What Comes Out

May 27, 2016 ~ 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)

Telling Stories

May 11, 2016May 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The storyteller sits, spinning his yarns into fabric.

That’s what they call it, isn’t it? A fabrication?

I listen anyway. Still, as the story goes on, I begin to see the ravelings poking through here and there. His tale may have started with a few facts, but somehow it doesn’t all fit in a continuous pattern.

I want to reach for the edge of his fabric and pull at one of those loose ends. I just know that, like the cartoon character with a loose thread on his sweater which gets caught in a passing car, the story will unravel and the naked truth will come out.

I have done that more than once before. I’m learning (finally) to leave the loose threads alone and let the story spin out.

Some things are more important than being right.

Do you know how hard that is for me to say?

I grew up in a home where being right was paramount. Lies were set straight and wrong attitudes corrected immediately.

It’s what you do for your children. We call it teaching, and it is the responsibility of every parent.

But, the faults of others who were not part of our family were also pointed out to us constantly. My parents didn’t want to miss the opportunity to help us make good decisions.

Examples are helpful when teaching children, so folks we knew became our cautionary examples, their faults often looming larger than life in our little eyes. Their good traits could never balance their bad ones.

Black. White.

Heads. Tails.

What should have been lessons meant to help us examine our own steps and language became cause for comparison.

Comparisons stink.

I’m not the first to say it. I won’t be the last. The real problem lies in the fact that I kind of like the odor.

Comparisons where I come out ahead make me feel good about myself—for awhile. I begin to believe that God, perhaps, loves me better. I’m one of His favorite sons because of my concern with doing things right and in order.

Surely, it’s true.

It is not.

Grace pays no attention to the design of the filthy rags it washes. It takes no notice of the tag ends hanging from the corners.

The storyteller with his lying ways is no worse—nor better—off than the listener who sits nearby and tends the kernel of pride in his soul, growing quickly into a full-grown bush of snobbery.

I know how hard the fall is when pride takes its inevitable tumble, and it is inevitable.

Sinners sin. We sin, not all in the same way, but we sin.

It has taken many years for me to understand that grace, for all its astounding power, doesn’t remove sin, but the penalty for sinning. Justification is the work of grace.

We who have been justified—through grace—are called to be sanctified. All that means is we are called to become holy, or set apart, as He is.

We have to take a walk. It’s something we do with others. Not surprisingly, we don’t all start the walk with the same baggage.

There are folks with sexual sins, addicts, liars, thieves, gluttons, drunks—the list is not short. He doesn’t require that we clean up before we become part of His family. What happens after that though, is different. (1 Corinthians 6:9-10)

This walking we do is a progressive thing. The people we walk with may not be at the same place in the process as we are.

May not isn’t the right way to put it. They will not be at the same place.

We walk with them anyway. There’s a reason for that:

We still need each other. Travelers on their own rarely reach their destinations without meeting calamities along the road. It is our lot in life to depend on help through the tough places.

I have refused—refused—to lend aid to folks in the past. Somehow I thought I might get dirty in the process. I could have nothing to do with people who sinned in that way.

Do you hear what I’m saying?

I’m not alone, am I? We are a prideful and hypocritical lot, aren’t we?

We who have been forgiven freely, refuse to believe that God could forgive that.

That! How could He? How would He?

He could. He has.

Those stinking comparisons. Still, their stench fills the air around me, like the grotesque odor of bone burning under the dentist’s drill.

But, a lifetime of making comparisons has paralyzed me. I want to walk with others, but my paralysis stops me.

And then, I remember the Great Physician, to whom the man, bed-ridden with paralysis, was brought on that day a couple thousand years ago. The Healer said only two things to him. It’s all that was necessary. (Mark 2:1-12)

Your sins are forgiven.

Get out of that bed and walk.

Even today, the paralysis of a lifetime of thought patterns is banished with those words!

Freedom! At last.

At last.

I’m walking.

There’s still room on the road beside me.

May it never be otherwise.

A brother offended is harder to win than a strong city,
And contentions are like the bars of a castle.
(Proverbs 18:19 ~ NKJV)

Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede.
(John Lydgate ~ English monk/poet ~ 1370-1451)

Meet and Greet

May 4, 2016May 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

We have met the enemy.

“We have met the enemy and they are ours.”

The famous phrase, spoken by Commodore Perry during the War of 1812, was planted in our nation’s consciousness. It was over two hundred years ago, yet the words are still remembered.

Some have turned the words around to change the meaning. We may talk about that a little later.

The naval battle followed one a few months before in which the foe had won decisively, reminding the upstart United States Navy of the storied might of the British fleet. Sailing into the Battle of Lake Erie, victory was anything but certain for Perry’s fleet.

History relates the United States Navy tried their skill and courage against the best the British had to offer, capturing every vessel and man brought against them.

The message seems a little over the top.

We own them. Every one of them.

They are ours.

Commodore Perry knew who his enemy was. He prepared to meet them in battle, placing his ships in just the right position, ordering his men to be at their stations and ready to do their tasks.

I’m not Commodore Perry.

Twice today—that’s right, twice—I’ve thought I had an enemy in my sights. Once, I even opened fire.

Earlier today, an unfamiliar fellow entered the music store and picked a fight with me. Well, that’s not completely true.

He said something with which I disagreed.

The man had the gall to denigrate my favorite brand of guitar strings.

Imagine!

I’ve been putting strings on guitars for over thirty-five years. I’ve sold strings to nearly-famous musicians. I’ve tuned instruments for children barely big enough to hold a guitar on their laps.

He called them over-rated.

I bristled, then shot back.

The enemy! Right here on my premises. Who could blame me?

Turns out—I could blame me. It was only a momentary lapse and I was back-pedaling, suggesting that there might be circumstances I didn’t know about.

He’s not an enemy. He might even turn out to be an ally, someone I’ll need to have my back someday. You never know.

When he left the store, we were friends—almost. But, never enemies.

So, he doesn’t like my favorite strings. So what? At least now I might have another opportunity to convince him.

The way things started out, I never would have had that chance. Never.

Again, late tonight, I nearly opened fire. This time it was on the young man who pulled his motorcycle into the driveway of the vacant house behind mine.

He yelled at my black monsters. Told them to shut up. I get to do that. No one else does.

I went out to yell back—and possibly call the police about the interloper. Instead, I reached my hand over the fence to shake his as I introduced myself to my new neighbor.

Not my enemy. My neighbor.

If you follow my writings, you know my thoughts on neighbors. They’re the ones the Teacher said I have to love. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a requirement.

I sit here in the quiet of these early morning moments—battles done—and contemplate my failures. Oh, not just the two above. I didn’t fare so badly with them. I’m thinking now about a lifetime of engagements.

Engagements with enemies, that is.

Commodore Perry had nothing on me. I’ve fought innumerable battles and conquered countless foes.

He took captives; I took none. It was total annihilation for my enemies. All blasted to Kingdom Come.

Does that offend you? Kingdom Come? It does me too. Now.

Still, it’s what I thought I was doing. Bringing the kingdom of God on earth. Destroying enemies.

Perhaps it’s time to talk about the twisting of the brave Commodore’s message, as I promised earlier.

A popular comic strip in the sixties and seventies, Pogo was written and illustrated by Walt Kelly. On Earth Day in 1970, the little lovable o’possum (the only one of that variety I ever saw) suggested the modification of the victory memorandum.

We have met the enemy and he is us.

It has always been thought of as another way of saying we’re our own worst enemies. In truth, that’s almost certainly what Mr. Kelly intended. He’s not far wrong in many ways.

But, I’d like to suggest a different reading.

I’ve found when I attack people, there is little difference in who we are at the core. When we strip humans down to the basics, clearing away all the facades and all the defenses, we are the same underneath.

It is true in battles over politics, in relational difficulties within families, in cultural differences.

God created mankind in His image.

More than that, He sent His Son to die for mankind—all of it—each person.

If Jesus died for that person I’m doing battle with, could he or she possibly be an enemy?

I am my enemy. My enemy is me.

Not enemies at all.

Still.

Thousands of years after the question was first asked, I still want to know what religious hypocrites everywhere have always wanted to know:

Who is my neighbor? (Luke 10:25-37)

Well, I don’t really want the answer to that question; I just want to get clarification so I can know who my enemy is. I don’t want to know who to love; I want to know who to attack.

I want to love my neighbor and despise my enemy. The problem is, there is only the former.

His love demands it. (Matthew 5:43-48)

Demands it.

The delightful quiet of the late-night is ruined as the voices around me shout in my ears. In this small room by myself, I hear the battle cries.

The political situation in our country demands enemies. You’ve heard the anger, the hatred, the sheer terror that our side will be overrun and destroyed. Liberals, conservatives, moderates—all have named names and gone into attack mode.

The enemy is on our shores, ready to attack. The enemy is closing the doors, denying shelter. The enemy is stingy. The enemy is giving away too much.

All about us the battle rages. It always has.

Grace calls us to higher things. Mercy demands open hands and hearts.

We don’t fight against any human enemy in our battle for our Captain. Not one person. (Ephesians 6:12)

I wonder if it’s time to reach our hands across a few more fences.

Our Creator saw enemies and made us His sons and daughters.

It’s time.

We have met the enemy.

He is us.

Us.

She looked upon Gimli, who sat glowering and sad, and she smiled. And the Dwarf, hearing the names given in his own ancient tongue, looked up and met her eyes; and it seemed to him that he looked suddenly into the heart of an enemy and saw there love and understanding. Wonder came into his face, and then he smiled in answer.
(Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ British writer/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:7-9 ~ NIV)

You? A Genius?

March 31, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t laugh. I’m sure I didn’t. Still, I must have looked a little incredulously at him, because he repeated the word.

Genius.

A genius. Really?

The fellow in front of me, a rather normal looking fellow sixty-some years of age had just let me in on a secret he hadn’t told many people. When he was younger, he informed me quietly, his school counselor had administered an IQ test.

His voice got even quieter, almost a whisper, as he nodded sagely. “It was right up there at genius level.”

We didn’t speak about that again in our conversation. I was happy to leave the subject alone. As we talked though, I observed some things that continue to give me pause tonight.

He told me he didn’t read books—in fact, he hates reading. I also noted his lack of grammatical accuracy as we spoke together. It is not something I normally take note of, such inaccuracies being the rule rather than the exception for many people I talk with.

Still, I expected more—of a genius.

Well, you would—wouldn’t you?

The gift (or curse) of genius brings with it the weight of responsibility. It is true of all gifts. Not to say that they must be repaid, but that there is a respect due the gift itself—the respect of using it well and to its fullest capability.

I’m not a genius. I think no one would attempt to foist that improbability off as truth. I have muddled through life with my average intelligence. I’m rather proud of it.

But, even as the words appear on the page, I have a sinking feeling they may come around to trip me (and perhaps you) up. Let’s see if we can still avoid that, shall we?

The genius who refuses to play the part of one—that’s who we’re speaking of here, isn’t it? Perhaps, we can just cast our judgments about him and be done with it.

He’s been given so much, so very much, and yet he goes about his average life, working his average job, doing the same things any of us average folk do. Doesn’t he know he owes the world more?

Oh, I can’t do this!

You knew I couldn’t.

This isn’t about my genius friend who won’t play the part of a genius. It’s about me. It might even be about you.

I hear the words of the Teacher, as he spoke of those who had been given magnificent gifts and understanding of how to use those gifts. To whom much has been given, much will be required. And, those who have received an even greater portion will be asked for that much more. (Luke 12:48)

Somehow, I get the idea He wasn’t talking about financial wealth. I’m not even sure He was speaking of physical abilities.

The extraordinary splendor of knowing and walking with God is a gift of astounding value. The gift of God’s grace is unsurpassed in human history in it’s importance to mankind.

He gives us this gift to hold ourselves. In our bodies made from dirt, which will return to dirt, He stores all of eternity. All of it.

The responsibility that accompanies the giving of this extraordinary, astounding gift is just as extraordinary and astounding as is the gift itself.

And yet, we disregard the gift—disregard it as if it were as ordinary as a Sunday morning. And, in disregarding the gift, we disregard the Giver.

In spite of our disregard, and only because of our Creator’s unfailing mercy, we yet retain the gift. His faithfulness toward us is immeasurable. (Lamentations 3:22)

And I—I have the arrogance to point a finger at the man who was given nothing more than a minor upgrade in intellect. The lack of scale here is ludicrous. There can be no comparison. None at all.

What an astonishing gift we’ve been given!

Perhaps, it’s time we lived up to it.

Time to toss off this bushel basket.

It’s time for us to shine!

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those timid spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.
(from a speech by Theodore Roosevelt ~ 26th U.S. President ~ 1858-1919)

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.
(2 Corinthians 4:7 ~ NIV)

Restless Heart

March 22, 2016March 22, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It wasn’t what woke me, but my guilty conscience certainly was what kept me awake until the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon on that recent morning.

What woke me was the dogs barking in the backyard. It’s not all that unusual. They are dogs, after all. Normally, it’s just a squirrel in the sweet gum tree, right above their heads.

Squirrels are such undisciplined creatures. They run up and down the trees, simply to tempt fate it seems . Then, when they have the treasure they sought, a nut or the stalk of some plant, they carry it in a rush up the trunk of the tree. Right in front of the snapping jaws of death they scurry, chattering as they go.

The dogs, creatures of habit, want nothing more than to have order in their world. No animal is safe within their reach, simply because that is one of their rules. Nothing walks where they walk. There is a penalty for doing so.

The penalty is death. They have meted out the penalty numerous times. Moles, birds, o’possums, even a squirrel or two have met the end of their undisciplined ways at the jaws of the law-keepers.

Hmmm. Like the squirrels, I seem to have wandered a bit. I meant to tell you that the dogs were not barking at a squirrel on that early morning, but had bigger law-breakers to attend to.

The neighbors up the street a block or so were the reason for the ruckus. He, sitting in his roughly-idling truck, and she, standing in her bathrobe outside the front door, were shouting at each other. Again.

I stood at the kitchen window and remembered that time, a few months ago, when the police were at that front door because of a complaint. And still, at all hours of the night or day—mostly night—the noisy disturbances are likely to erupt.

On this particular morning, I, standing at the kitchen window, listened for a few moments, fuming. The nerve! Don’t they know people—No, strike that!—law-abiding people are trying to sleep?

I was angry. Then, I realized I was proud. Yes, proud.

I would never do that. Never. I know better than to shout at the Lovely Lady. I certainly wouldn’t do it in public. And, you can bet it wouldn’t be at four-thirty in the morning!

Mentally, I went down the list of things they do I would never do. It was significant. I was proud.

As the truck finally backed out of the driveway and roared up the road, laying rubber for a fair distance, I spun on my bare heel and headed back upstairs—to sleep, I supposed.

Not that morning. Sleep had fled.

I lay there beside the slumbering Lovely Lady and I crumbled.

Pharisee! Hypocrite!

In the dark right before dawn, the words were whispered into the blackness, but they sounded as if someone had shouted them throughout the entire house. I looked at the face of the sleeping woman beside me, but if she heard, she didn’t let on.

Do you know what I learned, in the darkness of my thoughts that early morning?

Nothing new.

That’s right. Nothing I hadn’t already known.

I heard the Teacher say, “The second is like unto the first. Love your neighbor as you do yourself.” (Matthew 22:39) I’ve heard the words a thousand times, or more.

I’ve used them in my writing so many times, I can’t remember all of them.

Here’s the other thing I didn’t learn that I already knew, that morning: If you’re a dog, you think you’re better than the squirrels.

Perhaps, I should rephrase that. When you work hard to follow the rules, you begin to look down on those who don’t.

It’s really hard to remember that you love someone when your mouth is full of the words I told you so.

It’s hard to pray—really pray—for a person if you think you’re superior to them.

Do you realize how difficult it is to lie still and be quiet in a bed when the disaster that is your soul is revealed to you? If the pre-dawn night was dark, how was it that I saw the filth of my heart so clearly?

The evil servant who forgot how great was the debt that had been forgiven him, grabbing the man who owed him a mere pittance by the throat while demanding payment couldn’t have known more torment. (Matthew 18:21-35)

Ah, but even as I made my promise to be a different person, I remembered.

I recalled that it would never come—could never come—from me. If I try to be good—if I try to do right—I run right back to the trash I vowed to never dig up again.

It is all because of grace. All of it that matters.

I can’t do this. No one can.

And, that’s the whole point. If I can claim to be good, I have a right to look down on others who walk this path with me.

I’m not good.

Grace changes that. For any who come.

Funny. When I remembered what I am—what I am and who He is—I thought about my neighbors again. The anger was gone. Almost instinctively, I found myself praying for them and thinking of ways to show them the love of Jesus.

They are my neighbors, after all.

And finally, sleep came.

It’s true: The heart is restless until it rests in Him.

It’s time for rest.

I can no longer condemn or hate a brother for whom I pray, no matter how much trouble he causes me.
(Dietrich Bonhoeffer ~ German theologian ~ 1906-1945)

You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love. For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” If you bite and devour each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other.
(Galatians 5:13-15 ~ NIV)

Grace and the Wolf

February 12, 2016February 12, 2018 ~ 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.

But, 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)

Birds Have Nests

February 8, 2016February 8, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

All I need is a place to lay my head—and my old Martin guitar.

I’ve known of folk like him all my life. Granted, not all of them choose the life they live, as he has. The man speaking is dressed in clothes he obviously purchased from the Goodwill store. He probably even slept in them last night—in his car, it would appear.

He has no family to speak of. No children. No wife. There is no one who depends on him—except himself. He doesn’t want it any other way. He is satisfied with the way things are going.

I stood and thought one day recently, as I said goodbye once again to my footloose friend. What would make a man want to live like that?

I still have no answer.

Most of us want nests—homes to which we can retreat—safe places for our children and spouses. We want warmth and comfort, along with protection and safety. In our homes, we feel all these things.

Mothers-to-be—most of them—feel the nesting instinct. They want to clean and paint, and sometimes to add on a nursery. (Just ask any father-to-be.) Our Creator made them so, building the nesting instinct into their psyche.

In nesting, we find our first fulfillment as a parent. There will be many more satisfying moments in the years to come, but before they arrive, we first have the need to ensure our offspring will be safe. We want them to have the best chance to arrive in one piece to the age at which we can push them out—of the nest—to fly on their own. It is what we are made for.

And still, the question nags at me: Why would someone choose to live without a nest—a home?

As I contemplate the question, a scene wavers on the edge of my consciousness. I push it away. It is not what I want to consider.

The scene will not be ignored. Against my better judgment, in my mind’s eye, I let it play out.

A crowd of people is moving through a dry and dusty landscape. There is a lake nearby, and it is clear that many of the men are carrying their belongings, everything they own, on their backs. One of them doesn’t belong in the scene at all.

A well-dressed man—obviously a learned fellow—he is addressing the leader of the group. He makes the claim, with much bravado, but not much conviction, that he will follow the Teacher wherever He goes.

The Teacher replies, telling the religious man that, unlike the foxes (who have dens) and the birds (who have their nests), he had no place even to lay His head. (Matthew 8:18-20)

I don’t know if the man followed Him or not. but I wonder—I can’t help it—I wonder why there is no place for the Teacher to call home.

How did the Baby—whose mother wrapped Him gently and laid Him in a manger, whose earthly father taught him in the arts of carpentry, whose parents were so concerned about Him wandering off into the temple at the age of twelve—how did He turn into a man who had no place to sleep?

How is it that this Son of God is homeless?

The answer hits me like an avalanche and knocks me down, breathless.

He chose this!

Do you suppose He could not have had the finest palace if He had desired it? Do you think a life of ease was beyond His power?

There was nothing—no power on earth—that could have denied Him any comfort He wanted.

And, just as quickly as that, I have my answer. He chose. He chose to leave the comfort of His home and its protection so He could bring mankind to a place of protection and rest!

His invitation to the people of His day was that they come to Him, as chicks run to the mother hen and shelter under her wings, safe in the nest. (Luke 13:34)

They would not. It didn’t stop Him.

Do you see the picture? He left the nest to bring us to the nest!

It was always about gathering us to safety—always that we might be protected.

Even as He died in our place, the assurance was of a nest being prepared. If I go and prepare a place, I will bring you to safety there. (John 14:3)

He wandered, homeless, so we wouldn’t have to.

Why would we make any other choice? Why would we still wander, homeless?

It is safe in the nest.

I could use that reassurance today. Maybe you could too.

Time for rest.

Nestle down and abide.

Under His wings.

Under His wings, under His wings,
Who from His love can sever?
Under His wings my soul shall abide,
Safely abide forever.
(William Cushing ~American pastor/poet ~ 1823-1902)

A Little Off

January 29, 2016January 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

It’s a job I do almost every day. You’d think I know what I’m doing. Most folks would.

Alongside the Lovely Lady, I’ve spent most of my life in this little music store. Folks bring in instruments almost daily for me to repair. The most common request I get is to replace the strings on guitars.

Six strings. Take the old grungy ones off—replace them with shiny new ones. It’s an easy job—one I could do in my sleep. Or, so I have thought.

Today, as I finished up one such job, I learned that familiarity is not the same as expertise. One implies comfort, the other, attentiveness.

The old, rust-covered wires had all been removed, the fingerboard cleaned and oiled, and the bright, bronze-colored strings put into place. All that remained was to tune the guitar, a part of the job I pride myself on.

I’m good at this part! Bringing the slack strings up to tension, I can almost always tune them to pitch, without a tuning aid of any sort, within a quarter-step of standard. Then, with the tuning fork, completion of the job is a cinch, my sensitive ear enabling me to complete the job easily.

Do you note just the tiniest hint of pride in that last paragraph? Perhaps there is more than a hint. Funny. I hear the words clearly—in retrospect, that is—which a wise man spoke many centuries ago. Pride goes before a fall. (Proverbs 16:18)

I had completed the initial rough tuning and, with an electronic device attached to the headstock of the guitar, attempted to complete the job. Note I said attempted.

The results were somewhat less than stellar.

The first string settled into tune easily. Likewise, the second. When I got to the third string though—that’s when the problem began. Perhaps it was before; I don’t really know.

I must have been distracted. Or maybe, tired. It doesn’t matter.

I plucked the third string to listen to the pitch as I increased the tension. Twisting on the knob, I waited to hear a change in the sound. All that happened is it got really hard to turn the knob.

I kept twisting, wondering as I did if the gear inside was damaged. Suddenly, there was a loud BANG! and the knob became quite easy to turn. The other thing that happened was the immediate stinging sensation on the back of my hand as the tip of the broken string hit it.

Drops of blood rose to the surface immediately and I put the back of my hand up to my mouth to draw away the blood and soothe the sting.

There was nothing to soothe the sting to my pride, though. It was an amateur’s mistake. The fingers on one hand had plucked the third string repeatedly, awaiting change, while the fingers on the other hand twisted the knob for the second string.

There is only a space of about one third of an inch between the strings. One third of an inch.

Such a small distance. Such a disastrous result.

Perhaps this is the place I should end this little morality tale. I should talk about our sinful nature and how close we come to doing what is right. I could even suggest that the slightest deviation from the right path will lead to destruction. If we keep all the law, but err in one point, we are doomed. (James 2:10)

I don’t want to end the story there—mostly because that’s not where it ends. I didn’t leave the broken string on the guitar. I didn’t carry the offensive thing into my back room to await an ignominious fate in the distant future.

When the customer arrived to retrieve his fine instrument moments later, he picked up a perfectly beautiful (and in-tune) guitar. He ran his fingers across the strings and mused at the astounding depth of tone and beauty.

Every time, Paul—every time—I am amazed at the difference when the strings are changed!

With that, he was gone. The stunning instrument will be played on a stage this weekend. The audience will marvel.

Did you really think the story would end because one idiot got a third of an inch off? I suppose some could write that story. Not I.

I’m a believer in grace. Second chances. Broken strings which are replaced with new ones—and then replaced again—and again.

And again.

So, I’m a little off.

That is true for any human who can read these words.

Pain ensues. Blood flows.

Grace happens.

The music is still not finished.

The Master Musician is making a masterpiece, a work of art.

Grace.

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.
(Ephesians 2:8-10 ~ NIV)

The Magical Sky Fairy

January 25, 2016January 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

Thinking that some magical sky fairy will take care of your problems is a problem in itself.

The words appeared in my Twitter feed today in response to a recent article I posted there. I have seen them before, or at least similar words.

The young lady who wrote them doesn’t believe in God. She is not alone in her unbelief.

I want to strike back. Ugly words come in response to her mocking ones. I can’t help it. They rise without permission—a natural reaction from a human standpoint.

Immediately, I realize I will never say them. It is not who I am—or, more to the point—not the person He is making me. But, I want to examine her motivation, to wonder publicly why someone who claims there is no God would be so vigilant to mock those who believe in Him. Perhaps, I should write about that.

But I wonder. I wonder.

What if this is not about her? Do I really believe in some sky fairy? Is that what God is to me?

Click your heels together three times and repeat the words, there’s no place like home.

Is that all this is? Is it all humbug? Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!

My mind races as I review the evidence. I want desperately to be able to speak intelligent and convincing words. I know I’m supposed to be ready to give an answer—to explain the hope I have deep inside.(1 Peter 3:15)

But then, I remember that I can’t convince anyone; it’s not my job. I will give the answer. That is my job.

The convincing? That’s way above my pay grade. (John 16:8)

So? Is it real? Do I live as if it is?

A few weeks ago, I came back from my childhood home with treasures. They are items which have little value to any other human being on this planet, but which are priceless to me. My memories are tied up in many of them.

Last Sunday, three generations of my family gathered, as we do each week, to sit around the dining room table and make new memories. I thought perhaps it was time to inject an old one into the conversation.

As I prepared the table earlier, I cleaned and filled a glass and aluminum container with little white granules. Then I set the old salt shaker down in the center of the table to await the arrival of our guests.

Five generations. Five generations of my family have used that salt shaker now. I flavored mashed potatoes and vegetables from that shaker at my grandmother’s table when I was not even as old as my youngest grandchild is now.

Five generations. Lovely folk I have personally interacted with. Members of each of those generations have asked their questions and made their decisions to follow the same God. I’m sure there were others before them. I trust there will be more to follow.

Wanting to save a photo of the shaker on the table, I set it out the other day. As I snapped the shutter, I noticed the reflection on the table’s surface.

I can’t help it. My brain just works that way. The mental picture was more real to me than the actual photo.

Salt. Light.

The Teacher made it clear that His followers were exactly that. Salt. And light. Salt to help preserve the world. Light to show them the way. (Matthew 5:13-16)

We must keep our lives fresh and relevant. We can’t hide the light that shines from within us, or fade into the background.

Funny. The instructions I remember better right now have to do with the words we say. Let speech be flavored with grace, as though seasoned with salt. (Colossians 4:6)

The other instructions have to do with how we act. In the middle of a world bent on evil and twisted living, we need to shine like stars beaming out of the blackness of the universe. (Philippians 2:15)

It’s real. The God I follow is not fake, not made up. Of that, I am convinced.

I’ve asked the questions. Again. And again. I’ve asked the questions and had them answered. Like those before me and those who are coming after me, I believe because I’ve seen the evidence in walking, talking witnesses. Folks who are salt and light.

I will follow in their footsteps, because others are following in mine.

And others are watching from a distance.

They are watching. And mocking.

And perhaps, asking their own questions.

I hope it’s not too much to ask if they can be preserved long enough to see the light shining in their own darkness.

I want to be salt. And light.

You?

Conduct yourselves with wisdom toward outsiders, making the most of the opportunity.Let your speech always be with grace, as though seasoned with salt, so that you will know how you should respond to each person.
(Colossians 4:5-6 ~ NASB)

Grace must find expression in life, otherwise it is not grace.
(Karl Barth ~ Swiss theologian ~ 1886-1968)

No Accidents

December 24, 2015December 24, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Exhausted. Physically worn out.

In a minute, I’ll turn off the coffee pot and the lights. As I check the door though, I see the glow of the candles in the windows next door and my mind wanders.

Candlelight . . .

Earlier on this long Eve of Christmas day, we sat in a dimly lit church auditorium. It’s not a beautiful sanctuary, just an old Quonset hut gymnasium finished out to seat a couple hundred people, but it’s warm.

Comfortably we sat, and then stood to sing as the familiar carols began.

It was no accident that he picked our building to wander into. That homeless man could not have known who would be there; he could not have predicted his reception. But in he walked.

There are no accidents.

We stood and sang. He trudged right up the middle aisle. You know, usually folks in his condition take a seat near the back, awaiting the chance to ask for help quietly. This fellow? Right up front.

No. This was no accident.

The man set his plastic Walmart sack on the communion table. In Remembrance of Me, the words cut into the wood declare to the onlookers. Somehow, I think that’s no accident either.

There are not many items in our church building that we would call sacred. It’s just not how we worship. Altars, fonts, icons–those are not really part of our experience. We believe that true worship is from our hearts, disregarding the physical trappings, almost to a fault.

The Communion table though–that’s the Lord’s table. If not sacred, it is at least worthy of respect.

Dirty Walmart bags don’t scream out respect.

Sinking to his knees, the unhappy fellow bent himself down to the bare concrete floor and began to speak quietly. I couldn’t hear the words and I still don’t know what he prayed, but soon, others would kneel beside him and pray as well. They were still ministering to him as the rest of us left, nearly forty-five minutes later.

I need to say the words.

It was no accident that the man set his dirty Walmart bag on our Communion table.

I wonder. How many of us who were there left unchanged tonight?

I’ve written on numerous occasions of homeless folks and our responsibility to them. Their stories always pull at my heart, and I’ve attempted to communicate that same sense to the reader in my writing.

Tonight though, on the eve of our observance of the birth of Christ, a dirty man set his dirty sack right down in the middle of my worship.

Right down in the middle of it.

But, as I stare over at the candles in the house’s windows, I begin to understand.

You see, it was no accident that the Baby was born to an unmarried young lady and laid in a feeding trough.

It was no accident that His companions throughout His life on earth were outcasts, and drunks, and the poor.

It was no accident that this Holy, perfect God-man was hung on a cursed, profane tree.

His intent was to show us that often what we define as profane is what He calls sacred. For all of His time here, He made clear as well, that much of what the religious folk of that day called sacred was actually profane.

I wonder if there are similar words He would say to His Church today.

The Baby in the barn calls us to care about the sacred instead of focusing on the profane.

He calls us to speak grace instead of declaring law. He calls us to offer mercy instead of dispensing justice.

He calls us to let the dirty Walmart bag sit atop the Lord’s Table.

In some ways, the bag is more sacred. It is if it allows a seeker to find once more the Baby who came to be Savior.

Sacred.

The Savior came to offer grace. More than that, He came to change who we are.

I know. He’s still changing me.

And that’s no accident either.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.
(Isaiah 9:2 ~ NIV)

Anything that happens to you, good or bad, must pass through His fingers first. There are no accidents with God.
(Tony Evans ~ American pastor/author)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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