Where Will We Go?

August 30, 2016August 30, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

My old friend came in and sat down. It seemed like a morning for remembering the past.

It turned out to be a morning for looking to the future.

Somehow though, there are always more important things to consider than those that are most obvious. We talk about life as we know it, but larger truths lie waiting to be appropriated.

Our conversation was interrupted a time or two by customers, come to replenish their supply of guitar picks, or banjo strings. Then she came in lugging a case that could only hold a trombone. I remembered the young lady from her visit just days ago.

“I did what you suggested. I brought it by to be sure it’s not going to be a bad horn for my son. Do you mind taking a look at it?”

I didn’t mind. It was a good horn and I told her so, suggesting a few things she might do to keep it in that condition. She thanked me and left.

As I returned to my seat, my friend, who had listened and watched the interlude carefully, stared at me—a mixture of surprise and annoyance written on his face.

He wanted to know how she had the nerve to walk in with an instrument she had purchased elsewhere and ask me to help her determine its suitability. He had also noted that there was no request on my part for a fee, nor had she offered one.

I brushed his concerns aside.

“I told her to do it. I want to be sure as many kids as possible get good instruments, even when I’m not the one to provide them.”

He sat in silence for a moment or two. Mouth hanging open in disbelief and hands waving in the air, he digested the concept.

In a return—of sorts—to our earlier conversation, he asked one more question.

“Where are they going to go to get that done when you’re not around anymore?”

My friend avers that we offer a service no other business would offer. I’m sure he’s wrong, but I can’t prove it.

I do wish I could answer his question. It bothers me.

I have thought about it before. I thought about it more after he left today.

It’s an odd thing, though. That more important truth I mentioned earlier keeps intruding on my consideration.

Peter said to the Master, “Lord, to whom would we go? You have the only words capable of giving life. There is no one else.” (John 6:67-69)

A large number of people who had been following Jesus were deserting Him, not able to accept the truths He was teaching. He had wondered aloud if the original disciples were also going to abandon Him.

Peter and his comrades knew the truth. There was no one else to turn to. No other person who walked the earth, no other teacher who offered his version of truth, had words that could give eternal life. There was no one else.

There was no one else.

There never will be.

You know, my friend is wrong.

Others will come behind me. If they don’t do the same things, the new methods will suffice.

The music will not die. It didn’t really need me in the first place.

The same cannot be said of those who follow Jesus. There will never be a different Savior. There will never be another Son of God.

No one else will ever offer the words of life.

Ever.

No one else will ever offer the words of life. Ever. Share on X

And unlike me, He won’t be retiring. His offer stands. To every generation. Until the end of days.

Come unto me, all who are weary and burdened with care, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28)

Leave your money at home. You can’t afford this service.

He wouldn’t accept it anyway.

The graveyards are full of indispensable men.
(Charles DeGaulle ~ French statesman ~ 1890-1970)

Your eternal word, O Lord,
stands firm in heaven.
Your faithfulness extends to every generation,
as enduring as the earth you created.
(Psalm 119:89-90 ~ NLT)

Where’s My Stetson?

March 2, 2016March 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

C’mon Bermuda! Move on up to the gate, now!

The farmer, his wrinkled visage aged well beyond his years, gave the old cow a gentle slap on the flank and she immediately acquiesced, edging forward six inches to allow the slats to close around her muscular neck. The sweet-natured Holstein knew she would find food in the trough on the other side of the wooden stall anyway, so she didn’t mind expending the effort of shifting a few inches.

While Bermuda (named for the black coloration that extended down just below the knees on her front legs) settled in for a snack, the gnarled hands of the middle-aged farmer deftly pulled down the cups which would attach to her milk-filled udder and manipulated them into place.

The phhhht-phhhht-phhhht of the gentle vacuum started and then it was on to the next donor.

Uncle JoJo had run this farm for more years than he wanted to talk about, having learned the trade from his father before him. As he ran the milker and moved the gentle cows through the barn, his son worked the cows who were awaiting their turn.

Outside the barn, the beasts weren’t quite as docile.

Hey, Cutter! Get back there!

Jody, with his long, curly shock of hair flying about his sweaty face, wasn’t exactly docile either. His job was to keep the cows in the yard, awaiting their turn in the barn. They had been happy enough to make their way to the yard from the fields, but patience wasn’t their best attribute.

I noticed though, that the animals seemed to know where they should be, and were, for the most part, happy to stay in a fairly well-defined line. All of them, that is, except Cutter, named for obvious reasons.

She kept moving from her place and shoving in between other cows, who didn’t take kindly to the intrusion.

“What’s going on?” I asked Jody.

The big-boned, good-natured fellow laughed.

“These ladies all know their place. Except for Cutter. She’ll learn—someday.”

The thought hit me instantly.

“What? They stand in the same order all the time?”

He chuckled again. “Of course they do. Everyday as we call them in from the field, no matter where they are when we call, you can see them getting into line as they come. By the time they get to the barn door, they’re in the same order as they’ve always been. Young Cutter there—she’s new to the herd and just hasn’t found her place in line yet. Like I said, she’ll learn.”

That was nearly forty years ago.

I thought of Uncle JoJo’s cows again recently, though. I was on my way to Los Angeles when the memory hit me. Sitting in an airport in Houston, I watched in amazement as the dumb animals lined up outside the barn door to await the farmer’s invitation into the familiar building.

No. That’s not what I meant to say!

What I intended to say was that I watched sixty human beings as they followed the instructions of a disembodied voice.

Please line up in the order of the number on your boarding pass. Numbers one through thirty on the right, and thirty-one through sixty on the left. Five people between poles, please.

The human cattle dutifully lined up, finding their places as they approached the numbered poles. Once they were in place, they waited quietly for further instructions. Yes, there was a Cutter or two in the crowd, but they soon learned where their place was and dutifully stood there.

When the plane was ready, the voice once again gave the instruction for each group to move forward. They did so with such obeisance that I couldn’t get the image of the old cows out of my head.

It was all very funny until my flight was called and the voice without a body started giving instruction to the new herd, of which I was a part. I almost laughed again as I considered what the reaction would be if one of the attendants had appeared with an electric cattle prod to keep the cutters in line.

Months have passed and I’ve had a little time to consider the implication of that mental picture.

The cattle entering that barn all those years ago had a reward in mind. They were going to be fed. The inconvenience of waiting and of being hooked up to the vacuum line was of no consequence to them.

They got what they wanted and were content.

I, along with the other humans who awaited the flight, also had a goal in mind. Besides arriving at our destination, we wanted to save money and were willing to give up a little freedom to keep the price of our ticket down.

There are airlines which do not herd their passengers through the loading process, but allow them to board as they come and to sit in an assigned seat. I was willing to give up that luxury for the reward of saving a few hard-earned dollars.

I’m still debating if the reward justifies the humiliation.

My assumption is that the next time I travel, I’ll save the money again. Some habits are just hard to break.

The sad thing is that I see parallels all about me.

Folks hold paper numbers in their hands as they sit in the Driver’s License Bureau, awaiting the time when the rude person behind the desk will call that number.

When we go out to eat at many restaurants, we are given buzzers which vibrate and flash, indicating our turn to sit and masticate has finally arrived.

At amusement parks, we actually go through the same sort of chute system used by sale barns to guide the livestock to auction.

Our lives are—day in and day out—lived as domesticated stock, standing where we are told until allowed to move closer to the goal.

Well, a lot of us live that way.

As time goes by, I’m starting to take notice of a few folks who refuse to live by the herd rules.

Back in that airport, as I watched the people line up for the flight before mine, I noticed a blue-jean clad fellow sitting off to the side with a Stetson hat on the seat beside him. He had a smile on his face as he stretched out, arms behind his head and legs pushed out as far in front of him as they would go, his shiny cowboy boots pointing into the air.

The noisy, grumpy people stood waiting, then filed through their sequences of sixties, one at a time, as he relaxed there.

After the line had disappeared down the jet-way and the hubbub had died down, he stood up, set the cowboy hat atop his head and strode leisurely to the gate.

In my imagination, I can hear the Texas drawl as he replies, in answer to the obvious questions.

Well shore, I had a number. But there wasn’t no reason to stand there waitin’ when a body could be sittin’. Didn’t figger ya’ll would be leavin’ without me anyhow.

I’m not sure that’s how he would have talked, but I’m pretty sure that cowboy knew a herd when he saw one.

He wasn’t part of any herd.

We’re not intended to run with a herd.

We are, each and every one of us, designed as individuals.

Our Creator made me and He made you to be peculiar—unique.

King David assures us that all of the days ordained for us were written in His book before even one of them dawned. (Psalm 139:16)

I’m confident we weren’t made to be part of the herd. And, knowing that, it may be time to break out of the corral we’ve allowed ourselves to be put into.

Maybe Cutter had the right idea after all.

And, I’m not sure I know how to break out of the mold, but I do like the way the cowboy thinks.

Now, if I could just find my Stetson.

For You formed my inward parts;
You wove me in my mother’s womb.
I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well.
(Psalm 139:13-14 ~ NASB)

Good judgment comes from experience and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.
(Cowboy logic)

New Things

February 29, 2016November 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Open your eyes. I am going to do a new thing.

The voice in my head was as clear as if someone in the room had spoken. The only problem was no one else was there. The Lovely Lady had already left for her morning of work at the library.

I was by myself. There was not a soul in the house besides me.

I’m not a dreams and visions type person. I’ve always believed that God gives us wisdom and intelligence to follow the path laid out before us. As we make educated decisions, His Spirit guides us. Gently.

I never wanted to hear a voice in my ear as I awake in the morning. Well, except for the Lovely Lady’s telling me there are doughnuts to go with the coffee. . .

I would understand it if I had just been reading that specific chapter in the Bible right before retiring. Isaiah 43 is a powerful chapter, with reminders of who our God is, and what He intends to do. I’ve read the passage several times since that morning.

But, I hadn’t read it in ages. I don’t think it was put in my head by anything I had heard or read with a similar message.

The words just hung in the air.

A new thing? Really?

I don’t like new things all that much.

My shoes, I like comfortable and broken in. I’m using the same cash register at my music store I was using in the 1990s. It’s not that it’s a great piece of machinery, but I understand how to make it work, and that’s enough.

I like to eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with fried tuna patties every Thursday evening. Don’t ask me out to eat on Thursday. Comfort food night is almost like going to church. If I have my mac and cheese, I can almost believe everything is right with the world.

I don’t really care for new places, or new experiences, or new flavors.

I bought a bicycle the other day. It sat for two weeks before I even threw a leg over the saddle. Another two weeks later, I actually wheeled it out of the front door.

On Saturday, I put air in the tires and did something I had never done. I locked my shoes into the clip-less pedals and took a turn around the parking lot out front. I wasn’t happy to see a couple of big, burly fellows sitting on the roof across the street, working on the sign hanging there. I certainly didn’t want to look foolish to them.

But then, I got started pedaling and it seemed to go well. At first.

I actually thought the words as I rounded the lot for the first time.

See! I am doing a new thing!

Not for long did I keep that foolish thought in my head. You see, I quickly discovered that I knew nothing about changing the gears on this particular setup. It was right about that time I realized I would have to unlock my shoes from the pedals soon, too. Without falling over.

Bicycles have only two tires, you know. They don’t balance when they’re not moving forward. This one would come to a stop very soon, and I couldn’t remember which foot I had decided it would be best to put down first. I started to unclip the right foot, just as I slowed to a near stop. It was right about then I remembered I had decided I should unclip the left foot first.

It was also right about then the seat tube decided to slide down about six inches. Whump!

Did I tell you I was worried about looking foolish?

I looked foolish.

I hate it when I look foolish. Hate it.

And perhaps, we have actually uncovered why I dislike new things so much. Unfamiliar territory is territory where I make mistakes. I don’t appear intelligent and wise. I don’t impress.

I am embarrassed. Frequently.

I want it to stop. I am approaching sixty years old, an age at which I believe it is my right to retain my dignity at all times.

I shouldn’t be expected to learn new skills, to venture out on untried bridges, to balance on two micro-thin rubber tires while remembering which foot is which and which shifter changes what gear.

But tonight, I’m wondering—I who have declared in my brashest voice that I am a follower of the Son of God—I’m wondering what it means to really follow Him.

Is it enough that I have followed Him for these few years, the decades of youth and middle-age?

Is that enough?

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there? What then? Share on X

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there—across the bridge?

Would I take the chance—the adventure—and strike out to a new and unknown field?

I’ve never been over there.

What if there are strange people?

Is the bridge safe?

Will I have plenty to eat, a warm place to stay, a comfy bed in which to sleep when I reach the end of each day?

On the best day fishing Peter and his partners had ever had—the best day—the Teacher told them He had better things for them to accomplish. (Luke 5:9-11)

They abandoned their boats and nets—and fantastic catch—on the shore and followed.

They followed.

A new thing.

Maybe it was only learning to ride a different bicycle for me. Perhaps, that will be the end of the matter.

Perhaps not.

Probably not.

I wonder. Could I cross the bridge, abandoning the comfortable, familiar place I’m in? I want to believe that I could.

I might look ridiculous—foolish even.

Would you laugh?

Or, would you cross it with me?

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at.

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at. Share on X

I don’t know where we’re going yet.

He does.

It will be enough.

Do not remember the former things,
Nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I will do a new thing,
Now it shall spring forth;
Shall you not know it?
I will even make a road in the wilderness
And rivers in the desert.
(Isaiah 43:18, 19 ~ NKJV)

“Doubtless,” said the Prince. “This signifies that Aslan will be our good lord, whether he means us to live or die. And all’s one, for that. Now, by my counsel, we shall . . . all shake hands one with another, as true friends that may shortly be parted. And then, let us descend into the City and take the adventure that is sent us.”
(From The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ British novelist ~ 1898-1963)

Winding Paths

January 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve believed it for a long time. I’ve even used the illustration myself before.

I’m not so sure anymore.

The boy learning to plow tries his hand at running the tractor. Completing his first row, he turns back proudly to view the result of his effort only to see a wobbly, wandering furrow.

You’ve heard it before, of course. If you’ve read enough of my writing, you know how much I love a moral. There’s definitely a moral to this one.

Eyes on the prize.

Somehow, I’m not sure this one is as clear-cut as it used to be.

The old farmer takes the wheel of the tractor and turns it around, suggesting to the lad that he needs to keep his eye on the goal. Pick a landmark far ahead and steer a course straight toward that. Don’t look at the ground; focus on the target. He plows a straight furrow every time.

Long term goals.

We revere men of straight paths. Focused on their destination, they move steadily in the same direction, never faltering, ever resolute.

Is there such a man? Perhaps. I have thought I knew some, but I’ve been disappointed before. We live in a world of distractions. Even the most focused human is bound to falter, maybe even to veer off the path, given the right diversion.

We make idols of men, believing a lie.

Only one Man lived a faithful life of purpose, never faltering from His purpose.

True, He’s the one we follow. Still, we take wrong turns. We misplace our resolve.

I spoke with a friend today, sadly relating my experience of watching a life lived in a straight line for many years, only to see it veer off on a incredible tangent just as the person neared the goal. So close—close and yet so very far.

A long obedience in the same direction, only to disappoint as the prize was within their grasp.

I wonder. Is there something wrong with the assumption that a straight line is the only way this following thing works?

When the Teacher told them to follow Him, was He asking those men to pick a target way out in the future, at the very end of their life and aim for that? I somehow don’t think that was what He had in mind. He didn’t ask them to pledge their lifelong service

He just said, “Follow me.”

That’s it. Follow.

I don’t have to know where the end of the road is. I don’t have to worry about interchanges and alternate routes before I get there. I’m not a navigator.

A follower, that’s what I am. I’m not that good at it, but it’s all I’ve ever claimed to be.

It seems that we want to set our sights on the straight-liners, the ones who stride along, head held high, secure in the knowledge they are on the right road. If we do, we’ll be disappointed nearly every time.

We weren’t called to follow them.

We’re only called to follow the One who faithfully followed His Father. Every step. (John 15:10)

Probably, the furrow He plowed would not have appeared to be a straight one to any onlookers. Certainly, it wasn’t to the religious leaders of that day. They knew the right path. Knew it.

But, they didn’t recognize the one He walked. He stopped in at too many parties, got caught in too many storms at sea, and touched too many lepers. Surely, this one couldn’t be following God!

We can’t be sure how straight the road will be from here on out. I don’t think we need to be worried about it.

If we stick close, we’ll be able to make the sharp turns when He does.

We may not stride in with head held high. But stumbling in with head hanging, knowing we followed all the way will be enough.

Oh. We should probably be ready to make a detour or two to visit a sick friend—or check on that fellow in jail.

The path is not all that straight, after all.

Then Jesus said to His disciples, “If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me.
(Matthew 16:24 ~ NASB)

All the way my Savior leads me,
Cheers each winding path I tread,
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living bread.
(Fanny J Crosby ~ American hymn-writer ~ 1820-1915)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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Where Will We Go?

Where’s My Stetson?

New Things

Winding Paths