forgiveness

The Time for Anger is Past

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments
image by Adam Kontor at Pexels

How is it that the fear
Banished in the morning light
Claws at my heart now,
Cowering in the new thrown night?

Hyperbole is what that is.  Poetic license, taken by one given to flights of imagination.  It’s expected when one writes in verse and rhyme.

Still, it’s not so far off the mark, some nights.

I am by nature a night person, haunting the empty rooms and darkened recesses of this old mid-century habitation long after any other denizens of the neighborhood, save the four-footed variety, have given in to the siren call of slumber.  And when, as is my lot at times, my chronic breathing problems surface, even the hours when I’ve retreated to my bed are spent turning this way and that, coughing and yet, attempting to suppress the overwhelming urge to do that very thing.

As one might expect, eventually the mind turns to unhappy and dark subjects or, more specifically, situations for which I’ve found, in my normal haunting hours, no solution or cure.

Unfinished business is a weight on my mind, a burden if you will, that bends the spirit until I’m afraid the breaking point is near.  And, clawing fear with unanswered questions is often given leave to ride, untethered, through the dark hours.

Tonight I received an unexpected note from one I love. His message closed with these words that give me hope the reign of one particular fear is near an end:

“I think my time for anger is finally over.”

The last time I wrote about the man was right after he died.  Two years ago, almost.  One would have thought the turmoil, the tumult, had died with him.  One would have been wrong.

Just because a character has fallen out of the story, it’s not a given that closure is accomplished.  Much the opposite, this falling-out part often seems to increase the impact of the mental conflict, to magnify those unpleasant memories that never seem to behave themselves or to become comfortable scenes from the past.

I loved the man—more than I have loved most other folks on this spinning ball of dirt and water.  But, that said, he was the most stubborn human being I’ve ever known.  Well, maybe not more stubborn than the red-headed lady he was married to.

And yet, he could also be the most maddening person I knew.  That red-headed lady said it once (that I remember).

“That man!  He makes me so mad!”

I was twelve and had never heard her say a negative word about my father before.  I was certain the divorce papers would be served soon.

Of course, they never were. He cared for her until the day she died, even though she had not known who he was for a couple of years before her passing.  He was like that.

He kept his promises.  It was one of the things about him that was so maddening. Yes, maddening.  Keeping promises.

In his last years, there was one particular person he made promises to.  She made promises, too—never intending to keep them.  He intended to keep his and did until the day he died, at great cost to himself and his family.

But, no.

This is not an exposé.  It’s not.

I intended to do that one day.  I would write a tell-all story, exposing his shortcomings and character failings to the world.  Bare my soul, vomiting out my frustration and angst.

It will never happen.

Remember the story of Noah in the Bible?  That righteous man, Noah, a fierce follower of God, who complied willingly with God’s plan for the survival of mankind and the animal kingdom by building an ark and taking his family into it, saving them from the flood?

There is another story about the man, found in chapter 9 of Genesis, verses 18 through 28.  After the flood, Noah, being more of a farmer than a boatbuilder, grew a crop of grapes, subsequently making wine from the bounty. Sampling the liquid, he became drunk.  In his inebriated state, he took off his clothes and laid, in his drunken stupor, naked in his tent.

Wait.  Drunk and naked?  The most righteous man in the world? That doesn’t seem right, does it?

His son, Ham, didn’t think so either.  Finding his father in that state, he called his brothers, Shem and Japheth, to come and look, so anxious was he to expose Dad’s shortcoming.

They chose not to participate.

Taking their father’s cloak between the two of them, they walked backward.  So they could preserve their father’s dignity, they purposefully refused to look at him naked.  They covered his nakedness.

It’s different today.

A popular writer in our day, Anne Lamott, famously suggests you own everything that happened to you.  She encourages—no, insists—that we should tell everything, regardless of the harm to others.  I’m certain she means well.

But I’m with Shem and Japheth.  I choose not to participate.  To expose the private sin and shortcomings of one I love is to disrespect who he was throughout his life.

He was a man who loved his God intensely.  Fiercely, even.  And, because of that, he was a man who loved the people around him in the same way.  As a pastor, he made it his mission to be where he was needed.  He listened.  He comforted.  He wept.  He rejoiced.

When he was no longer the pastor of a church, he became pastor to the folks at the local breakfast cafe, the grocery store, even the bank.  Again and again, he made friends of strangers, praying as easily as he talked, encouraging more than he exhorted, leaving the world behind him better for having walked here.

He loved his family with that same fierce love.  Every one of his children walked away from some aspect of the principles, the faith, he had brought us up in, yet his love for us never waned.  With each of us, he prayed.  To the end of his days, he prayed.  And he sang.  And he quoted scripture—and poetry.

In the back of my mind, even as I write this, I hear the voice.  “But, what about that episode? What about the time he did this?  Tell them about the day…”

Why do we hold on so long to resentment?  To anger?

What possible end can we hope to achieve by holding them tightly?  Like some monstrous, yet precious, treasures, we grasp them with a death-grip only age-worn and life-weary hands can manage.

The closer we hold them, the more they hurt us.  The longer we embrace them, the harder it becomes to let them go.

Many eventually loose that anger in outbursts of ugly accusation and personal venom. The outburst can be a catharsis; no one could argue that.  But, catharsis achieved and outburst exhausted, all that is left in view is a smaller human being, accompanied by his/her scorched and ruined memories of one whom they loved and were loved by.

Many will disagree with my viewpoint.  The age in which we live thrives on canceling reputations and flaming memories.  Somehow we believe we are bigger for diminishing the reputations of those whose voices are silent now and who can no longer answer back.

It can only diminish us.

The one I love is right.  The time for anger is over.  If it’s not, the time for fear and resentfulness never will be.  Ever.

And somehow, the One I always end up talking to in the dark, He who is the Light that has defeated the darkness and will one day banish it forever, reminds me that my anger and resentment is one of the burdens He asked me to give to Him.

Many I know are carrying that same burden—have carried it for most of the years of their life.

Why would we willingly keep bending under that heavy load?  Pain and unhappiness are the only possible return we’ll realize from the labor.

He promises rest.  And hope.

The time for anger is over.

Ahh.  Sweet freedom!

 

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.
(Matthew 11:28, NLT)

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.
(Martin Luther King Jr.)

The light shines in the darkness,
    and the darkness can never extinguish it.
(John 1:5, NLT)

 

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

Heroes Know How to Hug

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
image by August de Richelieu on Pexels

 

There was another school shooting the other day.

I know. You don’t want to read about that here.

You see the news every day. I do, too. It’s all there—school shootings, police shootings, gang shootings—but I think you want to know about this one.

It was at a middle school in Idaho, what we used to call an elementary school. A little girl in the sixth grade brought a handgun in her backpack and opened fire, shooting two schoolmates and a custodian.

Just so you don’t bail on me too quickly, I’ll tell you now that no one died. All three individuals have been released from the hospital, having been struck by the bullets in their limbs, rather than in the torso or head.

But it could have been worse. Except for the quick thinking and big heart of one teacher, it could have been a lot worse.

When she heard the shooting start, she did what her training taught her to do; she got the students under her immediate care to a safe place. But then she went to see if she could help in another way.

She tried to help the shooting victims.

While she was with one of them, she looked up and saw the shooter with the gun still in her hands. She didn’t hesitate; she didn’t duck and cover. She walked to the girl and, ignoring the danger to herself, put her hand on her arm and slid it down to the girl’s hand, covering the pistol. Then, calmly and gently, she simply took the gun from the girl’s hand.

You think that was heroic? Wait until you read what she did next.

She hugged the little girl to her chest until the authorities came to take her away. Hugged her. Because the teacher knew that somewhere, there were parents who didn’t know their little child was hurting people and needed help calming down. She hugged her and talked to her and loved on her until others came and calmly took her away.

I read the story and I wept.

I do that a lot these days—weeping, I mean. It’s just not usually when I read the news. I’m used to stories of tragic events—bad people doing bad things and getting what they deserve, or disasters overtaking folks who, through no fault of their own, are in the wrong place at the wrong time (as we would put it, perhaps wrongly).

I—we—get jaded and hardened. We hardly feel it, unless it’s someone we know or someone we identify with.

Somehow, try as I might, I can’t keep my mind from wandering. It goes where it wants these days. Perhaps it always has.

I remember like it was yesterday (well, the main points, at least). My parents had come for a week’s visit, and one evening as we sat talking, the conversation veered to a current event in our area of the country.  A group of teenage boys had been involved in a violent crime and their trial had recently come to an end with a guilty verdict.

“Good! They got what they deserved! Too bad that doesn’t happen more often!”

The words came from the cocky young father’s mouth with all the assurance of one who knew right from wrong and believed that justice was of the utmost importance. Others in the room agreed.

But then a voice, from the person in the room least likely (in my mind, at least) to be soft on crime, spoke up quietly.

“I’m glad there was a time, not too many years ago, when that wasn’t true.”

My dad didn’t need to repeat the words. This cocky young father looked at the floor, hanging his head just a little, and nodded.

“Oh, yeah.”

I haven’t always been the principled, upright person I should have been. An incident in my teenage years haunts my memories with images of mischief and destruction, along with a visit to the local police station and an interview session with a gruff old sergeant.

Guilty!

I was.

There had been thousands of dollars in damages and lost labor for a contractor whose employees had to wait, idle, for repairs to be effected to his property before resuming their tasks.

The contractor refused to press charges. He didn’t even ask for repayment of his lost labor expenses. I worked that summer to repay only the actual cost of physical repairs, a matter of a couple hundred dollars.

Mercy. Where I expected justice.

Grace. When my debt was beyond my puny ability to pay it back.

Love. When I intended harm to him.

And yet, in a matter of a few years, here was the guilty one calling out for a pound of flesh, for the stiff punishment of his fellow miscreants, without a thought for the debt which had been forgiven him.

Still, the years have passed, thirty or more of them since that day of remembrance and repentance.

The years have passed, and my heart again grows hard, driving forgiveness and mercy into the shadows. But, not so far into the darkness that the light of love can’t illuminate them.

Today, I remember again.

And again, I repent.

The Teacher, He who came with no other purpose but to shine that light, the light of Love (by His teaching, certainly, but ultimately by His sacrifice), into the darkness, made it clear to us.

“If you won’t forgive your brother when he sins against you, my Heavenly Father won’t forgive your sins against Him.” (Matthew 18:35 ~ my paraphrase)

I am without excuse.

I forget that, like the teacher holding that scared, guilty little girl in the school hallway the other day, our Heavenly Father pulls us to his breast, speaking peace and grace into our darkness while He loves us as only a Father can.

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”
(1 Corinthians 13:7 ~ CSB)

We will, in life, be disappointed in our trust in others again and again. Still, we trust and we hope. When we are hurt, we forgive. And we go forward in the company of other selfish, self-serving people who are just like us. We go forward knowing that Love is not weak but more powerful than guilt and shame.

A friend wrote the words on her social media page not so long ago, “I believe that love still conquers all.”

I don’t disagree. But, as I consider, I’m certain there is more.

Sometimes love simply wraps up the erring party in its arms and holds them close until they have no strength left to resist.

“Love never fails.”

Never.

 

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

But God demonstrates his own love for us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:8 ~ NET)

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

 

What Are You Looking At?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The jaunty little runabout pulled by a chestnut mare sped along at a good clip, its spoked wheels flashing in the evening sun. The bench seat, with room for only two, bounced a little on leaf springs designed to smooth the ride in places where the road wasn’t always so even.

The two occupants of the seat, listening to the rapid clippity-clip of the horse’s hooves on the stony lane, didn’t much care why the ride was smooth; they simply enjoyed the sense of unimpeded speed and the proximity of their seatmate as the miles toward home disappeared behind them.

As they approached the river crossing ahead, the pretty young lady spoke to the young man beside her. Immediately, he gave a tug on the leather reins and was rewarded by a reduction in speed almost as quickly as it had taken to pull the reins. The chestnut was no newcomer to this route, realizing that she never sped across the covered bridge. A walk was all that was ever allowed across the wooden platform.

Who knows? She might even get a break from moving at all if the young fellow took advantage of the enclosed bridge to sneak a kiss or two from his young sweetheart. It had happened before. Folks did call them kissing bridges. Regardless, the mare knew to walk across the bridge.

It was the law and her owner always followed the law. Always.

Click here to read the rest of the article. . .

Integrity. Again.

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was embarrassing.  To me, anyway.

I don’t suppose anyone else noticed it.  Even if they had, they wouldn’t have mentioned it.

The pastor was talking.  Something about things the disciples misunderstood about Jesus.

I think that’s what it was.  I was paying attention.  I was.

But, looking down as he spoke, I noticed them.  The threads.  The ones hanging from the hem on the right sleeve of my shirt.  It wasn’t just one or two, either.  

The whole edge of the sleeve was frayed, with white strings dangling like the fringe around the shade of grandma’s old table lamp.

I don’t remember what the pastor said now.  I do remember looking quickly from my right arm to the left, only to find more frayed edges.

It is one of my favorite short-sleeved shirts, but I will never be seen in it again.  Years of wear, of putting on and taking off, of raising my hands in joyful triumph and of shaking my fists in angry frustration, have taken their toll on the woven cloth and left it weak and fragile.

It has lost its integrity.

No longer do the crisscrossed threads, woven over and under, keep their place.  No longer is there a sharp crease at the edge of the sleeve, a clear boundary between fabric and skin.

It has lost its integrity.

I stealthily ran my finger around the circumference of each sleeve, to try and hide the errant threads.  Pulling the sleeves tight against my biceps, I hoped no one would notice.

They may have.  Or not.  It doesn’t matter.

The Lovely Lady will remove the buttons, tossing them into a jar—why, I’m not sure— and the once-favored garment will find itself in the trash bin, come trash pickup day.

Well?  I can’t very well go around in a shirt with no integrity, now can I?

When last I wrote, it was scars.  Today, a lack of integrity.  Both hidden.  Both needing to be exposed to the light of day.

They are not the same—scars and lost integrity.  Somehow though, we punish folks for both, blaming the injured as much as we do the dishonest.

But, I want to make this clear—crystal clear:  Grace suffices for both.  

Grace heals our scars, restoring our damaged spirits and renewing our joy.  

Grace makes new the fabric of our broken lives, restoring integrity and revitalizing our resolve.

Because of grace, we can journey on.  In His redemption, we are made new, neither wounded nor dishonorable.

His offer is for a garment with integrity and without stain.  Ours—the price paid completely by our Redeemer. (Revelation 3:18)

No more embarrassment.

No more being tossed aside.

He doesn’t cut off the buttons and throw away the worn out fabric.

He doesn't cut off the buttons and throw away the worn out fabric. Share on X

Grace makes new.

Integrity.

Again.

 

 

In great matters, men show themselves as they wish to be seen; in small matters, as they are.
(Gamaliel Bradford ~ American biographer ~ 1863-1932)

 

May integrity and honesty protect me,
    for I put my hope in you.
(Psalm 25:21 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation.  All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

 

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

Parenthesis Closed

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

Three of these things belong together.
Three of these things are kind of the same.

From childhood, we learn it.  Things that are similar belong together.  Even educational television programs teach the concept.  Things that do their own thing don’t belong.

From our youth, we have followed the theory.

Somehow, we misunderstood the idea.  With disastrous results, we misunderstood, thinking it could mean people, when it only meant things.

                            

A subset. 

That was the word he used.  Subset.

It was the night of the Super Bowl.  I don’t live for sports, but it seemed to be the thing to do, so I watched the game.  Exciting action.  Really.

I didn’t watch the halftime of the game.  I had work that needed to be done before I went to bed that night.  I said as much.  But, I also made the mistake of posting a comment that seemed to denigrate the halftime entertainment.  It was intended to be a comment about the hype leading up to the act, but several took it as criticism of the entertainer herself.  And, as could be expected, there were a few folk who echoed the inferred slight.

Then one friend, who held a different viewpoint, entered the conversation.  Not understanding, nor agreeing with, the direction the comments had taken, he suggested that I and my other friends were an interesting subset of our society.

We’re still friends.  He didn’t mean it to be an insult and said so, apologizing.  I believe him.  He is my friend.

And yet, I’m concerned.

A subset?

Really?

What if he’s right?  

The big thing in our culture right now is to find your tribe.  Writers. Artists. Musicians. Professionals. Gamers.

Like the folks in the television bar, Cheers, we want to be where everybody knows our name. 

So we really are subsets.  We gather in groups where we have things in common.  We don’t waste time on those who don’t fit the pattern.

Oh, I know the gurus insisting we need a tribe add the thought that we need diversity, but what they mean is we’ll accept diversity in non-essential aspects.  Just as long as folks pass the litmus tests for the really important things we stand for.

Tribes.  Subsets.

I remember learning a concept when I was very young. It was one of the most effective principles in winning any game.  

Centuries old, the phrase was known before the time of Christ.

Divide et impera.  Divide and rule.  Commonly, we quote it as Divide and conquer.

The concept assumes the invading enemy, the power that intends to rule, will divide those it has come to war against.

In our day, we who claim to be followers of Christ, have made it our duty—yes, our duty—to do the deed for the enemy ourselves.

Subsets. Closed.

Liberal believers write oceans of words condemning the evangelical church to hell for abandoning the poor and downtrodden.  Conservative believers publish scathing papers trashing anyone who could consider homosexuals as part of the Body, and denying the possibility of salvation to anyone who would support abortion.

Tribes. Locked in battle.

I have asked the question before, thinking about a different situation, but I ask it again now:  Does God cry?

Do you suppose this would be enough to bring tears to His eyes?  Is He weeping over us today, as His Son did over Jerusalem? (Luke 19:41)

I’m no mathematician.  I don’t understand sets and subsets.  

This I do know:  God never closed the equation.

If X = (Recipient of God’s grace), then X = (Anyone

Let anyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who desires drink freely from the water of life. (Revelation 22:17b)

It may be bad mathematics, but it is seriously good grace.

It may be bad mathematics, but it is seriously good grace. Share on X

Every tribe.  Every nation. Every language.  Every people group.  (Revelation 7:9)

All of these things belong together…

What a gathering!

It’s time to break out of our subsets.

Who’s going over the wall with me?

 

 

 

I am in them and You are in me. May they experience such perfect unity that the world will know that You sent me and that You love them as much as You love me.
(John 17:23 ~ NLT)

 

In real life, I assure, there is no such thing as algebra.
(Fran Lebowitz ~ American author/public speaker)

 

 

 

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

Good for the Soul

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I wrote about this the other night.  Really, I did.  

Paragraph after paragraph to explain how I’m still a man of my word, in spite of my circumstances.  I even included scripture verses to encourage the reader to do the same.  

It was good.  Do you remember?

What! You never read that article?

Well, yeah. I knew that.

It’s not true anyway.

The part about me being a man of my word isn’t, that is.  I did write it.  I just couldn’t bring myself to publish it.  It still sits as a draft in my computer program.

Tonight though, I sat at my desk and, almost angrily, said the words to the ceiling in my office.

You’re going to make me write about this instead, aren’t you?

The circumstances of the two events are nearly identical; the actors in the little stageplay are the only real difference.  Oh. Then, there’s my failure to live up to the claim this time.

The details aren’t all that important.  An email arrived both times.  I had sold products, back when I ran a music store, and made promises about the products. Both of the email writers wanted me to live up to my promise.

The first time, I passed.  With flying colors, I passed the test.  I wanted to boast about that.  I wanted to make sure my readers knew how important it was to me to be a man of my word.  Even when it wasn’t convenient to do that.

Tonight?  It wasn’t such a rousing success.  When called on to make good on my promise, I simply made an excuse and said I couldn’t.

Well?  

I don’t operate the music store anymore.  Money is tight.  Bills have to be paid.  No one could expect me to stand behind promises—now that the business is defunct.  No one.

Except the One who called me.  The One who sustains me with His own hand.

He expects it.

David, the psalmist knew it.  He suggested that those who want to live in God’s presence needed, among other things, to do what they had promised, even when it hurts. (Psalm 15:4)

This was going to hurt.  So, I said sorry, I won’t.

I don’t want to tell you this.  I want you to think I’m a man of my word.  I do.

But then, I guess I should actually be a man of my word.  Shouldn’t I?

The red-headed lady who raised me had a saying for this (you knew she would):  Confession is good for the soul.

Her sayings weren’t always right.  This one is.

James said it in a little more round-about way.  Confess your sins to each other and you will be healed. (James 5:16)

I suppose you might say that being healed is good for the soul.

I suppose you might say that being healed is good for the soul. Share on X

I’m confessing.  

The realization has grown in me more and more in these last days that we have become an arrogant people.  

More inclined to boast than to confess, our spiritual leaders and teachers tussle and vie for the places of honor, only to be shocked when they are showered with disrespect and hateful words from other leaders and teachers.

We follow their example.  I have seen more vile speech from believers, aimed at other believers, in the last short period of time than I have in my lifetime.

I wonder.  We refuse to let anyone see our weakness for fear that they will respect us less, and then when the facade falls (as it surely will) our weaknesses and sins are exposed anyway, to the chagrin of some and the glee of others.

If we exalt ourselves, it is inevitable that we will be humbled.  Inevitable.

Among all the shouting and self-promotion, somehow, I think our Lord would propose only seven words for us to say.

They are words of humility and penitence.  Words that remind us who we really are.

I’m saying them tonight.

God be merciful to me, a sinner.

 

A proud man is always looking down on things and people, and of course, as long as you’re looking down, you can’t see something that’s above you.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British scholar/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

 

Then Jesus told this story to some who had great confidence in their own righteousness and scorned everyone else:  “Two men went to the Temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, and the other was a despised tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed this prayer: ‘I thank you, God, that I am not like other people—cheaters, sinners, adulterers. I’m certainly not like that tax collector! I fast twice a week, and I give you a tenth of my income.’
“But the tax collector stood at a distance and dared not even lift his eyes to heaven as he prayed. Instead, he beat his chest in sorrow, saying, ‘O God, be merciful to me, for I am a sinner.’  I tell you, this sinner, not the Pharisee, returned home justified before God. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
(Luke 18:9-14 ~ NLT)

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

What Comes Out

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The painting is beautiful, isn’t it?

Whether you’re an art lover or not, the scene evokes emotions—sometimes peaceful, often of awe, and at times, even of wonder.

The artist, clearly a master at his craft, has captured the reflected light on the surface of the water, as well as the powerful motion of the breaking waves; in fact, every detail lends itself to an unassailable sense of the grandeur of the sea.

The beautiful oil painting resides in our den, near the fireplace.  Seldom do I enter the room without at least a glance of appreciation.  Often, I turn on the little track lights that wash it from above with an ambient light, magnifying the effect of the cloud-covered sun as it lowers to the far horizon.

Then, backing away from the wall upon which it hangs, I simply stand and take in the view, reveling in the glory that is creation and thanking the One who placed us here in His world.

Once in awhile, though—only once in awhile—as I stand there, I find myself considering the ugliness of the human heart while I also contemplate the amazing beauty which emanates from the same heart.

It seems a strange thing to do, does it not, to think about ugly things while looking at great beauty?

Perhaps, you’ll let me tell you a story.  No, it’s not the made up kind of story; it’s completely true, as far as I can tell.

I warn you though; it is not a happy tale.
                             

Our hero, or villain—whichever—enters the story in about 1918, toward the end of World War I.  The Count had made his way by rail from Des Moines, Iowa down to Kansas City, Missouri, but found himself short of funds to get home again.  Stranded and without cash, he worked his way north to the little town of Excelsior Springs, a locale that suited his personality and lifestyle just perfectly.

In his late twenties, he was a sophisticated and debonair artist, lately emigrated from Hungary, and the young ladies in this tourist town of healing springs nearly fell at his feet.

Their fathers?  Not so much.

The artist boasted of his expertise and training at the finest art schools in Paris and Italy, and the little projects he turned out for the locals gave testimony of considerable talent.

When it became clear the teenage daughter of the local banker had been seeing entirely too much of the arrogant young dandy, her wealthy father fabricated a plan.  Knowing that the Count desired to go home, he made a deal with him.

The bank would pay him twelve-hundred dollars to paint two large murals in their building downtown.  In return, he promised to leave town and go home.  The artist honored his word, finishing the stunning murals and boarding the next train north, leaving a tearful banker’s daughter behind, along with a number of other disappointed young ladies.

For twenty years, the Count lived in different places, always wandering, always leaving behind his conquests, the young ladies, whom he had wooed and won with his foreign accent and his cocky self-confidence.

He kept finding his way back to his home in Iowa with money earned from paintings he was able to sell to well-to-do folks along the way.  He never stuck to any position, and never showed the slightest remorse about the lives he left ruined behind him.

Do you get the idea that this man was not a model of moral purity and goodness?

It got worse.

In the late 1930s he finally found one young lady, half his age, with whom he decided he could tie the knot.  Her parents, disliking him intensely, demanded that she break off the relationship.  Instead, she and the Count eloped and escaped south to Texas.

Four years later, she was dead.  She could stand neither her marriage to him, nor her life, so she ended both by hanging herself.

The police report said that she was still alive when her husband found her, but he didn’t take her down, instead going to the neighbors to ask for help.  When they got there, the only thing they could do was to assist in taking down her lifeless body.

Her family came and took the body back to Iowa, refusing to allow the Count to attend her funeral (he had no money with which to travel anyway).

Only months had passed when the Count, traveling under an assumed name, made his way in the twilight of evening to the cemetery where his wife was buried.  Standing over her grave, he took a bottle from his pocket and putting it to his mouth, swallowed the entire contents.

His dead body was draped over her grave when they found him in the morning.  Carbolic acid does its grisly work efficiently.

They buried him in an unmarked pauper’s grave.
                             

There are some who would call this a romantic tale.  Today, they might even make a movie about his life.  But, from this distant perspective, one can only assume he was riddled with the guilt of his past and couldn’t face the darkness of continuing life like that.

Romantic?  Hardly.

So, I stand sometimes and gaze at the amazing painting on my wall, completed by the Count himself in 1926, and I consider the dichotomy.

Evil lives in the heart of man.

Great beauty dwells there also.

Both make their way out, without fail, into the light of day. (Luke 6:45)

I’m reminded of the old story, oft repeated, about an old Native American man who was talking to the young braves of his tribe, encouraging them to exercise self-discipline in their own lives.

He told about two dogs that were always fighting inside of him, one evil and one good.  One of the young men asked the question that was on each brave’s mind:

“Which one will win, old man?”

The wise old man sat silent for a moment before answering, as if recalling a lifetime of the inner battle.  When he spoke, it was almost as if he spoke to himself.

“The one I feed; that one will win.”

There is more to be said—much more.

Words about grace, and new life, and beauty from ashes.  I could write for hours and not even begin to deplete the store of wisdom.

I’ll pass.

You certainly don’t need another sermon from the likes of me.

The two dogs live inside of me, too.

 

A religious life is a struggle, and not a hymn.
(Madame De Stael ~ French author ~ 1766-1817)

Therefore, do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its desires.
(Romans 6:12 ~ NET)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. 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.

Grace and the Wolf

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My morning at the music store was all planned out.  

I always come in an hour ahead of time to get an early start.  Product to be sent to customers has to be pulled and moved to the shipping room.  Emails must be checked and answered.  Repaired items needing to be picked up are checked again and moved to the proper section.

When the doors are unlocked, the objects to be worked with are no longer inanimate, but human.  Somehow, planning goes out the window.  Phone calls are answered, problems addressed, and merchandise is sold.

Still, I hadn’t counted on the Peter and the Wolf kids.  Mom wondered if I would mind too very much giving them a demonstration of the musical instruments they had heard in the orchestral composition by Mr. Prokofiev.

She had a set of picture cards, but the children wanted to see the real instruments if they could, please.  That is, if you don’t mind.

I didn’t mind.  I’m a good guy who loves helping children.

The first card showed a bassoon.  We dragged one out of the back room and assembled it, taking care to show the two tykes the double reed which gives the instrument its distinctive tone.  The little girl was surprised to see that the strange instrument was much taller than she.

The next card showed an image of an oboe, so an oboe came out of its case and the smaller pieces were shoved together to make an instrument a little smaller than a clarinet.  Again, the double reed made an appearance.

As each instrument came into view, the character in the musical story was named.  The bassoon had been the low, naggy sound of a fussing grandfather, the oboe—Peter’s quacky duck.  

One by one, we located the characters the children had met in the recording.  The pretty silver flute was the little bird, and the clarinet, long, black, and sinister, was the cat that stalked the bird.  The drums, such as we could find—I’m sorry ma’am; we don’t sell many timpani—were the hunters, come to help Peter in his time of need. 

Of course, we had to find as many of the stringed instruments as we could, making do without a double bass viol.  Peter was represented in the musical tale by the entire violin family, regardless of size.  

hornvoiceBut, we forgot one, didn’t we?  Oh yes!  The French horn.  What shall we say about the horn?

I’m a horn player.  It was a proud moment.  Surely the children would be impressed.  

I’ve played it nearly all my life.

The little girl, friendly and twinkly for most of the tour of instruments, stared at me, her mouth open and eyes wide.  Disbelief was written all over her face.

You’re the wolf?

Why, yes.  No!  

Wait a minute!  I’m not the wolf!  I just play the instrument that represents him in the symphony.  I’m not really the wolf.

The children are gone.  That was hours ago.  

I’m still a little shaken.

Am I the wolf?

Am I?

Thoughts swirl in my head.  The horn is forgotten for the time being, but other things are not.  Memories of acts committed, never to be undone, are mixed with the cacophony of voices that have filled my ears.  

All have sinned—there is not one righteous person—whoever breaks one law is guilty of breaking all—those who live like this will not see God. (Romans 3:23, Ecclesiastes 7:20, James 2:10, Galatians 5:19-21)

There are times—perhaps only for a moment, but often for days—when the memories of what I have been and done haunt my waking hours.  They even stretch my waking hours, leaving me restless in my bed, denying sleep.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home.  Always.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always. Share on X

Do the voices not speak truthfully, then?  Am I not a sinful man? 

They do.  I am.

I was the wolf.  Was.  

And, just like the wolf in Peter’s tale, I deserved death but found instead life.  

While I was still doing damage to Him, grace was offered.  To an enemy, He offered comfort and safety. (Romans 5:8)

Grace is stronger than the wolf.

I am not who I was.

I’ll play my horn again in the morning. I know I’ll smile as I remember my little friend, mouth agape and eyes opened wide.

No, my dear.  I am not the wolf.

Not anymore.

Grace is stronger.

 

 

 

 Such were some of you; but you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6:11 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid.
(Katharine Hepburn ~ American actress ~ 1907-2003)

 

 

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

Got the Tee Shirt

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The man was honest.  You’ve got to give him that.  Come to think of it, it was really his tee-shirt that was honest.

He started talking almost as he walked in the front door.

“I’m looking for a job.  Are you hiring?”

I was pretty blunt with him.  We are a Mom and Pop store in the truest sense of the term.  The Lovely Lady and I, with the help of my sister, run the business.

We’re not hiring.

I wouldn’t have hired him anyway.  One look at what he was wearing, and anyone considering him for a job would have made the same determination. It would be nice if all decisions were that easy.

Honesty.  What a concept!

The man’s tee shirt had the words emblazoned across his chest in all caps.

I”M REALLY LAZY.

There were other words printed below.  I’m sure they were supposed to be funny, but all I could see were those three.

I’m really lazy.  Talk about truth in advertising!

The mind jumps immediately to the possibilities for this type of labeling.  

I gamble compulsively.  Casinos could avoid a world of problems.

I’m a mean drunk.  Bartenders would know when to shut off the flow of liquor. 

And, just like that I’m seeing a new line of clothing for the Sunday morning wardrobe.

I’m a horrible gossip—I can’t control my appetite—I curse like a sailor—I’m addicted to Internet pornography—I’m full of pride.

The potential for this is fantastic!  

James said we should confess our sins to each other.  (James 5:16)  We’re not doing so well at that anyway.  This could really change our Sunday morning services.

As my imagination runs wild, I suddenly recall another fellow who came into the music store that very same day.  Not more than an hour after the hapless young job seeker walked out my door, the next victim of my labeling system walked in.

The elderly lady and I were just completing our transaction when the door was pushed open.  She had asked for an old Southern Gospel song and we found it in a songbook.  I was giving her the change from her purchase and nodded to the fellow in my best I’ll-be-with-you-in-a-minute manner.  

The young man was easy for me to read—nearly as easy as the lady had been.  In his twenties, the Hispanic man was wearing a cap with the bill flattened and turned at a slight angle.  He returned my nod with an abrupt one of his own and began to look at the guitars.  

We wouldn’t have anything to talk about.  This one would want sound equipment for his band, equipment I was sure not to have.  He wouldn’t hang around long.

There was no tee shirt, but the label I saw read, We have nothing in common.

Just as the lady put her hand on the knob to exit, the young man called out to her.

“Are you in a hurry, Ma’am?”

When she answered that she wasn’t, he turned to me and asked another question.

“Do you mind if we worship the Lord together for a minute?”

We have nothing in common.  Really?  Boy, did I misread that label!

We prayed together and then we sang, his tone clear and strong, mine somewhat less clear.  It could have been the tears that came as I tried to sing harmony to his pure melody.  

It wasn’t only the song that brought tears.

This is the air I breathe—Your Holy presence, living in me.

I repent.  

Labels would never work.  They never have.  I’m not that good at judging character.  

We’re not that good at judging character.

label-381246_1280Besides that, the labels that fit yesterday may not be appropriate tomorrow.

I found a phrase in my notes the other day.  I like to jot down thoughts as they come to me.  I might be able to make sense of them some day.  Today this one makes sense to me.

“Knowing a man’s past doesn’t make you privy to his future.”

People change.  Not on their own.  On our own, it is impossible to be anyone but who we are and have been.  But, God reminds us that He still makes new.  Somehow, His creation isn’t complete yet.  He changes the labels.

He changes the labels.

The Apostle who loved to write letters ran through a list of horrendous labels, the worst you could imagine, applying them to his readers in the past tense.

Such were some of you.  But God gave you different labels.  

Okay—so he didn’t word it quite like that, but if you’ll read it for yourself, I promise it’s almost the same.  (1 Corinthians 6:9-11)

The elderly lady and the young man are part of the same family.  

Me too.

I kind of like not having to wear the tee shirt.  It doesn’t mean we don’t need to share our struggles with each other.  But, they don’t describe who we are anymore.

We have a new label.  I’m pretty sure He’d like for us to treat each other as if it was true of every person in His family.

Because it is.  Always.

I’ll wear this tee shirt.  One word emblazoned across the chest in all caps.

One word.

FORGIVEN.

 

 

Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come.
(2 Corinthians 5:17 ~ NASB)

 

This is the air I breathe,
This is the air I breathe,
Your holy presence living in me.

This is my daily bread,
This is my daily bread,
Your very word spoken to me.

And I—I’m desperate for you;
And I—I’m lost without you.
(from Breathe ~ Marie Barnett ~ American songwriter)

 

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