A Glimpse of Glory

January 9, 2019January 9, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’m a glutton for punishment. I think that’s the phrase the red-headed lady who raised me would have used.

“Tell me; what happened with that huge bill for the helicopter ride?”

Back a ways, I had seen my friend, the guitar player, in his workplace and he didn’t look well. He didn’t look well at all. But, he had been happy to tell the story. He loves a good story as much as do I, well or not.

The heart attack had been shocking in its intensity and the rapidity with which it incapacitated him. He and his wife were on vacation, over a thousand miles from home. The paramedics, stationed right across the street from their motel, had had him at the local hospital within minutes. The doctor on duty looked over his vitals and shook his head.

“We’re not equipped to do the procedure you need done. Looks like you’re taking a helicopter ride.”

The day he had told me about the new stents in his arteries and the unexpected ‘copter ride, was the day after the envelope had arrived. I wondered if the envelope wasn’t a good part of why he didn’t look so good.

“My insurance company says it won’t pay for the air-evac bill, Paul. I tell you, I stood there stunned when I saw the amount printed on that statement! Thirty-one thousand dollars!“

I didn’t know what to say. All I could think about was what a debt of that magnitude would do to my own meager resources. The very idea was staggering. And so, not knowing what to say, I punted.

You know. Punted.

“Man, I’m sorry! I’ll be praying for that with you!”

He smiled. “Oh. God’s got this. I’m already sure of it.”

I agreed with him that God did, indeed, have it and headed for home. And, I did what I said I would do. I prayed as I felt sorry for him having to pay that huge bill.

That was back around Thanksgiving. I sat and drank coffee with him not long after that, but there were others at the table so I kept my mouth shut.

I wasn’t that smart today.

When I asked him about the bill, he just stood silently in front of me and the Lovely Lady for a moment, a slow smile moving across his face. We knew another story was coming.

“Well Paul, the biggest heathen in the world told me one day a few weeks ago that there was no way God would have provided that helicopter if He wasn’t intending to pay for it. He said that He was either Almighty God, or He wasn’t. The biggest heathen in the world.”

We batted that around for a little while, but I noticed the smile was still stretching his face, so I nudged him forward in his story. He wanted to talk about Christmas Eve. As is true many places in the States, Christmas Eve is one of the busiest days of the season in the retail business where he works.

The day before, he had worked until midnight. That day—Christmas Eve—he came in at seven in the morning and worked until after four in the afternoon. He was exhausted. Exhausted and angry. The threat of financial disaster still hung over him. And, there was a line a mile long—people waiting to be checked out. They weren’t all happy, either.

“All I knew was, I hated everybody I worked with, I hated every person coming in the door, and I hated every person walking out. Most of all, I hated that job. When I finally got in my car to go home, I sat behind the wheel and asked God—out loud—why He was making me work in that place. I asked it again and again, all the way home.”

He paused in the midst of his hyperbole, looking back and forth from me to the Lovely Lady with that silly grin spread across his features.

“You know where this is going, don’t you?” he queried.

I could guess, but I wasn’t going to spoil his story.

“I stopped at the box, pulled out the mail, and found another one of those envelopes. Only, this time, the amount due was a little smaller. Well, a lot smaller.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I’m pretty sure the smile got a little bigger.

Six hundred dollars! That’s all they were asking for his part. Somehow the company he works for had either paid or negotiated down the amount to only two percent of the original thirty-one thousand dollars he had owed just days before.

Talk about joy! And, relief!

“It was almost as if I heard God say it. ‘That’s why I have you working there. You said it yourself. I’ve got this!'”

He went inside the house and found his wife, stressed and tired, overcome with exhaustion herself from preparations for holiday family events. Without a word, he handed her the statement. Within seconds, the tears were flowing.

As he told the story, tears filled my own eyes. Joy. Well. . . Mostly joy. I’ll admit it. Something was bothering me.

Why am I still surprised? I’m not just surprised—I’m amazed! Why is that?

I grew up singing about the cattle He owns on a thousand hills. I assured my tiny children their Heavenly Father cared for them and provided all our needs. I’ve seen the miracles of provision with my own eyes, again and again.

The biggest heathen in the world believed it more than I did. Really.

Do you suppose He’s disappointed with me? With us?

When we don’t quite believe that He can do that again, does He shake His head in disgust?

David, the psalmist didn’t think so. He suggested that God deals with us as a father with his children. He understands what makes us tick. He knows we’re only made from dirt. How would the Artist not know His own work? (Psalm 103:13-14)

He is not surprised when we fall on the road, lying there in self-pity and diminishing faith. Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home.

Again and again, He helps us up and sets us on the way anew—trudging, walking, or running on our way home. Share on X

But then, there are times—those amazing moments—when He sweeps aside the curtain and gives us a glimpse of the glorious work of art He is creating from the little dabs of joy and pain, the patient stippling of profound friendship, and the broad washes of intense loss.

For the barest of moments, our eyes widen and our breath catches as we see—really see—Him at work. And, for that wisp of time, we catch a gleam, the tiniest glimmer, of what heaven will be.

And then, almost like waking from a dream, the moment is past. Dimly, as through a translucent window, we—again—barely make out what will be. (1 Corinthians 13:12)

It would be a mistake on our part to imagine our Creator sees us in the same way—dimly, incompletely—at any time. From before time began, He knew the direction of our steps, our highs, our lows. And, He knows the plans He has for us. He knows them. (Jeremiah 29:11)

His plans are for our good. And, never to harm us.

So, on we walk. Sunshine. Shadow.

Peering through the haze.

Trusting the God who can pay for the ride.

Let me revel in this one thought: before God made the heavens and the earth, He set His love upon me.
(Charles Spurgeon ~ English pastor/author ~ 1834-1892)

The way of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn,
which shines ever brighter until the full light of day.
(Proverbs 4:18 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Jubal’s Tribe

June 28, 2017June 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Have you ever considered how music touches our souls?

The preacher sat toying with his coffee cup, now mostly empty. When we first sat down an hour before, it had been filled to the rim with the hot, black elixir.

We had talked of history and faith and friends, along with a sentence or two about the glory days of our youth. As our time together inched toward its termination, the conversation turned toward the philosophical.

My guitar-playing friend was there, as well. He, as was his habit, contributed to the direction of our discussion with a short narrative about a man and his wife of many years who had sung together at a recent music event the storyteller had headlined.

The thing is, the lady has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t know her husband anymore, nor is she able to comprehend even simple questions or enter into conversation. But, she sang.

She sang.

It’s not the first story told about music and how it is so deeply ingrained in our very being. Many others have their own anecdotes, family lore which lightens the darkness of sad periods in their memories. I have my own. too.

The last time I visited with the red-headed lady who raised me—my mom—before she left this life, she didn’t know me. Told me I was no good. Ordered me out of her house.

But, when I sat beside her in church that morning and held my hymnal in front of her, she nearly pulled it out of my hand as she tugged at it. And, she sang.

She sang.

Tears came to my eyes as I visited with my friends that morning, just a week or so ago. The three of us sat on the sidewalk at the cafe, conversations abuzz all around and cars passing by on the busy downtown street; all I heard was my Mama’s voice singing praise to her Creator.

Why does music touch our souls?

How is it that the words and melodies are written indelibly on our hearts when all else has gone dark?

From the depths of our being, when neither voices nor photos, nor even faces can bring familiar, well-worn paths and fellow-travelers back to mind, the introductory notes of an old hymn—or even a folk song or ballad—stir the synapses of the mostly unresponsive brain to recall the words and tune faultlessly.

Even my father-in-law, in the last years of his life almost completely unresponsive, would sit beside his wife as she played the piano, and his once strong voice would ring out the tenor part as if he had no impediment whatsoever.

Why does music touch our souls?

I attempted to interject my thoughts on the effect music has on our emotions, the right sequence of notes drawing tears in appropriate places during the course of a movie, or even the use of certain types of music to inspire courage and fidelity on the battlefield.

The preacher dismissed that as simply emotions, not actually the heart. I, not sure I agreed, ceded him the point, since it was clear that any argument would have been merely subjective, without any possibility of claiming definitive proof.

Perhaps that’s a discussion for another day. I’m not fully convinced. I’ll have to think on that awhile longer.

For today though, the question still demands an answer. Why does music touch the soul—or heart, if you prefer—and leave its mark stamped thereon?

Jabal had a brother, whose name was Jubal. He was the father of all who play the harp and pipe. (Genesis 4:21)

Jubilation and jubilees had arrived. Seven generations after Adam, the gift of music began to be ingrained in the human spirit. The birds in the trees no longer had any advantage over humanity, save that they could fly.

Henceforth, the human spirit would be moved, not only by words and emotions, but by music. Notes and chords, strung together and played or sung, would make their way inexorably and irretrievably into the hearts of men.

For those of us who hold a worldview shaped by Scripture, music would have the purpose of drawing men to God and glorifying Him. The Word is full of evidence. Read Psalm 95:1, Ephesians 5:19, 2 Chronicles 5:13, to only begin.

Scripture’s pages are full of the act of making music. Across the ages, hearts were drawn irresistibly to God in song.

What a gift!

The weekend after that coffee morning with my friends, I stood in the Sunday morning worship service where the Lovely Lady and I fellowship and, once again, the point was made as clear as a mountain spring to me.

Although, I am often privileged to be part of the worship team on-stage, on this day I stood in the midst of the main group on the floor level. My mind, as is too often the case, was on the more practical issues of my life—work, finances (or the lack thereof), uncertainties of the future—rather than focused on worship.

There was nothing spectacular about the music. Nothing.

And yet, as I stood and sang, as I had been taught to do early in life by that red-headed lady I spoke of earlier, the eyes of my soul were drawn irresistibly to higher things.

The God of all the universe has come to live within us. To walk with us. To put eternity in our hearts.

My voice broke. As the tears flowed, my voice fell silent.

My heart did not.

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us.

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us. Share on X

I wonder.

Music touches our souls because the God who is Love knew we would need to be reminded. Often.

What a gift! The gift that soothes, that inspires, that makes the heart to soar.

Jubilation!

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(William Congreve ~ English playwright ~ 1670-1729)

Sing a new song to the Lord,
    for he has done wonderful deeds.
His right hand has won a mighty victory;
    his holy arm has shown his saving power!
The Lord has announced his victory
    and has revealed his righteousness to every nation!
He has remembered his promise to love and be faithful to Israel.
    The ends of the earth have seen the victory of our God.
Shout to the Lord, all the earth;
  break out in praise and sing for joy!
Sing your praise to the Lord with the harp,
  with the harp and melodious song,
with trumpets and the sound of the ram’s horn.
  Make a joyful symphony before the Lord, the King!
Let the sea and everything in it shout his praise!
  Let the earth and all living things join in.
(Psalm 98: 1-7 ~ NLT)
Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

From the Inside Out

January 4, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Of all the gifts, I’m thinking that I’m most thankful for the blank page of the moment just ahead, awaiting our first step into it, our first words coloring the empty space. Here is where the past and the future meet. This is the place where we set the memories, about which we’ll reminisce in years to come, into the history books of our minds.

Those words are especially apropos as we have just begun a new year. I have shared them before. But, as I consider that many will take those steps thoughtlessly and foolishly, I am almost tempted to repent of saying the words.

They were written as words of reassurance, drawing a picture of delight as the reader stands poised to make memories worth recording and celebrating far into the future.

I can’t help but realize they are no less true for those who step into the future with bitterness and rancor, writing their impending history with the uncaring destruction of bridges which can never again be traversed.

Then again, as I write (and think) tonight, I am reminded that it has ever been so. What is in the heart of men will make its way, however slow and inexorably, to the surface. Selfishness in the heart begets selfishness in words and in actions. Pettiness produces a like result.

The Teacher Himself said it clearly: Out of the contents of your heart, you will communicate. (Luke 6:45)

Later, one who had walked with Jesus repeated it when he suggested that a spring of salt water could not produce fresh water. (James 3:12)

We make our own choices about the history which will fill the empty page of the future when it is no longer the future.

I will not repent of the words. I’ll not wallow in despair.

Here is what I know:

The grace which has been extended to us is able to reach to the depths of our hearts. We have only to grasp hold of it and allow its work of renewal and refreshing to be completed.

No, we can’t go back and undo the past. The failures of those days still lie behind. But, they no longer have to be ahead of us, too.

The previous page is covered with yesterday’s actions and words, whether kind and constructive, or harsh and devastating. Ahead, still lies the future, clean as the artists canvas.

Our choice…More of the same, or a new direction.

Each moment, each action will determine the history which will one day be retold.

Choose well.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–I took the one less traveled by…
(from The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost ~ American poet ~ 1874-1963)

Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future…
(from Fly Like An Eagle by the Steve Miller Band ~ ca. 1976)

Saying Good Words

November 25, 2015November 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was the perfect plan! Perfect.

The Phillips Brats were in fine form. Mr. Olson, the patient and gentle teacher of their primary Sunday School class, wouldn’t know what to do. They were sure of it.

The eight and nine year-old boys normally were on their best behavior on Sunday mornings, since their father was acting as the Sunday School Superintendent that year. They never knew when his strong fingers would slide through the portable cloth panel behind their chairs and pinch an arm to quiet down his rowdy offspring. The man knew how to pinch!

Today, though—today—his work with the Post Office guaranteed there would be no pinched arms. The busy holiday season required more hours of all the employees, and their dad, a clerk at the main office in town, was no exception. He wouldn’t impede them in their mischievousness today.

They drafted one of the more courageous girls in the class to help with their plan. It was a simple plan, but one guaranteed to disrupt progress.

Mr. Olson began to teach and they went into action. Well, it wasn’t really into action. Each of the three children simply had an assigned word to whisper. Just one.

The older brother didn’t hesitate.

Amen!

Their teacher stopped in mid-sentence, but only for a second. His eye-brows went up quizzically, and then he was off again.

It was time for brother number two to interject.

Hallelujah!

The result was the same. No verbal response was forthcoming, nor was any expected. The lesson simply went on.

Praise the Lord!

The brave little girl carried off her part admirably. Mr. Olson didn’t even hesitate this time. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he would fulfill his responsibilities, regardless.

The entire half hour went in much the same manner. The alternating voices, sometimes louder—sometimes softer—interjected at appropriate (or not) intervals, and the lesson was completed at last.

Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

They are good words, are they not?

The plan was genius. No Sunday School teacher in his right mind would deny the children the privilege of using those words in response to the lesson. The boys knew that. The problem is—the good words were not in response to anything.

They meant nothing to the children. Nothing.

An entire lesson was wasted. All while only good words were spoken.

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless who takes His name in vain. (Exodus 20:7)

It is one of the Ten Commandments about which we are most vociferous. In my house, growing up, we had a list of what my father called minced oaths—words mimicking the sound of God’s name—which were prohibited. I cannot bring myself to say them aloud to this day. You will, no doubt, be able to bring them to mind without me listing them here.

Frequently, I see written comments or hear them in conversation from well-meaning folks, who are fed up with the constant barrage. I don’t disagree. It is disheartening.

We understand what it means to take the name of God in vain.

Or, do we?

Well, at least the ancient men of God understood it, right? They wouldn’t even utter His real name, choosing instead a euphemism. The rationale was that they couldn’t inadvertently be guilty of trespass that way.

But, did they understand any better than we do?

What if taking the Lord’s name in vain has nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with the language that erupts when we smash our thumb with a hammer, or are spattered with hot grease?

What if the foul words that come unbidden when we are angry and out of control are not even remotely connected to the principle God intended for us to take away from His instruction to mankind?

I wonder. Is it possible that we will someday have to justify our passive invocation of God’s blessing upon our gatherings in which we do nothing but further our own well-being?

Will He reprimand us for the actions we have demanded of others in His name? Our list of spiritual do’s and don’ts has grown sophisticated and somewhat unmanageable over the centuries.

Somehow, I hear the voice of the Teacher castigating the teachers of the Law for their lists and demands, as He clearly tells them that the burden the people carry is not God’s, but theirs—and you yourselves will not lift one finger to help them carry it. (Luke 11:46)

What if our gatherings for giving thanks are not that at all, but simply a time for us to gaze fondly at our wealth and physical blessings, all the while closing our hearts—and hands—to those who have nothing?

The day we set aside as a country to celebrate our giving of thanks is upon us.

Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

The children, perhaps, may be pardoned for their youthful misuse of the words.

What if, this time, we really meant the words? I trust it will be so.

On this day, and throughout the year, may our gatherings be blessed with thankful hearts, out of which flow generosity of spirit and a love for others.

Give thanks!

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful. Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts. And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.
(Colossians 3:15-17 ~ NIV)

To speak gratitude is courteous and pleasant, to enact gratitude is generous and noble, but to live gratitude is to touch Heaven.
(Johannes A Gaertner ~ German born poet/theologian ~ 1912-1996)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

heart

A Glimpse of Glory

Jubal’s Tribe

From the Inside Out

Saying Good Words