It Rubs Off On Us

February 5, 2016February 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Be sure to bring an extra pair of coveralls tomorrow. We’re going to the wheel factory.

The electrician made the suggestion to his apprentice as they parked the service van and headed home for the night. The young man’s heart sank.

Wheel factory? Tomorrow? What a disaster!

He had hoped for a day of residential service calls instead. Those, he liked. They kept your brain active, trying to crack the mystery of where a certain circuit ran, or why the washing machine shocked the owner when she touched it.

He might even get to wait patiently by an outlet, watching a test meter as the electrician flipped breakers and clipped wires, trying to bring a dead circuit to life once again. That was simple, clean work which gave you a good feeling when you left the house with a satisfied customer waving from the doorway.

The wheel factory? There was nothing worse!

I’ll attempt to paint you a picture, shall I?

The factory looked like any other ordinary industrial facility. Stacks of iron wheels and brake drums stood round, strapped to pallets and awaiting their turn to be moved—the finished ones by semi-truck to the distant factories which had ordered them—the unprocessed ones by forklift into the plant nearby. There, they would be machined and drilled to the specifications which the tractor, automobile, and truck designers had determined.

Before the men headed in, our apprentice and his boss pulled on their coveralls and changed shoes. You’ll understand this a little better in a few moments. Walking toward the plant, with a tool belt on his waist and a fiberglass ladder over his shoulder, the full effect of the nightmare which was about to begin was still not clear, and the young apprentice thought, perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.

Ah! But, when the doorway was breached, and the vista of the huge building stretched out before him, the panic struck anew.

The first thing he noticed was the screech of the metal lathes pulsating and rising in pitch as each cut was made. The noise was not only deafening, but to his ears (he liked to think, sensitive musician’s ears) it was horrific, jarring him to the core. The din was almost painful—the perpetual squeal altering and dulling his other senses.

After the initial shock of the noise, he noticed the thick ever-present smog hanging in the air. Blue, oily smoke wafted up from every machine that cut and shaped and drilled, aided by the heat of the process and the liberal use of the viscous fluid to cool the cutting edges. The huge fans at the end of the building dragged the thickening atmosphere across the length of the entire building before pulling it, square foot by sooty square foot, from the building.

He shuddered to think what the air would be like in this horrible place if the fans were not functioning, but still it seemed they only sucked the nasty stuff in never-ending waves across anyone who was between the machines and the giant rotating fan blades. He would soon be breathing in that vile mixture…and the eerie place was only to get worse.

The plant maintenance man saw them come in and motioned them over. They followed him along rows of raw materials and machinery until he stopped beside one mammoth drill press. Pointing to the oily, slimy monster, he shouted over the shriek of the nearby lathes and the high-pitched whine of the drill presses;

“This one! It’s got to be rewired!”

With that, he was gone. As he disappeared into the maze of iron and machines, the apprentice looked down at his own hands. He would swear that he hadn’t touched anything, but they were black with grime already. He coughed with the stench of iron shavings mixed with oil and realized that his nightmare had already begun.

Hours later, when he and the master electrician picked up their tools and ladders and headed out to the blessed quiet and clean air of the world outside, they were both covered from head to toe with the filth. Their coveralls would take several cycles through the wash to come reasonably clean and they couldn’t wear their shoes anywhere until the soles were cleaned with de-greaser and solvents.

The young man coughed up black junk from his chest for hours. The headache would last longer than that.

Is the picture horrible enough for you? Is there a point to this horror story?

You know there is.

What I’d like to be able to do is to draw the parallel between the filthy factory and the dirty places in the world we can get into. We can’t rub shoulders with filthy people without some of it rubbing off on us. The transfer of polluted substances is almost instantaneous.

I’d like to be able to tell you that the moral of the story is that we should stay out of those places. I want to suggest that we should never associate with those dirty people and places.

What a simple solution! To avoid getting dirty, stay away from filthy locations and grimy humans.

I’d like to be able to tell you that, but I would be wrong. For too long though, it is just what we have done.

We don’t drink, smoke, or chew; and we don’t go with girls that do.

Our pride and our arrogance have led us to believe that if we can keep our clothes and our hands clean, nothing more is required of us.

We live upright and impeccable lives and think we have achieved the goal.

We couldn’t be further from the truth.

Several times in my writing, I’ve mentioned the hugs I get from some of those dirty people. My clothes stink until they are washed. A customer who walked in my store immediately after one such episode actually wrinkled up her nose as I waited on her.

Dirty rubs off on us. It sticks and leaves evidence.

The religious leaders in Jesus’ time thought so too, as they accused him of being a drunkard and a sinner. He spent His time with people who needed baths and who needed medicine and who needed a Priest.

The stench sticks to everyone in the vicinity.

Mother Teresa ministered among the diseased and poor of Calcutta, India for decades. I believe the love of Jesus shone through her life. I wonder, do you imagine this little woman smelled good? Do you think she was always spotless and clean? You don’t live and minister in the filth of one of the poorest, dirtiest cities in the world and stay clean and fresh.

Dirty rubs off on us.

Have you been in the vicinity of someone who is dirty recently? I’m including the spiritually dirty, as well as the physically unclean. It’s not necessarily a nice feeling, is it? There was residue left on you—on your person and on your soul—was there not?

Dirty rubs off on us.

But, here’s the other thing we need to know.

When we spend time with, and give of ourselves to, the kinds of people who need our attention—the poor, the lost ones, the souls who are wandering—we infect them too.

This infection, you can’t smell and you can’t see. But we are promised there is a payoff. Promised.

God says that, without fail, His Word achieves its purpose (Isaiah 55:10-11), and also that as we give, we receive. (Luke 6:38)

If we’re stingy and keep what we’ve been blessed with for ourselves, we’ll lose even that. (Luke 19:24)

Like the young electrical apprentice, we may hate the process. It will involve pain, and filth, and discomfort.

We’ll also have the uninhibited joy, as we walk away, of knowing that we’ve accomplished exactly what you went for.

The dirt—the stench—that ringing in our ears? They will go away, but the joy will remain.

Dirty does indeed, rub off on us.

But, the original cleanser still washes whiter than snow.

“Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full–pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap. The amount you give will determine the amount you get back.”
(Luke 6:38~NLT)

“If my baseball uniform doesn’t get dirty, I haven’t done anything in the baseball game.”
(Ricky Henderson~Former Major League Baseball left fielder)

Spit

December 2, 2015December 2, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Oh, that’s just gross! Why do you guys have to do that on the floor?

My little brass group had just finished practicing and were quickly moving our chairs and stands off the stage. The choir had a rehearsal scheduled right after us and we wanted to be out of their way. The young man speaking was one of several moving equipment back into the space we were vacating.

I looked at the floor, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Quizzically, I looked at the young man.

He gestured in a wide circle, indicating spots of liquid standing in close proximity to where the chairs had been moments ago.

“This—this—spit! What is it with instrumentalists?”

He shuddered once for effect and turned away without waiting for an answer. The brass players around me who had heard the exchange laughed, a condescending dismissal of the young vocalist’s squeamishness.

Yes. I want to talk about spit.

It’s a conversation I’ve been waiting to have for many years.

No one has ever wanted to discuss the matter with me. I wonder why that is.

Perhaps, I should begin by explaining the liquid which is left on the stage when wind players complete their performances or rehearsals. This is important stuff to all of you who are aspiring trumpet, or trombone, or even tuba players. Important perhaps, even for the parents of such folk.

The liquid is not spit. That’s right. Not spit.

It is nothing more or less than condensation. What would you expect to happen when warm, moist air is blown into a cold metal tube? What happens when you enter a cold automobile on a winter’s evening? The windows fog up, do they not? Do you call that moisture on the windshield spit? Of course not.

The water an instrumentalist empties out of his horn is simply condensation which has gathered in one spot and must be emptied, unless he or she wants to hear the burble of water having air blown through it.

Condensation. Not spit.

But, I still want to talk about spit.

On a day in the music store not long ago, a mother stood with her brood of children, awaiting her turn at the checkout. She looked down at the oldest of the four urchins and noticed a black mark on his cheek.

Without hesitation, she licked her thumb and rubbed his skin. The black mark didn’t disappear, but it was less noticeable than before.

The same couldn’t be said for the young man’s indignation.

“Did you just put spit on my face?” He sputtered in his frustration. “Why would you do that?”

The mother’s attempt at an explanation was merely met with more disgust, and the young man stalked out to the parking lot to await his family in privacy. He turned his face to glare back at the group as he exited. The black mark was still there—smudged, but very much in evidence.

My mind goes back again. I remember hearing the story when I was a child, not much older than that indignant young man. You may find it in the book of John in the Bible. (John 9)

The blind man stood, as he always had, waiting for something. Something. But, he didn’t know what he awaited. He had always been blind. From the day he had arrived, squalling and screaming, light had never passed from his eyes to his brain. Never.

He didn’t ask for anything. He just waited.

The Teacher let His followers argue about the existential questions for a moment or two. Why? Who? How?

They were the wrong questions.

He was sent to bring light to the world. Here was His big opportunity. Time to impress with big words and ostentatious prayers. He would wave His hands in the air and—Wait! What is He doing?

He spit in the dirt.

Spit. In the dirt.

And then He mixed up some mud and, hands filled with the gross mixture, stood and slathered the slimy stuff on the blind man’s unseeing eyes.

“Did you just spit in my eyes?”

The words aren’t recorded, but one wonders. Did the man hear the Teacher spit on the ground? His ears, acutely trained to be his guide since he had no eyes, must have heard. They must have detected the sound of dirt being mixed with the spit, and then recognized the rustle of robes, as the Master stood again.

Did he back away, putting his hand up to keep the ghastly stuff off of him?

No. He stood, listening to the Man speak, giving His instructions. He went, still blind, and washed the mud from his eyes.

What an astounding result! Light, pure and clear, streamed through the once useless orbs. Familiar voices spoke to him and, for the first time in his life, he put faces with the voices. He saw his home! And his family!

Light shone in darkness—just not in the way anyone would ever have anticipated.

Spit. What a gross thing. Why would Jesus have used spit, of all things? I have no answer.

I do know this. We who believe are even now in the time of year we call Advent.

Waiting.

Waiting for the Salvation of God to appear.

Just a warning. It won’t be pretty.

Or sanitary.

Not even a little sanitary.

A baby will be born in a barn, among the filth and stench. Dirty shepherds will come, not clean and freshly bathed, but straight from the dust and filth of caring for their livestock. Stinking and crusted with grime.

The end of the story won’t be any more sanitary. Bloody and sweat-covered, nailed to a cross of wood, He will die.

It won’t be pretty. It won’t be romantic. It won’t smell good, with aromatic candles fluttering in the breeze.

The little boy in my store didn’t understand that his mom wanted only for him to be clean. All he saw was the spit.

I wonder. We’re waiting.

With the blind man, we’re waiting for light.

It might not be as pretty as we’d like. Perhaps not as dramatic, either.

A baby who is born in a barn can’t be all that powerful, can He?

His light comes softly, and in unexpected ways.

I think I’ll stand here and wait.

You?

We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

…but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong, and the base things of the world and the despised God has chosen,the things that are not, so that He may nullify the things that are, so that no man may boast before God. But by His doing you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, and righteousness and sanctification, and redemption, so that, just as it is written, “Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord.”
(1 Corinthians 1:27-31 ~ NASB)

Raunchy

November 19, 2015November 19, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was in a quandary. The nice young lady had asked me if I would play my horn with the pit orchestra for a musical at the local university. Flattered, and hopeful I would be able to cover the part, I agreed.

I would regret my decision very soon thereafter.

My personal preparation for the production (which ran for four nights) would involve many hours—painful hours—of practice. I’m an old man who has coasted for many years, playing easy, pretty things—the kind of music that makes folks sigh and exclaim that the French horn is their favorite instrument.

This wasn’t that kind of music. I wasn’t able to cover the part without the personal wood-shedding of the pieces over and over.

I wish that had been the hardest part of preparing for the production. It wasn’t. The hardest part had nothing to do with the music, or the time involved, or even the people who would participate with me.

It’s a raunchy story.

Raunchy.

The story of a demented man who wanders the countryside pretending to be a knight. It’s the story of people who steal what they want from fellow travelers. The demented knight is robbed and beaten, and he dies.

He dies.

All of that wasn’t a problem for me.

What was a problem was that one of the main characters, a serving lady in the inn, is also a prostitute. I didn’t like that she has a filthy mouth. I didn’t like that the songs seem to make light of the sinful state of the folks who populate the stage play.

I almost called the nice young lady and told her I couldn’t be involved in her production. You see, I’m not a raunchy person. I don’t want to be identified with that type of stuff.

I’m not raunchy. Right?

I didn’t call the nice young lady. Instead, I listened to a recording of the play one last time before making a decision. I sat through the fight in the inn’s courtyard as the knight sought to protect the serving lady’s honor, a laughable attempt at a vain undertaking, I thought. It was especially futile, given that the first man he did battle with had already paid the cash price the woman demanded for her services.

Moments later in the track, the crude musical explanation of who she knew herself to be left me nodding my head in agreement. She was crude, the crudeness almost overshadowing the shock of her being raped at one point during the story.

No. I just couldn’t do this. I couldn’t be a part of this thing. I would call the nice young lady in the morning and back out as gracefully as I could.

But the recording was still playing.

The mad knight would not be swayed. The lady, his dream of womanhood, could be none other than his sweet Dulcinea, even though she insisted she was neither pure nor sweet.

I never expected to cry.

It’s not a religious story. It’s a raunchy tale of twisted humanity.

And redemption.

Really. Redemption.

An impossible dream.

The prostitute becomes the lady the deluded knight envisioned.

How is that possible?

I cried every night of the production. Every night. As I played my horn, tears ran down my cheeks.

The story of mankind is a raunchy tale of twisted humanity. You may read the whole story in the Bible. Don’t say you haven’t been warned though.

The pages are populated by adulterers, prostitutes, murderers, liars, cheats, and thieves—to say nothing of insane kings and philandering judges.

Yes. The Holy Bible. The same Book that says, whatever is true, honest, just, pure, holy, these are the things to contemplate. (Philippians 4:8)

Here’s the thing: The raunchy tale of twisted humanity is also the story of a Holy God who looked at what was and saw what would be. A God who would take the flawed and filthy and make it pure and whole.

Redemption.

And, raunchy becomes righteous.

Somehow, we don’t want to talk about the dirty stuff. We avoid the filth—as if we’ve never been filthy ourselves. I sometimes wonder if it makes us feel better to think about how perfect we are, comparing ourselves with others who haven’t experienced His Grace. Or, perhaps it simply reminds us of hard truths and sad experiences we’d rather not remember.

But, this I know: Without the depravity—without the raunchiness, there would never have been the redemption. Without sin—no grace.

We do Him a disservice when we sweep the story under the rug, as if it never happened. We lie when we lead people to believe that we are any better than the rest of the raunchy world.

We discount the value of the astounding gift given us when we avoid the stigma of our past lives, as if it had never happened.

What a gift to a people who deserved nothing better than to wallow in their own filth!

Raunchy?

Once I was. Not any more.

Redeemed.

Redeemed.

“Once, just once, would you look at me as I really am?”
“I see beauty, purity. Dulcinea.”
(from Man of La Mancha ~ Dale Wasserman ~ American playwright ~ 1914-2008)

. . .just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless.
(Ephesians 5:25-27 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

filth

It Rubs Off On Us

Spit

Raunchy