Easter

I’m Not Happy All the Day

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Ray Shrewsberry on Pixels

 

My social media feed and even my personal messages have been full the last day or two with some variant of the message.

“It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming!”

I get it.  I do.

It’s what we call Holy Week; throughout the week, we celebrate the death and then on Sunday, the resurrection, of our Lord.  It seems that much of the world does the same, even though they are not believers—not true participants in the result.

But, this week has always been a melancholy time for me—my thoughts filled with sadness that Jesus died, betrayed by a follower whom He loved, abandoned by most of His other followers, and beaten and tortured to death by foreigners who occupied His homeland.

And, on a personal level, other events have crowded in, making the days even more melancholy.  I’m almost wondering if I can participate in the reenactment of the joy that comes after the sad “holy week”.

Resurrection day, commonly called Easter, will dawn with light and music.  We will—rightly—raise our voices in praise to our God in gratitude for His great gift of salvation, of redemption.

But, I know there are people—many of them—who will be in our churches, sitting beside us in the chairs or on the pews, with hearts overflowing with sadness and sorrow still.  Even on this, the most joyful of days we mark in our calendars, they will mourn, or wait for bad news, or sit in pain—awaiting relief that may never come in this life.

We sang the old hymn a few weeks ago in the fellowship I’m blessed to be part of.  It’s an old song about the cross Jesus died upon.

I admit, I don’t always think about the words when I’m so familiar with a song.  I’ve sung this one all my life.  But, I thought about the words this time.

The song was written by Isaac Watts, well known for his contributions to our lexicon of worship songs.  The chorus, however, was added more than a hundred years after Mr. Watts wrote the verses.

The original words are deep, wonderfully so.  The chorus, not so much, but it too is well-loved, nonetheless.

The hymn is now known as At the Cross, although originally Isaac Watts named it Alas, and Did My Savior Bleed.  You may already be humming the tune as you read this.

I’m just not certain about the last line of the added chorus we sing.

“And now, I am happy all the day.”

I’m not.  I’m just not.

I am grateful beyond expression for the astounding gift of grace given to us at the cross.  My joy at knowing we follow a risen Savior is uncontainable.  Uncontainable!

I will sing with abandon (I promise you—I will!) of His victory over death.

Hallelujah, Christ Arose!

But, I will also mourn with those who mourn.  I will cry with those who cry.

Almost certainly—in that very service where I sing with abandon, I will weep as my Lord did when His heart was moved for the mourners.

Sunday is coming!  Again and again, it is coming.

We rejoice.  We mourn.  We serve.  Until that day when God will wipe away every tear.

He promised He would.  And, He is faithful.

What a glorious day!

He is risen indeed!

 

“Then the men asked, ‘Why are you looking among the dead for someone who is alive?  He isn’t here! He is risen from the dead!'” 
(Luke 24:5b-6a, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

God Stoops Low

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
image by Jacob Kelvin J on Pexels

I went to Church tonight.  And I cried.

I knew I would.

I told my friend, the one who rang my doorbell five minutes before I was due to leave, that I probably would.  She (not purposely) had reminded me of the man who once was her husband.  The memory brought sadness; sadness for separations here on earth and sadness for the separation of death.  The loss is temporary, yes, but still painful.

The man to whom she had once been married often cried at church, too.  I admire other men who are tender-hearted and not afraid to show it, but I’ve never thought it one of my best attributes.  It’s funny how that works.

Still, there it is.  I cried.

Singing with my friends, I cried.  And, as we took the bread and the wine of communion, the tears flowed freely.

I admit it.  My mind wandered as the Pastor shared about our Servant Savior who showed the attributes of God in His suffering.  I couldn’t help it.

We have several Spanish-speaking folks in our number, so the main points of the sermon are noted on the overhead monitor both in English and in Spanish.

It was only one letter.  A very common one.  The letter “s” had been omitted from one of the Spanish words.  But, try as I might, I could think of nothing else.

In Spanish, as in English, the word “no” means just that.  No.  Negative.  Not at all.

So, in the context of this particular written sentence, it told anyone reading the Spanish text that Jesus did not show God’s wisdom as He served.  That couldn’t be what it meant. Could it?

For several minutes, I heard nothing the Pastor said until, in a split second, the slide on the monitor was changed, adding the “s”.

Oh!  Of course!  The word was “nos“.  In that instant, the meaning became clear.  Nos means us!  It wasn’t that He didn’t show wisdom—not at all.  It was that He showed it to all of us.

All of us.

Tears came once more.

The Pastor said the familiar words again tonight.  “On the same night that Jesus was betrayed, He took bread…”

My mind, still wandering a bit, reminds me that also on that same night, before He took the bread, He told His disciples, “Take off your shoes.  You are on holy ground.”

Well, perhaps the words weren’t the same as those that Moses heard in the wilderness eons before, but it was true just the same.  Not one of the disciples had their shoes on when He finished washing their feet Himself.

And they were, undoubtedly, on holy ground.

I’ve written of this holy ground before but, as my mind wandered further afield during the service tonight, I saw the truth of it anew.

In the presence of our Servant Savior, we are ever on holy ground.  For where ever God stoops to serve and save, there it is sacred.

In the garbage dumps of Guatemala, in the halls of political power.

In the tiled mansions of the Upper East Side of New York, in the stinking, fetid shacks of the refugee camps across the Rio Grande.

In the quietness of the forest clearings, in the riotous racket of the championship soccer match.

Wherever God stoops, we stand on holy ground.

And He stoops where we are.  All of us.

The word is not “no”.

The word is “us”.

On holy ground, He stoops to all of us.

And, He washes us clean.

 

And, behold, there came a leper and worshipped him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean. And Jesus put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed.
(Matthew 8: 2-3, KJV)

 

A subtle thought that is in error may yet give rise to fruitful inquiry that can establish truths of great value. (Isaac Asimov)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Not Just Another Still Life

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We call this Holy Week.  The reasons are clear; I won’t argue against it. Still, it hasn’t felt all that set apart.

I wrote earlier today that the edges of these days have felt much the same as the middles.  The Lovely Lady asked me the date a while ago and I had no answer for her.

It’s hard to observe Maundy Thursday when you don’t remember if Tuesday or Wednesday preceded it.

And yet, the calendar said it was Maundy Thursday.  The day many followers of Jesus remember His servant heart as He washed the feet of His disciples.  They read the scripture over again and perhaps even celebrated His Last Supper with wine and bread.

Me?  I looked at a painting on my wall.  That’s it up above.  A still life, they call it.

As if.

I shared the painting with a few online friends today, along with a poem about still life paintings a poet friend had pointed out a day or two ago.  I thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, the painting won’t keep still.  Not in my mind, anyway.

I first saw this particular piece of art hanging on the wall of an old saint.  I’ve written of her before.  Miss Peggy was a faithful servant of her God all the days of her life.  But, this story isn’t about her, although she did leave the painting to me after her passing.

The artist is also a friend, another faithful servant of God.  Sam is a native of China, having come to this country in the 1980s as a student.  There were other reasons for him to leave his native land, but I’d just get the details wrong if I told it, since it’s not my story.

Besides, this story isn’t really about him either.

In a way, it’s about me, stuck here in still life.  You know, the life prescribed for me by the medical experts of the day, along with the political powers, who are endeavoring to fight an invisible enemy by dividing and conquering.

Still life.  Perhaps, the story is about a reader or two, as well. You’ll know if it is.

Most artists choose their subjects based on aesthetics.  Do the colors coordinate; do they clash just enough to draw the eye?  Are the objects balanced in their placement?  Do the items demonstrate the ability of the artist to capture light and shadow, or texture?

This painting ticks those boxes.  It appeals to the eye.  It even causes me to admire the talent of the artist.

But, I know Sam.  He’s not interested in my praise.  Or, yours.

This still life is meant to capture the heart of the observer, to squeeze the soul, and to cause us to walk away with a new vision of who we are.

The bowl is not for food, but for water.  A basin, intended to wash away the dust and grime of the world.  Perhaps, something like the basin our Savior used as He washed the feet of those who would use those same feet to walk away from Him that very night.  (John 13:5)

The kettle and teacup represent comfort and calm.  From a culture that views tea as much more than a drink to start the day, but as a celebration of life, the pouring out of this precious liquid quiets the turbulent spirit and brings peace.

Like cups of cold water that meet much more than a physical need, we share the necessities of spiritual comfort with our fellow travelers. (Matthew 10:42)

The meaning of the medicine bottle, along with the mortar and pestle, is clear.  Healing comes as we minister and are ministered to.  Using the tools at hand, gifts from our Great Healer, we help to heal the hurts and ease the pain of this world.

The crying prophet is assured that there is medicine enough, and there is a Physician, but wonders why they haven’t been applied. (Jeremiah 8:22)

It’s still a good question today.

Washing. Comfort. Healing.  How well we know the necessity of all three in this time of sickness and separation.

As I write, Good Friday is upon us.  It is the day when we remember the incredible sacrifice made for us.  A sacrifice made to heal our great sickness.

His torment was the result of our rebellion; our deeds caused Him to be crushed.  His pain was to heal our hurt; His wounds have made us whole. (Isaiah 53.5 ~ my paraphrase)

Perhaps, especially on this day, our contemplation in this still life we’ve become part of could be a place to begin.  Before we walk away, will our hearts be captured, our souls squeezed, and that new vision be ours?

It is, after all, not just another still life.

 

“Comfort, comfort my people,”
Says your God.
(Isaiah 40:1 ~ NET)

For weeks now I have been meditating on still lifes,
The tumble of plums and pears, the overturned goblets
And the sundry bouquets of flowers, the skulls and flutes.
I have grown bored with their quaintness and simplicity
And, well, their stillness, which lacks the narrative power
Of Christ’s agony in the garden or the sublime
Force of Turner’s slave ship, and alp or a starry night.
I tire of the repetitions of subject matter,
The endless spill of quinces, grapes, and pomegranates—
Though, child of time that I am, caught up in the thunder
And motion of history, I sometimes find comfort
In the calm seductions of pitcher and vase, shadow
And light, the modest raptures of the ordinary.
(Morri Creech ~ American poet)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2020. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

A Man Died

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I spent a few hours this evening not watching murder mystery reruns.  An afternoon’s worth of lawn work, followed by a strenuous bicycle ride, made it seem advisable (perhaps, even imperative) to sit without moving a sore muscle for several hours.

It was difficult to concentrate on the television programs.  I’ve not been able to concentrate on much for the last couple of days.  My mind keeps saying the words, over and over again.

I did this.

It hit me on Thursday evening.  With others in my church, we commemorated the night Jesus was betrayed by Judas.

Oh, I wanted to blame him!  But, Judas didn’t put Jesus on that cross.

I was glad for the dim lighting in the church that hid the tears rolling down my face as the scripture was read.

I did this.

One of my poet friends reminded me with beautiful words on Friday that those who mourn shall be comforted.  Jesus Himself promised it.  He did.

But, I did this.

So, I sat for the last few hours this evening and hoped the blaring noise of the television would drown out the voice in my head.

For awhile, it did.  Then, a phrase from an actor in the show cut through my consciousness.

“A man died.  Can we focus on that?”

But, that’s just it.  I haven’t really been able to concentrate on anything else for days.

A Man died.  Not just a Man—God, who came as a Man to do just that.  To die.

As I write, the clocks in the house strike the hour.  It is midnight.  Easter.  By the time you read this, Easter will be reality.

He is risen!  He is risen indeed!

Still, I sit and wait for this guilt to be lifted. 

Over the last couple of days, I’ve noticed a trend—one I’ve never taken note of before.  A number of folks have offered opinions on what went on for those interminable days between the death of this Man/God and His astounding return to life.

Some have actually argued about it.  Really.  

I’ve seen articles about what Jesus did during that time, what Mary His mother did and felt, where Joseph was, even what Mary Magdalene did.  I don’t know the answer.

I certainly don’t want to argue about it.  Somehow though, I have to wonder if they didn’t think some of the same thoughts I have over the last few days.

I did this.

Peter, with his denial. The other disciples with their cowardice.  Even Judas, with his certainty.  All of them wailing into the dark.

I did this.

My Savior hung on that cross, dying because of my sin.  The weight of that thought is crushing.

But, it is resurrection day.  The Man who died did not stay dead.  

He will turn our mourning into dancing, our guilt into righteousness.  We who were condemned will be pardoned. 

What a day!

A Man died.  

Can we focus?  

That we could live, a Man died.

And, He lives.

Joy comes in the morning! 

 

 

You have turned my mourning into dancing for me;
You have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
That my soul may sing praise to You and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever.
(Psalm 30:11-12 ~ AMP)

O love divine, O matchless grace-
That God should die for men!
With joyful grief I lift my praise,
Abhorring all my sin,
Adoring only Him.
(from My Jesus, Fair ~ Chris Anderson)

 

 

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

Offensive

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Scott was cool.  Well, to this one-time band geek he was.  The big offensive back was six feet tall and all muscle.  He was no slouch on the football field either.  I was sure he was going to be a star running back.

But, that was before.

I was there when it happened.  Not that I had any part in the event.

Okay.  To be honest, I didn’t even know what was going on.  I just knew something bad had happened.

Scott dated a girl in the band, so occasionally he and a few of his football buddies would come to our marching practices at the stadium. They would sit in the stands and yell encouragement once in awhile.  We could tell they were having a good time, but most of us had no idea how good.

That all came to an end one Tuesday evening.  We heard the next day about how it had shaken out.

What we hadn’t been able to tell from our disadvantaged perspective down on the playing field was that the fellows kept up their high spirits in the stands with just that–spirits.  Each Tuesday evening, one of the guys would find someone to get him a carton of beer since he was underage.  He would distribute the bottles to the guys before they ascended to their seats in the bleachers.  Then they would spend the next couple of hours joking and cheering—and sipping.

It seems that finally somebody on the staff figured out what was happening and alerted the school administration.  On that fateful Tuesday evening, the boys were unaware a trap was about to be sprung.  However, just moments before the head football coach started up the steps to where they were, one of the jocks figured out something was up.

What would they do?

Scott made a quick decision.  He would be the martyr—the hero.

“Quick guys!  Shove your bottles under my seat.  Then move away from me before they can get up here.”

They protested, but only weakly.  Within seconds, the preparations were completed, and Steve was by himself in the stands, evidence galore to be found under his seat.

He was finished as a football player.  Shamed and kicked off the team, he would never play offensive back again.

The other boys?

They played football that Friday night.  They played football every other Friday night of football season as long as they were in school.

All because one guy had taken the brunt of their punishment. One guy had accepted responsibility for their contraband.

The school was abuzz the next day and for several after that.  It wasn’t fair!  They all should have been punished!  Scott was the good guy here, but he was paying the price!  Where was the justice?

Students protested to teachers and administration alike, but it was for naught.  The rules were clear and he had broken them.  Under-age drinking on school grounds—there would be no reversal of the decision.

Scott was a hero.

Or, was he?
                              

It is Good Friday once again.  Today is a day to consider heroes.

No.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

Today, we commemorate the Cool Guy who took the beer bottles for every person in the world and claimed them as His own.

Right about now, I’m guessing there are some readers who are offended.

More than a few of you are unhappy I described the Savior as a cool guy–as if many who followed Him didn’t do so because they saw Him as what we would today call cool.

Some of you who wouldn’t touch a drop of alcohol if you were dying of thirst are offended I’ve equated your sins with that filthy stuff.

Others, who regularly quaff the liquid are offended because you think I’ve equated your sins with the refreshing drink.

Even though both assumptions are wrong, I will admit I’m almost hopeful that you are offended.

I am offended.

I am offended that The Hero had to take the penalty for my wrong doing.  We’re not talking about being kicked off the team here.  My wrong doing had a slightly more weighty penalty attached.

The penalty for my sins was death.

I am offended that I so lightly regard the Heroic act—accomplished on this day nearly two thousand years ago–that I return to my beer bottles again and again.

As Peter, one of our Hero’s followers (who himself faded into the crowd to avoid punishment) later reminded us, like a pig who has been cleaned up, we return to the filth of the wallow.

Is that offensive enough for you?

Try this on then–Like a dog, I come back to eat my own vomit.  Yes, also Peter’s words. (2 Peter 2:22)

Are you offended by the crudeness?

Will you, just for a moment, think of where the real offense was–and is?

God made a perfect place for us to live and we rejected Him.  Again and again, He offered ways of escape.

It was no surprise to Him, but again and again, the human race laughed in His face.

And then, in the fullness of time, at just exactly the right moment, He sent His own Son, the Hero of Heaven, to be born.

The Hero walked with us.  He taught us.  He loved and healed us.

And we repaid Him by shoving our beer bottles under His chair and slinking out into the night.

We were so crude as to spit on Him, and taunt Him, and beat Him.

We left Him to face the bitter end—the penalty for our evil ways.

Alone.  Naked.  Beaten. Bleeding.

And, in spite of the offense, and the crudeness, and the rejection, He never wavered in resolve.

He would take the offense to the grave.

Our offense.

Mine.  Yours.
                              

Scott was a nice guy.  A loyal friend, even.  But, never a hero.

You see, if you count the beer bottles under his chair and then count the buddies who skulked away from him, you will come up with one extra.  Count them again.

You’ll see that I’m right.  One extra.

One that belonged to Scott.

Scott simply got what was coming to him.  He didn’t pay the price for anyone else’s wrongdoing, only his own.
                              

Not a single one of the sins piled under that horrible, offensive cross on that Friday so many years ago belonged to the Hero who hung on it, bleeding and beaten.

They are too numerous to be counted.  I know.  I’ve contributed too many of my own.  Perhaps you have, too.

But, the fact still remains.  Not one was His own.

Not.  One.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

 

 

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

 

For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare even to die.  But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:7.8 ~ NASB)

 

 

 

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