Still My Daily Driver

March 26, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I just need a vehicle that’ll get me from Point A to Point B.”

I made the casual statement while sitting at a streetside table at the local coffee shop the other day. Three other fellows, also in their sixties, were at the table with me.

They didn’t laugh. Utilitarianism is important to my generation. Functionality trumps aesthetics for us. But, perhaps that’s not universal, even in this group.

“Well, I’m thinking that, for my dad’s sake, I need to buy an old Chevy pickup and park it in my driveway, even though I’ve been driving that Dodge for nearly 20 years,” one fellow said.

We laughed. His father, dead many years now, was a Chevy man. His brother is also a Chevy fanatic, refusing to own any other make of car or truck. A number of his friends are diehard Chevy owners, eschewing any other make, either American or foreign.

With a sheepish grin on his face, he explained. “Dad would have been really disappointed in me for driving that Mopar trash. Maybe if I just had a Chevy parked in my driveway, I could get back some self-respect before I die.”

We laughed again.

He didn’t even want to drive the truck! He only wanted people to see it in his driveway.

My brain always chooses the rabbit trail when it’s offered. Without fail. This time was no exception.

I don’t know how much later it was in the conversation when I became aware I was still sitting with my friends. And, that they were waiting for a response from me.

I had no idea what to say, so I just blurted out, “Don’t ask me! I drive a Toyota!”

They laughed, not in a derisive way, so it must have been an appropriate retort for the moment. The conversation carried on, but I was still lost in my thoughts, and it went on without me.

Why do we live the way we do?

Why do we want folks around us to think we live differently than that?

If we don’t respect the choices we’ve made, why do we stick to them?

You do understand there are no trucks on the rabbit trail I’m following, don’t you?

I want to use the tools that are going to guarantee the achievement of the goals I’ve set for myself. And, in the process, I don’t want to have to utilize decoys to gain respect from those walking the path with me.

And somehow, this doesn’t seem much like a rabbit-trail anymore, does it?

So many today have looked into their past and have decided, since the “long obedience in the same direction” that Nietzsche (and more recently, Eugene Peterson) described is too difficult to maintain—and much too slow, they will change vehicles and take the shortcut.

Their faith in God is the first casualty in the surrender. The lifestyle of holiness follows in close order. Before you know it, the daily driver is hardly recognizable at all.

And yet, the vehicle they park in their driveway—for the neighbors to see—is the same one they’ve always claimed to love and depend upon.

They just don’t drive it anymore.

I want to say that would never be true of me. I want to say that.

But, once in a while, I do wonder what it would be like to sit in those luxurious seats and take a spin ’round the countryside in that sleek new model. I do.

I might have even taken a test drive.

Once or twice.

A short one.

But, as our friend the Preacher would say, here is the conclusion I’ve come to:

We’ll never reach the goal we have set out to reach in that fake, made-up vehicle the world calls truth. Never.

As a daily driver, anything but God’s truth is completely unreliable and will leave us stranded. Of that, there is no doubt.

I know it doesn’t look modern and sleek; the paint may be faded and chipped, and the dirt from all the miles still clings to its surfaces.

Still, I think I’ll stick with what got me this far.

The old daily driver’s got a good few miles left in it, yet.

It starts every time, too. Every single time.

And, I can still park it in the driveway.

Every person has a different view of another person’s image. That’s all perception. The character of a man, the integrity, that’s who you are.
(Steve Alford ~ American basketball coach)

Nevertheless, I have this against you, that you have left your first love. Remember therefore from where you have fallen; repent and do the first works… (Revelation 2: 4-5a, NKJV)

Esse Quam What?

August 3, 2018August 3, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m not sure they’re right.

I’m not sure they’re wrong, either. They could be.

But they could be right, too.

I made a mistake the other day—one I thought I could rectify with minimal effort. I wrote a cute little note about my recent experience with the Internal Revenue Service and posted it on social media.

I was trying to be funny. It was a little funny. A little. And, come to think of it, more than a little snarky.

In the post, I suggested that the IRS folks I had dealt with by telephone that day weren’t very good with numbers. Just a little sarcastic tweak at the huge bureaucracy’s nose.

The problem is, I don’t like to be seen as snarky. I don’t want to be thought of as not nice. So, I added a few words. Just a few. To make myself look better.

. . .I don’t get to keep the large sum they sent me this week. I’m okay with that.

They did the job. The words, I mean. Making myself look better.

The check was for a huge amount. To my mind, anyway. The fellow on the phone, who took nearly an hour to decide, told me it was mine to keep. Well, mine and the Lovely Lady’s.

Only, I knew it wasn’t.

The next day, armed with documentation, I called them again and, taking another hour out of my life, convinced the kind lady that the money wasn’t mine.

She told me where to mail the check.

My friends think I have integrity.

As I said, they could be right. I think they may not be.

I want them to be. Right, that is.

Can we talk about integrity? Again?

I’ve written about it before. If you’ve read those articles, you may remember I used the example of a piece of cloth, woven neatly and with good thread. In my mind, it’s the very definition of integrity.

The cloth is stronger than the sum of the threads. But, I’m not. Stronger, I mean.

In the back of my mind, I know the cost of keeping money that doesn’t belong to me. Oh, I don’t mean the guilty feelings that come inevitably. And, they will come.

What I mean is, I’ve seen what the IRS does when it realizes it made a mistake. The penalties. The interest charges. The seizing of the entire bank account until their agents are satisfied.

And, again in the back of my mind, I wonder; did I send the money back because I don’t want to pay that penalty? Was I afraid I’d get caught? That’s not integrity.

It’s not.

Integrity is about doing the right thing. Because it’s the right thing.

Period.

Integrity is about doing the right thing. Because it's the right thing. Period. Share on X

It’s the whole cloth holding together, because every thread is in its place, doing what it does. Strong. Steadfast.

I like to read. A lot. I learn from reading. Good things. Bad things. And, at my age, I keep wondering when I’ll have learned all the new things I can glean from other writers.

Obviously, not yet.

The other day, as I read a historical novel, the description of a phrase inscribed above the entrance to some imaginary palace caught my attention. Arrested my attention. Made me read it again. And, yet again.

You’ll understand when you read it for yourself.

Esse quam videri

See what I mean?

Oh, sorry. Latin may not have been the right language in which to introduce the concept. Let me make a literal translation (from a Latin dictionary; not from my feeble brain) for you.

To be as seen.

It’s often expressed as to be, rather than to seem. That’s okay, but I like the literal, word-for-word, translation better. We in the computer age have a similar phrase, expressed in equally unintelligible language.

WYSIWYG

What you see is what you get. It works with computers. Not so much with humans.

It should.

Why does God have to look on the inside, while man is fooled by outside appearances? (1 Samuel 16:7)

Why aren’t they the same thing?

Facades, masks, clever disguises—we manage to look the part, one way or another. Even we who claim to follow Jesus have our deceptions in place.

Alive and beautiful on the outside. But, what if there’s death and decay on the inside?

The world is not wrong when it labels us hypocrites. The word simply means, actors. Someone who pretends for his/her livelihood. I don’t know many in the world who are not that themselves, but it should be different for us.

It should.

Mr. Lewis may be accurate when he says that integrity is doing the right thing even when no one is watching, but there’s more to it than that. A lot more.

Integrity is about telling the truth even when it costs. It’s about being generous even when one is impoverished. It’s about controlling my tongue when all around folks are sharing the latest gossip. It’s about not drinking the milk from the carton even when the Lovely Lady isn’t looking.

It’s about all those things. But, those things aren’t integrity.

Integrity isn’t about doing. It’s about being.

Integrity isn't about doing. It's about being. Share on X

Because what is in the heart is what will always—eventually—bubble up to the surface. The thing that is at the bottom of who I am, my very foundation, is the thing I will do and become.

A word of caution. If I believe myself to be a man of integrity and proclaim it to be so, you should assume there is some filthy secret hidden in that foundation that will become known soon. I’ve seen it too many times. You have too.

The apostle who loved to write letters, my namesake—who, by the way, had reason to understand the principle personally—suggested that when we believe we are standing firmly on both feet, we should be careful not to get hurt in the fall. (1 Corinthians 10:12)

I want to be a man of integrity. Want to be.

I’m not that man. Too often, my integrity is guaranteed only by the odds that someone is watching, or that someone will eventually uncover my offense.

But, I want to be that man.

Someday, I will be him.

No mask. No facade. No disguise.

Esse quam videri

To be as seen.

And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.
(Philippians 1:6 ~ 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.

The image is one thing, and the human being is another. It’s very hard to live up to an image, put it that way.
(Elvis Presley ~ American singer/entertainer ~ 1935-1977)

Integrity. Again.

September 5, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was embarrassing. To me, anyway.

I don’t suppose anyone else noticed it. Even if they had, they wouldn’t have mentioned it.

The pastor was talking. Something about things the disciples misunderstood about Jesus.

I think that’s what it was. I was paying attention. I was.

But, looking down as he spoke, I noticed them. The threads. The ones hanging from the hem on the right sleeve of my shirt. It wasn’t just one or two, either.

The whole edge of the sleeve was frayed, with white strings dangling like the fringe around the shade of grandma’s old table lamp.

I don’t remember what the pastor said now. I do remember looking quickly from my right arm to the left, only to find more frayed edges.

It is one of my favorite short-sleeved shirts, but I will never be seen in it again. Years of wear, of putting on and taking off, of raising my hands in joyful triumph and of shaking my fists in angry frustration, have taken their toll on the woven cloth and left it weak and fragile.

It has lost its integrity.

No longer do the crisscrossed threads, woven over and under, keep their place. No longer is there a sharp crease at the edge of the sleeve, a clear boundary between fabric and skin.

It has lost its integrity.

I stealthily ran my finger around the circumference of each sleeve, to try and hide the errant threads. Pulling the sleeves tight against my biceps, I hoped no one would notice.

They may have. Or not. It doesn’t matter.

The Lovely Lady will remove the buttons, tossing them into a jar—why, I’m not sure— and the once-favored garment will find itself in the trash bin, come trash pickup day.

Well? I can’t very well go around in a shirt with no integrity, now can I?

When last I wrote, it was scars. Today, a lack of integrity. Both hidden. Both needing to be exposed to the light of day.

They are not the same—scars and lost integrity. Somehow though, we punish folks for both, blaming the injured as much as we do the dishonest.

But, I want to make this clear—crystal clear: Grace suffices for both.

Grace heals our scars, restoring our damaged spirits and renewing our joy.

Grace makes new the fabric of our broken lives, restoring integrity and revitalizing our resolve.

Because of grace, we can journey on. In His redemption, we are made new, neither wounded nor dishonorable.

His offer is for a garment with integrity and without stain. Ours—the price paid completely by our Redeemer. (Revelation 3:18)

No more embarrassment.

No more being tossed aside.

He doesn’t cut off the buttons and throw away the worn out fabric.

He doesn't cut off the buttons and throw away the worn out fabric. Share on X

Grace makes new.

Integrity.

Again.

In great matters, men show themselves as they wish to be seen; in small matters, as they are.
(Gamaliel Bradford ~ American biographer ~ 1863-1932)

May integrity and honesty protect me,
for I put my hope in you.
(Psalm 25:21 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Tools of the Trade

April 24, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He had watched the sun come up from his vantage point on the western bank of the rolling river, the Mighty Mississippi, while listening to the dulcet tones of the old trumpet player.

With tears still in his eyes, he turned away to wander back into Jackson Square, just as the city of New Orleans was waking. The restaurants were busy, the coffee shops crowded, but he hadn’t come to eat.

For two hours or more, he wandered the streets, finding exactly what he was seeking. He had forced himself out of bed while it was still dark just so he could listen to the street musicians.

And listen, he did.

No slouch of a guitar player himself, he was anxious to sample the varied fare this aged city had to offer. There was no disappointment in the search.

At first.

From street corners and even in the alleys, the city is full of people with their talents on display. Many do it for the love of their craft, others simply to have enough to fill their stomachs.

The seeker stopped for a few moments at one corner to listen to the two women playing classical music, a departure from the normal street fare in this city of jazz and blues. Speaking for a moment with another man standing nearby, he learned that both were music professors in nearby universities.

He even dropped a dollar or two in the open violin case and moved on. Most of the musicians he listened to were not as well educated, but he avers that all were just as talented.

Except one.

The street-worn fellow had a good quality guitar sitting on his lap. The ancient Guild six-string might have seen better days, but it was a fine instrument.

Still, he never played a single chord.

Our friend wondered why this was so and walked a bit nearer to the bench the aging man was occupying. It did seem to him that the fellow was old, but he really is not sure. Living on the streets will age a person long before his time. He might have been as young as thirty or as old as sixty. It was hard to tell.

As he drew near, though, the tourist saw the problem. While there should have been six, the old acoustic guitar had only three metal strings stretched out along the length of the fingerboard. Even those were old and corroded.

The other street musicians had played for whatever money the passersby would toss in their hats or cases, but this fellow had a different tack.

“Say, could you give me the money to buy a set of strings?”

Our friend almost fell for the scam. After all, what was five or six dollars? Give the old guy enough to buy a set of strings so he could earn a living–how could that go wrong?

Then he had an idea.

“I saw a music store up the block a ways. How about you and I go and we’ll get a set put on your guitar? I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

The old guy wasn’t amused. That was the last thing he wanted.

“No. I’ll just take the money for the strings.”

The tourist talked with him for just a minute more. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the money would be used for. There was never to be a new set of strings on the guitar. It would never play a song on that street corner–ever.

The fellow with the guitar knew how to make money with his guitar, he just couldn’t play it.

The superbly crafted instrument, with the potential for making sweet music lifting the spirit to the heavens, or bringing tears to the eyes of hardened men who listened, was nothing but a prop for an act. If it had strings on it, he couldn’t make a dime with it.

He wasn’t a musician at all, just a man with a scam—a fraud—to be perpetrated on any unsuspecting tourist who came by.

Our friend moved on, disappointed.

I listen to the story and my mind wanders.

I remember the fellow to whom I gave a ride one day, not long ago. I drove him twenty miles out of my way and handed him all the cash I had in my pocket. He told me he would use it to purchase a bus ticket to make it home to his wife and kids, who were hundreds of miles away.

Two days later, as he wandered past my music store, it was a shock to realize that I had been played.

Then there was that other fellow I loaned money to, just until he got paid from his new job. The job was a lie. So was the payback.

The stories, just like the street musician with his guitar, are merely the tools of the trade, designed to achieve a purpose, but never to become reality.

Just as quickly, my mind shifts gears again, and I wonder how many folks I have conned, in much the same way—people who have poured resources into my life, with the promise that changes would be made, never to see or hear a result.

How am I any different from the old fellow down in the French Quarter, with his beautiful guitar which never will make music?

Still, I show up time after time, with habits which need to be broken, sins which need to be repented of, steps which never seem to be taken.

And, no music is ever heard.

How about it? Got a few broken strings yourself?

Have there been promises made of changes to come, with nary a hint of actual rehabilitation? Do you come and sit on the same street corner every day, or perhaps every week, with the same broken strings; always with the promise to show up with a playable instrument the next time?

I’m guessing that if we look deep inside, we’ll all find the broken promises, the scams, the assurances which we don’t seem to ever quite fulfill. Like the man on the street corner, we have figured out how to make the system work for us, always thinking that we’ll make it right–someday.

Personally, I’m wondering if it’s about time for a new set of strings to be taken down from the wall.

There will be a good bit of grime to be cleaned away before they can be installed, but the basic instrument was made well. I’m confident that when the job is done, there will be some excellent music heard.

It’s just the process of cleaning and stretching, then cutting and tuning that I’m not real sure of.

It all sounds a bit painful.

Ah well, I know the Maker of the music, the Master Luthier.

I’m thinking the final result will be worth it all.

His work never fails to produce gorgeous music. Maybe it’s time to put my hat down on the street.

Why don’t you come too?

We might make some great music together!

Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter,
Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;
Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness,
Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.
(from Rescue The Perishing ~ Fannie Crosby ~ American hymn writer ~ 1820-1915)

During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.
(George Orwell ~ English novelist ~ 1903-1950)

The Fabric

March 17, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Stitches, one after another, become the fabric, the stuff of life.
The hands of the artisan grow old and slow, and still the pattern unfolds.

Changes come, direction reversed, and the stitches are altered.
No matter; they yet follow what’s been woven before.

The hands falter; the count is lost. With a glance back, the pattern is recalled.
Dropped stitches picked up, the passage ahead is clear once more.

Through the whole of our lives the fabric is crafted, with integrity, one would hope.
But, with or without, the cloth unfolds, one day to become the narrative of a life.

What will be read in my history? Perhaps the tale will be a warm wrap, shielding from the numbing cold.
But then again—as likely—a rag, suited only to mop up filth. Choices today determine utility tomorrow.

Stitches, one after another, become the fabric, the stuff of life.
The hands of the artisan grow old and slow, and still the pattern unfolds.

The righteous who walks in his integrity–blessed are his children after him!
(Proverbs 20:7 ~ ESV)

Do you desire to construct a vast and lofty fabric? Think first about the foundations of humility. The higher your structure is to be, the deeper must be its foundation.
(Saint Augustine ~ Ancient Christian theologian, Bishop of Hippo ~ 354-430)

The Marketplace

August 25, 2015August 27, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

There are times when you just know. Beyond a shadow of doubt, you know: This is why you are here.

This moment. This person.

The Lovely Lady had first crack at her today. The lady, like many others we see this time of year, is struggling with acquiring a musical instrument for her aspiring band member. No money. No knowledge of what constitutes a good instrument, nor how to tell if it is in good condition. No one she can trust to be honest with her.

She does have a clarinet in her hands as she enters the music store. She also has a discouraged look on her face. I never heard the full story of how she came by the clarinet, but I do know she wants us to make it play correctly for her sixth grader. She is not optimistic.

“I’m sure it needs a repad. Can you do that for me?”

The Lovely Lady opens the case and looks over the horn, expecting the worst. Since I am busy with another customer, I leave her to handle things by herself. It is obvious she is a little confused, and I expect a call for help momentarily. What I hear is her suggesting the lady is mistaken.

“Well, a repad is quite expensive, but I’m not sure that’s what you need. Let’s wait for the expert.” (She always says that, but it’s not really a good description of my abilities.)

As soon as I can break free, I head for the counter where the diminutive lady is waiting, still with an unhappy visage. I’m prepared to point out the problem areas and make an estimate for the nervous mom. Taking the individual pieces of the horn in my hand one after another, I look for something to point to. Nothing.

That can’t be right. This lady came in expecting big problems. Surely I can find something.

I look again. Testing the sealing ability of the pads, I find no sign of any leaks anywhere on the instrument. The corks are fine. A little dingy, but completely intact. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the clarinet.

I have a dilemma.

The lady came in expecting to leave the instrument with us for repair. She assumes there will be a sizable charge due when the repair is finished.

I’m in business to make a profit. How hard can this be?

“Oh yes, Ma’am. We really do need to replace quite a few pads here. And, the corks—they’ll need to be changed also. It won’t cost as much as a repad, but still, it will take a good bit to get this horn into shape for your daughter.”

So easy. She would never know. It’s what she expects anyway.

The decision is made without hesitation. It is who I am—who we are. Now.

“No Ma’am. The horn is in excellent condition. What? Oh no. No charge.”

You would hardly have recognized the woman who walked out that door as the same lady who had come in moments earlier. A smile shone across her face, the like of which hadn’t likely been seen there recently.

I felt good. I felt bad.

It was almost the same feeling I had a day or two ago, when a girl and her mom had come in to purchase a small item. The lady spoke no English. None at all. Her daughter translated every word for her as the transaction was made.

The two were still in the store when a regular customer of mine walked nearby shaking his head. His eyes shot daggers at the two, as he spoke the words to me.

“I hate that! Why don’t they learn our language?”

Do you know how easy it would have been for me to simply nod my head? Just a nod. No words would have been necessary.

But, this also is why I am here.

I explained to him my admiration for folks who leave their land in search of a better life for their families. Struggling to be at home in a strange place, they walk out of their door into a battleground every day. I will not participate in the hatred of another human being.

I say the words kindly to him, but he rolls his eyes in disgust as he walks out.

I may have lost a customer. I hope not, but I would do it again.

I felt bad. I felt good.

This is why I’m here. It’s why you’re where you are.

To do the right thing. Even when we’d rather do the easy thing.

To show a life that is different because of what God has done in us.

It is how He works in this world—how He has always worked.

I don’t necessarily want this to be why I’m here. Sometimes, I wonder why God won’t leave me alone to make a comfortable living like any other red-blooded American. If that means taking advantage of folks who have their wallets in their hands, so be it. If I have to walk on a few people to gain the approval of others, why not?

And then I remember a God who told His Chosen People that their scales were to be honest, their weights to be accurate, their measurements to be correct.

Thousands of years ago, He made it clear.

The world has one standard: Every man for himself. All is fair in love and war.

God has another standard, a standard which has never changed: Love your neighbor as yourself. Period.

The standard applies in our family life; it applies to our friendships; it applies in our churches. And, no less than any other place, it applies in the marketplace.

Perhaps, more.

The marketplace is where who we really are is on display for all to see. It’s where our integrity comes out of the dark of night, and into the light of day.

It’s where our talk of following a Savior is proven, or else belied, by our walk.

Can I let you in on a secret? I have kept my mouth shut too many times. I have found myself letting folks spend more than they should on things they didn’t need.

I don’t write about the two interactions above to draw attention to my stellar accomplishments, but rather to draw attention to who we need to be—who we must be in our marketplace.

We all fail in our determination to walk in integrity—I, as often as anyone I know.

But. Grace.

Grace is a wonderful thing; its beauty is in its resilience. Failures become victories. Timidity becomes boldness.

Selfishness becomes love.

The Teacher spent a good bit of His time in the marketplace.

Doing good. Showing love.

Our turn.

I simply argue that the cross be raised again at the centre of the market place as well as on the steeple of the Church.
I am recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles; but on a cross between two thieves; on a town garbage heap; at the crossroad of politics so cosmopolitan that they had to write His title in Hebrew and in Latin and in Greek… And at the kind of place where cynics talk smut, and thieves curse and soldiers gamble.
Because that is where He died, and that is what He died about. And that is where Christ’s men ought to be and what church people ought to be about.
(George Macleod ~ Scottish minister/theologian ~ 1895-1991)

Fallen Hero

April 29, 2015May 1, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My disappointment was profound.

No. Strike that. My disappointment is profound. Still.

Years after the release of the movie, I feel even now that familiar twist in my gut when I think about it. I still imagine an apology from the screen-writer is forthcoming, and an amended version of the film will be released any day now.

I am, of course, speaking of the Lord of the Rings trilogy of movies. It was a triumph of film-making. The casting was nearly perfect, the special effects, spectacular. The setting in which it was filmed remains one of its greatest triumphs; the scenic panoramas are breath-taking and awe-inspiring.

The movies had, however, a fatal flaw. I may never recover from my disillusionment.

I am a LOTR nerd.

I refer, not to the aforementioned movie, but to the books. I have worn out three sets of the paperbacks in reading and re-reading them over my adult life. Each time I have picked them up, they have seemed fresh and exciting, even if at the same time they are like old friends–comfortable and familiar.

A good book is like that. The books I don’t enjoy–those, I read once and place on the shelf, never to be opened again. Good books invite a second (and third) reading. Mr. Tolkien knew how to write a good book.

Ah. But, you’re not all LOTR nerds, are you? I’ll hasten on, if only to keep that glazed look from overtaking the reader’s eyes.

To get to the point, I’ll say this: Mr. Tolkien wrote of heroes; the screen-writer for the movie series had no use for heroes.

Not perfect heroes, anyway. And, therein lies my profound disappointment.

This hero wasn’t one of the main characters in the story, the individuals who are with you from start to finish. No, the hero whose sullying I decry in the movie series is a relatively minor character named Faramir. He almost doesn’t warrant a mention at all in the list of important protagonists in the story.

In the film version of the story, Faramir is captured by the lust of the article of power, the One Ring, and very nearly brings disaster to the entire quest. He takes the main characters captive and carries them far out of their way and into more danger before coming to his senses and releasing them and their ring.

I nearly shouted out loud in the movie theater as I watched the movie with a group of family and friends. This man’s words are burned into my mind from the multiple times I have read the book.

“Not if I found it on the highway would I take it!”

Like all true heroes, Faramir wasn’t even tempted by the lust of power and fame. It held no influence–none–over him, as he went about his duties as a heroic soldier with a clear heart.

I didn’t shout in the theater. Not aloud, anyway.

To this day though, I feel I have been robbed. Personally–robbed.

I want my hero back. Unstained. Unblemished.

You laugh. Not without reason.

It seems a foolish grudge to bear, does it not–this trifle about the accuracy of a fictional hero’s character? I myself still struggle with the rationality of it. And, after all this time, I think I begin to understand why it affected me so.

I want my hero back, but I know–deep down–there is no such man walking the earth. Not one.

Not one man who can keep his promises without fail. Not one person who has never hurt anyone for selfish reasons. Not a single human being who is free of the stain of lust and desire.

I once believed such people walked the earth. I repent of that foolishness. I have seen my own heroes fall, one after the other. They fall from the pedestals they were put on, or climbed upon themselves, but they fall.

Eventually, they all fall.

Human. Not heroes.

Every one.

It’s actually a good thing, having all your heroes fallen. The disappointment–the depressing certainty that all is lost–is profound at first, but it eventually gives way to hopefulness. You see, if heroes can stand in their own strength, there is no hope for the rest of us. We mere mortals who give in to our base nature, the sin nature passed down to us through our human DNA, again and again, have no hope as long as there is one single person who doesn’t need grace.

There was only one True Hero. Ever. Only one.

He saw the temptation on the highway and passed it by. On his way to a cross, He passed it by. Power and fame were nothing to Him.

He passed it by. Because He loved us more.

I have told you repeatedly that I am forever grateful for grace. Grace says to each of us, every fallen one of us, “You get to be a hero again. Not because of what you can do, but because of what He did.”

And when we fall again (and we will fall again), grace offers another chance to be a hero. And another. And another.

I like second chances. There is still hope the quest may end in triumph after all. And somehow, hope seems to me to be better than a nonexistent hero.

I’m still angry about Faramir though.

Are you listening, Peter Jackson?

“‘Not if I found it on the highway would I take it,’ I said. “Even if I were such a man as to desire this thing, and even though I knew not clearly what this thing was when I spoke, still I should take those words as a vow, and be held by them. But I am not such a man. Or I am wise enough to know that there are some perils from which a man must flee.”
(from The Return of the King ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English author ~ 1892-1973)

“Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever believes in Me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I am going to the Father.”
(John 14:12 ~ ESV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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