsman screwdriver into the slot and turned.  Just a trivial flat-head screw.

The facelift on this old house has been a challenge.  Nearly every new task has loomed before my spirit in brazen defiance.  Several have very nearly defeated me.

In my deepest bouts of self-doubt during each of these tasks, I find myself turning aside for a few moments, or an hour, or even a day.  I abandon the difficult and unfamiliar to spend some time doing the easy things—the repetitive little chores which must eventually be done, but require no great amount of knowledge or resolve.

I remove knobs or door stops.  Here, a hinge needs to be replaced.  There, a brace.  Old screws are removed, the item repaired or replaced, and reattached, either with the same screws or new ones.

Almost without exception, the items I remove are held in place with slotted screws—the kind which require a flat-head driver to manipulate them.

I had one of those moments today.  Overwhelmed by the mental gymnastics required to make a repair to an old section of the ceiling, I decided instead to install that cabinet door latch we had purchased a couple of weeks ago.  Grabbing the Phillips-head screwdriver, I knelt in front of the cabinet and bent my head to peer inside the opening.

The tool I held was useless for the task at hand. You might think I’d be frustrated, but that wasn’t the case.

Smiling, I made my way back to the tool shelf in the utility room, selecting my favorite flathead screwdriver from the jumble of hammers, wrenches, drill bits, and pliers.  Returning to the cabinet, I removed the old, broken part without a hitch.

It was his house, you know.

Always.  Always, the white-haired man installed flathead screws if he had a choice.  I met him forty years ago, and it was never any different.

Even before I went to work for him full-time in the music store, I helped out if he had need of an extra pair of hands when I happened to be loitering about. I loitered about quite often in those days.

That first time (the place I was carried back to), it was a piano bench—the kind with a storage compartment concealed under a hinged top.

The old fellow—in his late fifties by that time (anyone over forty was old to nineteen-year-old me)—knelt beside one end of the bench plying a Phillips-head screwdriver, not quietly.

“Those things are terrible!  Give me a slotted-head screw any day.   I don’t know why anybody thought a Phillips was a good idea.”

He looked over at me and grinned.

“I mean the Phillips-head screw and driver; not you and your family.”

Even when he was frustrated, the jokester in him wouldn’t be repressed.

We replaced every screw in those hinges with slotted-head screws when it was buttoned up, as he called it—just in case he ever had to work on that bench again.

In all the years I worked with that white-haired man who would become my father-in-law, I never knew him to have a Phillips screwdriver that wasn’t rounded off or stripped completely.

He did the same thing to many of the screws he attempted to remove with the damaged tools.

Did you know that most screws in use today are Phillips-head screws?  The crosshead pattern, paired with the correct size driver, gives the person driving the screw greater turning power and a more secure seat for the tool.

Slot-head screwdrivers have—well—slots, places the driver can slide out of either side if it’s not held exactly flat and perpendicular to the screw.

It took me a year or two to figure out the old man’s problem with the new-fangled screws (they were patented in 1936) he fought with constantly.

He was using the wrong tool.

Oh, he used a Phillips-head screwdriver to drive Phillips-head screws, but there are, in fact, five different sizes of the tool.  Five graduated crosshead shaped drivers, which fit twenty-four different sizes of screws.

That’s right.  Five tools.  For twenty-four sizes of screws. No wonder his drivers were always mangled.

I’m still smiling at the memory I have stored away.  But, I’m wondering if there is something more to be learned here than not being set in one’s ways?  I think there is.

I find myself these days reading a lot.  As a writer, it’s a practical way to learn new techniques and different styles in writing.  As an aging man, it can be a frustrating discouragement.

Everywhere I look, I see formulas.  You know—if you do A, B, and C, the result will be D.

I’ve tried doing A, B, and C.  The result is categorically not D.

It never has been.  It never will be D, no matter how many times I repeat the process.

I don’t fit their formula.

I notice now that many packages which once stated one size fits all have been amended to state one size fits most.  I’m pretty sure even that is an exaggeration.

No one needs me to affirm that we are all different.  One look at me (and possibly yourself) will confirm that some of us are, indeed, quite odd.

One size doesn’t fit all—or even most.

Our Creator made us to be the individuals we are, all part of the same human race, but all marching to different rhythms.  We all have different sized dreams.

God gives us all different sized dreams. One size doesn't fit all. Share on X

He knows each one of us—knows exactly what drives us—knows how we’ve been uniquely gifted to achieve His purpose.

Every one of us who will come to Him does so in the same way, by way of the cross.  From there, His Spirit is the driving force, perfectly proportioned for our life’s journey.

The apostle who wrote letters had a clear, personal understanding because of his own experience.  His assurance was that God’s grace was enough.

Enough—specifically for him. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

This is important.

God’s grace fits us—each one of us.

God's grace fits us—each one of us. Share on X

His grace is enough for me.  It’s enough for you.  Whatever we’ve done, wherever we’ve been, His grace fits our precise need.

Not one individual is excluded.

He doesn’t stop there.  From the pen of the same author comes the declaration of infinitely more. (Ephesians 3:20)

Without limitation.

We come, every one of us by way of the cross, to find His grace enough and His provision more than we could ever ask of Him.

Can I say it?  I think I will.

The Right Tool for the right job.

It fits.

It always has.

Every time.

 

 

You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body
    and knit me together in my mother’s womb.
 Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!
    Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.
(Psalm 139:13,14 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

Rendering

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was on a recent trip to the local home center I noticed the new signage at the local chicken processing plant.

Wet Ingredients Facility.

Ewwww. 

The Lovely Lady and I were in complete agreement that it didn’t seem a very appetizing description.  We are determined never to partake of the products the factory will be generating.

Never.

And, given that the facility is the latest pet food production site for the company, it is to be hoped we can live by our commitment.

Somehow, within minutes, my mind went back to a conversation I had nearly forty years ago with the Lovely Lady’s father.  It was on one of our many excursions out into the countryside to deliver a piano to a customer.

The ancient white-haired man (all humans over sixty were ancient to me then—not anymore) and I had ridden a few miles down the chip-and-seal country road, enjoying the beautiful Ozark Mountain foothills.  Suddenly, the old man twisted the steering wheel of the old Dodge van violently to the right and within seconds, we were creaking and rattling over the bumps and potholes of the rocky stone and dirt lane.  

After a mile or so of bouncing along, I noticed the collapsing cement block walls of the old place coming up on the left-hand side as we approached.  Wrinkling up his nose, he yelled over the racket.

That’s where the old rendering plant used to be!

The circumstances weren’t conducive to conversation, but I had to know.

Rendering plant?  What’s that?

He explained as we rode on.  You wouldn’t know it, but it had been one of the first truly green industries around.  Meat processing plants, farmers, grocery stores—all of them brought their unusable animal parts, dead by natural or unnatural means, and left them with the rendering plant to turn into useful products.

The rendering plants turned out tallow for candles, or soaps, and even pet foods.  Tons of valueless, nasty garbage—turned into consumable (and profitable) products.

It was recycling at its best.  Or perhaps, at its worst.

Oh.  The stench!  When the wind was from the east, it hung over the whole town.  You could hardly breathe.

And with that, there was an explanation for the nose-wrinkling.  I laughed, imagining the malodorous atmosphere, many years past the time the smelly old factory had closed down and been abandoned.

Beneficial processes aren’t always pleasant.  They’re not.

Sometimes, for trash to become treasure, repulsive stages must be endured.

I’m happy the rendering plant is defunct; I’m just as happy the new wet ingredients facility has state-of-the-art equipment to keep me from smelling said wet ingredients, along with whatever else happens to go into that particular mix.

But, I’m curious now.  My brain, wandering a little and (odd how it works like this) wondering a lot, wants to know if this rendering thing has anything to do with the words spoken centuries ago by the Teacher, as he was examined by those who detested Him.

Holding the Roman coin in His hand, He made it clear to all who were listening that the image on it was indeed, Caesar’s and instructed them to render unto Caesar that which was his.  Three of the apostles included the event in their Gospels.  Three.

This must be important stuff.

Men have argued through the ages since about taxation and its relevance to followers of God and His Son.  They always will.  

They also miss the point.

The words that followed His instruction about Caesar bear more—much more—consideration.

Render unto God that which is God’s.

The coins were stamped by the hundreds of thousands and dispersed to every corner of the Empire.  For all that, they still belonged to the Empire.

The evidence was the image stamped upon them.  They were Caesar’s—no one else’s.

I wonder.  Do you suppose anyone listening missed the importance of the comparison?  I don’t think they did.

The spies from His enemies were all experts in the Law.  They knew—absolutely knew—the significance of the words.

Render to God. . .

Where is God’s image stamped?

It’s not a difficult question.  There is but one answer.

It is stamped on every single human being ever born.  Every one.  It always has been.  It always will be.

We are made in His image. (Genesis 1:27)

I understand how taxes would be paid to Caesar.  But, how does one render what is due to God?

Jesus Himself answered the question, although the answer had already been given centuries before He sat with them and said the words.  Love God with everything you have.  Heart.  Soul.  Mind.  Strength. (Mark 12:29-30)

The apostle, for whom I am named, said it more than once.  Every knee will bow and every tongue will declare—to the glory of God the Father. (Philippians 2: 10-11)  

And, before that: I beg you to yield yourselves to God.  Do that, and He will render you into a new person completely. (Romans 12: 1-2)

And, what of the odor from the process?  

That’s going to be a problem, right?

Not so much.  Somehow, in the process of rendering back, the byproduct is a sweet aroma. 

As perfume rising to the heavens is the return of the gift to the Giver.

As perfume rising to the heavens is the return of the gift to the Giver. Share on X

The process may seem painful at times.  It may appear to be to our disadvantage, temporarily.

The day is coming when we will see the complete result of the rendering.

Changed in a moment’s time. 

Rendered to Him at last.

The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.

Forever.

Until then, I trust the air around is pleasantly scented.

It’s the aroma of a soul in process.

You’ll let me know, won’t you?

 

 

 

Give of your best to the Master;
Give Him first place in your heart;
Give Him first place in your service;
Consecrate every part.
Give, and to you will be given;
God His beloved Son gave;
Gratefully seeking to serve Him,
Give Him the best that you have.
(from Give of Your Best to the Master ~ Howard Grose ~ American author/poet ~ 1851-1939)

 

Now he uses us to spread the knowledge of Christ everywhere, like a sweet perfume.
(2 Corinthians 2:14b ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.