I Did That

June 17, 2016June 17, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m rethinking the events of my day.

No. Really, I’m wondering about the events of my life. They’re all related, you know.

It was a good day. Well, I mean it was a good day until I spent an hour or so in the dentist’s chair, panicking like a waterboarding victim at Gitmo. Before that, though…

Before that, though, I got to do what I’ve done most work days for the last thirty-plus years.

I got to assist folks in making purchases which will help them make music. I helped some teachers make purchases which will aid them in helping people learn how to make music.

I even worked on several instruments to improve their ability to be used in making music.

It doesn’t sound like much, does it? I simply help people make music.

A couple of different people today referred to me as the music man. But, except for sporadically, I don’t actually make music myself.

Still, the enjoyment I receive from sitting in a concert, listening to students play instruments I either procured for them, or repaired for them, cannot be overstated.

Watching a guitarist in the park play a gig on an instrument which was lying on my work bench that morning brings a thrill I’m not sure I can describe.

At times like that, it’s hard to keep from looking at the person sitting beside me and nudging them before whispering in their ear:

I did that!

Funny thing, every time I start to think like that—every time—I get a nudge from the Spirit that lives inside of me. And I hear a voice, a voice audible only to me, saying;

No. I did that. (1 Corinthians 4:7)

Can I tell you a secret?

There is no less joy—no smaller personal reward—in acknowledging God’s hand in my life, than in pridefully claiming the credit myself. There is even more than a little relief in making the admission.

If I am responsible for yesterday’s conquests, the pressure to perform the same feats tomorrow is squarely on my shoulders.

They’re not strong shoulders.

His are.

The longer I live, the more clear it becomes that any legacy I hope to leave behind will not last more than a few days past my departure from this life.

Unless—unless the legacy is not dependent on my activities, not attributed to me alone. The things I do that shine a spotlight on myself are nothing, simply the emperor’s clothes. I might as well stand in plain sight without a stitch of clothing on.

A legacy comes from living a life with purpose. It comes from giving everything you’ve got for something bigger than fame, or reputation, or wealth.

One of the instruments I laid on my work bench today was a fine electric guitar, if not an expensive one. The owner wanted me to put new pickups in it, so he could achieve a different sound than the originals were capable of.

He has been working on the appearance of the guitar. By that I don’t mean he has been polishing it up, or touching up the finish.

What I mean is that the owner has been abusing the finish on the body of the instrument. He wants people to think he’s playing an old, vintage guitar. Sandpaper and a screwdriver are among the tools he has used to lovingly deface the glossy paint and to scar the wood.

More than one person stopped by my work bench today and saw the poor guitar lying there. The work the owner has done paid off.

Guitarists have a soft spot in their hearts for an instrument that has paid its dues. A vintage instrument, worn and beaten, but still in service, has (and rightfully so) earned their respect.

I saw the respect and reverence in the eyes of the onlookers today. Immediately, I invited them to touch the instrument.

Within a second of touching the so-called wear on the guitar, the respect and reverence was gone from the faces of every single one who tried it. In the same faces, I saw chagrin and derision. Chagrin at being fooled. Derision at the idea that such an instrument was worthy of respect.

The guitar, although very much a real and worthwhile instrument, is a fake.

A fake. However useful, it is trying to gain respect not due it. Honor comes with service. And perseverance.

Good honest wear comes from years of being held in the hands of the music man. The hands of the person who knows how to squeeze the tonality and volume from the depths of the instrument.

The wear that comes from a lifetime of service will leave scars. It will leave bare spots and faded places.

All smooth as silk. The rough edges are rubbed away, the raw crevices of accidental gouges worn down to a gentle slope.

Touchable. Comfortable.

Beautiful.

And somehow, we’re not talking about guitars anymore, are we?

In the hands of the Music Maker, service becomes legacy. (James 1:12)

Hardship becomes blessing.

Disaster becomes opportunity.

Good. Honest. Wear.

The day is coming when I will stand before the real Music Man. I think I’d like to hear His voice say—just His, and no one else’s:

I did that.

Scars, gouges, and thin spots.

His legacy.

Not mine.

His.

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.
(The Velveteen Rabbit ~ Margery Williams ~ English/American author ~ 1881-1944)

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
(Romans 8:38-39 ~ NASB)

All Together Now

June 13, 2016June 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

She carried the old guitar in, asking if I wanted to buy it.

It’s not an unusual question. It seems I answer that one every day.

They don’t carry in instruments like this one every day, though. The beautiful, vintage guitar grabbed my attention from the moment it came out of the case.

I was pretty sure I did want to buy the pretty thing, but first, I had to hold it in my hands, making sure the initial visual impression would be borne out by the actual playing experience.

Dad had the right idea when he taught me, many years ago, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Good looks are nice, but the item has to live up to its promises.

Tuning the old strings, I ran the pickup selector switch through all the positions.

In the number 1 position, the neck pickup was full and bass-y. That was exactly what I was expecting.

Then I switched to number 2, and the center pickup dropped out a lot of the bass, but was really strong in the mid-range sounds. Again, no surprises.

Number 3, producing a signal from the pickup nearest the bridge, was very different, with all treble tonalities and almost no sustain. You might even have called it twangy. Exactly the sound a bridge pickup should emit.

Everything worked! But I wasn’t ready to make an offer yet.

I flipped the selector switch to the last position, this one marked ALL.

The change was profound!

All the tonal qualities from each pickup were combined into one signal. The edgy tone of the bridge pickup, the mid-range punch of the center pickup, and the full-throated growl of the neck pickup, all joined their voices to fill the air with captivating sound.

I glanced over at the old woman, seated nearby on a stool, and she was grinning from ear to ear.

“I think the price just went up,” she teased.

Without reservation, the answer to the original question was yes!

Yes, I certainly wanted to buy the guitar, so we struck the deal.

It was hanging on the wall of the music store as I wrote this, awaiting the little bit of tender, loving care that would bring it back to top condition once again.

My mind goes back again to that moment. Oh, it was heaven to hear!

I looked at the name stamped on the headstock of the guitar and thought, how appropriate.

The company that built the fine old instrument was the Harmony Guitar Company.

The lesson I am learning–have been learning for many years–is contained in that brand name. Wrapped up in one word.

I love harmony.

Orchestras, choirs, barbershop quartets, rock groups, or church congregations—it doesn’t matter. All are transformed from a ragtag bunch of individual musicians into one cohesive musical instrument, simply by blending their voices and talents together.

And, whether we are listening, or performing, it is an exquisite joy to experience that blending—that cooperation—with others.

I do love to listen to soloists. But, for the most part, they don’t—ever—sing without harmony. Only if they sing a capella, without accompaniment, do they truly sing a solo.

I don’t think I would ever want to attend an entire concert of a capella solo music. I say that with some assurance. A fair amount.

Our ears naturally want to hear harmonies, if only in the quiet chords of a guitar, or the moving undertones of a string bass.

It is indeed our experience in all of life, and not just in the sphere of music.

We each have a distinctive voice.

Some of us are all grumbly, bassy resonance.

Others are the almost nondescript mid-range, providing the in-between parts in the grand scale of life.

The high voices cut through the mix, edgy and clear.

We need to hear every one of these voices. There is value in each one, and they will each have a time to shine alone.

But, when they join together in harmony, finding the right notes to complement the tonality of all the other voices?

Ah, heaven won’t be much better than that, will it?

Harmony between individuals is, indeed, a great and beautiful gift from our Creator. But, we don’t always want to find the right notes.

Too often, we desire to sing the lead part when we are better suited to a supporting part. We argue and demand our due, creating discord and clashing with our fellow musicians.

I have been the cause of such disunity. I’ve heard the dissonant tones, and watched people cover their ears and walk away in disgust.

Harmony demands the cooperation of everyone in the group. It requires the constant attention to pitch and balance by each participant.

Somehow as a human race (and recent events only serve to put an exclamation point on it) we’re not all that good at holding harmony.

There have been, indeed, periods of spectacular effort and results.

And yet, individual voices always demand, eventually, to be heard above the chorus. The result is always disastrous.

It always will be, when voices won’t follow the direction of the Master Conductor. Harmony is elusive, even non-existent, without Him.

Harmony is elusive, even non-existent, without the Master Conductor. Share on X

How will it ever be any different, if we who claim to follow His lead fight and bicker to prove whose voice should be heard?

How will those who deny His very existence ever see any evidence of who He is? How could they recognize how essential His direction is in the life of those who would join the chorus?

I’m trying to listen for the other voices these days.

I don’t always have to hear my own voice louder than the others in the choir. It has taken me many years to begin to grasp this lesson.

I haven’t mastered it yet.

Still, I’m loving the beautiful harmonies I’m starting to hear. It’s sounding better to my ear all the time.

I’m wondering if life is just practice for the day when we’re all a part of heaven’s choir.

I’ve missed too many rehearsals already.

How about you?

How wonderful and pleasant it is
    when brothers live together in harmony!
For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil
    that was poured over Aaron’s head,
    that ran down his beard
    and onto the border of his robe.
Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon
    that falls on the mountains of Zion.
And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing,
    even life everlasting.
(Psalm 131 ~ NLT)

In the end we shall have had enough of cynicism, skepticism, and humbug, and we shall want to live more musically.
(Vincent van Gogh~Dutch artist~1853-1890)

And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.
(Colossians 3:14~ESV)

Connected

March 18, 2016March 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was puzzled. It’s not a state of mind with which I’m unfamiliar, but I had thought I was on solid ground.

Once again today, I found myself at my work bench with a guitar before me. As with the state of mind, it’s not a rare situation. I spend several hours each week at that post in the course of my work.

Usually, I know what I’m doing. Without consulting any manuals, or making any telephone calls to experts, I am confident in my ability to complete the task before me. I don’t usually take jobs I think I might not be able to finish.

The young lady had been a little vague when she dropped off the high-quality guitar a few weeks ago. Still, I thought I understood the problem and even had a pretty good idea of what I would do to make it right for her.

“The pickup system just doesn’t have any sound. I know there’s supposed to be a battery somewhere; maybe that’s the problem. You’ll figure it out, won’t you?”

I was sure I would. Until today.

I stood, strings dangling off one end of the guitar cradle, and wires hanging off the other. In the middle the beastly guitar, ordinarily a thing of beauty, lay taunting me.

The battery was fine. I had checked the electronic pre-amp, the brains of the pickup system, and found it to be functioning as it should, as well. That left just one thing, I thought. There must be a broken wire going to the pickup itself.

This should be easy. I was sure of myself. So sure was I that I took a coffee break. No hurry—I’ll wrap this up in a few minutes.

The red-headed lady who raised me had an apt saying for this circumstance (she had one for nearly every situation): Ha! Famous last words!

I might even have heard her chuckle as I stood there befuddled an hour later.

Four. There were four pickups, not just one. I just couldn’t understand it. If there were four pickups, a single broken wire wouldn’t affect all of them. I could see clearly that each pickup had its own wire going to it.

I stood there like a condemned man. I knew what was coming next. In the same way a man driving in circles in a strange neighborhood knows he will eventually have to stop and do the unthinkable—ask for directions—I knew.

I called the service department at the guitar’s manufacturer. The lady who answered the phone was perky. I didn’t want perky. The man she transferred the call to in electronics was also perky. I talked with him anyway.

Telling him my problem, he explained the proprietary design of the pickup system. I think if you look it up, the definition for proprietary is: You need to call our help desk to understand it.

The perky fellow used a hundred words to explain the system. I heard one.

Series.

Do you remember the old Christmas tree lights? The ones that worked fine until one light burned out? With one failed bulb, the entire string of lights went dark. Series.

In a series circuit, the power flows through each component in the series to the next one. If there is a break, or fault, in any one of the components, none of them will work.

There are four pickups on this guitar. If one fails, the other three would certainly be adequate to get the necessary sound to the amplifier and thus, to the audience. But, they aren’t allowed to do their part if any one of them fails.

Madness.

You know there is more to this than a simple lesson in guitar repair, do you not?

Did you know that electrical circuits are also called branches? The reason is obvious. They branch from the main power source and depend on it for electricity.

I look at the word branch and can’t help but hear the words of the Teacher, in one of the most serious conversations He ever had with His followers, telling them He was the source of all power and making it clear they must maintain a direct relationship with Him. (John 15:4)

I want to tell you He declared that He was the Main Breaker Box and they were the circuits.

Actually, He used the agricultural milieu they were accustomed to to explain, assuming the role of the trunk of the plant for Himself and assigning the part of the branches which fed directly from that trunk to His followers.

I’m sure He wouldn’t mind the adaptation to the reality in our day and age.

I wonder. Are we plugged directly and permanently into the Power Source? Directly into the Source? Or have we just dragged our extension cord over to plug in into one of the branch circuits, along with dozens of others?

Many in our day follow a man. They follow a sect—or a denomination—or even a certain doctrine. I’m not sure these are bad things. We’re just not intended to come to God through any of those things. Any of them.

He didn’t wire us into His grid in series.

Are you plugged in? Directly, plugged in? If your pastor, or mentor, or teacher messes up, will you be devastated and left directionless?

If we depend on men for our strength, it is a guarantee—an absolute guarantee—we will be left confused and wandering in the dark.

I’ll repair the broken wire to that one pickup tomorrow. The system will function again—for awhile. And, the guitar will end up on someone’s workbench again—mine or another shop’s.

Madness.

Time to find the Source.

Get plugged in.

“Oh dear,” said Jill, coming another step closer. “I suppose I must go and look for another stream then.”
“There is no other stream,” said the Lion.
(from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English educator ~ 1898-1963)

For there is one God and one mediator between God and mankind, the man Christ Jesus,
(1 Timothy 2:5 ~ NIV)

The Instrument

February 19, 2016February 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I am the instrument.

I’m trying to remember the first time I heard the words. It must have been in high school, muttered by a friend in the choir as he prepared for a contest. One never knows what tools will come into play when the self image needs a boost.

I’ve heard the words a few times since.

Invariably, they come from a vocalist, to whom the words give evidence there is no additional accoutrement necessary to accomplish his or her artistry. Somehow, even though I’m sure no such thing is intended, it seems—almost—a mantra, calculated to cause jealousy in the heart of any lowly instrumentalist within listening distance.

Oh, if only I didn’t need this stupid guitar (or horn, or piano, or…) to make my music.

I wonder—do vocal teachers make this a part of their curriculum, a required piece of information which all students must practice saying daily, much as they practice their scales or vocalises?

Have you said the words today, choir? Say it with me, “I am the instrument!”

Ah, I’ve got your attention now, don’t I?

Finally. He’s going to write something controversial.

Now we’ll get some angry comments, won’t we?

I hate to disappoint, but this little essay was opened with the introduction of that catch phrase merely to make a point. The point is fairly simple:

I am the instrument.

Yes, I know. We’ve covered that.

But, have we?

There is more to be said. The words don’t apply only to vocalists. They’re not even exclusive to musicians.

Even if you can’t tell a C chord from a rip cord, you are an instrument. Even if you hate every genre of music known to man, you are an instrument.

You are an instrument.

I have worked in the music business all of my adult life, and I’ve listened to a fair number of musicians. Maybe more than a fair number.

One customer suggested to me the other day, after hearing an amazing guitarist in my music store, that I was fortunate to be able to hear so many accomplished musicians come and go.

He is right.

But then, there is the flip-side of that coin.

As often as I hear the talented and disciplined musicians, I have to endure those who only think they are good. The cacophony is horrific at times. It is all I can do to keep from clapping my hands over my ears. It has been true of both instrumentalists and vocalists.

Did you know that an instrument is only as good as the one playing it? Beautiful music or ghastly noise can come from the same instrument, depending on who is manipulating the equipment.

I have heard cheaply made, even defective, instruments played beautifully—beyond what one would believe are its capabilities.

I have heard the shrieks, almost of pain, from some of the finest and most valuable instruments imaginable being manipulated by untalented hands.

Hmmm. Perhaps there is more to this than meets the eye—or ear.

In an earlier era, the folk singer Bob Dylan reminded us of the not-so-subtle truth beginning to peek through in our conversation here. He croaked the words (in an almost tuneful way)—Gotta Serve Somebody. His mumbled lyrics echoed the words of the Teacher, who made it clear that no one could serve two different masters. (Luke 16:13)

One way or the other, we will serve.

The Apostle suggested that we are better off if we don’t loan ourselves out for evil purposes. (Romans 6:13) The result of that collaboration can only be ugliness, raw and angry. It’s not the stuff of harmony and spectacular beauty.

The Master Musician has the talent to make the most insignificant of instruments create the most exquisite harmonies ever heard. But, unlike the inanimate instruments we employ on whatever whim takes us, His instruments get to choose who will take them up.

We choose.

It’s not about arrogance—only the finest instruments being held in the hands of the Master—but about humility. Frail and battered, out-of-tune and muffled—all can make glorious music in His hands.

We choose.

I want my choice to be a wise one.

You see, I love beautiful music—sweet music—music that touches the heart.

That kind of music only comes from the hands of a Virtuoso.

I will be held by Him.

I am the instrument.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the touch of the Master’s Hand.
(from The Old Violin ~ Myra Brooks Welch ~ American poet ~ 1877-1959)

It’s easy to play any musical instrument: all you have to do is touch the right key at the right time and the instrument will play itself.
(Johann Sebastian Bach ~ German composer ~ 1685-1750)

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)

Back to the Basics

September 29, 2015September 29, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.
(As Time Goes By ~ Herman Hupfield)

Life is complicated.

That’s what I hear from folks. It’s what I say myself, when I get confused about events in my life. Relationships get tangled; children grow up and have adult problems, or they grow up and have children of their own—which yields the same result.

Wherever I look, the rest of the world encroaches on the boundaries I was careful to set—for myself and for my family. Overwhelmed, I throw my hands up in surrender and declare it’s all too complicated for me.

Life is complicated.

Or, is it?

Perhaps, I could give an example or two from real life—my life—just today. Since much of my life revolves around music, the examples will too, but I promise to attempt to avoid too much technical detail in the telling.

This morning, two vehicles pulled into the parking lot at my music store at the same time. Out of one, my preacher friend exited, holding two to-go cups of coffee. From the other, another friend, about whom I’ve written before, alighted. They had been at the local coffee shop and decided they should share a cup and some conversation with me.

I always enjoy their fellowship, and today our conversation ran the gamut from memories of days long past to the preacher’s need for a rhythm instrument for his worship team. We also talked about music a little, while our other friend strummed one of the vintage acoustic guitars he had taken from its hook on the wall.

The conversation turned to guitar playing, the man strumming the guitar explaining his finger-picking technique. The preacher is also a guitarist, so we stopped our conversation to listen and watch for a moment.

As I watched, my mind began to race away on a tangent. In the nearly forty years I’ve worked in the music business, I have seen many changes come in the way guitars are played, not the smallest being the blossoming of alternate tunings.

I was taught that a guitar should always be tuned in a standard form. The chords I learned fit that form. The strings I install fit that form. The way I tune the guitars which hang on my wall fit that form.

Life used to be so simple.

Nowadays, anything goes. Drop the pitch on a single string, but leave the rest in standard tuning—Keep the intervals the same, but drop all the pitches a half step, or one step, or two steps—Add strings to the neck and use higher and lower pitches for the additional strings—Anything goes. If you can figure out how to play it, use whatever tuning you want.

I was just getting ready to suggest that playing the guitar was getting awfully complicated when the preacher brought things back into perspective. Apparently, watching our mutual friend play his complicated fingerings was more than he was prepared to contemplate any longer.

“The technique I like best when I play guitar,” he said, “is the one where I don’t drop the pick.”

I almost wanted to hug him. Almost.

In that moment, the light broke through the darkness of my confusion about playing guitar. The profundity of the preacher’s statement stirred a common note within me.

Guitar playing is only as complicated as you make it! When you strip it down to the basics, you play the chords and you don’t drop your pick.

All the rest is just fluff.

Sure, there’s some good stuff which may be played later on, but you get there by mastering the basics.

One would think that moment of clarity would be enough to last me throughout the day. One would be wrong.

I walked into the house tonight and, even before sitting down to supper, headed for the living room and opened up my French horn case. I have been invited to play in the pit orchestra for an upcoming musical at the local university.

Rehearsals begin next week. I don’t want to be embarrassed.

“This music is complicated!” I groused, as I pulled out the score. “Look at all those odd time signatures! I’ll never get this right!”

And, for the next forty-five minutes, I proceeded to prove my statement. Wrong notes were the least of my problems, as I fumbled my way through the music. To say I was overwhelmed would be like saying there are a few Razorback fans in the state of Arkansas. Overwhelmed doesn’t nearly cover it.

As usual, the Lovely Lady came to my rescue. As I explained my issues to her, she looked from me to the music, and then back at me again, smiling—you know, the kind of smile a teacher puts on when the solution to a math problem is as simple as one-two-three.

No really. That simple.

“You can still count, can’t you? So there are more counts here than you’re used to. Whether it’s two beats to a measure or ten to a measure, you still count it. Slow it down as much as you need to work it out. But, just count.”

Again the light came on!

Basics. Nothing but the basics.

I’ve got a long way to go on that music, but for now, I’m going to concentrate on the basics. I do know how to count.

I thought today about the Man the religious leaders of His day called Rabbi—Teacher—and how confusing must life have been during His days on the earth. One might think there were just ten laws to follow, but one would be wrong. The Ten Commandments had turned into a mountain of rules, depending on which sect you followed.

On the day I’m thinking about, the learned men—men who specialized in making life complicated for their followers—from two different sects came to the Teacher. Both tried to trap him in error. It should have been easy, given the convoluted maze of rules and regulations they had exaggerated from the original Ten.

The first group was silenced quickly and soon thereafter, the second gave it a shot. Almost as if they were holding out a deck of cards, they asked the Teacher to pick one.

“Make sure you pick the most important one,” they warned.

He did.

“Love God with every part of your being: Your heart and your soul, as well as your mind.”

Before they could remind Him that life is not lived on just one plane, He picked one more card.

“This one is a lot like the other. Love people the way you love yourselves.”

Is life complicated?

Perhaps it’s time to get back to the basics.

Okay, so it’s not as easy as falling off a log. Loving God involves learning what He requires of us. It involves putting that into action. And, loving people is one of those things—the major one. There will be action required there, too.

Sometimes, we complicate things ourselves.

I hope the light stays on for awhile.

While it’s on, I’m going to learn how to hold on to the guitar pick.

And, I’ll practice counting.

I may still be embarrassed as I take care of the basics. Both in life and at my musical.

Neither will be fatal.

He still knows that we came from dust. He still offers second chances.

Even if we drop the pick a time or two.

Truth is ever to be found in simplicity, and not in the multiplicity and confusion of things.
(Sir Isaac Newton ~ English physicist/mathematician ~ 1643-1727)

Hearing that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, the Pharisees got together.One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question:“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”
(Matthew 22:34-40 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

guitar