gospel

Maybe Tomorrow

~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I thought today would be the day.

Today should have been the day.  I’ve put it off far too long.

Yes.  Today.  I got out the saw.  I was already dressed appropriately, having pulled on work clothes as I rolled out of bed this morning.

It wouldn’t be a quick job; that didn’t really matter.  I would take off a limb here, another one there.  Slow and steady wins the race.  That’s what the red-headed lady who raised me would have said.

If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s slow.  Steady?  Not so much.  Still, today was the day.

I extended the pole-saw up far enough to lop off a limb that overhung the fence.  Not large enough to damage it when it fell, but enough to see progress had been made.

Thunk!

The branch from the old apple tree smacked the ground harder than I anticipated.  This was really happening, wasn’t it?  I reached up for another.  As I reached, my mind reached back.

Thunk!

I leaned the long pole-saw against the five-foot-tall welded-wire fence.  That was all I could do.  I needed to sit down.  Soon.  I wasn’t sure I could even manage the strength to pull the limbs out to the brush pile, next to the little cul-de-sac street in front of the old house.

I got them out there, but the weight on my chest just wouldn’t go away. 

I went inside and sat down, angry at myself.  This was stupid.  It should have been a simple job.  Cut down the old shrunken and split apple tree.  How difficult could it be?

History has weight.  It does.  It comes with an onus, an obligation.

I’ve just never felt it quite that heavy before.  Oh, living in this world for over sixty years has taught me the lesson a little.  But, the last few years are schooling me in that particular chapter more than I ever wanted.

I thought I was ready.  As much as anything, that old tree signifies my memories of a family whose life has been tied up in this little patch of land and this old house from its first days.  The Lovely Lady grew up playing near it and others, now long cut down.  For more than half a century, the changing seasons have brought forth desserts and side-dishes worth remembering from the tree.

But, the tree has reached the end of its life.  I’ve written about it here before—the twisting of the storm winds that opened the huge split, now held up by a two-by-four and a couple of plumber’s straps—and the shearing off of the largest part of the tree this last spring as another weather front blew through.

We would gather one last crop, having one last season to enjoy the applesauce and an apple pie or two—perhaps even a big pan of apple crisp drowned in heavy whipping cream.  Then the tree, having lived a full life, would come down to be replaced by new ones planted in and near its footprint.

The last crop never came, the little green apples that promised so expectantly last spring disappearing before ever one came to the table.  Barren. The tree is done.  It will have to come down.

But, the unkept promise of one more crop rankles.  Unfinished business. What if—what if we tried to keep it alive just one more cycle, one more time through the process the Creator programmed into its DNA?

Tomorrow.

I need more time.  The weight of that final act is too heavy for me today.

Maybe next week. Or next year.

It’s silly, isn’t it?  A tree.  It’s only a tree.

The heart is so foolish.  And, so fickle.

The weight of the past seems a very real thing, slowing us down, keeping us hoping against hope, even convincing us that tomorrow will work better than today.

It won’t.

The apostle (my namesake) stood before the Roman governor and told him his future if he didn’t turn around.  Felix listened and, with the weight of his situation on him, told Paul he would consider it at a more convenient time. (Acts 24:25)

There will be no more convenient time.

Today.

That’s what we have.

Today.

In my many years as confessor to quite a number of folks (for some reason, the counter at our music store seemed a comfortable place for the rite, with both stranger and friend, young and old participating), I can’t count the number of people who wanted yesterday back.

From the man who told me on the day of his grandmother’s funeral of refusing to return one last phone call to her, to the boy who needed another shot at demonstrating his love for an absent girlfriend, they all wanted to live that particular today over again.

Today has an expiration date.  It’s today.

Today has an expiration date. It's today. Share on X

The opportunities forfeited—the doorways passed by—all come back with a history and a weight all their own.

You see, we make history with every action and every inaction, every word spoken and every one left unsaid.

History has weight.  Somehow, time seems to make it heavier.

It’s time to lighten our loads.

Jesus promised a lighter burden if we’d come to Him.  The offer still stands. (Matthew 11:28-29)

The weight of our history need not overwhelm nor cripple us.

The weight of our history need not overwhelm nor cripple us. Come. Rest. Share on X

We’ve all got enough apple trees to grapple with in our lives without adding to that weight.

Come.

Rest.

Do it today.  Today.

There’ll be apple pie again. 

There will.

 

 

Shall we never get rid of this Past? . . . It lies upon the Present like a giant’s dead body.
(from The House of the Seven Gables ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne ~ American author ~ 1804-1864)

 

Are we weak and heavy laden,
Cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge,
Take it to the Lord in Prayer.
(from What a Friend We Have in Jesus ~  Lyrics by Joseph Scriven ~ Public Domain)

 

 

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

Tell me the Story

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

In moments when I least expect it, clarity arrives.

I sat, with others around me, in a service the other day and noticed the lady at the keyboard. I know her. She was my neighbor for upwards of fifteen years. I have heard her sing. I have heard her play.

All I expected was to enjoy the music—possibly to reflect on some lyrics. It would be nice.

Nice isn’t what happened.

I hope you won’t mind. I think we call it epiphany. With a small “e”.

An arrival. A light, small but bright, blazed as my friend sang the old familiar hymn. I have never thought of it before. Never.

Tell me the story of Jesus,
Write on my heart every word.
Tell me the story most precious,
Sweetest that ever was heard.

I can’t tell you how many times I have sung the words. But, in her simple gift of song, the words shone with a clarity I’ve not known any other time.

The writer of the letter written to the Hebrews describes it as the fulfillment of a promise made long before. In your hearts, He will place His commandments, and on your minds they will be written indelibly. (Hebrews 10:16-17)

Is a little of that light shining through yet? Maybe, it’s just me.

Every word. Written on my heart.

Every word. Written on my heart. Share on X

I am moved. Overwhelmed, even. But, the light shines on past the initial reaction and I start to wonder.

Is it just for me that He has written on my heart and in my mind?

You indulged me when I wanted to call it an epiphany. Will you indulge me a bit further?

I know the heart mentioned in the Book isn’t the physical, beating organ, but it is the center of our very being—the existence of which we cannot function without. If the physical heart circulates the life blood our brain and entire body must have for life, surely the symbolic heart we describe must circulate the very essence of who we are.

If we follow Christ, He is the essence of our being. Circulating through our veins.

So, I ask again: Is it only for my benefit that He lives within my being?

It is for my benefit. To that, there can be no argument. But, what of those around me? Those who have sin—and loss—and, in the end, death—written on their hearts?

He has put eternity in our hearts!  How could we keep that quiet?

The Apostle—my namesake—lays out the process.  How shall they call on Him unless they believe?  How will they believe unless they hear?  How could they possibly hear if we don’t tell them? (Romans 10:14)

He is the foundation, the Rock at the center of our existence!  How could we hide it?

How could we not tell the story?  How could we not ourselves write the words which have been written in our heart?  Or, speak them?  Or, sing them?

Every word, every action declares who (and whose) we are.

Well, well.  An epiphany in the season of Epiphany.  A small light as we acknowledge the Light of the World.

The Word who was born in a stable, in reality came to be inked on our hearts.  And, He invites us to share His story by sharing our own.

The Word.  Written on our hearts.

To be written on the hearts of others.

Time to tell the story. 

Again.


There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.
(Maya Angelou ~ American Poet ~ 1928-2014)

If I told you my story
You would hear Hope that wouldn’t let go.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Love that never gave up.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Life, but it wasn’t mine.

If I should speak, then let it be
Of the grace that is greater than all my sin,
Of when justice was served and where mercy wins,
Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in.
Oh, to tell you my story is to tell of Him.

If I told you my story
You would hear Victory over the enemy.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Freedom that was won for me.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Life overcome the grave.

If I should speak, then let it be
Of the grace that is greater than all my sin,
Of when justice was served and where mercy wins,
Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in.
Oh to tell you my story is to tell of Him.
(Music Publishing LLC, Open Hands Music (SESAC) (All rights on behalf of itself and Open Hands Music adm. by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC)
Writers: Mike Weaver / Jason Ingram

 

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

Climb It

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Is that it?  I expected more.

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

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

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

I think it was less this year.

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

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

It was nice.  Christmas-y.

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

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

Go Tell It On The Mountain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haven’t I done enough?

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is the mountain He was born to climb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did.

Time for me to start climbing again.

You coming with?

 

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

 

 

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