High and Holy

June 2, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, we sang. A little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We went anyway.

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

It was wonderful.

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

Together, we made music.

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

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

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

And it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

High. And holy.

Making music with my friends.

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

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

Heroes Know How to Hug

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

There was another school shooting the other day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She tried to help the shooting victims.

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

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

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

I read the story and I wept.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah.”

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

Guilty!

I was.

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

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

Mercy. Where I expected justice.

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

Love. When I intended harm to him.

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

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

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

Today, I remember again.

And again, I repent.

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

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

I am without excuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love never fails.”

Never.

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

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

More than I can Chew—Today, Anyway

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

photo by Eric Prouzet on Unsplash

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

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

She is overwhelmed. I get it.

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

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

But we’re talking about windows here!

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

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

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

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

“I’ll come look at it. No promises.”

She smiles.

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

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

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

She’s overwhelmed? I’m flabbergasted!

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

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

Still. I wonder…

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

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

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

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

After my mentor finishes his instruction, he reiterates.

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

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

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

I can’t do this.

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

Finally, I know what to tell her.

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve even done the one beside it.

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

I didn’t.

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

One task at a time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With us. Beside us. In us.

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

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

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

Home.

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

Overwhelmed simply means we’re ready to be overshadowed.

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

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

After that, we’ll see.

Not overwhelmed.

Overshadowed.

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

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

Still My Daily Driver

March 26, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

We laughed again.

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

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

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

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

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

Why do we live the way we do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They just don’t drive it anymore.

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

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

I might have even taken a test drive.

Once or twice.

A short one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It starts every time, too. Every single time.

And, I can still park it in the driveway.

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

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

Crossing the Torrent

August 28, 2020August 28, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.

I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.

I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited its inevitable surge above flood level.

And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.

No, really. Music.

Away, I’m bound away,
Across the wide Missouri.

I suppose it’s no coincidence the words to the old folk tune Shenandoah are coming from the speakers on my desk right now. No, I didn’t select the song; it just came up in the playlist the streaming music service delivers while I sit at my computer.

When I say no coincidence, I mean I probably needed a nudge in the right direction.

I can take a hint; I’ll head that way momentarily.

Many times, I’ve compared our existence here to a journey — a life-long expedition to see what is around the next bend and over the next hill.

We are strangers in a strange land, headed for a different home.

They do not belong to this world any more than I do. (John 17:16, NLT)

Having said that, I also realize I have stopped here beside the rushing waters and taken shelter a little ways above the river’s edge in a place of safety.

I’ve stopped here for too long.

Much too long.

Too long, staring at the intimidating water. Too long, wondering when the awful flood will recede. Too long, waiting for rescue.

The road goes on up the mountain on the other side of this cataract of white water. I can see it from here if I have the strength of will to tear my eyes away from the terrifying flood and lift them to the hills.

The painting you see above hangs in my home. It is one of my favorites. Although not necessarily from the brush of the most skillful of artists, the picture tells the story amazingly well.

The violent torrent roars and tumbles down the mountain rift with horrible menace. Nothing in its path could withstand for long the overwhelming power it wields. And yet, mere feet above the white water, on a rickety and cobbled-together wooden bridge, seemingly unconcerned and unfazed, a man stands resting.

The Lovely Lady and I jokingly refer to the piece of art as our Simon & Garfunkel painting, a none-too-clever reference to the duo’s song, Bridge Over Troubled Water.

A century old, the painting depicts nineteenth-century life in the Canadian Yukon Territory. The best word I can think of to describe living in that rugged wilderness? Hard.

Hard, and yet (dare I say it?) triumphant.

Here, amid the most unfriendly environment man could imagine, a bridge spans the cataract of water. In safety, where there was no safety, anyone can traverse the dangerous valley.

Someone had to build that bridge. Over the troubled water.

Over it.

While the river rushed and roared below them.

And still, I stand beside the flood and consider. It’s likely, you know, that if a bridge can be built over this river, there will be another one needing to be built up ahead, and another one, and another.

Rivers don’t run in a straight line, either. I might even have to build another bridge over this very same cascade, further on where it runs even wilder and more furiously.

Funny. As I stand here thinking, I seem to hear the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me.

“We’ll cross that river when we get to it.”

She is right. She always was.

But right now, I’m at this river.

Today, the rushing water directly ahead needs a bridge over it.

I have no choice but to follow the road ahead. And, it leads up the hill across this particular river. This wild, untameable flood.

It’s time to get building. It’s a good thing I know a Carpenter who is only too happy to teach the craft to any who ask.

After all, He built the greatest bridge of all time. Out of wood and nails.

Away, I’m bound away…

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
(Psalm 121: 1,2 ~ ESV)

A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath. (Anthony Liccione)

Keep Both Hands on the Handlebars

August 21, 2020August 24, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The university campus looks different this school year. A lot different. Face masks with social distancing are the rule of the day. Outside classes. Meals in the quad. Tents under the trees and a stage thrown up in the large grassy area.

A lot of work has gone into the preparations for the resumption of school in this time of uncertainty. All are hoping the unseen enemy may be held at bay by the weapons and schemes being utilized.

Time will tell.

On a recent afternoon, I walked up to collect the Lovely Lady, who works there. It’s not a long walk. I don’t wear any protective gear—no helmet, no gloves, no goggles—since it’s not usually a dangerous walk.

I may have to reconsider now.

On that recent afternoon, I strode onto campus from the crosswalk at the four-way stop, assuming I had navigated the only iffy spot and would be home-free until I had her safely by my side. I glanced at the pavement ahead of me.

The westward border of the university grounds shares its walking right-of-way with the city’s fitness trail, so I’m never surprised if I meet a cyclist, speed-walker, or jogger there.

Still, the sight that met my eyes that day was a little perplexing. Nevertheless, I continued on my way, straight toward the individual coming at me. It was a college-aged young lady, out for an afternoon ride on her bicycle.

She was prepared. She had even donned a helmet, an accoutrement notably absent from the wardrobe of most college riders I see daily. She was also wearing a face mask properly, over both the mouth and nose, fastened behind her head.

She had another necessary tool with her, one I never go out on my own bike without. The cell phone is invaluable to me, giving me a map, should I need one. More than that, it links me with the Lovely Lady at home via the GPS function which will let her know where to send the EMTs, should I fall into a ditch or ravine.

But, that’s where the preparation thing unraveled. The young lady was pedaling down the trail toward me at a fairly high rate of speed, with no hands on the handlebars of her bicycle! Not one!

I was further astonished to see that she was holding her smartphone in front of her body, both thumbs moving a mile a minute as she tapped out a text.

No hands and no eyes!

I’m not lying when I tell you I don’t think she ever saw me. It is possible she was aware of my presence, but I’m certain she would never have recognized me should the need to identify a body arisen. And, that was appearing more likely by the second.

I moved off of the right side of the trail to give her a wide berth. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh out loud or to yell at her. I did neither and, of course, since I’m still here to relate the story, she sped right on past, with no necessity to identify a body afterward.

I have some thoughts about the event. Why certainly, I’d be delighted to share them!

Preparation without execution is meaningless.

Or, as the Preacher would have said, vanity. Useless and void.

All the training completed ahead of time and any amount of protective equipment donned is without purpose, if there is no follow-through. If we don’t keep our eye on the goal—if our attention is drawn away—failure is nearly assured.

In this battle we (society) and the university are in right now, the enemy is invisible. Oh, the enemy’s consequences are clear, but if they are visible to us, it’s too late.

Somehow, the young lady has reminded me of important lessons I believed were learned in my younger days. It is certain that, if I ever really learned them, I have forgotten them again.

Everywhere we turn these days, we see the result of spiritual battles. Across the world, we see them. Sometimes, just across our tables, we see them. Results.

Disastrous results.

Hate. Apathy. Despair. Racism. Violence.

I forget, again and again, that my enemy has never been a human being. Never.

The Apostle who loved to write letters was so very clear on that point, reminding the believers at Ephesus exactly who their enemy was—the unseen and terrifying power at work all around them.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world rulers of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavens. (Ephesians 6:12, NET)

If the one we’ve called enemy has a beating heart, blood running through their veins, and is breathing air, we have identified the wrong suspect.

It doesn’t matter what the person’s position is, what organization he or she represents, and what heinous (or pedestrian) transgressions they stand accused of in our judgment.

If we claim to be followers of Christ and hate them, we lie.

We lie.

All our lives, we have prepared. We have studied; we have discussed. We have tried on the protective gear, turning it this way and that, getting comfortable in it.

For this reason, take up the full armor of God so that you may be able to stand your ground on the evil day, and having done everything, to stand. (Ephesians 6:13, NET)

Why is it, when we have all the preparation down—all the defensive and offensive tools—why is it we take our hands off the handlebars and text our Moms?

It’s not only the college kids and us, either.

The sons of Ephraim were ready with their bows. But they turned away in the day of fighting. (Psalm 78:9, NLV)

Fighting men, they were. Well trained. Well equipped. But, in the day when they were put to the test, they turned tail and ran. Or maybe, they just lost focus. Perhaps, it didn’t seem so important anymore.

I know many in both groups. Many are paralyzed by fear. I know some in this group who are turning tail and running. Just when the preparation they’ve done would be the most help, they’ve decided they want no part of the battle.

And then, there are those who have lost interest. Apathy (or is it despair?) has them in its grip and they have turned their attention elsewhere. On the day of battle, they’ve got better things to do.

I don’t want to be in either of those groups.

There is no reason for us to live in fear. God is with us. Always.

If we turn away, the battle is lost.

So, why does it feel like we’re boxing with shadows?

Perhaps, it’s because we are. Only, like that old Pink Panther cartoon I viewed recently, the shadows are fighting back.

Ah, but do you know what defeats shadows? Every time? Of course, you do.

The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5, NIV)

No shadow can lay a glove on us when we walk in the Light.

Prepare.

Execute.

Stand.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1, KJV)

If you don’t know where you are going, you’ll end up someplace else. (Yogi Berra ~ Athlete, Coach, Philosopher)

How to Make an Arrowhead

August 14, 2020August 16, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Sometimes a stone is not just a stone

The troubled young man reached out his hand as I prepared to leave. We had been speaking of serious matters. I expected nothing from him, but here he was, obviously with something to offer.

I took the small object and turned it over.

“An arrowhead?” I mumbled, confused.

I thought he might have found an ancient keepsake out on the hillside, but wasn’t sure why he was giving it to me.

“I made it myself,” the man said proudly. “For you.”

We spoke of the work it had taken to produce this gift for a few moments. Then I thanked him and tucked the flinty object into my pocket as I headed for home. I regretted the decision to tuck it away there more than once as it dug into my leg when I moved my foot to the brake and the accelerator.

We all make poor decisions. I removed the arrowhead immediately upon arriving home. Still, it’s been a bothersome object nearly constantly since that day.

You see, I could easily pull it out of my pocket. It’s not so easy to get it out of my brain.

Am I the only one who has this sort of problem?

That arrowhead has been jabbing and pricking at my subconscious for weeks now. Every time I see it or the man again, something tugs at my thoughts. I’ve been trying to puzzle it out. I’m still not sure I’ve quite grasped it.

Perhaps, just a start here will help to firm up the shadow of the reality I know is lurking close by, just waiting to be seen in clear view.

Somehow, I find myself jumbling thoughts of stones, lots of them, banging against each other, together with reminders of bad choices and a lack of direction. I even find myself thinking about old Goliath and that stone that hit him in the middle of his forehead.

Odd, isn’t it?

Puzzles are like that — all confusing shapes and nearly-recognizable images — until one takes the time to sort the pieces out, sliding a little bit of sky here, squeezing some leafy trees in over there, and maybe even completing the border before ever considering the rest of it.

Perhaps we should start with the border

Border pieces. The ones that go around the scene, holding it together.

Pieces that can’t go anywhere other than at the top or bottom, far left and far right; all of them framing the rest of the picture.

Border pieces —let’s see…

What I know is this: in nature, rocks bang against other rocks, sometimes creating chips and edges, but most often smoothing each other. Over time, a bunch of rocks, randomly rubbing against others of their kind, become generally smooth and rounded.

Pleasant and rather benign, these stones are.

If they’ve been immersed in a creek or river, the process is faster and more efficient. I see them frequently when the Lovely Lady and I trek down to the river banks to look at the old bridges we love. There, on bars and little peninsulas, I’ll bend over and pick up stone after stone, spinning them back over the top of the water. After skipping along multiple times (if I’m lucky) they’ll drop back into the river’s flow, down to the rocky bottom to continue their polishing and grinding a while longer.

But, they can be used for more serious purposes, too. I’m fairly sure the stones I pick up by the river, to skip along the water’s surface, are not any different than the five smooth stones little David picked up by the brook’s edge back

there in Israel. (1 Samuel 17:40, NIV)

Goliath didn’t find that first stone so benign. It was delivered with purpose.

Who knows? I may have actually skipped one of those four David didn’t need across the Illinois River. It’s possible.

The border pieces are coming together

And this, the idea of physical stones that grind away at each other, polishing and smoothing, is the analogy leading to the spiritual truth of the outside pieces to our puzzle.

As followers of Christ, we live in community, as our God intended. But, contrary to what many seem to believe today, it wasn’t only for our emotional comfort that He gave us to each other.

It’s true. Smooth edges, gleaming — with hardly a chip to be seen anywhere —they’re comfortable. And, generally useful.

It even helps to fulfill the directive found in the book of Hebrews.

And let us take thought of how to spur one another on to love and good works… (Hebrews 10:24, NET)

The real reason we need to be together is so we can help our family do good, not just feel good.

We smooth off the rough places that keep us from loving others.

We help each other become useful to our God for His purposes.

Finally, the jumbled pieces begin to make some sense

As I think about these edge pieces, the frame around this puzzle, the other pieces begin to come into focus for me.

I realize that the stone I’m holding in my hand, this arrowhead, is very different than those described above, even though they are all shaped by stone-on-stone contact. The thought hits me hard. Really hard.

We are not all the same.

Oh, before our God, we are equal. His Word is clear regarding that.

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female — for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3:28, NET)

His grace and mercy are extended equally to all who come to Him through Jesus. We all are on the same level before Him.

That said, the apostle (my namesake) had more to say about our individual responsibilities. To God and to each other.

In a memorable passage to the folks at Corinth (1 Corinthians 12), Paul spoke of how the body works. Naming off the body parts, he describes the big and the small, the pretty parts and the ones we cover up. It’s a long passage, but it can be summed up with one verse.

Even so the body is not made up of one part but of many. (1 Corinthians 12:14, NIV)

Not all of the stones have the same purpose.

And yet, all need to be shaped.

The Native American culture has many symbols. Not surprisingly, the arrowhead carries strong symbolism to them. It speaks of direction. Of alertness and purpose. To carry out that symbolism, the stone is shaped for a specific function.

Unlike the stones in the river, the arrowhead is treated roughly, with edges being broken off, and flakes chipped away from across the face. There is a specific process, which requires expertise and experience. And a good bit of common sense.

I’m not sure the young man who made my arrowhead has arrived at that point yet. I’ll treasure it because he made it for me, but the good quality ones belie the process, their smooth sides and straight edges almost leading one to think the process is not violent at all.

“Flint arrowhead artifact (Granville, Ohio, USA) 2” by James St. John, lic. under CC BY 2.0

It is, though. The flint knapper — the process is called knapping — must know the quality of stone he’s working with and must be able to see the spot at which the flakes will split off evenly. Tapping with his shaping stone at exactly the right place, he is rewarded by a single tiny chip popping loose.

Again and again, he breaks the stone, with the goal of having a complete and perfect tool for his purposes when the breaking is ended.

Broken, made beautiful.

I said earlier the realization that we are not all the same hit me hard. Here’s why:

We’re not all arrowheads.

Some of us are skipping rocks. Or, stacking rocks. Or even Goliath-stopping rocks. And, that’s good. Our Creator knew we’d all be needed. And used.

There’s more:

We’re not all flint knappers.

And, this is a difficult thing for many of us to accept. You see, one wouldn’t know we’re not all experts at shaping stones by scanning our social media feeds.

No one would know it by reading our replies to online articles or even our everyday communication with each other in the coffee shops and watering holes.

Often, it’s not evident in our homes, with spouses and children, in-laws and guests.

We know what’s wrong with people and we’re on a mission to fix them.

Give us a little information, let us read a Bible passage and check a commentary, and we think we should shout from the rooftops the solution for every other human being’s problems.

Except one. Our own.

Before we can shape, we have to be shaped.

Before we can teach, we must be taught.

Before we can love, we must learn what it is to be loved.

More delicate stones have been shattered by the stones around them than can ever be counted. Simply because we thought having a tool in our hand gave us the right to wield it.

I look behind me and see the carnage.

I did that. With my hammer of stone and my unbridled zeal, I did that.

Broken stones. Everywhere.

My fingers cease their movement on the keys, frozen in place, as my sight is dimmed with tears of regret. I don’t like the way this puzzle is going together at all.

What terrifying power we have at our command! And, how casually we employ it against each other.

Our Creator has placed us carefully — surrounding us with family and friends, along with neighbors and acquaintances — for His purposes, not ours.

I wonder when we will begin to serve His purposes. Will we ever look at each other with new eyes, seeing the potential instead of the problem?

Just stones. Shaping other stones. Stones that, like us, live and breathe — and serve.

Because we are following The Living Stone. (1 Peter 2:4–5)

Maybe today, we’ll start.

Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly. We all stumble in many ways. Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check. (James 3:1, NIV)

We would tend these glades of flowering stone, not quarry them. With cautious skill, tap by tap — a small chip of rock and no more, perhaps, in a whole anxious day — so would we work… (Gimli the Dwarf, in The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien)

To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. (Anonymous, sometimes attributed to Mark Twain)

I’m Going to Tell the Truth for the Next Month

July 9, 2020July 9, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

You can’t believe everything you read

The red-headed lady who raised me was the first person I heard say those words. I suppose it’s not unusual to learn truth from your mother. Her truths came mostly in short, easy-to-remember maxims and sometimes, in long run-on sentences with Bible verses thrown in for good measure.

Those truths, I remember. Some, I even still live by. Especially these days, I remember often that you can’t believe everything you read.

I never expected to learn anything from a fortune cookie. It’s probably a good thing.

We’d been cooped up in the house for weeks on end, waiting out the virus. Restaurants were closed; drive-through lanes, the only way to get food we didn’t have to cook ourselves. We finally gave in one evening and bought Chinese.

The meal was wonderful, the flavors a nice departure from the familiar menu of the kitchen at our place (not that I’m complaining about home-cooking at all). It didn’t take long for the Lovely Lady and me to clear our plates of the rice and various chicken recipes that accompanied it.

What about the fortune cookies?

Oh yes, all that was left were the fortune cookies. One for her. One for me. I don’t have any inkling of what hers said. I suppose that’s normal.

For some reason, we think the little pre-printed piece of paper inserted into the fold of the hard, crunchy cookie material is only meant for the one who happens to crack it open and pull it out.

I suspect, if we’re silly enough to think the phrase or sentence contained on the paper is of any importance, we might as well believe it was specifically intended for the person who opens it. It is, after all, a fortune cookie, is it not?

Still, the fateful words in my cookie were a little shocking.

“The truth will be important to you for the next month.”

The first thought in my head was, and what about the day after the month is over? I want to be sure of my options, you understand.

Right about then though, another thought took my brain captive: The truth hurts! No, literally! It hurts!

As I read the fortune, I had bitten the cookie, expecting it to crunch into little crumbs on my tongue. Instead, the sharp edge sliced into the roof of my mouth, drawing blood immediately. Every time I ate solid food for the next couple of days, I remembered that the truth hurts, because of the very real pain I felt.

Yes. It was another of that red-headed lady’s truths. Short and not-so-sweet. The truth hurts. Once again, she was right.

Truth is essential

Okay, I’m over the pain now and I want to talk about that fortune. I’d like to know why the truth is going to be important for me, but only for the next 30 days.

I’m certain the truth is always essential. Full-stop.

To a follower of Christ, truth is not an on-again, off-again option but is an ever-present tenet of our faith. His Word is filled with instructions that are clear and unmistakable. For example:

The Lord detests lying lips,
but he delights in people who are trustworthy. (Proverbs 12:22, NIV)

Why then, do His followers so often deal dishonestly? Why do we lie to those we love? To those we barely know?

On a recent afternoon, as the Lovely Lady and I sat around the table with friends and family, the conversation turned to lies told us by our parents. Several at the table told of untruths they learned about either late in their parents’ lives or after they had died. I don’t exaggerate when I tell you there was emotional devastation for those left to deal with the consequences of some of those lies.

When we tell a lie, we bind ourselves to that lie. Until the day we confess it and finally tell the truth, we are shackled to it. Again and again, lies are required to prop up the original untruth. Lie upon lie, compounded until the guilt must be unbearable.

And yet, Jesus told his followers (in front of His detractors) that there is freedom in the truth.

To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31–32, NIV)

Truth is freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from shame. Freedom from a dishonest past that ties us up in knots of failure and terror of discovery.

Truth doesn’t always hide in plain sight

Boy, that’s an understatement! We live in a day of truth-twisting like none before, public officials who build cases from half-truths and generalities, people groups who purposely blend lies with myth and call it truth, individuals who spread information they know to be inaccurate, defending their actions with excuses and slander. More than a few on that list above claim the title of Christian.

Did I say it’s a day of truth-twisting like none before? I’m sorry. That wasn’t quite accurate.

We complain today that we no longer know what is truth and what isn’t. An influential man, in about 33 AD, said the same thing.

“What is truth?” retorted Pilate. With this he went out again to the Jews gathered there and said, “I find no basis for a charge against him.” (John 18:38, NIV)

Sound familiar? The political/religious leaders had fabricated a case against Jesus, using witnesses who actually reported words He had said, twisting them to make Him appear treasonous. Then, when the entire group was in agreement, they took that information to the Roman governor.

After speaking with the accused, Pilate tried to square the “truth” from the priests with what he heard from Jesus. His response to the confusing dichotomy was that phrase we hear repeated again and again today. Two thousand years later, we still are seeking the answer.

What is truth?

Confusion reigns right now

We have a virus that won’t be pinned down to any recognizable modus operandi, with no response that can be agreed upon. There is massive racial unrest that has fractured even the most conservative and liberal organizations in our country, with slogans and accusations hurled in the name of truth from all directions. Our government is in disarray — every voice claiming the high ground of truth, with no sign of any resolution.

When we employ the truth for our own ends, we almost always wrap it in exaggeration and innuendo, the final result being something that resembles the truth not at all.

And yet, we must strive for the truth, searching it out, stripping away the falsehoods and non-essentials. If we don’t, we will be bound in this confusion indefinitely.

I’m reminded of a conversation between two characters in The Lord of the Rings story. Eomer, confused by events beyond his comprehension, wonders how one should decide what is right in such a time. Aragorn tells him nothing has changed. Nothing.

Nothing has changed

Truth is still essential. We are still called to be ambassadors of truth. It can still be found. Though not easily, I’ll grant you. And, when it is found, it will not be our servant, lending itself to our selfish causes. But it will be found.

I wonder if we don’t search in all the wrong places for truth. Perhaps, if we focused on the basics, we might find a way to walk in truth, to live the truth in our lives.

Basics? Where can we find those?

For us, who claim to follow Christ, we simply need to start there — following Christ. His claim is to be the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

If we’re following Truth, really following it in the spiritual sense, I have a strong suspicion that truth, in the practical, physical sense, will become clear to us.

When we participate in the truth-twisting, divisive conversations of the world, we are not following truth.

The basics are that we are to love God (who is truth) with everything we have in us.

The basics are that we must then love people, wanting the same good things, the same advantages, we claim for ourselves. Our truth-telling is to be done in that same love, building them up and not making them less.

The basics are that we are to focus on good things, truthful things, things that are honorable, and worthy of admiration. It’s a focus I’m not seeing all that much these days, even in myself.

So, here’s what I’m going to be doing

For the next month, I’m going to stop listening to the lies. For the next month, I’m going to stop telling the lies. For the next month, I’m going to focus on the good and true things that are all around me.

Then, after next month, I’m going to do the same thing for the month after that, and the month after that, and the… Well, you get the idea.

I could use some company. Then, if the truth hurts, we’ll be able to comfort each other.

Truth does that sometimes. Literally and figuratively. It’s still better than the alternative.

For the next month. And then some.

Eomer said, “How is a man to judge what to do in such times?”
“As he has ever judged,” said Aragorn. “Good and evil have not changed since yesteryear, nor are they one thing among Elves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.” (from The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien)

Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ. (Ephesians 4:15, NIV)

Excuse Me, Your Gentleness is Showing

July 2, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I sent my friend a birthday greeting recently. It wasn’t anything special, just two sentences on a popular social media site. Still, he was kind enough to return a note of thanks, with a little something added.

I wasn’t sure I wanted the little something.

You see, some words are light and carefree. There is no expectation and little need to consider further action. Words like, “Thanks for thinking about me.” Or, “I had a great day, thanks!”

Unfortunately, he didn’t choose light and carefree.

These words were compelling. They not only made a statement; they left the reader—me—with an expectation of fulfillment.

These words had weight. Really. It was weight that I felt.

I still feel it today.

After his thanks, my friend added this,

“You have a gift of gentleness, and I am grateful for it. Thank you for being a great example to many men!”

I want to be happy—or proud—or even embarrassed.

What I am, is conflicted. And, challenged.

I don’t know if I can live up to my friend’s vision. The man I see every day in the mirror isn’t gentle. He’s not a great example to others. He isn’t even a so-so example to others.

Perhaps I should tell him he has me all wrong. Maybe my children could tell him. The Lovely Lady could give him a hint or two (could she ever!). The customer care supervisor at the phone company—the one I called a couple of weeks ago—could really give him an ear full.

Why, even the dogs in the backyard might (if they could talk) set him straight. I know the female, who’s been digging holes where I just planted grass seed last week, would disabuse him of any illusions that might linger.

Gentleness? Me?

Hardly!

image by Rudy & Peter Skitterians on Pixabay

But the words have weight. Gravitas, even. Serious weight.

My friend meant them. He has observed me living life among others and he has reason to believe there is gentleness in how I comport myself.

I suppose now I will need to make it so. After all, the apostle—my namesake—left instructions that all of us should make it our lifelong practice.

Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. (Philippians 4:5, NIV)

Wait. How did that second sentence get in there? This is between me and the people I meet every day. I’ll do my best to show gentleness. I’ll attempt to make it evident to them. That’s all.

Why does it matter that the Lord is near? Why can’t I just do my part and they do theirs?

I suppose part of the answer to that question lies with my responses up above. I have known all my days that I should treat others with gentle hands, and voice, and heart. And yet, on my own, I cannot fulfill my responsibility.

I blow up. I respond with sarcasm. I rip into them.

Oh, most of the time, I can feign gentleness. I can talk a good game, and act the part. But when I stand in front of the mirror at the end of the day and look into the face I see there, I know.

I know.

But God is near. He is. Jesus Himself said it would always be true.

You can see it for yourself. I am always going to be with you, wherever you go, however long you live, until time is no more. (Matthew 28:20, my paraphrase)

He is there to remind. To prick my spirit. To give strength.

There’s a reason gentleness and self-control are gifts of the Spirit. I’m expected to put them into practice in His presence. Again and again, until they are as much a part of my daily routine as breathing and eating.

And yet somehow society has come, over the eons, to believe that aggressiveness and demonstrations of power are signs of strength—of character.

Don’t believe me? Look around you today. Who are our idols, our heroes? Are they kind and caring? Or, are they argumentative and combative?

In all our media—in conversations overheard on the public transport—in public messages from pastors and politicians, activists and artists—all around us, we see little self-control and certainly few gentle spirits. And, we seem to revel in the lack of such things.

We—the ones who claim to be close to God—appear to have no interest in gentleness. None.

Recently, on a social media site I frequent, a Christian friend posted a picture of a man with a brightly dyed beard, wearing a woman’s swimsuit, walking along what appeared to be a fashion runway.

The question posed with the photo was, “Can someone tell me what this is?”

The vitriol and hate spattered the page below the photo. I didn’t know all of the folks who replied. I’m making an assumption when I say they probably all claim to be followers of Jesus Christ.

May I tell you one thing of which I’m certain? Positive, even.

God doesn’t hate the person in that photo. He doesn’t.

That person—and every other person who has ever drawn breath on this spinning ball of dirt—is so precious to our God that His Son gave up His body and breath for them.

Every one of them. Us.

We will never look in the eyes of a human who isn’t loved by God.

And yet we claim the right to treat these, whom our God loves beyond all reason, hatefully and without mercy.

While He is near, we do it.

A few years ago, a popular song suggested that God is watching us, a not unlikely concept, but the next phrase claimed His oversight was from a distance. And, sometimes it can feel like that.

But, feelings aren’t facts. It turns out God is watching us. While He walks beside us. While His Spirit lives in us.

How we treat folks around us matters. To Him, it matters. It matters to them.

And, in the end, it will matter to us. More than we know, I think.

It is. It’s high time I become what people believe me to be. Or, at least make a start.

The red-headed lady who raised me always told me I should be a gentleman. She wasn’t wrong. She rarely was.

A gentle man.

God is near.

Be kind to each other. It is better to commit faults with gentleness than to work miracles with unkindness. (Mother Teresa of Calcutta)

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. (Galatians 5:22-23, NIV)

Headstrong

April 15, 2020April 15, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Image by Jose’ Alejandro Cuffia on Unsplash

Headstrong.

It’s not a complimentary word. There’s a reason for that.

It was a lifetime ago. The highlight of summer camp was always the time we spent riding horses. For this kid, anyway. Swimming was good; archery, too. But horseback riding? The pinnacle of every day was the time spent in the saddle.

Before we rode, we actually had to saddle the beasts. It was no small accomplishment to wrestle those heavy western-style leather saddles up above our heads, but the wranglers wouldn’t do it for us. Then there was the bridle—with a bit.

Some horses didn’t care much for that process. I’m remembering that, as a 10-year-old boy, I didn’t either. Those teeth were larger than I was comfortable with. A few of the beasts didn’t mind nipping with them, either.

I learned.

Well? It was either learn or go do leather-craft.

After the bit went into the mouth, the bridle had to go over the ears. And it had to fit. Not too tight. Not too loose. Too tight, and it could injure the horse. Too loose and it could injure the rider. That’s right. The rider.

I found that out the hard way. One day, as we were riding the trail—the one with the barbed-wire fence on one side, and the mesquite trees and prickly-pear cactus on the other—the wrangler noticed the straps of the bridle on my horse were slack over his head. He made a comment about it but decided we could wait until we were back at the corral to readjust the strap. In hindsight, it wasn’t a great decision.

Mere moments later, the skittish horse jerked his head and, chomping his teeth down on the bit that was hanging a little too low, took off running. At first, it was just a trot, but within a few feet, the gait turned into an all-out gallop.

I stuck in the saddle like a sand-burr on a sock, but the headstrong pony soon left the trail. Fortunately for me, he headed into the cactus and mesquite instead of the other direction. I’ve seen what happens when a horse runs his rider into a barbed-wire fence. Still, I was terrified.

Ducking below the low-hanging branches of the stunted trees and pulling my legs up as high above the cactus as I could, I sawed on the reins, but to no avail. With the bit lodged where my mount was in control of it, nothing I could do affected him in the slightest.

It might have been all of 20 seconds (it seemed much longer) before the wrangler caught up to us and, pulling his horse in front of mine, reached over and grabbed the cheek strap of the bridle, turning my horse gently in a circle and then to a stop.

I got off and tightened up the bridal strap.

Then I pulled some prickly-pear spines from my leg. The ones I could get to. There would be more pain later.

Headstrong. It’s a good word to describe a horse with the bit between its teeth. Somehow, it seems, the word might be used to characterize more than just horses.

But I don’t want to leave the horses just yet. I’m remembering another time when we were riding all those years ago.

It wasn’t all barbed-wire fences and cactus out there. At one point the trail led through a mowed field, with grass on either side. The wrangler who was with us suggested we might like to learn what it was like to sit astride a galloping horse.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Give him his head.”

It was beautiful. Beautiful and frightening. But mostly it was beautiful.

My mount, given permission to run, took the opportunity and stretched out. Like sitting in a rocking chair, it was. Sort of. Nothing like that wild dash through the bush and cactus had been, anyway.

As we neared the perimeter of the meadow, all it took was a gentle backward pressure on the reins in my hands, and the cooperative beast slowed to a trot and then to a walk.

It was the same horse. Both times.

No. They didn’t take the animal out and shoot him after he had run me through the cactus and mesquite, bit held firmly in teeth. They knew what he was capable of. Good and bad.

There was still hope for him.

For days, I’ve been thinking about the Scripture reading I did during Holy Week. Just last week, on Thursday night. It doesn’t seem to fit much with an old man’s memories of summer camp, but stick with me a little while longer.

I read about something Jesus said on the same night in which He was betrayed. (1 Corinthians 11:23 ~ KJV)

How many times have I heard the words? The pastor stands before his congregation, the communion table behind him and reads again the familiar passage.

But, did you know the Savior did—and said—other things on that fateful night besides eating the last supper?

On that same night, the night on which He was betrayed, He told Peter, the headstrong disciple, that he would deny his Teacher, not once, but three times.

He knew the man.

Knew how impetuous he was. How stubborn. How inclined to go his own way.

He had already prayed that Peter’s faith wouldn’t fail. And, these—these—are the words He says to Peter:

“When you have turned back to me, strengthen your brothers.”
(Luke 22:32 ~ NET)

Before Peter denied being His follower, He was assured of restoration.

Before!

Chew on that a minute.

Peter would turn around (repent). He would spend his last breath and his last reserve of strength serving and encouraging his brothers.

But I am just now digesting, just now getting the slightest glimmer of comprehension of the love of this Savior who came for us.

He will never let go of us!

Headstrong though we are—and that, we are—He restores us again and again.

What I am declaring is this: The One we serve, the One who holds us in His hand, is able to hold us until we stand before Him in Glory.

His forgiveness knows no limit, His mercy has no boundary.

I have been the headstrong horse, again and again, taking the bit between my teeth and going my own way. At a gallop, going my own way.

Still, He calls me back. From the brambles and from the desert, He restores me to the green pastures and cool waters.

Sometimes—in His good time—He even gives me my head.

I’d like to run along this path for a while. There’s room for more than one here.

It’ll be beautiful and frightening. Mostly, just beautiful.

Are you coming with?

I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee…
(Luke 15:18 ~ KJV)

I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.
(John 10:28 ~ NIV)

And does Jesus, our Messiah, hold forever those He loves? (He does)
(from Is He Worthy ~ Andrew Peterson/Ben Shive)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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