I Once Was Lost…and Blind

September 30, 2021October 12, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It wasn’t that great a day today. One of those Alexander kind of days, in fact. You know—a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Well, it wasn’t all that bad. Except, I lied to a neighbor. I did.

The day actually started well. The heat and air crew came again to finish installing our new central air unit in the utility room, a different location from where the old one had been in the family room/den. The main reason for the move is that my aging ears can no longer hear what Gibbs is saying to McGee on the big screen TV when the A/C is running. I was happy the fellows were here.

But then there was the gas line that couldn’t be moved. (We’re not plumbers, you know.) And the ductwork that wouldn’t go above the ceiling. (Maybe, just build a little box?) And the return air vent has to be situated next to the dining room table now, so my old ears won’t be able to hear what my granddaughter is saying to me across the table.

I told the HVAC tech that none of those things would be a big deal. We could work around them. At least I can hear Gibbs now.

It was the truth.

Later, my son sent a note to ask if I could eat lunch with him. You don’t know how much those times mean to me, the moments when we sit, just the boy (he hasn’t been a boy for many years) and his old dad, across the table from each other and share our lives. I had to tell him not today. The HVAC guys, you know.

I told my son it didn’t matter. We could do it another day.

It was the truth.

Some young friends who have just returned from a few years abroad asked me if I could break away long enough this afternoon to look at a piano they were hoping to buy. I had looked at the photos and the description of the piano they sent and thought it had promise. The HVAC guys were finishing up, so I went with my friends. I just knew this would end up well.

The piano was a complete bust, having a catastrophic defect. I told them to keep looking. They thanked me profusely for helping them avoid a bad purchasing decision.

I told them it was nothing. I was happy to help.

It was the truth.

Sitting in an easy chair at home later, I looked out the window and saw a small dog running along the street. It looked familiar. I was almost certain the dog belonged to one of our neighbors, an older widow a couple of doors down. It never runs loose, so I headed out the door after it.

When it ran into another neighbor’s yard, I called out to that neighbor who was working in her flower garden. She agreed with me about who the critter belonged to, so I jogged to the owner’s house while the other lady tagged after the dog, who would not come to us when called.

By the time the older neighbor and I returned, the shaggy little canine had headed downhill to the bottom of the gully that carries rainwater from our neighborhood to the creek nearby. It was too steep for the dog’s owner to get down to it, but I expected the other younger neighbor would have picked up the little thing and carried it out. The dog is mostly blind and couldn’t see well enough to find the way up itself.

“She didn’t want to be picked up,” was the terse explanation we got when we asked.

I sniffed. Didn’t want to be picked up! I’d pick her up!

I did try. She didn’t want to be picked up. Really.

She might have been blind, but she knew the hand that touched her sides wasn’t a familiar one. Instantly, she nipped at it. I pulled away just in time. Talking calmly and letting her smell my fingers, I tried again. This time, the tips of my fingers right in front of her sightless eyes actually felt the sharp little incisors brush along the skin as she snapped them closed.

I left her on the ground.

The dog’s owner stood and called to her and with the other neighbor and me acting as deterrents to her doubling back, she made her way slowly up to level ground. When the older lady bent down to pick her up, there was no snapping or nipping at all.

As we parted ways, the grateful lady worried about the damage the dog might have done.

“She didn’t hurt you at all, did she?”

I replied that I wasn’t hurt in the slightest.

It was a lie.

To be clear, there was no blood. The dog’s teeth hadn’t caught any flesh. But here’s the thing: Dogs love me!

They do. I’ve petted German Shepherds and Doberman Pinschers, Great Danes and Saint Bernards. Why, there’s even a huge, muscular Pit Bull down at my brother’s that thinks my lap is where he belongs when I sit on the couch there. But this little lost and blind Shih Tzu, heading downward to certain peril, only wanted to hurt me when I was merely trying to help. She rejected my advances altogether.

Of course, I’m hurt.

It was the worst thing that happened to me all day. In a day filled with disappointments, nothing matters more than that this little dog wouldn’t let me be her savior.

Oh.

I think I’m going to stop writing now. Perhaps I’ve said enough.

Well, maybe just this:

There is a Savior. He came to help us—to show us the way. Blind and lost, we lashed out at Him.

And we did draw blood.

I wonder if it still hurts.

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!
(Matthew 23:37, KJV)

Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.
(Revelation 3:20, NKJV)

Life needs Structure, After All

September 28, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The message arrived at 4:53 yesterday morning. Through the haze of slumber, I heard the chime announcing it and rolled over, assuming it could wait.

It did.

When I had brushed my hair and finished a cup or two of coffee (a few hours later), my brain caught up and I read it again. The message had come from one of the Lovely Lady’s relatives back East.

She wanted a picture or two of a barn. I knew which one she meant without need of explanation. Of course, she meant the barn behind my house.

She had told some friends in the big city of her small-town roots and of chucking rotten potatoes at the old structure when she was a kid. I suppose she needed photographic proof that it was undamaged by her malfeasance and still standing after all these years. She’s no kid anymore.

Back then, her dad would hand her a few potatoes he had dug from the garden. Perhaps they had rotted in the ground or, as likely, they had sat on the shelf in the utility room for too long. Either way, the only thing they were good for was fodder for the cows in the field. As she saw it, she could practice her throwing skills at the same time.

The cows would get the benefit either way. And the thwack of the spuds on the tin roof was so satisfying. It wasn’t as much fun if they only splatted against the pine siding. One way or the other, they ended up on the ground for the cows.

The old barn is a constant in my life. Even though I never saw it until I was nearly two decades old, its presence in my history goes back quite a few years before that. But we’ll get back to that later.

One of my favorite photographs was taken by the Lovely Lady in the mid-nineteen-eighties behind the house where we now live (the same one in which she grew up). My young daughter and I had wandered back to look at Dr. Weaver’s cows, the marvelous creatures being a wonder to the little tyke.

As the sweet little girl and her daddy gazed out at the cows, we couldn’t help but see the old barn back behind. Dr. Weaver’s old tractor was parked in a bay on one side, the hay and feed the cattle would need to see them through the coming winter on the other side.

Tonight, as I contemplate the photo again, I wonder if there could have been just the barest hint, perhaps even a faint aura, of the children who would be born to that little girl decades later hanging in the air that evening, as we gazed unknowingly into the future together.

But no. It was probably just the cows getting a little too close to the barbed-wire fence. No sense in getting all sappy about it.

I’ve been happy to take a photo or two with the little girl’s children beside the old barn in the last year or two. They seem to be as attached to the old thing as I am.

I watched the city crew put in a new utility line underground along the edge of the field over the last week or so. Somehow, to me, it seems a foreshadowing of what is to come. The big machines pound and torture the earth, the vibrations shaking the ground underfoot. The old barn seems just a little more fragile than it was only days ago.

Change comes. We can’t hold it back.

But, not yet. The barn is still standing. Right where it was seventy years ago when my father first set foot in it.

Oh. Didn’t I tell that part yet?

Years before I was born—before my parents had even met—that young man came to this small town to visit his brother and sister-in-law, who were attending the local Christian college. They were simpler times, vegetables shared from nearby gardens, meat from the college farm, and milk coming from a college professor who had a couple of Jersey cows that he milked in his barn.

In the sturdy wood and tin barn—yes, the very one—back behind his native-stone house, the professor of science milked the cows and sold the bounty they provided to the married college students. My father and his brother stood one evening waiting for their share.

Taking the full glass jug Dr. Wills handed them, they turned to make the trip back to the married student housing, their feet carrying them right across the front yard of the house the Lovely Lady and I live in today.

Some things in our lives are constants, even if we haven’t always been able to see them.

The physical, tangible objects change over time, aging and deteriorating as the years and the elements wear on them. Eventually, they will fall. All of them will fall.

Yes, the old barn, too. It has been a bit neglected for some years. The cows are only a memory; the garden in which the potatoes grew has sprouted a beautiful little house in recent years. Time passes and many treasures are lost along the way.

There are other things, not so temporal, we leave to our loved ones. The list is long.

Some items on it are not the kind of things we like to think of; prejudice, bad habits, the inability to control anger come to mind immediately. Others will come to mind as memories take over. These can take a lifetime to erase or, possibly, only to bring under control.

But among the lifelong gifts we give to our children, our families, and our loved ones is one I remember the best from a young age in my own life. It’s one I hope I passed on as a legacy—hope I’m passing on still.

My father and the red-headed lady he loved gave me the gift of knowing their God. They passed on to those who were close to them not only their faith, but also the certainty that theirs was a God who cared for them in a real and personal way.

Beyond the astonishing grace that provided a way to be reconciled with Him, He loves us and wants good things for us. He knows us better than we know ourselves.

They were certain of it and helped us to find it out for ourselves. Our conversations were full of a God who was part of our everyday lives.

I’m no longer surprised by the “coincidences”, the unexplainable, the unseen hand of this God. If you look, the evidence is all around.

You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

I won’t argue free will and predestination with anyone. I don’t know enough about the subject to have a dogma attached to it, save this:

For those who follow Him, there is a path prepared.

I have no great insights into finding His will, except to run hard after Him. That said, even when I have run hard away from Him during a few periods in my life, He has continued to work out His plan.

So when, at age nineteen, inexplicably drawn away from my home in south Texas to a little town in northwest Arkansas that I had never heard of until a year or so before, I packed up everything I owned in my Chevy Nova and took (as Mr. Lewis would have said) the adventure that came to me.

In the shadow of the old barn my father had visited thirty years prior, I wooed and won the Lovely Lady’s hand. Still in its shadow, we began to raise our children and made lifelong friends.

And now, again in its shadow, life slows, the path still before us. God never stops drawing us, one step at a time, until that day we’ll stop wandering.

And we’ll be home.

We need constants.

It turns out that there is, indeed, a thread, a continuous presence in my life.

It’s not the old barn. Much as I enjoy that old structure, it has only been a part of the landscape.

From my father’s steps into the barn seventy years ago, up to today, when I stand at the useless old barbed-wire fence and gaze across the field at the dilapidated old shed, the only true and lasting constant in life has been the hand of God.

Leading, protecting, pushing, but most of all, holding.

Safe.

I want to leave a legacy, something for folks to remember me by.

I hope it’s Him.

Just Him.

And if—at the end of it all— there’s an old barn somewhere nearby, I’ll be just fine with that, too.

Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.
(Matthew 6:33, NLT)

And then, let us descend into the city and take the adventure that is sent to us.
(C.S. Lewis ~ The Silver Chair)

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, he leadeth me;
By his own hand he leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by his hand he leadeth me.
(from He Leadeth Me, by Joseph Gilmore ~ Public Domain)

The Storm Before the Calm

September 22, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments

I sit, listening to the quiet of the morning. The morning after, perhaps I should say.

Last night a cold front moved through our region, the coolness of the northern air pushing under the stubborn heat of our lingering southern summer. As usually happens with this situation, the leading edge of that troublesome, change-seeking cold front roiled up a thunderstorm from the hot air, blowing through with noise and light, keeping normal folks awake and on edge for hours.

This morning brought temperatures in the sixties, instead of the eighties, and a quiet that seems almost eerie after the high energy of the night we experienced. A few limbs had to be moved out of streets and the yards are covered with leaves and slender branches that gave up their fight during the storm, but over it all, a hush and calm has descended. Even the songbirds seem a little muted as they wing from tree to bush today.

The calm after the storm.

Wait. That’s not right.

The red-headed lady who raised me said it enough times the words are embedded in my brain.

The calm before the storm. That was how she would say it.

We would comment about how things seemed to be going smoothly, and she would say the words, injecting her usual pessimism—her expectation of trouble to come—into the quiet.

I may have acquired some of her fretting spirit. I’m certain the world around me, my tribe of Christ-followers included, has appropriated it these days.

Everywhere I turn, the expectation is of more disaster, of more pain.

I’m here to say the old trite saying my mother remembered from her mother (and perhaps, hers before that) is the wrong way around. Almost inside out.

The truth is, or so it seems to me, the storm precedes the calm.

In the midst of the wind and the crashing thunder, along with the devastating lightning, there is a hope—no, a certainty—that calm will descend anew. The noise will stop, the catastrophic power of the storm will fade, and we’ll bind up the wounds as we weep for our losses and move forward.

Headed home—again.

There is hope. I don’t know how long the storm will last. I do know our Creator, our God, has plans for good for us, not destruction.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
(Jeremiah 29:11, NIV)

I do know our Savior acknowledged the storms of life, but told us not to give in to terror and hopelessness.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
(John 16:33, NIV)

I am not a Pollyanna, quoting only “rejoicing texts.” Nor, am I a Little Orphan Annie insisting “the sun’ll come out tomorrow.” No, I am simply a pragmatist with Faith. Faith with a capital F.

I know better than to trust to the devices of men, or the machinations of politics, or even the beneficence of a sympathetic universe. Simply put, I believe in the words of a trustworthy Creator and the experience of having spent a lifetime invested in following Him.

I wish I could insert the word “fully” in the previous sentence, right before “invested.” I’m sorry to say I have only been heavily invested for short periods of time. Before that, I was partially invested. Perhaps, it was merely slightly invested.

Have I made it clear that I’m not all that good at this “following Christ” gig? My lack of enthusiastic participation doesn’t change His investment in the slightest.

He’s all in.

And not just for me. He’s all in for every single person who believes in Him. Every one.

Calm follows a storm. It always has. I see no reason to believe that’s going to change.

I’m not telling you the red-headed lady was wrong. I just think she might have put the cart before the horse. She told me that happened a lot, too.

For many, the storm is still raging. All around, events are out of control and all appears to be lost.

It’s not. Calm will come again. It will.

The wind and the waves still know His voice.

Your heart will too.

Rest.

I have both the violent turbulence of the storm and the quiet promises of God in the storm. And what I must work to remember is that something is not necessarily stronger simply because it’s louder.
(Craig Lounsbrough ~ Pastor/Counselor)

Then He arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace, be still!” And the wind ceased and there was a great calm.
(Mark 4:39, NKJV)

The Time for Anger is Past

September 16, 2021September 16, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

How is it that the fear
Banished in the morning light
Claws at my heart now,
Cowering in the new thrown night?

Hyperbole is what that is. Poetic license, taken by one given to flights of imagination. It’s expected when one writes in verse and rhyme.

Still, it’s not so far off the mark, some nights.

I am by nature a night person, haunting the empty rooms and darkened recesses of this old mid-century habitation long after any other denizens of the neighborhood, save the four-footed variety, have given in to the siren call of slumber. And when, as is my lot at times, my chronic breathing problems surface, even the hours when I’ve retreated to my bed are spent turning this way and that, coughing and yet, attempting to suppress the overwhelming urge to do that very thing.

As one might expect, eventually the mind turns to unhappy and dark subjects or, more specifically, situations for which I’ve found, in my normal haunting hours, no solution or cure.

Unfinished business is a weight on my mind, a burden if you will, that bends the spirit until I’m afraid the breaking point is near. And, clawing fear with unanswered questions is often given leave to ride, untethered, through the dark hours.

Tonight I received an unexpected note from one I love. His message closed with these words that give me hope the reign of one particular fear is near an end:

“I think my time for anger is finally over.”

The last time I wrote about the man was right after he died. Two years ago, almost. One would have thought the turmoil, the tumult, had died with him. One would have been wrong.

Just because a character has fallen out of the story, it’s not a given that closure is accomplished. Much the opposite, this falling-out part often seems to increase the impact of the mental conflict, to magnify those unpleasant memories that never seem to behave themselves or to become comfortable scenes from the past.

I loved the man—more than I have loved most other folks on this spinning ball of dirt and water. But, that said, he was the most stubborn human being I’ve ever known. Well, maybe not more stubborn than the red-headed lady he was married to.

And yet, he could also be the most maddening person I knew. That red-headed lady said it once (that I remember).

“That man! He makes me so mad!”

I was twelve and had never heard her say a negative word about my father before. I was certain the divorce papers would be served soon.

Of course, they never were. He cared for her until the day she died, even though she had not known who he was for a couple of years before her passing. He was like that.

He kept his promises. It was one of the things about him that was so maddening. Yes, maddening. Keeping promises.

In his last years, there was one particular person he made promises to. She made promises, too—never intending to keep them. He intended to keep his and did until the day he died, at great cost to himself and his family.

But, no.

This is not an exposé. It’s not.

I intended to do that one day. I would write a tell-all story, exposing his shortcomings and character failings to the world. Bare my soul, vomiting out my frustration and angst.

It will never happen.

Remember the story of Noah in the Bible? That righteous man, Noah, a fierce follower of God, who complied willingly with God’s plan for the survival of mankind and the animal kingdom by building an ark and taking his family into it, saving them from the flood?

There is another story about the man, found in chapter 9 of Genesis, verses 18 through 28. After the flood, Noah, being more of a farmer than a boatbuilder, grew a crop of grapes, subsequently making wine from the bounty. Sampling the liquid, he became drunk. In his inebriated state, he took off his clothes and laid, in his drunken stupor, naked in his tent.

Wait. Drunk and naked? The most righteous man in the world? That doesn’t seem right, does it?

His son, Ham, didn’t think so either. Finding his father in that state, he called his brothers, Shem and Japheth, to come and look, so anxious was he to expose Dad’s shortcoming.

They chose not to participate.

Taking their father’s cloak between the two of them, they walked backward. So they could preserve their father’s dignity, they purposefully refused to look at him naked. They covered his nakedness.

It’s different today.

A popular writer in our day, Anne Lamott, famously suggests you own everything that happened to you. She encourages—no, insists—that we should tell everything, regardless of the harm to others. I’m certain she means well.

But I’m with Shem and Japheth. I choose not to participate. To expose the private sin and shortcomings of one I love is to disrespect who he was throughout his life.

He was a man who loved his God intensely. Fiercely, even. And, because of that, he was a man who loved the people around him in the same way. As a pastor, he made it his mission to be where he was needed. He listened. He comforted. He wept. He rejoiced.

When he was no longer the pastor of a church, he became pastor to the folks at the local breakfast cafe, the grocery store, even the bank. Again and again, he made friends of strangers, praying as easily as he talked, encouraging more than he exhorted, leaving the world behind him better for having walked here.

He loved his family with that same fierce love. Every one of his children walked away from some aspect of the principles, the faith, he had brought us up in, yet his love for us never waned. With each of us, he prayed. To the end of his days, he prayed. And he sang. And he quoted scripture—and poetry.

In the back of my mind, even as I write this, I hear the voice. “But, what about that episode? What about the time he did this? Tell them about the day…”

Why do we hold on so long to resentment? To anger?

What possible end can we hope to achieve by holding them tightly? Like some monstrous, yet precious, treasures, we grasp them with a death-grip only age-worn and life-weary hands can manage.

The closer we hold them, the more they hurt us. The longer we embrace them, the harder it becomes to let them go.

Many eventually loose that anger in outbursts of ugly accusation and personal venom. The outburst can be a catharsis; no one could argue that. But, catharsis achieved and outburst exhausted, all that is left in view is a smaller human being, accompanied by his/her scorched and ruined memories of one whom they loved and were loved by.

Many will disagree with my viewpoint. The age in which we live thrives on canceling reputations and flaming memories. Somehow we believe we are bigger for diminishing the reputations of those whose voices are silent now and who can no longer answer back.

It can only diminish us.

The one I love is right. The time for anger is over. If it’s not, the time for fear and resentfulness never will be. Ever.

And somehow, the One I always end up talking to in the dark, He who is the Light that has defeated the darkness and will one day banish it forever, reminds me that my anger and resentment is one of the burdens He asked me to give to Him.

Many I know are carrying that same burden—have carried it for most of the years of their life.

Why would we willingly keep bending under that heavy load? Pain and unhappiness are the only possible return we’ll realize from the labor.

He promises rest. And hope.

The time for anger is over.

Ahh. Sweet freedom!

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.
(Matthew 11:28, NLT)

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.
(Martin Luther King Jr.)

The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness can never extinguish it.
(John 1:5, NLT)

I Probably Should Wash My Hands Before Offering that Cup of Cold Water

September 6, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Photo by Grace Nast. Used by permission.

“God, let who I am show You to the world around me today.”

I don’t really know why I wrote the words. Someone I don’t know asked a question on a popular social media site recently. For some reason, I needed to answer.

Her question was, “What’s your go-to one-sentence prayer these days?”

That was it. My go-to prayer.

I would have told you I say it because I really don’t need anything else from Him. No money. No new car. No vacation in Spain.

But the truth is, I do need something from Him. I need that.

That. I need the world to see Him when they look at me.

It’s not that I’m so pious. I’m not. It’s not that I’m so righteous. I’m not.

We pray because we need. There are things we don’t have that we need.

We pray because we know He has what we need.

And, I need that. And, I don’t have it. But, He does.

This afternoon, my young friend posted the photo I shared above. Did you see it? No—I mean, really see it? Maybe, you should look at it again. Go ahead. I’ll wait. Take a few minutes.

I looked at the photograph my friend had taken and I gasped. Really. And, then I teared up.

Perhaps it’s only me. I know I’m not always normal. Perhaps, never completely normal. But, still…

The clarity of the scene, the glass of pure water, the light, the reflection, the hint of shadow—all of it hit me right in the midsection. The imagery took my breath away.

That’s what I need—the answer to my repetitious prayer. Pure, cold cups of water, reflecting the light of the One we serve, offered from the clean hands of one who follows Him.

The imagery of Scripture is also unmistakable.

Let your light so shine before men…
This treasure we have in vessels of clay…
Whoever gives a cup of cold water in my name…
Among whom you shine like stars in the universe…

I mentioned what I lacked before, didn’t I? Was it clear that my need is to faithfully and consistently show who God is to a world that doesn’t know Him?

Is it clear that I have already seen that Light, that Love, that Grace myself? I have.

I just need to show it. One would think it would be simple enough.

Attached to the side of the refrigerator in my house, there is a water dispenser. On the counter below, there is a glass. I use both frequently, drinking cool, clean water I have taken right from the source.

The Lovely Lady who lives at my house asks me once in a while if she should wash the glass when she’s cleaning up the kitchen. My answer is always in the negative.

When I drink from it, I rinse it out before replacing it in its place by the fridge. Sometimes, I even spray a bit of dishwashing detergent inside and wipe it around before rinsing it out and setting it back down.

If I were to offer anyone else a drink from that glass, I assure you, they would decline. Perhaps, a change is called for.

Here’s why:

The water is clean. It comes from a city facility that is certified and tested regularly. It is filtered at the dispenser, removing any impurities the pipeline might have added to the already purified and certified liquid.

The inside of the glass is clean. I wouldn’t drink from it if it weren’t. As far as I’m concerned, it is a safe vessel from which to imbibe. And yet, even the Lovely Lady herself would refuse to drink from that vessel.

I simply don’t bother about the outside. And frequently, when I grab the glass to dispense water, my hands are grimy from physical labor. Often, they are so sweaty from exercise, I almost drop the glass.

I have dirty hands. The outside of the glass can be revolting. Detestable. Repulsive.

Who may ascend into the hill of the Lord?
And who may stand in His holy place?
He who has clean hands and a pure heart,
Who has not lifted up his soul to falsehood
And has not sworn deceitfully.
(Psalm 24: 3-4, NASB)

I’m not certain I can make this distinction and not get a little pushback from a theologian or two, but it seems to me there’s a reason the psalmist suggested we needed both clean hands and a pure heart.

I think it’s possible, perhaps even probable, that one is a gift—the product of all-encompassing grace—and the other is an expectation of the individual who has experienced that grace.

The Teacher, tested by the religious hypocrites of His day when they brought a woman who had been caught in adultery to Him, embarrassed them so much they slunk away without a word.

He, however, had a bit more to say to the woman:

Then Jesus stood up again and said to the woman, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”
“No, Lord,” she said.
And Jesus said, “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.”
(John 8:10-11, NLT)

He gave her two precious gifts. Two.

Grace, resulting in a clean heart.

Expectation. The opportunity to live her life with clean hands.

He gives us those same gifts, as well. To us, who have fallen short of His glory through sin, He offers the unequaled treasure of His grace that washes our hearts clean.

And, He gives us the great honor of sharing that grace with a world wandering in darkness. We have the privilege of sharing His pure water, His great treasure, with our own hands that are no longer sullied by sin and selfishness.

The only way His light shines through us to the world is if we offer His free gift with hands that don’t distort and won’t detract as He shines through us.

I think I’ll continue to pray the prayer. The day is coming when I won’t need to anymore.

And, don’t worry. If you come to my house to visit someday, I’ll offer you a clean glass from which to drink.

I’ll even wash my hands first.

For, look, darkness covers the earth
and deep darkness covers the nations,
but the Lord shines on you;
his splendor appears over you.
(Isaiah 60:2, NET)

“He may become like a glass filled with a clear light for eyes to see that can.” (from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien)

I Don’t Think That’s What “Two or Three Gathered Together” Means

August 31, 2021August 31, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lessons on crossing bridges the correct way

I wonder if I could just put it down to folks being in a hurry. It’s not my intent to malign anyone’s reputation here. Still, there seemed to be neither a surplus of intelligence nor the absence of poor judgment in either of the adversaries.

We had just eaten a delicious lunch in the little dining room on the upper floor of the old mill overlooking the scenic river. It was a working mill, so we took a few moments to study the huge waterwheel and the sluice through which the wide river was routed to provide the power to turn it.

In the late summer, one in which there has been a fair amount of rain, the valley through which the river runs could only be described as verdant, with huge oaks and maples towering over the banks. Wanting a photo of the place for our friends visiting from my hometown to remember it by, we decided to risk a little stroll across the wooden deck of the old steel truss bridge to acquire one.

The bridge was built in 1907 when all the traffic over it would have been horse-drawn wagons and buggies. The signs leading to it clearly designate it as a one-lane bridge, limiting the speed across it to five miles per hour. No one could claim they didn’t see the signs.

So, as we wandered across, hugging the edge of the deck to be sure no one would need to slow down to three miles per hour for us, we were surprised to hear, and then see, two cars whip up onto the bridge — one from each end. They obviously saw each other.

They weren’t going five miles per hour. With eyes on the car approaching from the other way, they both raced even faster to get to the center first, braking hard at the last possible moment. An abbreviated game of chicken, with both drivers — thankfully — giving in before any damage was done, either to them or to the watching pedestrians.

There they sat. We heard no yelling. I can’t say there were any rude gestures. From my perspective, each just sat, foot on brake pedal, waiting for the other driver to give up the right-of-way and back down the way they had come.

We laughed. Well? How could one not see the humor in the situation? The ages-old rite of claiming territory, of banging heads (visualize a couple of male bighorn sheep if you need a mental image), of being the king-of-the-mountain (yes, just as childish as that) was being played out in front of us.

Somehow, I’m not laughing now

Over time, I’ve considered the foolishness of the two drivers, and I’m convinced we’re seeing the same event playing out over and over in everyday life.

We call the situation an impasse. It means just what it sounds like. The negative prefix, “im”, linked to the positive word, “pass”. A place where no one can make any progress.

Each is blocking the other’s way. No one will move forward. No one.

Where two or three are gathered

I hear the words whispered. In my mind, I hear them.

It’s a phrase in common usage by those of us who follow Jesus. He said the words Himself, promising to be in our midst.

Perhaps, there’s more to it than that. There were two people on that bridge. It just didn’t seem a likely place for Him to make Himself known. Not likely at all.

Soon after that episode, our little group got back into our vehicle and made our way to another bridge. Our friends were at my mercy on that day, and I wanted them to look at bridges (have I told you how much I love the beautiful old structures?).

This bridge is another one-lane passage over the same river, but much longer and very different in design. Still, like its cousin we had left just moments before, it requires a certain amount of cooperation for folks to cross it.

As we stopped by the river’s banks to view the bridge and grab a quick photograph or two, I couldn’t help but remember an event that had transpired there only a few years ago.

There are signs as one approaches the bridge warning of the single lane and the need to approach with caution. There are also signs which indicate a weight limit. Ten tons, they say. If one is driving a car or pickup truck, there is no need to heed the signs.

On that occasion in 2018, two chartered tour buses, operated by drivers who certainly would have had to pass an advanced test to operate a commercial vehicle, crossed the bridge going the same direction.

A charter bus weighs between twenty and thirty tons. Two of them crossing, one right after the other, far exceeded the safe limitations of the bridge. The photos folks took of the illegal crossing showed the old suspension bridge, normally in a convex shape, bowing severely into a concave curve under the buses’ weight.

Damage was done. The bridge had to be repaired before even a compact car could cross it again.

But you might say, the drivers agreed on their actions, both going in the same direction and not impeding each other’s progress. And yet, an impasse again occurred. The bridge was shut down to make amends for their wrong actions.

The whispering in my head has gained in volume.

Whenever two or three are gathered…agreeing, it will be done.

Is that what the statement the Teacher made is intended to convey?

If we who follow him agree on something that is clearly wrong, is He then obligated to honor our desires?

Somehow, I think we’ve still got this wrong

Even though there were also two drivers on this second bridge, I am unsure that the One we follow will show Himself here either.

Again, I tell you the truth, if two of you on earth agree about whatever you ask, my Father in heaven will do it for you. For where two or three are assembled in my name, I am there among them.
(Matthew 18:19–20, NET)

There is another bridge

It’s an ancient bridge, built from wood and nails — and grace.

I wonder. Do I, who have crossed over that bridge by the Builder’s own invitation, dare to create an impasse, turning back others for whom He died?

Do I claim, while gathered in His name with others, the right to ask for things — things we lust after — selfish requests — that He never promised to us?

Do I treat that ancient bridge as my possession — a thing to be used and held, but not to be shared freely with all who are drawn to it?

How many?

How many have I driven away with my ugliness, my greed, my pride?

When will we — all of us who have already crossed that bridge — acknowledge the debt we have to the Builder, a debt He calls us to fulfill by going into the highways and byways to take away the arguments the folks wandering and struggling there have?

Imagine.

Imagine what could happen if we do that together

If two or three of us, gathered in His name, agree that the bridge is His and not ours—If we agree together that we will no longer create impasses, and no longer will claim the exclusive use for our self-centered purposes, do you suppose we can trust Him to show up?

I’d like to give that a try.

I wonder if there are one or two more who will join me?

He’ll be there. With us. He will.

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

Unity without verity is no better than conspiracy.
(John Trapp ~ English educator/pastor/writer ~ 1601–1669)

Once Upon a Time, They All Lived Happily Ever After

August 20, 2021August 20, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Every page he turns says, ‘Once upon a time.'”

A friend, whose name I never can recall, shared the delightful photo of her grandson, along with the above text on a social media page today. I am transported.

Really. Carried away.

When I was a child, all the best stories started with those words. All of them. I knew exciting things lay ahead. Perhaps they would be a little scary, but they would be fantastic, magical events and deeds.

Once upon a time. Perfection.

All the best stories. Maybe, it could even be my own story. Who knew?

What if every page we turn in life is another story to be told? Another opportunity to see the hand of our Creator guiding our steps into an unknown future?

Another chance to say, “And they lived happily ever after”?

Ah. But, there’s the issue, isn’t it?

We all know happily ever after isn’t a thing.
At least, we think we know it. Dream jobs turn into nightmares with horrible bosses and backbiting work associates. Perfect marriages morph into the daily grind of children’s diapers and household disasters. People we have loved for a lifetime die. Just like that—gone. Pandemics sweep over the world, leaving death, fear, and anger in their path.

Happily ever after is a fairy tale. Once upon a time is merely the opening line of an impossible dream.

We all know that.

Or, do we?

Oh, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. I don’t believe in fairy godmothers—don’t trust the forecasts of poetry-quoting wizards—and certainly don’t trust old ladies who live in houses made of gingerbread.

But, if you think I lightly dismiss wisdom from the lips of a 3-year-old child, you don’t know me at all. And, I do believe there is profound wisdom in his childlike understanding of life.

For all of history, from the dawning of time and the opening words we read in the Bible—our Creator’s version of once upon a time—we have told the stories. Stories of heroines and heroes, murderers, thieves, and liars. They are stories of good and evil. They are stories that teach, and lift our spirits, and put us in our places.

And the thread that runs through our stories is one of seasons of trial, of wrong choices, but also of redemption and triumph.

Woven into the fabric of our history is the desire for happily ever after. But I think we don’t understand what that means at all.

Once upon a time…
My mind, as it does, turns back the clock nearly forty years. With a smile on my lips, I remember the little boy skipping across the parking lot while he held tightly to my hand.

“Daddy, can we go out to eat tonight? Maybe to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal?”

The smile on my lips fades, remembering my reply all too often in those days.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t do that right now. Mom’s probably got mac & cheese and tuna patties for us tonight.”

He knew the reason. We never hid the realities of life from him. Happy meals cost three bucks. For each kid. Mac & cheese with tuna patties was less than a buck for everyone in the family. He might have been disappointed, but the kid never missed a beat.

“That’s fine. I like macaroni and cheese!”

Hand in hand, we skipped together to the car.

Happily ever after.

He trusted his father to do what was best for him. He was also sure the Happy Meal would come when it was appropriate (and affordable).

Our lives have been full—completely stuffed full—of disappointments. That said, they’ve also been packed with joy that can’t be diminished. And, stuffed in with those has been a fair sprinkling of tragedy and pain.

The thing is, as children we, most of us, believed our grown-ups (Mom, Dad, Grandparents, or whoever) had the answers and would see us through whatever was ahead. We simply put our hand in theirs and skipped on, despite momentary disappointments.

How did I lose that? When did I decide I was big enough and smart enough to cross the road without my hand in His?

Once upon a time…
The big, strong fishermen shooed away the children that came to their Teacher to hold His hand and to be prayed for. He took them in His arms and castigated the Disciples:

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” (Matthew 19:14, NIV)

Only days before that, He had told them that they, strong and independent as they were—arguing over who was the best—wouldn’t enter into heaven unless they became as little children. (Matthew 18:3)

How soon we forget. I’m no better than they were, pulling my hand back to my side, following my own way. I dread the future, bemoaning the past.

But how do we forget so quickly that He has plans for us, plans to bless and not to harm, plans that give us hope, and a future? (Jeremiah 29:11)

The grave is not our end! Failure is not our ultimate lot in life! Pain and sorrow will not overwhelm His plans for us! These temporary setbacks are just that—temporary!

Once upon a time…
A family waited for their flight to be called, on their way to serve God in a country half a world away from brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and loved ones. It wasn’t their first time to do this.

Did I say it was once upon a time? It was just this morning.

Our friends shared the photo of their little child gazing at the waiting jet through the floor-to-ceiling window of the terminal. These words accompanied the photo, nothing more:

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
Still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, He leadeth me;
By His own hand He leadeth me.
His faithful follower I would be,
For by His hand He leadeth me.*

The wisdom and faith of a little child.

Once upon a time on every page we turn. Every page.

Happily ever after, too.

Today. In this place.

Happily ever after.

Surely your goodness and faithfulness will pursue me all my days, and I will live in the Lord’s house for the rest of my life.
(Psalm 23:6, NET)

*(from He Leadeth Me by Joseph Gilmore, 1862)

The Cicadas Have Something To Say

August 12, 2021August 12, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;
Yes, I have a good inheritance.
(Psalm 16:6, NKJV)

Earlier today, I trekked from my comfortable home to meet the Lovely Lady at her workplace and to walk with her back home. I strolled, in comfortable shoes, along a smooth sidewalk shaded by oaks, sweetgums, and maples. The one street I crossed had stop signs from all directions, and the oncoming traffic was happy to let this old guy walk on the crosswalk at his own pace.

There was no shouting, no honking, not even a rude gesture from any of them. Of course, my greeting to the lovely redhead when I arrived at my destination was sweet and joyful.

Except, it wasn’t.

“Man, is it hot out here today! It’s even sweltering under the shade of these trees! And that wind! I think it makes it even more uncomfortable!”

Well? It’s how we greet each other, isn’t it?

We were happy to reach the cool of our air-conditioned home within a few moments, but I wasn’t done.

“Now, I have to change my shirt! This one’s soaked through!”

I’ve told you how much I love summer, haven’t I? I suppose the thing is, I do—until I don’t. Then, I complain. Just like I did in the winter, which I really do dislike.

I repent. I do.

Later in the afternoon, the needle on the thermometer outside the front window having risen to just under the century mark, I noticed a beautiful swallowtail butterfly flitting around the yard.

Well, flitting may be the wrong word. Perhaps flapping would be more to the point. More about that in a moment.

When I looked again, an hour later, the beautiful thing was still out there flapping from one point to the next. I decided to see if I could get a photograph of the flying insect. You can see the result above.

May I share an insight or two with you? Epiphanies happen at the oddest moments. They do for me, anyway.

The butterfly was at work, simply doing what it was created to do.

Did you know that when a butterfly is traversing your yard, or garden, or front porch, it’s not out for a leisurely excursion? For some reason, I’ve always thought of butterflies as rather lazy, or perhaps I should say laid-back, creatures.

I’ve been wrong.

The butterfly has been put in its environment by the same Creator who said of us that we would earn our food by the sweat of our brow. The creature is working to survive. It turns out it is also working to tend the garden it’s been placed in, gathering sweet nectar to eat, but at the same time, collecting pollen on its antennae, legs, and abdomen. Pollen, which will brush off on the next flower it enters in its quest for more sweet nectar, thus helping to ensure the flowers’ endurance as a species.

This butterfly was hard at work! In the afternoon heat. With no shade to keep the sun from its beautiful black and blue wings and body. Against a strong southern wind that blew it off the blossoms again and again. The flapping wings were proof of the exertions necessary simply to earn the poor thing its daily bread.

I’m no entomologist, but the swallowtail seemed to be content in its circumstances.

I shared the photo with friends, mentioning that there was no complaint to be heard from the butterfly. At least, I couldn’t hear said complaint, if it was forthcoming.

Even while I impeded its regular route, forcing it to move around me as I attempted to get a decent photo, it showed no frustration; making not even the slightest attempt to attack me.

I wonder.

David wrote the words to the Psalm quoted at the beginning of this piece. One might think it was an easy thing for him to write. He was a king. A man after God’s own heart. Fabulously wealthy. Famous. Attractive to women, evidently.

Pleasant borders, indeed.

They weren’t. Not by our standards.

He was banished and hunted by King Saul and his army. His infant son died. Another son would unseat him from his throne and pursue him in the wilderness, just like Saul did. David lived his whole life under judgment, knowing he would never—never—accomplish his most magnificent dream, that of building a tabernacle where his God would be revered and worshiped.

And yet, for all that, he knew his God was enough. His God was faithful. His God was worthy of his love and gratitude.

And I complain about the summer heat. While the butterflies obey their Creator without murmur.

I claim to be a follower of Christ. I know many who make the same claim.

Somehow though, the sound rising up from our lips is something short of praise. Far short.

Have you been listening recently?

Inexplicably, my mind has been occupied with insects today. I was reminded that last year at this time (as it is again now) a meteor shower had been in progress. A friend had suggested that I go outside and view the event since I am famously late in going to my bed and she knew I would still be up.

I replied that I had tried, lying down on the ramp leading to my front door only to get damp from the rising dew. And I hadn’t been able to see anything in the sky because the cicadas in the oak trees were deafening.

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? But you know I’m right.

We walked out this evening to bid goodnight to our daughter and son-in-law, along with our grandchildren, and found ourselves yelling our goodbyes over the cacophony in the trees. It seems that all the cicadas in the world, past, present, and future, are gathered above our heads these days, screaming their song (if one can call it that) to the heavens and everything south of them.

They too are only fulfilling their Maker’s design for them. Among other things, they sing. Together—they sing.

I will admit that one cicada has a formidable voice, making a noticeable racket. I do hear the single ones frequently.

But together? The air vibrates with their vocalizations. Literally and figuratively. There is no ignoring it while they live and sing. In unison. Or perhaps, in harmony. I haven’t found the scale or the chords their music employs, but it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

And they do it together. As their Creator planned and ordained.

What if we did that?

What if we who call ourselves Christ-followers would raise our voices in such a choir of praise that the world couldn’t do anything but stop and hear?

What if all the complainers and gripers would toss their petty grievances on the dung-heap from which they were acquired in the first place and join their voices with the chorus?

It is what we were created to do.

I’m ready to sing for a while. With you. And you. And you.

Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all you people!

Make a joyful shout to the Lord, all you lands!
Serve the Lord with gladness;
Come before His presence with singing.
Know that the Lord, He is God;
It is He who has made us, and not we ourselves;
We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

Enter into His gates with thanksgiving,
And into His courts with praise.
Be thankful to Him, and bless His name.
For the Lord is good;
His mercy is everlasting,
And His truth endures to all generations.
(Psalm 100, NKJV)

The Better to See You With, My Dear

August 2, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“I’m not letting you out of my sight!”

The Lovely Lady needed a few things from the grocery store. No, she wasn’t sending me for them. With more than forty years of hands-on experience, she knows better than to chance that near-certain fiasco. Instead, she had graciously offered to let me sit in my easy chair and nap for a few minutes before the grandchildren descended upon us for the evening.

My facetious reply would come back to haunt me (but perhaps, not in the way one would expect).

Did I say we’ve been attached for more than forty years? I know the common perception is that the individuals who are half of an old married couple would almost always prefer some “alone time”, some space between them given the opportunity.

I’m happy to report it to be a misconception in our case. I know quite a number of those old married couples. Many of them would take issue with the stereotype, as well.

I like being with her. She’ll have to speak for herself as to her preference in the matter, but she seems to enjoy my company—most of the time.

I went to the grocery store with her.

On our way out of the store, having made our purchases, we saw the wife of my preacher friend (she’s an employee there) and stopped to greet her.

She looked at the Lovely Lady and smiled. Reaching out to touch her hair with the back of her hand, there was an impish gleam in her eye as she mentioned how pretty the red-headed lady was that day. She even suggested that I needed to hold on to this one.

I mentioned my comment to her, jokingly assuring her that I had no intention of ever letting the Lovely Lady out of my sight.

It’s not a promise I intend to keep. Seriously. I don’t.

Of course, she’ll be out of my sight.

She goes to work most weekdays and I don’t go with her. Many evenings, she works in the kitchen while I watch television or work outside. Right now, she’s in bed as I write.

Out of my sight.

I guess I’m not all that good at keeping promises.

But I know Someone who is. He’s even made the same promise I intend to break.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

He fully intends to keep His promise. He’s been at it since long before I was born.

“You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.”
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

Every day since then, as I come and go, He fulfills the promise.

“You see me when I travel
and when I rest at home.
You know everything I do.
You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord.”
(Psalm 139: 3-4, NLT)

No matter how hard I try, and how far I run—and I’ve tried, and I’ve run—He’ll be there to keep His promise.

“If I were to ascend to heaven, you would be there.
If I were to sprawl out in Sheol, there you would be.
If I were to fly away on the wings of the dawn,
and settle down on the other side of the sea,
even there your hand would guide me,
your right hand would grab hold of me.”
(Psalm 139:8-10, NET)

His promises aren’t made in jest. They’re not made (as mine was) to win brownie points.

His promises are made to assure us of His love—His overwhelming love—for each one of us.

The Son, when He walked and lived down here in the dirt with us, reiterated the promise, assuring us that, in the midst of trouble and cares, His Father sees us.

And, when He sees us, He knows us. He has no intention of leaving us bereft of His love and provision. None.

“What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it…So don’t be afraid. You are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.”
(Matthew 10:29,31, NLT)

He is El Roi. The God who sees me.

Me.

That doesn’t only mean me, personally. For anyone who says the words, they mean exactly what they say.

The God who sees me.

The old friend who shared that his wife of many years has moved out. The brother who sat at our table today talking about his battle with cancer. The friend I talked with after church who reminded me so gently that she doesn’t have anyone to carry in her groceries from the car, having lost her husband suddenly only months ago.

Every one of them seen. Every one of them loved. Every one of them safe in His care.

Right where we are—doing exactly what we’re doing—we are seen and known. Loved and cherished.

Never alone.

Never not seen.

Not even if you don’t have a dorky old man to follow you around the grocery store pushing your cart.

Because He’s not letting me out of His sight.

He won’t let you out of it, either.

It’s a promise He’ll keep.

“And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.”
(from In the Garden, by C. Austin Miles)

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)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

christianity

I Once Was Lost…and Blind

Life needs Structure, After All

The Storm Before the Calm

The Time for Anger is Past

I Probably Should Wash My Hands Before Offering that Cup of Cold Water

I Don’t Think That’s What “Two or Three Gathered Together” Means

Lessons on crossing bridges the correct way

Somehow, I’m not laughing now

Somehow, I think we’ve still got this wrong

There is another bridge

How many?

Imagine what could happen if we do that together

Once Upon a Time, They All Lived Happily Ever After

The Cicadas Have Something To Say

The Better to See You With, My Dear

Benedictus—Sometimes Louder is Better