Come to the Manger

December 24, 2023December 24, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I remember hearing about a family who visited a live nativity production a few years ago. They had seen Mary and Joseph with the Baby Jesus, the shepherds had come, and the production was over. Some of the kids were going over where the animals were kept so they could pet them.

One little girl’s mom suggested that she might want to go to pet the sheep, but she had a different idea.

“No, Mom. I just want to stay at the manger for a while, okay?”

It’s a simple story; sounding perhaps a bit too contrived. But, I’m wondering why we couldn’t do that.

This morning at our church, the hymns and carols finished, a bearded man mounted the steps to the platform. He almost looked like Santa Claus himself, with his full white beard and twinkling eyes.

He wasn’t. It was simply one of our elders, preparing for prayer time. He started out with a friendly, “Merry Christmas,” to the congregation (which we responded to in kind) and then began to pray.

“Lord, what more can we say?” He had hardly started to pray when a youngster’s voice piped up from somewhere near the front.

“Happy New Year!”

Of course, a ripple of laughter ran through the entire auditorium. We were amused that the child had responded so vocally.

The thing is, others thought the phrase. We’ve been taught that the two go together. Merry Christmas is followed by a Happy New Year. In the calendar, as well as in our greetings to each other.

But, I’m wondering if we could just slow down a bit and stay at the manger awhile.

We’re always in such a hurry to get to what comes next. Through all of our lives, we find it hard to live in the moment because other things, perhaps bigger and better, are coming.

I’m guilty of it, too. I know I’ve written before at Christmastime, assuring readers that we don’t worship a mere baby in a manger, but we worship a Savior who died and rose again for us.

As if the Baby in the manger wasn’t already the Savior of the world.

You think I’m wrong?

What did the angel say to the shepherds?

“For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2: 11, KJV)

At no time in His time on earth was He any more the Savior than when He was born and laid in that manger.

Or, when He taught the teachers in the Temple. Or, when He turned the water into wine. Or, when he wept at the tomb of His friend, Lazarus. Or, when he washed His disciples’ feet. Or, when he healed the ear of the servant in the garden.

Or indeed, when He died on the cross for the sins of the world.

Our friend, Simeon, whom I referenced the last time I wrote, made it clear. He had heard, had known all his life, of the salvation of the Lord. But, as he held the Child in his arms, he saw it.

“For my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke 2: 30, NET)

He saw the baby and he saw in that moment—he held in his own arms—the salvation promised for all of human history.

I’m reminded of the story of Job in the Old Testament when he saw the power of God. Job said:

“My ears have heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and I repent in dust and ashes.” (Job 42:5-6, NIV)

In the manger, for the first time, humans could see the salvation for which provision had been made before time began.

“…the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world.” (from Revelation 13:8, KJV)

I have a hunch that when our eyes are on Him, they can’t be focused on ourselves, our plans, or our silly little time schedules.

So, I’d like to stay at the manger a little longer, if you don’t mind.

The shepherds will visit and return to their fields and the magi will bring their gifts and depart again to their countries. Here and now, the new year will come and go—the parties will go past in a dizzying flash—the demands of the world around us will go on and on.

The Savior—our Salvation, our Light—remains.

You’ve got time.

Stay awhile.

Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road,
and hear the angels sing!
(from It Came Upon The Midnight Clear, by Edmund H Sears)

Conduct Unbecoming

December 21, 2023December 21, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I can’t be the only one who does it. Then again, perhaps I am. I’ve always been a little strange.

Still. I spend at least a few moments every day thinking about where I came from. And, where I’m headed. And sometimes even, where I’ve been along the way.

Sometimes, I get my words mixed up while I think about all these confusing things.

One of my brothers was fond of reminding me (when I was still a youngster, mind you) that we start dying the day we’re born. Just something extra for the weird sibling to chew on, you know?

For some reason, my mind wanders (as it often does), and I hear the words of the Skin Horse as he explains to the Velveteen Rabbit how to become real.

“‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.'”
(from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams Bianco)

It’s just a child’s story, but I remember the thought from many years ago when I first read it. I especially remember those powerful two words, “You become.” It seemed to that much younger (but already strange) me that those two words encapsulated what happens to us along the road of life.

For most of my life, I’ve been becoming.

A long obedience in the same direction is the way Eugene Peterson described it. Well, he borrowed the words from Nietzsche, but the thought was that one should continue as one had begun, headed for the goal.

Step by step, day by day. Becoming.

It doesn’t mean there haven’t been missteps. Nor does it mean that there haven’t been falls along the way. But, again and again, we stand up, shake ourselves off, and head again for the goal.

Becoming.

The disciple who was loved by our Savior, and who later taught so powerfully about love, muddies the waters a bit for us:

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become.” (1 John 3:2a, Good News Translation)

I laugh to myself as I read the words of John again. The uncertainty is not what I want. I’m not even sure I need it.

And, in a way, the uncertainty about what I am becoming is what got me tangled up in this subject in the first place.

As I consider the past (while looking to the future), it seems there is a disconnect of sorts, an interruption in the long obedience in the same direction.

For many years, the becoming was easy, the path ahead clear. A profession that allowed me to minister—to share, to care—was mine for many years. I had grown into it, seeing more clearly than ever as the opportunities and the years unfolded.

Then, a few years ago, my world became smaller. Or so it seemed to me. My business closed and my daily contact with all those folks ended. With COVID and changing circumstances at the university where I had played music with the young folks for years, my practical interaction with performing musicians came to a screeching halt.

And as I contemplated, a surprising thought came to mind:

I’m not becoming. I’m unbecoming!

It is, of course, untrue. That doesn’t stop the wheels from turning.

Did I say my mind wanders? It does.

I’m seeing a white-haired old gentleman, one hand on the scarred-up black steering wheel of the old blue 1967 Dodge van, the other waving in the general direction of a 30-ish young man sitting in the passenger seat as they careen down a dirt road in rural Arkansas. The dust flies behind them.

As they always did when delivering pianos, travel time is spent in discussion. The old man wasn’t happy this day.

“There’s no place for me at our church anymore. I’m thinking about finding a little country church where I can be of some use again.”

The young man, paying more attention to the unattached seat he’s attempting to stay upright in than to the old man, grabs tightly to the door handle and chokes out what he thinks is a wise answer.

“I thought you’d be happy to let younger folks take over and just enjoy the ride. You’ve earned some rest.”

Did I call him an old man? My father-in-law was younger than I am now when he said the words.

And, I answered him back with foolishness. The foolishness of youth.

Unbecoming, did I say it was? It would be easy to sit back and get comfortable with the thought of throwing in the towel. The old man never did, but I might.

But, unbecoming is not fitting or appropriate—unseemly.

No, really. That’s the definition the Oxford Dictionary gives for the word.

I don’t want to be any of those things.

The mind wanders even further back, and I see an old man standing in an ancient Jewish temple. The young couple has brought their tiny baby to be consecrated to God as the Law of Moses decreed.

They brought the child; God brought the old man. He wasn’t a priest—was not a religious official at all. But God had given him something to do before he died.

And, he was doing what God had told him to do. He wasn’t unbecoming at all.

He was becoming. What a moment!

Luke 2 says the Holy Spirit directed him to the temple at the exact time Jesus was brought in. Simeon’s words have always been one of my favorite passages from what we call the Christmas story.

“Now let your servant depart in peace, for I have seen the salvation of the Lord.”

My hair’s not white yet. I can still walk a few miles without faltering and push a lawnmower around the yard with no sign of fainting. I forget names, but I remember faces.

And, God doesn’t throw His servants into the trash heap when He’s done with them.

He just keeps changing us. From glory to glory, we’re told in 2 Corinthians 3:18.

Becoming.

I’m going on.

You’re coming with, aren’t you?

“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he really is.”
(1 John 3:2, GNT)

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
(Dylan Thomas – Welsh Poet – 1914-1953)

“Simeon took him in his arms and blessed God, saying,
‘Now, according to your word, Sovereign Lord, permit your servant to depart in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation
that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples:
a light,
for revelation to the Gentiles,
and for glory to your people Israel.'”
(Luke 2:25-32, NET)

Only One Candle

December 11, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I never intended to mention light again this soon. If one writes too often about the same subject, folks begin to whisper about obsessions. And, one-track minds.

That’s why I usually ignore little nudges to write about the things I’ve mentioned recently. Readers don’t need much of an excuse to poke each other and say, “I told you so. He’s taken leave of his. . .”

Well, you get the idea. Still, I did go to the Candlelight Service at the local university yesterday. And, the lights on the tree onstage at our local fellowship shorted out this morning. And, it’s Advent.

So, lights it is. Again.

Did I mention the Candlelight Service? I went to hear the brass. And the choir. I wasn’t disappointed.

But, they lit candles first. I watched the students carry their brass poles with the adjustable wicks down the aisles toward the platform which had scores of candles awaiting the flame at the ends of those wicks.

Just so you know, I really did want the brass poles to have a special name so I could impress you with my knowledge of said designation, but I’m informed by reliable sources they’re just called candlelighters.

Imagine my disappointment at learning that the candlelighters carry candlelighters to light the candles.

But, as they walked the long aisles to the front, at least 3 of the young folks had the misfortune to have the flame extinguished from their wicks.

I watched one young man whose lighter was burning healthily until he was halfway to the front, but it suddenly turned to a brightly glowing ember as he walked. The ember dimmed for a few steps, then disappeared into a stream of smoke which quickly thinned to a wisp and then, nothing.

The two young ladies striding down the opposite aisle had a similar experience, each arriving at the front with useless candlelighters in their hands, as well.

Do you suppose the young lady who found herself the only one with a flame took the opportunity to excoriate the others about the pace with which they had walked, causing their flames to blow out? Did she spend the next few minutes reminding them how precious that flame was, and how careless they had been with it?

Perhaps, she just went ahead and lit all the multitude of candles herself. Without any help. Clearly, it was all up to her.

She didn’t.

Stopping at the base of the steps, she motioned all three of them over and had them light the lifeless wicks of their candlelighters from her flame.

And for all the help she offered them, her flame was drawn down not the slightest bit. It blazed and shone as she ascended the steps, ready to light all the waiting candles on their stands.

They also mounted the steps, lending their aid in lighting the forest of candles, making short work of the task.

The candles were all set ablaze to the background of the violins, violas, and cellos. Then I heard the brass music. For over an hour, I reveled in the music of the choirs and even the organ pieces played by the Lovely Lady’s brother. All of it was lovely.

But the lesson of the candlelighters was what I carried from the Cathedral last night. It was a lesson reinforced by the traditional candle-lighting ceremony at the end of the evening.

From that one candlelighter—yes, every flame in the room that night could trace its origin to that single young lady—each person in the seats eventually held high a flaming candle as we sang the sweet words of “Silent Night.”

And, it cost her nothing.

Nothing except kindness. And generosity.

I want to preach. I want to hammer the message home, reminding all of us of those around who have not tended their flames as well, perhaps, as we have.

There would be hypocrisy in my words.

And, dishonesty in the telling.

It is, as I have said before, a season of lights—the time of remembering the coming of the One who is The Light that has, and will, shatter the darkness, sending it scuttling back into the emptiness from which it emerged eons ago.

His Light is ours to share.

It was never ours to hoard.

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness. . .
Take your candle, go light your world.”
(from Go Light Your World by Chris Rice)

“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too.” (Philippians 2:3-4, NLT)

This Little Light of Mine

December 7, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The light was almost blinding. Not like the super bright LED headlights that had been shining in my eyes for the last hundred miles or so. No. This brilliant light simply shone in the profound darkness of the Minnesota plains we were driving through.

For a moment, we could see nothing else but the tree, bare of any leaves, but budding forth with the bright light of thousands of bulbs wrapped around every single limb, from the ground to the sky. It stood on a slight knoll with long wild grass growing beneath it. We saw no house lights—no business sign—and no indication whatsoever of a power source or reason for the tree being there.

It just shone in the darkness.

I’ve thought about it for several days now—this lighted tree. The Lovely Lady and I took a trip from our home in Arkansas up to the big city of Minneapolis last week to listen to the beautiful music of the young voices in the St Olaf choirs.

Brighter lights were shining in the city. They lit up buildings. Some told us when to stop and when to go. Others shouted out messages to attract business.

They had purpose. They incited action.

The tree on the knoll by the highway just screamed, “Look at me!”

We looked and passed on, unchanged.

We’re entering the time of year when we celebrate the coming of the Light, the Son of God. He came to shine that light into the heart of every person who would recognize it.

“The one who is the true light, who gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.“ (John 1:9, NLT)

He came with a purpose. He came to draw all men to His Father.

“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.“ (John 1:12, NLT)

And, then He gave us the same purpose.

“You are the light of the world. . .In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16, NIV)

It is a season of lights. The little town we live in was having its annual Christmas parade the same weekend we were up north, the floats and vehicles all covered with lights. There were lights flung across the street corners and silhouetting the downtown buildings.

There is joy in light.

Our Creator made it so. Our hearts are lifted at the coming of dawn—at the brightness of light in a dark room—at the warmth of candlelight—even at the brilliant displays of lights on houses and trees in this season.

But the emotion fades. And, darkness returns to all of them eventually.

Our world today is full of a different kind of light—stars, we call them. They shine brilliantly, solely to draw our eyes toward themselves—to notice and revere them. Never before have there been so many crying out for us to look and be dazzled as there are right now.

But, they too fade. And, darkness reigns still.

The Light who came for us never fades—never dims. He turns our hearts to the Father of Lights.

Surely the light kindled in our hearts should do the same for those around us—for those who have never truly experienced light.

It won’t be some bulb-adorned tree growing on a grass-covered knoll along the way that is passed by in the night, leaving the traveler unchanged.

With purpose this Light shines, effecting everlasting change, pointing the way to that eternal day that can never be swallowed up in night.

It’s our time to shine.

“The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness
a light has dawned.“
(Isaiah 9:2, NIV)

“Jesus bids us shine with a clear pure light,
like a little candle burning in the night;
in this world of darkness we must shine –
you in your small corner, and I in mine.”
(Jesus Bids Us Shine, song by Susan Warner)

Chestnuts Roasting? No Thanks!

November 28, 2023November 28, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I stand at the kitchen window, glad of the warmth inside this old house. Out there, the clear, frigid night edges inexorably into the wee hours, lit by the cold, white light of the moon, only a day past the full.

I always love these bright wintry nights observed from my warm post. I can sense the chill but stay comfortable without the aid of a coat and gloves.

Out under the old mulberry tree, itself not likely to last the winter, the dark outstretched shadows cast by the bare limbs remind me (appropriately) of old bones, gangling and spindly, across the leaf-covered ground.

And just for a moment, practical matters take my thoughts, reminding me that my grandchildren promised to help me rake those leaves later this week. We’ll enjoy the time spent doing that. We always do—teasing and laughing as we work together.

There is something bothering me—I’m not quite sure what. Yes, I know I don’t laugh quite as much as I used to. I get tired more quickly; my back aches from the repetitive motion of raking. The kids step up and carry the load I once did. It will all work out.

But, that’s not it at all. What was it?

Oh, yes! Now, my old brain catches up. In the bright moonlight, I see the two nut trees. The walnut tree, for one. The ground underneath its slim, straight shadow was covered with fallen nuts, long before the leaves fell. We’ll have to rake those up too—a nuisance, at worst.

My eyes (and thoughts) are drawn to the chestnut tree next. The large, brown leaves from its branches are spread far and wide, blown by the cold wind that brought in the last blast of arctic air. It had dropped a few nuts before that, as well.

There will be pain. I’ll have to remember to have the kids wear gloves and be extra careful as they pick up the leaves under that tree. Suddenly, the job loses its appeal, the joyful anticipation turning almost to dread.

Chestnuts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be (if you’ll pardon the pun). In my head, as I write this, I hear the smooth, sweet tones of the man they called the Velvet Fog, Mel Tormé. The lyrics tell of the unusual nuts roasting near the fireplace, and of Jack Frost doing what he is tonight—making my nose cold once again.

Funny. I never think of that beautiful song while I’m bobbling the needle-sharp nuts in the fall, or when I’m sucking the blood from my fingers while muttering nearly bad words under my breath.

Chestnuts are more than a nuisance, waiting under the leaves in ambush for me and my helpers. They seem almost like a threat, a danger to avoid at all costs.

My poor brain, seemingly in ADHD mode tonight, begins to play other words (from a different Christmas carol) almost as quickly as the mellow sounds of Mel begin to fade.

“No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground.”
(from Joy to the World, by Isaac Watts)

Mr. Watts was a little premature in his banishment of thorns from the world. But, he did have the right idea about sins. And he was absolutely right about the eventual healing from the curse under which we labor.

We have entered the season of Advent, leading to Christmas. The media and the world around us are already alive with the tumult of their sales pitches for what is becoming known as “merch”. Voraciously, they pursue our purses and bank accounts.

It will likely be an unpopular opinion, but the “merch” they peddle is what I would describe as the thorns that infest the ground of Advent.

All around us lie the leaves of the season, awaiting our attention, our joyful gathering up, accompanied by people we love. The happy anticipation of celebrating the Child, born to bring light into the world—born to bring us back to His Father.

But the thorns! There will be pain—and stress. Angry words will be spoken to salespeople. Horns will be blown and gestures made at other drivers on the busy roads.

It has ever been so. The serpent present in the Garden yet seeks to subvert our Creator’s plan, hiding lies within half-truths and good intentions. And willingly we participate in his schemes.

Perhaps this Advent season will be the one when we finally push aside the thorns, leaving them to rot in the trash pile while we revel in the reality of God’s gifts.

The joy of the season is in the Gift from Heaven. Everything else is covered in thorns, awaiting redemption from above.

The Light of the World still bathes His creation in brightness like the full moon bursting from the black sky. The bonelike shadows and reminders of lurking thorns only increase our desire for His presence.

I’m waiting. With hope and joy, I’m waiting.

While I’m waiting, I’ll keep the gloves handy.

“The people who sat in darkness
have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
a light has shined.”
(Matthew 4:16, NLT)

“He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.”
(Henry David Thoreau)

One more tune for you—well, two really—to separate the thorns from the joy of the season. Take a few minutes to soak in the words.
https://youtu.be/IetPAANnhzQ?si=RFv_39qNgXUhtnbu

Christmas Bells (and a few clunkers)

December 25, 2021December 25, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Late Christmas Eve.

I want to tell you the neighborhood is quiet, but it’s not. The wind is blowing in from the south. It’s not a gentle breeze either.

Even inside the house with the windows closed, I hear it howl. On Christmas Eve, the wind shouts through the oaks that line the neighborhood road. A single step outside the front door reminds me of the temperature.

Nearly sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, says the outside thermometer, even as the mechanism in the old mantle clock readies the energy to strike twelve times on the spring that passes for a chime in the ancient timepiece. I hear it striking faintly as I wander away from the house. There will be no white Christmas here.

Bells. I do hear bells out here. Wind chimes on my house, front and back. I check the ones in the front where I am and they are swinging energetically. The D6th chord the circular pipes make as the clapper makes its rounds is reassuring.

All is well.

Still, I’m not sure.

So, I wander down the street a few feet. There are more bells at a neighbor’s house, and I stop to listen for a minute. When I was in their yard earlier this week, I admired them and found that they have square pipes, not round as mine are.

No matter. They make as beautiful a chord as the one I just left at my place, a G7th, if my ear is to be trusted. But, amongst the dong, dong, dong of the square chimes, I hear a periodic clunk.

I don’t have to trespass in the neighbor’s yard to find the cause. It’s pretty clear that the whole affair, buffeted by the gusting wind, is hitting the porch’s wooden support beam once in a while as it repeats the beautiful chord.

I laugh. I know the feeling. For the last three or four weeks, my life has been wrapped up in playing Christmas music on my horn at various events with other instrumentalists. I just played earlier this evening with a wonderful collection of humans at our church’s Christmas Eve service.

I do. I play some beautiful notes. I don’t think I’m bragging when I say that. But then, the wind (or something else) goes through the horn wrong and a clunker comes out the bell. Some nights, a lot more of them than can be explained away by bad vision, or sticky valves, or even not getting enough sleep last night.

There are some reading this who understand what I mean. Come to think about it, it may be most of you who understand it, even if you don’t play a musical instrument.

Clunkers happen. All our life, they happen.

I used to wonder if God kept track of all my clunkers. In life, I mean; not my horn playing. Even today, in my dark moments, I still do.

He has a lot of those to tally. For me, anyway.

But suddenly, I remember what night it is. And yes, I’m perfectly aware that December the twenty-fifth is almost certainly not the day our Savior came to us as a baby in a smelly stable. But, it is the day we commemorate the event. In the season we consider the great love our Creator God showed for every human in the world by sending His Son.

And, the realization stops me where I stand, listening to the beautiful, tuned chimes as they whirl and gyrate in the unbridled wind.

God Incarnate, Emmanuel, our God With Us, came to earth and was born a baby, not because of our beauty and attractiveness.

He came because He loved us and wanted us to be with Him.

Period.

Or, if you prefer the term our British cousins use—Full Stop.

It is worth a moment or two of consideration. Perhaps, even an hour or—and, I know this is extreme—a lifetime. It might just take that long to take it in.

Clunkers and all, His grace reached down into our midst and gave us—Himself.

Love and Light come down to dwell with us. To die for us. To give us life.

With Him.

Even when things don’t go as we planned. When we fall on our face. When we stand in front of the crowd and let fly a clunker to beat all clunkers.

He wants us to be with Him. Forever.

So, let the wild bells chime! Let the trumpets blast! Let the loud voices rise!

A Child is born.

Clunkers will be remembered no more.

Beautiful music to my ears.

To His, too.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.
(from the poem Ring Out Wild Bells, by Alfred Lord Tennyson)

God showed how much he loved us by sending his one and only Son into the world so that we might have eternal life through him. This is real love—not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.
(1 John 4:9-10, NLT)

Every One a Child

December 15, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

My life for the last couple of weeks has been overshadowed by the Big Event. Playing brass music for the local university’s Christmas service is still cause for nervousness and stress in this veteran of almost forty years of the program. But, that’s all over now.

I expected to write about it today. I sat down to do just that, but it seems the story doesn’t want to be the subject of my mental wanderings just yet.

Instead, I want to talk with you about children. Babies. Toddlers. Teenagers. Ninety-year-olds.

All children.

Why are you wrinkling up your forehead like that?

Oh. Ninety-year-old children. I know. We’ll get to that soon enough.

Sunday night, a day after the Big Event was over, the old guys (and one young lady) in the brass ensemble played one last time, this event—my church’s annual Christmas program. Everyone was welcome to share what they had prepared. No pressure. Encouragement and approval for every performer, young and old, was guaranteed.

I had my worst outing of the whole season, missing more than my share of notes, but heard not one word of criticism. I expected nothing less from this joyful crowd. But what my ensemble did really wasn’t noteworthy on this night.

The beautiful little girl whose sisters were singing a duet was. She added to the music with her lovely dancing on the stage. Mama was worried she’d jostle the guitar-playing sister’s arm, but she was careful not to, pirouetting and flouncing in her own space. Her face beamed as she offered her talent to the Baby King.

There were so many others; there is not enough room here and you don’t have the patience for me to mention them all. The stage filled with kids in the pageant; a few shy beyond showing their faces, others standing on the steps and waving to the crowd. One after another, they brought their gifts, some flawed, some nearly perfect. All were met with approval from the folks who listened and watched.

Piano duets and solos soared—or limped—through all the notes. Vocal offerings followed the same pattern. Joyous applause was the inevitable result.

Ah, but look! The red-headed young man mounts the steps to the stage and, brushing the shock of hair from his forehead, begins a difficult arrangement of Rise Up Shepherds and Follow at the piano.

The jazz-voiced chords are difficult to shape the hands to and the arpeggios from bass to treble and back again require exact positioning of the fingers. There are some starts and stops along the way, but it is all brought to a triumphant ending, and with a flourish, the last note rings out from the big concert grand piano.

With a joyful thumbs-up to the whistling and cheering crowd, the young man strides to the steps, a grin affixed, permanently it would seem, to his lips.

His friend would follow a few moments later, as he and his dad offered up their version of Little Drummer Boy. Dad, with his guitar, sang each verse from the stage, while his son, smiling broadly the entire time, marched up and down each aisle tapping his sticks on a small drum hanging by a cord around his neck. As the song neared an end, the young man mounted the steps and stood, still striking the drum, behind his dad.

It might have been just a little bit of laughter in his dad’s voice that caused his voice to break (but I think there was more to it) when the words “then He smiled at me” came from his mouth. The young man was beaming from ear to ear himself. He didn’t stop beaming as he bowed from the waist, not once, but three times to the thunderous applause.

The two young men are friends and peers. Both have Down syndrome but are ever anxious to learn and share new things. Their joy is contagious; our desire to encourage them in it, completely understandable.

Christmas is for children. I’ve heard it again and again. I have always—in the past, anyway—disagreed.

Well? Surely, it’s obvious. The Christmas story is for all the world. The Gospel of Grace is freely offered to all who come to the God-who-became-a-baby.

Adults. Children. Teenagers.

Christmas is for all. It’s more than presents and carols; more than candy canes and decorations; more than tales of Santa Claus and of talking snowmen. It is.

So much more.

But—and I can’t get past this—our God began His rescue mission as a baby in a manger. He was helpless and dependent. Our Savior.

God came as a child.

And, when the child became a man, He shocked His followers by telling them the only way they could come to His Father was as children. Helpless and dependent. Lost.

Lost.

I’ve forgotten something.

Oh yes. Her. I didn’t really. Forget her, I mean. It’s just that there is pain. And tears.

But there is joy too. So much.

She climbed the steps carrying a violin. Helped by an older man, she ambled over to the piano where the Lovely Lady who lives at my house waited. Leaning over, clearly confused, she handed the violin and bow to the beautiful redhead. A bit confused herself, the pianist talked to her for a moment to reassure her, then handed the violin back to her.

There were notes from the piano and a tone drawn timorously from the violin. Then, as the piano began to play the first notes of Joy to the World, the melody also flowed from the violin. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter.

When the last notes faded down to nothingness, the crowd cheered and applauded louder than ever. I wiped the tears and smiled at the Lovely Lady as she returned to her seat beside me.

Christmas is for children.

The violinist has lived nine decades. She was recognized for many years in our fellowship as a wise woman, a source of advice and wisdom for many young mothers and middle-aged empty nesters. The love and respect she knew from all were well deserved. And she reciprocated those qualities many times over.

For the last several years, we’ve watched her change as an illness has robbed her of memory and wisdom. She still beams as I greet her, but my name is not on her lips anymore. That kind nature has not been lost, but there is no gleam of recognition in her eyes, nor personal bits of conversation when we speak. And therein lies my sadness.

Ah, but the joy is there, too. I heard it in the voices and applause when she finished playing. I feel it when I realize that even in this time of the dear saint’s life, a second childhood if you will, she knows her God and Savior.

Her husband, constantly at her side, related that as my brass group played the instrumental prelude earlier in the evening, she sang every carol. It wasn’t just humming; she sang the words and the tunes.

She does. She still knows her Savior and He knows His dear child.

Christmas is for children. Old and young.

It’s for the Infant, weak and helpless, who was laid in a manger all those years ago.

It’s for the little girl, dancing, carefree, on the stage beside her sisters.

It’s for the young men, adult in age but children in spirit, who will need the care of others their whole life, but who will always have more to give than they ever take.

It’s for folks like you and like me, sometimes arrogant in our certainty, but more often, childlike, coming before a God who knows us. He knows us and still, He loves us.

It’s for the old ones, who have lost the ability to remember and to function as they once did. The Creator of all that is has never forgotten them. Ever.

He won’t forget us either, as we come weak, helpless, and lost.

He became like us, that we might become, one day, like Him.

Christmas is for children.

I pray I’ll be one all my days.

I pray the same for you.

For unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given…
(Isaiah 9:6a, NKJV)

But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.”
(Matthew 19:14, NLT)

Christmas Begins Again

December 9, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I sat in that church sanctuary again last Sunday evening. You know—the one I had never been to before. I never expected to go there again. But the Lovely Lady needed to make a return visit. I needed to be with her.

What I didn’t know was that I also needed to be with that group of people. It wasn’t just the choir this time. The sanctuary was filled with bodies. Old ones. Young adult ones. Little children’s bodies.

These weren’t my people. I worship in a building filled with chairs instead of pews, where a church calendar is barely acknowledged (I remember Christmas Sundays when the pastor carried on with his expository series in Romans, just as if it were any other Sunday), and where the impact of items in the sanctuary is more functional than symbolic.

The service was all symbolism. All of it. Even the music. There was a lot of that. The Lovely Lady played her flute with the choir. Her brother played the pipe organ. There were guitars and drums. And an accordion. Along with the piano, they all combined to draw us into worship.

Did I say these weren’t my people?

They were. They are.

How have we decided we are not related? When did we begin to determine our relationships by differences in style? In doctrinal differences? In musical preferences?

I sat in that sanctuary, a stranger surrounded by family members long estranged.

And we worshipped together.

Together.

If Jesus does not bring us together, pushing aside our differences, are we truly following Him?

If love and kinship in Him do not still draw us to each other, how will we ever worship together in eternity, in that great gathering around His throne?

“Oh come let us adore Him.
Worship Christ the Lord.”

Adore.

Do we?

Will we?

Between

December 27, 2018December 27, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 9 Comments

On the mezzanine above my shop, I sit waiting for words. My head is inches below the corrugated metal roof—all that stands between me, the howling wind, and the driving rain tonight.

For a few moments earlier this evening, I ventured out into the weather. With an umbrella above my head, I took care of a necessary task before rushing back inside. My socks are still wet from the torrent that overflowed my shoes as I crossed the driveway. My arms still feel the pull of the umbrella as the updraft threatened to lift it (and possibly me), Mary Poppins-like into the atmosphere.

I’m happy to be where I’m safe. And, where I’m warm. The thing is, I have no guarantee of either. None of us do.

This mezzanine below me is not as sturdy as I’d like. Oh, I’m sure the structure would be up to the minimum building standards, but when I jump up and down, the floor bounces. The light fixtures hanging below me rattle and jingle. Something tells me perhaps I shouldn’t jump up and down.

I suppose it’s like the fellow who complained to his doctor of the pain in his finger. When the doctor asked when the finger hurt, the fellow bent the finger backward and said, “When I do that.”

The doctor replied, “Well, don’t do that.”

I’ll stop jumping up and down.

Still, I don’t feel quite safe up here sometimes, between the floor that bounces and the ceiling with pounding rain and howling winds assailing it from above. I wonder if I should go downstairs to the solid concrete floor until the storm has blown itself out.

Between.

It’s not all that comfortable a place to be. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel all that safe a place, either. And yet, it’s where we spend most of our lives.

This week, the one between our annual celebration of the birth of Jesus and the beginning of the new calendar year always seems like between to me. The year is effectively over and yet, there is a week of days to live while we wait. For the new year, we wait.

Between.

I’ve spent some extremely uncomfortable days at the end of a year or two. Three years ago this week, my siblings and I were stuck between the last century and the future as we said goodbye to our childhood home. Two years ago, I waited with trepidation and even a little anger for the music store the Lovely Lady and I had poured our hearts into for all of our married lives to wind down to an untimely end.

Between isn’t comfortable.

Still, it is where we live if we are followers of Christ.

What we once thought secure—what we once deemed prudent—has been revealed to be the shakiest of structures imaginable. Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Still, we have not yet arrived in our destination.

Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Share on X

Between, we venture, carried on the wings of eagles and, curiously, sheltered under them, as well. (Psalm 91: 1-4)

On His path, we find safety; in His shelter, rest.

Between.

Looking back, there is nothing to convince us to return, no matter how solid—how safe—it appears.

Our home is up ahead. Up. Ahead.

From here, we look up there—up ahead—and know we are safe in His hands. Safe, on the way to safety.

Let the wind howl and the rain blow!

We’re not home yet, but you can almost see the light shining out the windows from here.

This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now…Come further up, come further in!
(from The Last Battle ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

I want to live above the world,
Though Satan’s darts at me are hurled;
For faith has caught the joyful sound,
The song of saints on higher ground.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright;
But still I’ll pray till heav’n I’ve found,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”
(from Higher Ground ~ Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American preacher/songwriter ~ 1856-1922)

What is This Thing?

December 21, 2018December 21, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Not to seem like a Scrooge, but something’s bugging me. Really.

In less than a week, it will all be over again for a year. Parties. Pageants. Concerts. Shopping. All done.

The post-holiday depression will soon have many folks in its grip. It’s a real thing. You could look it up. Or, Google it. Whatever. We get used to the people, the good cheer, the busy-ness. And then, just like that, life has us again. It’s grip, tenacious and oppressive, threatens to choke the joy from our daily journey.

We crave the extraordinary, the fresh, the exciting. Life after Christmas seems to offer less.

Less.

I hear the voice in my head. I have written of it before. Most readers will have heard it themselves, at one time or another.

“Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”

Linus, his ever-present blanket dragging the floor behind him, is walking to center-stage and calling out, “Lights, please.”

Word for word, he quotes Luke’s version of the angel’s announcement to the shepherds. (Luke 2:8-14) Ending with on earth peace, goodwill to man, he retrieves his blanket (tossed aside during his monologue) and exits, stage left.

Spectacular!

Angels! Lights! Music!

That’s what I’m talking about!

Wait. It is what I’m talking about, isn’t it?

Perhaps we should move on a bit. I’m not absolutely sure Linus had enough time in his moment under the lights to give us the whole picture.

You see, the shepherds got together and actually went to see the thing themselves. This thing. That’s what they called it. This thing. It’s all there in the verses that follow. (Luke 2:15-20)

The excitement they felt as they went was palpable; they had to see with their own eyes what had been described to them in such an extraordinary fashion. I would too, after a display such as that in the heavens overhead.

They got to the place they had been directed to and found—a baby. A normal newborn baby with an exhausted mother and her worried husband-to-be.

It is what they were told to look for, but the Savior of the world? This baby, squalling and wrinkled, red from the trauma of childbirth, the long-awaited Messiah?

But, it was exactly what the angel had described—exactly as they had been told. They went on their way rejoicing.

But, I want to know the rest of the story.

The next day, did they awake and wonder about this whole thing? The Savior thing? The Messiah thing?

What did they do the day after that? And, the day after that?

Two or three years later, when the child’s parents had to flee with Him to Egypt, did they hear about it and wonder? Twelve years later, were they still paying attention at Passover when the boy taught the Rabbis in the temple? Did one of them taste the wine that had been water in Cana, or see the boats foundering under the weight of the fish in the Sea of Galilea?

Did they ever again feel the awe and joy in their lifetimes? Ever?

Or, did they feel the let-down of disappointment, of expectations unmet? They had felt the surge of emotion, of certainty that better things were to come. Did they live out their days in disillusionment and doubt?

And again, perhaps I’m focusing on the wrong thing. I tend to do that, you know. The red-headed lady who raised me could have told you that.

You just can’t see the forest for the trees, can you?

Details get in the way; peripherals seem to jump into the spotlight. It’s what we do with our celebration, isn’t it? Every year.

Trees. When the forest is spread out before us in plain sight.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible. He wants us to see the thing. This thing.

Unto you is born a Savior.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible. He wants us to see the thing. This thing. Unto you is born a Savior. Share on X

The spectacular thing? He came as a baby. Not a king. Not a conquering hero. He came as a crying, stinking, weak baby.

The incredible thing? He came for us. You. Me.

Did I say life after Christmas offers less? I did, didn’t I? That’s not what I meant to say. Without Christmas, the coming of a Savior—the thing the shepherds trooped to Bethlehem to see—there is no life. Well, not real life, the kind that matters in the end—in eternity.

The tidings of great joy had nothing to do with the frightening messengers. It had nothing to do with the star-gazing magi who would wander into the narrative later. It certainly has nothing to do with our parties and tinsel and gaudy lights today.

This thing is a baby lying in a manger—our Great God come down to live, and walk, and teach us. Not in a flash of light and joyful celebration, this thing would take another thirty-three years to be fulfilled. And still, there would be no flash of light. In fact, it would become dark at midday as He died for us.

I’m trying to look for the thing this year. Not presents. Not music. Not joyous fellowship.

This thing.

Savior. King. Hero.

Baby sent from God.

Once in our world, a stable had something in it that was bigger than our world.
(C.S. Lewis ~ English author/theologian ~ 1898-1963)

And the angel said unto them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”
(Luke 2:10,11 ~ KJV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Christmas

Come to the Manger

Conduct Unbecoming

Only One Candle

This Little Light of Mine

Chestnuts Roasting? No Thanks!

Christmas Bells (and a few clunkers)

Every One a Child

Christmas Begins Again

Between

What is This Thing?