Christmas

Every One a Child

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments
image by Robson Melo on Unsplash

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)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

Christmas Begins Again

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by PhotoGraphix on Pixabay

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?

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Between

~ 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)

 

 

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

 

What is This Thing?

~ 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)

 

 

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

Standing Out

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was, I want to believe, a profound moment of joy in the season of the same.

I want to believe that.  But, I’m the guy who looks on events and thinks he sees the truth when what’s really happening in the secret places is entirely the opposite.  I look at the image in the mirror and see a mature sixty-something man who is comfortable in his skin, but all it takes is two seconds of looking into the depths of my heart and the nerdy, twitchy fifteen-year-old is staring at me again through the wild eyes of terror.

Still, it must have been a profound moment. It must have been.

We’ll see.  Others will judge.

Sunday morning.  This confident, mature man had played the instrumental prelude with the Lovely Lady and then taken his place on the stage to sing with the worship team.  It was the second run-through, having already gone through it all in the early service that morning.  There was no need to stay in the sanctuary for a sermon he’d already listened to, so out into the foyer he went after the last song of the set.

Oh, yes!  I had really enjoyed the group who sang during the offertory during the first service, so I headed back in for another quick listen.  Standing at the back entrance, as the ushers quietly made their way through the crowd, I was not disappointed the second time, either.

The modern setting of Longfellow’s I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day was very well done.  The singers and instrumentalists were practiced and competent.  Very nice.

There was a movement to my left and in front of me a few rows.  I glanced over, watching the young man rise to his feet.  Surrounded by folks sitting comfortably, he stood up straight and, moved by the music and the text, raised his hands and his face to the ceiling and he worshipped.

As the folks on stage sang of peace on earth, the teen-aged boy stood in the crowd all alone.  As the rest of the people present sat watching and listening, he participated.

What a brave young man.  I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t agree.  He was oblivious of the people around him; he wasn’t standing for them. Still, I never would have had the courage.  For all of my inability to fit in in other ways as a teenager, I never had what it took to stand up while they sat down.  I was the nerdy, twitchy fifteen-year-old staring at you through the wild eyes of terror, remember?

I always just melted into the crowd.  Always.

Perhaps, I’m making more of the event than I should.  And yet, I know I was moved.  Tears filled my eyes as the young man worshipped the Prince of Peace.

Peace on Earth.

Oh.  I forgot to include one detail.  It seems important to me, too.

I watched the boy standing alone, arms spread wide and wiped the tears.  Then, I noticed one more person in the crowd, a couple of rows behind the boy.  He is a friend of mine, the father of children of his own.  I’m sure it was just my imagination, but I may have seen his son tugging at his shirt tail in embarrassment as he too stood to his feet.

He didn’t raise his arms, nor did he look to the ceiling.  He just stood respectfully.  That was all.

Then, when the song was over, the two fellows simply sat down.

I haven’t asked my friend why he stood.  I may not ask him.  It’s probably none of my business. But then, that never stopped me before.

Sometimes, we stand simply to let someone know they’re not alone.  And, when one has had the courage to stand out, it’s no small thing to know someone has your back.

After all, Moses had Aaron.  Aaron even helped Moses hold his tired arms up on one occasion when time needed to stand still.

Elijah had Elisha to carry his coat. David had Jonathan to plead with Saul for him. Paul had Silas to sing with him in jail.

I think I could carry the harmony—if I could get up the courage to go to jail with someone.

In my mind’s eye, I see those two fellows standing in church the other morning and a thought comes to me:  It is a profound act of worship to support those who stand by themselves in faithfulness.

Paul, the apostle formerly known as Saul, said it this way: Love others—genuinely love them. Take delight in honoring each other. (Romans 12:10)

Sometimes, it’s important to be the one who stands with the guy who stands out in a crowd.

Sometimes, it's important to be the one who stands with the guy who stands out in a crowd. Share on X

And sometimes, it’s just as important to be the one who sits with the guy who’s sitting down when the rest of the crowd is standing. 

That is so because we are called to stand with others who aren’t all that faithful, too.  We’re even called to walk on the road with those who take advantage of us and mistreat us, as well. (Matthew 5:38-48)

Enemies, we call them.  He called them, simply, neighbors. We will stand, and sit, and walk with them if we are to follow Him at all.

The One we call Prince of Peace was accused of being a friend of sinners.  He was both. 

Peace on earth comes when we love others enough to stand up with them.  Or sit down with them.

And the bells are ringing.

Peace on Earth.

 

 

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
     And wild and sweet
     The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
(from Christmas Bells ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~ American Poet ~ 1807-1882)

 

 

Oh Jesus, friend of sinners
Open our eyes to the world at the end of our pointing fingers
Let our hearts be led by mercy
Help us reach with open hearts and open doors
Oh Jesus, friend of sinners, break our hearts for what breaks yours
(from Jesus, Friend of Sinners ~ Mark Hall/Matthew West ~ Jesus, Friend of Sinners lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Essential Music Publishing, Capitol Christian Music Group)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Waiting For Hope

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Waiting.  It’s not my strongest ability.  It’s not even close to the top ten.

You’d think it should be.

For most of us, it is one of the activities in which we have the most experience.  Hours.  And hours.  Waiting.

She said she needed to go see the Social Security folks.  And, would I go with her?  I agreed, so earlier this week, we set out for our destination.

We expected a really long wait.  The full waiting room (don’t you just love that name?) didn’t allay our fears in any way.  Rows and rows of folks.  All waiting.

Everyone has been there.  No, not necessarily at the Social Security office.  I mean waiting.  We’ve all been there.  At the doctor’s.  The hospital.  The courthouse.  The DMV.

I love how the waiting rooms are full of lively conversations, laughter, and joy.  Oh, wait.  They’re not, are they?

Silence.  Dread.  Expectation of failure.  These are the emotions of the waiting room.

I sat, watching (in silence) the same people walk one by one out the door of the government office the other day.  Not one was crying.  Most were even smiling.

Still, the faces of those waiting were grim, with a host of feelings written in their eyes, on their mouths.  Impatience.  Disgust. Worry.

My companion and I sat, mostly in silence as well, our own emotions written to be read by other observers, I’m sure.  We sat and awaited the adventure before us—the adventure of the interview.

Yes.  I did say that. Adventure.  What is to come.  Anticipation.

They do come from the same place, you know—adventure & Advent.

The time before, when we wait.  Waiting, in hope or in dread.

This time of year is tricky.  With the rest of the world, we await the coming joyous event.

I look around me and I see a lot of emotions.  Somehow, folks don’t all seem joyous.  Many are downright sad.  Others seem disillusioned, almost bitter.

Somehow, even the folks who have been all happy-clappy through this season in years past seem a bit more sober.  Introspective, even.

I wonder.

Maybe I was the happy-clappy one.  The one who couldn’t see through my own giddy expectation to notice others weren’t enjoying the waiting.  Perhaps I, who awaited the coming day with wonder, couldn’t see that others just sat wondering when it would all be over.

I see them now.  

Sometimes, I am them.

We drove along this evening, the Lovely Lady and I.  It seemed they filled my vision, the Christmas lights spelling out the word HOPE in foot-high letters on the fence. 

She didn’t see them.  I motioned in the general direction and still, she didn’t see them.  Frustrated, I stabbed my finger straight at them and her eyes followed it across the field ahead.

Oh!  Now I see it!

I intended to take a photograph later, but I forgot.  It was well past midnight again when I wandered over that way.  This time I couldn’t see the letters.  Pulling my light jacket tight against the frigid north wind, I walked right up to the fence, a quarter of a mile away.  Then I saw that they were still there, just not lit up.  In the middle of the cold, dark night, they were still there.  Even though I couldn’t see them.

The letters are still there.  They’ll shine again tomorrow. 

They will.

HOPE. 

In letters that reached to the sky, He wrote it.  Some don’t see.  Some can’t see. Not without help.

HOPE. In letters that reached to the sky, He wrote it. Some don’t see. Some can’t see. Not without our help. Share on X

While we’re waiting, perhaps we could talk amongst ourselves.  It’s time to point to hope.  To talk about hope.  To live in hope.

We do.  We live in hope.  We live there.

The world is waiting in the dark night. (Isaiah 9:2)

Waiting for hope.

Hope will shine bright.

It’s time to point the way.  Time to speak up in this waiting room.  Time to walk out in joy and wonder.

While the world waits.

Hope will shine.

 

Hope looks forward to the Glory to come; in the weary interval of waiting, the Spirit supports our poor hearts and keeps grace alive within us.
(A.W. Pink ~ 1886-1952 ~ English theologian)

 

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 ~ New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

 

 

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

Climb It

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Is that it?  I expected more.

There have been any number of nights over the last couple of weeks when I’ve sat and wondered.  Surely, I missed something.

I have written every Christmas season for the last few years about the Candlelight Service at the local university.  I’ve been privileged to play my horn in the brass prelude for the beautiful service several decades now.

A few years ago, I said the evening never fails to overwhelm, to lay my heart open before the Creator of the universe.  I never expected less.

I think it was less this year.

Oh, it wasn’t the fault of any of the performers or of the conductor.  The performances were wonderful.  Skillful even.  Well-prepared and talented, there was no fault to be found with any of the participants.

Still,  the big moment never came.  Three nights, I did my part and returned to my seat to listen to the end. 

It was nice.  Christmas-y.

But, there were no tears.  No ecstasy.  No wow! moments.

I did notice that, without it being planned, the first song—and the last—from the stage each night were the same song.  It wasn’t all that wonderful—just odd.

Go Tell It On The Mountain.

Our brass group played it to start the evening—a nice catchy version of the old spiritual.  It was fun.

The main choir sang a version of the song to finish their stage performance, upbeat and catchy as well.  It was fun.

I wasn’t moved by either version.  Not this year.

I’ve spent the year trudging along.  Manual labor and too many steps—every day. 

Somehow, after all the aching muscles and sore feet, I was looking forward to the euphoria of being carried away.  Kind of like a Calgon moment, if you know what I mean.

I did have the same thought in my head as I left each night.  I wondered if there was a reason the music on stage started and ended with the instructions to go and tell it on some mountain.  

I’ve said it at Christmas before:  There are no accidents.

Sometimes, I have to have things pounded into my thick skull.  I’m not the brightest crayon in the box, you know.

I packed up my horn the last night of the program and headed out into the cold to walk the few blocks home.  I was disappointed.

Nothing.  There were no visions, no spine-tingling solos, no ancient conductors who reminded me of the original Conductor.  Just a catchy version of an old spiritual.  A kid’s song, if you will.

It got worse.  I walked home in the cold and had the defining thought for the whole affair.  I even had Siri write a note for me on my phone as I walked.

To tell it on the mountain, one has to first climb the mountain.

Well.  There’s a bit of encouragement.  I’m getting old.  I’m already tired.  And, now I’ve got to climb another mountain.  And, probably another one after that.

Hmmm.  Does it seem as if I’m complaining?  It does, doesn’t it?  Perhaps, I am.

I’ve thought about this for awhile and I want a chance to defend myself.  I want to excuse my churlishness, my complaining.

Haven’t I done enough?

Somehow though, I’m remembering that He climbed a mountain or two in His time on earth.  Walking absolutely everywhere He went, He carried the good news, the gospel, to all who needed to hear—and experience—it for themselves.

He climbed the mountain in Samaria to sit by Jacob’s well and give living water to the woman there.  (John 4:4-26)

He sat on the mount and pronounced blessings to those who would listen to and heed His words.  From that mountain, He gave them, in essence, the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. (Matthew 5-7)

He went one day with a few of his followers to the top of another mountain and somehow met with a couple of men from history.  (Mark 9:2-8)

And then, there was that day He plodded, bloodied and beaten, to the top of the hill where He would die for the sins of the whole world.  (John 19:17-18)

This was a mountain He had been climbing since before the beginning of time.  From the foundation of the earth, He was ordained to climb to the top of that hill and be raised high above it.

It is the mountain He was born to climb.

This Baby we celebrate, with all our pageants and all our concerts—all our lights and all our decorations, was born to climb that mountain and declare good news.  To all people.

I suppose I might be able to climb another hill or two.

I don’t know how beautiful my feet are, but the prophet Isaiah suggested they would be by the time the task is completed.

To tell it on the mountain, one has to first climb the mountain.

To tell it on the mountain, one has to first climb the mountain. Share on X

He did.  The Baby, born in a stable.  The Man, carrying living water.  The Lamb, taking away the sins of the world. 

He did.

Time for me to start climbing again.

You coming with?

 

 

How beautiful on the mountains
    are the feet of the messenger who brings good news,
the good news of peace and salvation,
    the news that the God of Israel reigns!
(Isaiah 52:7 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

Down in a lowly stable 
the humble Christ was born, 
and God sent us salvation 
that blessed Christmas morn.

Go, tell it on the mountain, 
over the hills and everywhere;
go, tell it on the mountain 
that Jesus Christ is born.
(Go Tell It On The Mountain ~ American spiritual ~ adapted by John W Work ~ Educator and historian)

 

 

 

 

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

Please Don’t Dog Ear The Pages

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

“Oh, yeah.  Tell him I’d like to have a new copy of Watership Down.  I can’t read the one I have now.”

My son, kind man that he is, wants to buy his father a gift for Christmas, even though I’ve said many times that I need nothing.  The Lovely Lady knows better and sends him ideas by text—secretly, she thinks.

We were riding toward home this evening, after a trip to a neighboring town, and my brain jumped to the thought.  As I usually do, I spoke without considering the consequences.

Well, I guess they will not be, strictly speaking, consequences. However, the Lovely Lady now has a new aberration to consider in her husband’s character, thanks to my premature announcement.  (I’m not sure it’s well-advised to give her too many of these points of oddness to think about at one time.)

She probably didn’t expect me to see the eye-roll that preceded her next question.  I suppose I didn’t really see it as much as I felt it.

What’s wrong with the copy on the bookshelf?  It looks perfectly legible to me.

She knew the answer.  She just wanted to hear it from me.

I fell in love with the story many years ago, back when I was young and full of dreams.  I still enjoy reading through it, now that I’m old and full of dreams.  The only problem is, I gave away my old, worn paperback copy back a ways. 

I thought I wouldn’t need it anymore.

We had been in a favorite book shop one afternoon, looking for bargains, when I saw it.  No, I saw IT.

IT was a beautiful hardback, with the dust jacket intact—paper, covered with clear plastic—and crisp, clean pages.  The price, written inside the back cover in pencil was exorbitant, ten times what I would normally pay for a good hardback—fifty times what I’d pay for a decent paperback.

We couldn’t afford it. 

We bought it anyway.

We walked out of the little book store with a near-mint First American Edition of the book.  I would never need to thumb through that old, tattered paperback again.  Never.

The truth of the matter is, I’ve never read the beautiful hardback.  Never.

I never will.  The book’s value is in its rarity, its exclusivity, its pristine condition.

The thing is, when I read, I live.  I eat.  Chocolate and grease stains attest to the fact.  I drink coffee or juice—suitable evidence can be provided.

I carry my books out to the bench in the back yard and, if interrupted rigorously enough, lay them down to scratch the ears of my dogs or play a game of fetch with them. 

I’ve always been told books are your friends, meaning I should handle them with kid gloves, but I don’t treat my friends that way.  I live life with them. 

I leave my mark on them and they leave their mark on me. 

Not so with this hardback.  It may be the worst fifty dollars I ever spent.  I can’t read it, nor can I sell it.  You don’t sell your friends  (unless your name is Judas).

She understands me, the Lovely Lady.  She just likes to make sure I know that, once in a while.

I think she sent a message to our son as we rode.  I don’t know for sure.  My mind was far away.  Even farther away than Watership Down.

Have you ever wondered?  Many do.  I can’t understand how one wouldn’t.

Why did the Savior of the world have to come like this?  Why a baby, born in a stable?  Why did smelly shepherds have to come, and weird foreigners have to follow a strange star?

Why did He live, wandering the land of His birth, homeless and un-celebrated? 

Why did He die a criminal’s death, hanging in shame on a crude cross of wood?

I would have had Him come as a triumphant conqueror, dressed in white and ruling from His palace, far above the smells and cries and demands of the filthy, backward people who walked the roads and worked in the marketplace.

I would have had. . .

Oh.

He came to be a friend to sinners, didn’t He?   

Like any friend, He would leave His mark on us.

And, we would leave our mark on Him.

He would leave His mark on us and we would leave our mark on Him. Share on X

No pristine first edition, He.  Our very own volume, well-worn and dog-eared, to learn from firsthand.

The Word became flesh.  Living with us. (John 1:14)

His life an open book, one might say.

Maybe it’s time to read the book again.

I hope no one will mind if I dog ear a page or two.

                               

 

I wonder as I wander, out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die
For poor ornery people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander, out under the sky.
(I Wonder As I Wander ~ John Jacob Niles ~ © 1945 by G. Schirmer, Inc. All rights reserved.  Used by permission.)

 

 

 

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

What He Said

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Well?  What is it?  Desert, or Babylon?

The preacher sat across from me, nursing the same cup of coffee he had purchased over an hour before.  I suppose one might forget the cup in front of him if the conversation was interesting enough.

Still, he wanted an answer to his question.  I didn’t have one.  Not then.

I think I do now.  Maybe I should let him know.  Oh, let him wait.  Our next coffee morning is sure to find us sparring a bit—verbally, I mean—and we’ll discuss it again.

I had mentioned that it was a little hard to pick up my old writing habits in a new place, somewhat unfamiliar to me, and then I referenced the Psalm which wonders how it would be possible to sing the Lord’s song in a strange place.  The people of Judah had been taken into captivity in Babylon and, being asked to sing their familiar praise songs there by the river in that foreign place, declined, breaking down and weeping instead.  (Psalm 137:1-4)

I have been feeling sorry for myself for a few months.  I think perhaps my nobody-loves-me-everybody-hates-me-I’m-going-to-go-to-the-garden-and-eat-worms lament was getting tiresome, so the preacher decided to shut me up about it.

Well?  What if you’re really in the wilderness on your way to the Promised Land instead of in captivity in Babylon?

We bantered about it for a few minutes more and I left—headed back to Babylon—or the desert—whichever.

And yet, like a Labrador puppy with a new toy (or, more likely, an old stick), my mind kept worrying at the question.

Babylon?

Desert?

Oh, what was the difference?  Neither was desirable.  I didn’t want to be in either place.

No. Wait.

Babylon was a place of punishment—a place to go and either die or repent.

The desert, on the other hand, was simply a part of the journey to a country dreamed of for centuries.  A reward, if you will.

Funny.  They complained in both circumstances.

Me, too.

Why is that?  Why do we complain about the process when we know—absolutely know—what’s coming is glorious?

I understand the unhappy folks in Babylon.  They have nothing to look forward to, only dimming memories to hold in their hearts.  It would be nearly impossible to sing their joyous tunes there.

I’m not being punished.

I’ve known, for many years now, I will never arrive at my goal here in this world.  Well, I say “I’ve known”, but I guess I never really believed it.  At least, I don’t live like I believe it.

It’s easy to become complacent, isn’t it?  To begin to be satisfied with less.  Less than what we’ve envisioned.  Less than what has been promised us.

Less.

Because, less is easier.

And the angel of the Lord told young Mary she would have a child and He would be the Son of the Most High—a King who would rule forever.  (Luke 1:30-33)

And Mary said, I’ll take that.  What you said, I’ll take that.  (Luke 1:38)

The angel didn’t explain about the stable.  He didn’t describe the terrifying flight to a foreign country to save the young boy’s life.  Nothing at all was said about the boy wandering off to the temple.

I didn’t read anything about that horrible, horrible day when the Roman soldiers would torture and kill him right before her eyes.

Gabriel, that bright messenger, never told her that would happen.  Not a whisper.

But, she had a promise.  And, she accepted the promise.

Funny.  I also don’t remember ever reading anything about Mary wanting out of the deal.  Ever.

She simply tucked the memories and confirmation away in her heart and she kept up her part of the bargain.  Through the pain and the heart-numbing sorrow, she did her part.

Somehow, I think I may have the wrong things tucked away in my heart.  Somewhere along the way, I’ve forgotten the original deal.

This isn’t the place the story is going to finish.

This isn't the place the story is going to finish. Share on X

Just as the story of Mary’s Baby never ended on that horrible hill, ours won’t be done until our Creator says it is.

Every step—every one—brings us closer to the place of joy and peace He’s promised.

And, along the way, we enjoy His provision.  In the midst of desolation and hardship, He feeds our spirits and sustains us.

The deal stands.

I’ll keep walking.

Milk and honey are still up ahead.

Through the desert.

 

 

I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams…
(from The Little Prince ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ~ 1900-1944)

 

The Israelites called the food manna. It was white like coriander seed, and it tasted like honey wafers.
(Exodus 16:31 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

 

 

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

 

Leaving

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He had tears in his eyes.

I thought about that for many of the eight hundred and fifty miles it took to make the journey from my childhood home to the place which has been home to me for all of the forty years since that day. 

Exactly forty years ago today, I arrived in this little town.  One of my old friends jogged my memory of what day it was as we reminisced together one recent evening. 

The first day of winter in 1976 saw me packing every possession I owned in the little yellow Chevy and leaving my home in south Texas to make the one day journey north.  To what, I had no idea.

He had tears in his eyes.

The man I can’t say I ever really knew as a child, even though I had spent nineteen years living in the same house with him.  The man who had taught me so much about forgiveness and grace, but from whom I never heard the words, I’m sorry.  The man who was unmoved by the maudlin; untouched by the mushy emotion of human drama, was crying as he said goodbye to me.

I don’t remember ever seeing tears in his eyes before.  I’m sure now that he had cried in that time, but he was never one to show emotion to his children.  He disciplined and rewarded us; he taught and rebuked us; he provided all the necessities and encouraged us to be self-sufficient.  We saw the different facets of what a father did, but he did it without undue emotion and effusiveness.

Yet, he was crying as I pulled out of the driveway.  To say it was a moving experience (with absolutely no pun intended) would be a drastic understatement.

I don’t recall what he said as we parted.  I don’t remember if he gave me any money or last minute advice on life.  But, whenever I think about leaving home, I remember the tears in the eyes of the man whom I had always counted on to be rock solid.

Big boys don’t cry. 

I reminded myself as I pulled away from the house.  It didn’t work.

They do—and I did.

It was the best going away present a man could give his son.  In retrospect, I wish he had been able to do that earlier in my life, so I could have started learning the lesson I’m still absorbing.

There is no shame in showing your feelings. None. 

God designed us to feel emotions.

A lot of pain could be averted if we would simply allow the people we love to know how deeply we feel for them.  Words are good, but the emotions which spring from our hearts and move us to tears—or joy—or even fear, teach and reassure so much more than mere words.

I realized on that day, a significant date in my journey to manhood, that real men aren’t afraid to cry.

There have been a lot of other firsts in the forty years since that day for me.  First marriage (okay—the only one).  First child.  First snowstorm.  First time I was fired (I keep telling myself it wasn’t a real job anyway).  First day in business.  First car wreck (the other car was parked).  First time a policeman drew his gun on me (last time too, I hope).  The list could go on and on.

Some of the firsts have been monumental, some coincidental.  Not many have been more eye-opening than on that day thirty-five years ago, when for the first time, I saw my Dad cry over me.

This week we celebrate the leaving home of another Son.

This was no heading out without purpose, no going where circumstances took him.  This Son left His home to perform a specific task.

His Father knew, as the child left to go on His journey, that it would end badly (from a father’s perspective).  He also knew the journey and its end would achieve an amazing victory, a history-changing paradigm shift.  So He stood by and let His Son go.

Did God cry when His Son left home? Share on X

Did He cry?  I don’t know.

I like to think He did.  Still, I don’t know.

I do know His heart was moved with Fatherly pride as the boy grew into a man (Matthew 3:17) and that in the pain of loss He couldn’t watch as the inevitable end came (what father could?), but turned away.  (Mark 15:34)

I really don’t know if God cries the way we experience it.

I do know He cares about us more than any physical father ever has—that He wants us to be with Him in the worst way. 

That’s what Christmas is about.

The manger, the shepherds, the wise men and the star?  They’re just incidental. 

The Baby came for one purpose.  To die.  For me and for you. 

I’m thinking if God does cry, it might be because some of us choose to remain separated from Him.  Grace is ours for the taking because of the Son who left His home that day so many years ago. 

My journey from home, forty years ago, is of no consequence in the grand scheme of the universe—my father’s tears of little moment in history. 

But, the reminder of both for me at this season, points dramatically to the real reason for our celebration. 

I’ll draw my loved ones close.  I’ll embrace some whom I don’t know, but who need to feel His love. 

I even might, as I contemplate a Father’s love, shed a tear or two of my own.

I am, after all, a big boy. 

And, big boys certainly do cry.

 

 

You keep track of all my sorrows.
    You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
    You have recorded each one in your book.
(Psalm 56:8 ~ NLT)

 

A little girl once asked, “Mommy does God cry?”
“Don’t be silly, God can’t cry, baby,” her mother replied.

“But what about when He looks down from Heaven above
And sees all the people who need His love?

And what about when He looks down and sees
The playground kids fall and scrape their knees?

Or how about Aunt Jane who can’t have baby girls or boys?
Or what about the poor kids who get no Christmas toys?

Maybe God would cry if He lived with my friend Tommy.
Whose daddy beats and bruises him and his mommy.

Or maybe if He looked down and saw people being killed,
I think He’d surely have eyes that are tear-filled.

But I think most of all, Mommy, what would have made God cry,
Is when He looked down at the cross and watched His baby die.”

The mother stood in silence as her eyes filled with tears,
For she knew her little girl was wise beyond her years.

Staring into deep blue eyes, the mother found courage to say,
“Yes baby girl, I think God looks down and cries every day.”
(Anonymous)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.