Good to all People

March 11, 2016March 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The old man is rumpled and smudged.

You might think I’m only speaking of his clothes, but indeed, the man himself fits the description to a tee. His clothes are themselves rumpled, but so too, is his demeanor and his facial features.

Wrinkled and sad, he pushes inside my store to stand before me—his dirty, smudged clothes hanging from him as he asks me his favor.

“I have some things to sell. Do you think you might be interested?”

It is a question that comes with some regularity these days. I tell him I’ll look at what he’s got and follow him out to the old battered pickup truck—itself rumpled and smudged. Another man, looking much like my new friend, is sitting in the cab, awaiting the verdict.

As I look through the hodge-podge of items which he pulls, one by one, from the bed, he tells his story. They’ve all got a story these days; it seems to be a requirement to include one in their pitch.

“I can’t pay my insurance. If I don’t have insurance, I can’t work.”

I ask him what kind of work he does and he tells me that he buys junk and resells it. I should have guessed. Everything he has shown me fits that description—junk.

I am tempted to leave it all in the truck and walk away, but I cannot. We make a deal for a couple of items and he returns with me inside the store to take care of the details.

I am surprised as I view his ID (a legal requirement for me) and learn the old rumpled man is less than a year older than I.

With his own filthy, gnarled one, he grasps my hand in gratitude as he takes the small amount of cash. Turning, he walks out waving the bills above his head triumphantly to show his bounty to his companion. I shake my head, knowing that the scene will be played out several times more, either today or in the very near future.

The stories will vary; the players will be taller, or fatter, or of a different gender, but all will be rumpled and smudged, and all will need my help. I stare at the side of my store building, looking for the mark which I often suspect is there, but I cannot see it.

The mark?

Go back in our country’s history nearly a century. We were in the midst of a depression, with high unemployment and many folks losing their homes and businesses. It seems that it may have been a lot like the present day, only a good bit worse.

Many of the unemployed took to the highways and country roads in search of temporary work, but little was to be found. These people, mostly men, were forced to beg for food, a practice which soon turned many of the more fortunate against them.

The hobos soon developed a system of signs to communicate to others coming after them by the same way. The signs would be placed along the road and on buildings, written with coal or chalk. They would warn of antagonistic officers of the law or stingy housewives, as well as declaring the location of a generous soul.

This last category came to be known as an easy mark. We use the term today. I often use it to describe myself, when thinking about people who are in need. Perhaps, they do too.

Apparently though, there is no necessity of a written mark for my location. Word of mouth seems to suffice, as more come each week.

Can I let you in on a secret?

Recently, I have grown weary of it. To be blunt, I don’t have a lot of ready cash. I’m not what you would describe as a wealthy man, a fact my banker could easily corroborate.

Wherever the mark is, I wish they would remove it. I might even erase it myself, if I could locate it.

But, as I sit and wallow in self-pity, almost enjoying the little party it inspires, I am reminded that there is much more to this than the simple transaction of handing over a bit of cash.

I am a follower of Jesus, with all that is attached to that statement.

Specifically, it’s probably a prerequisite that I follow His teachings.

Many of my fellow believers have come to the conclusion that only the doctrinal, intellectual part of their religion is of importance. I am not able to separate the intellectual from the physical.

The Teacher gave instructions—indeed, He gave an example—as He walked with his original followers. He used words like cups of cold water, hungry and feed, naked and clothe, thirsty and something to drink. (Matthew 25:31-46)

His instructions were not for us to provide intellectual comfort, but to actually do something.

If I claim to be a follower, I must do just that—Follow.

Follow His instructions—His example—His Word.

I know many who give much more than I do, many who are actively involved day after day in helping those in need. Mine is not a heavy burden; I just seem to be getting weary of bearing it.

Every once in awhile though, I remember what the Apostle said as he encouraged the folks under his care.

Don’t grow weary of doing what is right. At the proper time, a harvest of blessings will be ready to reap, provided we don’t give up. (Galatians 6:9)

The day for harvesting doesn’t seem to be much nearer, but who can say?

Tomorrow might be the day.

I’ll be here, either to do the work or to enjoy the bounty. There is still plenty of work to go around. You looking for a job?

Oh, when you do come by, could you look to see if you can find that mark on my building?

I’d still like to have it removed. . .

Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people. . .
(Galatians 6:10a~NIV)

Charity never humiliated him who profited by it, nor bound him by the chains of gratitude, since it was not to him, but to God that the gift was made.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupery~French author~1900-1944)

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)

It Rubs Off On Us

February 5, 2016February 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Be sure to bring an extra pair of coveralls tomorrow. We’re going to the wheel factory.

The electrician made the suggestion to his apprentice as they parked the service van and headed home for the night. The young man’s heart sank.

Wheel factory? Tomorrow? What a disaster!

He had hoped for a day of residential service calls instead. Those, he liked. They kept your brain active, trying to crack the mystery of where a certain circuit ran, or why the washing machine shocked the owner when she touched it.

He might even get to wait patiently by an outlet, watching a test meter as the electrician flipped breakers and clipped wires, trying to bring a dead circuit to life once again. That was simple, clean work which gave you a good feeling when you left the house with a satisfied customer waving from the doorway.

The wheel factory? There was nothing worse!

I’ll attempt to paint you a picture, shall I?

The factory looked like any other ordinary industrial facility. Stacks of iron wheels and brake drums stood round, strapped to pallets and awaiting their turn to be moved—the finished ones by semi-truck to the distant factories which had ordered them—the unprocessed ones by forklift into the plant nearby. There, they would be machined and drilled to the specifications which the tractor, automobile, and truck designers had determined.

Before the men headed in, our apprentice and his boss pulled on their coveralls and changed shoes. You’ll understand this a little better in a few moments. Walking toward the plant, with a tool belt on his waist and a fiberglass ladder over his shoulder, the full effect of the nightmare which was about to begin was still not clear, and the young apprentice thought, perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.

Ah! But, when the doorway was breached, and the vista of the huge building stretched out before him, the panic struck anew.

The first thing he noticed was the screech of the metal lathes pulsating and rising in pitch as each cut was made. The noise was not only deafening, but to his ears (he liked to think, sensitive musician’s ears) it was horrific, jarring him to the core. The din was almost painful—the perpetual squeal altering and dulling his other senses.

After the initial shock of the noise, he noticed the thick ever-present smog hanging in the air. Blue, oily smoke wafted up from every machine that cut and shaped and drilled, aided by the heat of the process and the liberal use of the viscous fluid to cool the cutting edges. The huge fans at the end of the building dragged the thickening atmosphere across the length of the entire building before pulling it, square foot by sooty square foot, from the building.

He shuddered to think what the air would be like in this horrible place if the fans were not functioning, but still it seemed they only sucked the nasty stuff in never-ending waves across anyone who was between the machines and the giant rotating fan blades. He would soon be breathing in that vile mixture…and the eerie place was only to get worse.

The plant maintenance man saw them come in and motioned them over. They followed him along rows of raw materials and machinery until he stopped beside one mammoth drill press. Pointing to the oily, slimy monster, he shouted over the shriek of the nearby lathes and the high-pitched whine of the drill presses;

“This one! It’s got to be rewired!”

With that, he was gone. As he disappeared into the maze of iron and machines, the apprentice looked down at his own hands. He would swear that he hadn’t touched anything, but they were black with grime already. He coughed with the stench of iron shavings mixed with oil and realized that his nightmare had already begun.

Hours later, when he and the master electrician picked up their tools and ladders and headed out to the blessed quiet and clean air of the world outside, they were both covered from head to toe with the filth. Their coveralls would take several cycles through the wash to come reasonably clean and they couldn’t wear their shoes anywhere until the soles were cleaned with de-greaser and solvents.

The young man coughed up black junk from his chest for hours. The headache would last longer than that.

Is the picture horrible enough for you? Is there a point to this horror story?

You know there is.

What I’d like to be able to do is to draw the parallel between the filthy factory and the dirty places in the world we can get into. We can’t rub shoulders with filthy people without some of it rubbing off on us. The transfer of polluted substances is almost instantaneous.

I’d like to be able to tell you that the moral of the story is that we should stay out of those places. I want to suggest that we should never associate with those dirty people and places.

What a simple solution! To avoid getting dirty, stay away from filthy locations and grimy humans.

I’d like to be able to tell you that, but I would be wrong. For too long though, it is just what we have done.

We don’t drink, smoke, or chew; and we don’t go with girls that do.

Our pride and our arrogance have led us to believe that if we can keep our clothes and our hands clean, nothing more is required of us.

We live upright and impeccable lives and think we have achieved the goal.

We couldn’t be further from the truth.

Several times in my writing, I’ve mentioned the hugs I get from some of those dirty people. My clothes stink until they are washed. A customer who walked in my store immediately after one such episode actually wrinkled up her nose as I waited on her.

Dirty rubs off on us. It sticks and leaves evidence.

The religious leaders in Jesus’ time thought so too, as they accused him of being a drunkard and a sinner. He spent His time with people who needed baths and who needed medicine and who needed a Priest.

The stench sticks to everyone in the vicinity.

Mother Teresa ministered among the diseased and poor of Calcutta, India for decades. I believe the love of Jesus shone through her life. I wonder, do you imagine this little woman smelled good? Do you think she was always spotless and clean? You don’t live and minister in the filth of one of the poorest, dirtiest cities in the world and stay clean and fresh.

Dirty rubs off on us.

Have you been in the vicinity of someone who is dirty recently? I’m including the spiritually dirty, as well as the physically unclean. It’s not necessarily a nice feeling, is it? There was residue left on you—on your person and on your soul—was there not?

Dirty rubs off on us.

But, here’s the other thing we need to know.

When we spend time with, and give of ourselves to, the kinds of people who need our attention—the poor, the lost ones, the souls who are wandering—we infect them too.

This infection, you can’t smell and you can’t see. But we are promised there is a payoff. Promised.

God says that, without fail, His Word achieves its purpose (Isaiah 55:10-11), and also that as we give, we receive. (Luke 6:38)

If we’re stingy and keep what we’ve been blessed with for ourselves, we’ll lose even that. (Luke 19:24)

Like the young electrical apprentice, we may hate the process. It will involve pain, and filth, and discomfort.

We’ll also have the uninhibited joy, as we walk away, of knowing that we’ve accomplished exactly what you went for.

The dirt—the stench—that ringing in our ears? They will go away, but the joy will remain.

Dirty does indeed, rub off on us.

But, the original cleanser still washes whiter than snow.

“Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full–pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap. The amount you give will determine the amount you get back.”
(Luke 6:38~NLT)

“If my baseball uniform doesn’t get dirty, I haven’t done anything in the baseball game.”
(Ricky Henderson~Former Major League Baseball left fielder)

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

homeless

Birds Have Nests

It Rubs Off On Us

No Accidents