You Think That’s Air You’re Breathing?

October 23, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes the comments and, perhaps, even the prayer go over my head. Sitting in church, having just sung several songs, my mind is frequently overloaded. I’m often moved by the message in the music, and someone saying words just muddies the waters a bit.

I heard what he said this time. My friend, one of our Elders, opened his Bible and said, “We’re reading from the red print today. If you have your Bibles, you may open them to John 3. We’ll start with verse 16.”

Well, that’s something new. It was to me, anyway. I don’t think I ever thought about it before. I mean, that Jesus Himself spoke those words.

John 3:16 is the first verse I ever committed to memory, decades ago. It is probably the most quoted and well-known verse in the Bible.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son…”

Red print. It’s how the publishers of Bibles let us know which words Jesus spoke directly.

I chewed on that thought as the pastor came later and spoke the words he had prepared. I know. I should listen more carefully instead of riding a different train of thought. I heard his words—I did—but the initial thought that had come to mind didn’t want to let go.

As I left the auditorium later, I mentioned it to the pastor. He laughed. Then, seeing my confused look, he explained.

As it happens, that was part of what he had researched as he prepared the sermon for Sunday. You see, there is not a consensus among Biblical scholars about whether those words should be printed in red or not.

The original Greek text, lacking punctuation, is not clear if there is a break between the words Jesus is speaking to Nicodemus in the verses before or not. It’s just as likely that John is again narrating the thoughts, as he does throughout the book.

So perhaps—not red print. Or, perhaps—yes.

I’m still riding that train of thought days later.

I know some folks are only interested in the words Jesus spoke during His time on this earth. If he didn’t say it, they don’t trust it.

Not to diminish in any way the importance of the words He spoke, but even they were reported by men. Uneducated men, for the most part, with no credentials except that they had been with the Savior.

That’s the way God’s Word has come to us. It’s the way He made His story known throughout all of time. Except when He used animals—like Balaam’s donkey in the book of Numbers.

Men of old, Peter says. (2 Peter 1:21) Prophets who heard God’s voice and faithfully rendered the words into a written record.

In my head, I hear the words of the Apostle—the one who loved to write letters and, ironically enough, a member of the group about whom he wrote the words.

“All scripture is God-breathed…” (2 Timothy 3:16, NIV)

I wonder if any readers noticed the chapter and verse where those words were written. Not that I believe in omens or signs in that sense, but it seems odd that the words answering the question about whether it matters so much that John 3:16 perhaps shouldn’t be written in red letters are also found in chapter 3 and verse 16 of their book. Perhaps, just a coincidence. Still, it’s interesting to me.

But now, with the mention of breath, my train of thought has moved to another track entirely. You’ve seen the old western movies when the train robbers move a lever near the tracks and shift the whole train to a siding—a rail that leads to nowhere, but serves only to slow or stop the entire conveyance, haven’t you?

Well, that’s not what’s happening here. This train is gathering speed as it careens along the new route.

I know about breathing! I’ve done it for nearly seventy years. It’s one of the reasons I’m here to write my tiring little essays every so often. And maybe, the reason you’re here to read this one.

And, at some periods during those years, I’ve struggled to breathe. Asthma and bronchitis steal the air right out of my lungs and I realize anew how much I enjoy breathing; and how much I need it.

Breathing is good.

But, this is different, isn’t it? God breathes out His Word—His message—to the scribes chosen for the task. And they, in turn, shared it with the world through all these generations.

What a gift to breathe in the Word of God!

And yet, these words are ours to draw in and live on, for all our days if we choose.

I said it was ironic that Paul was one to whom the Word was breathed. As I considered the subject of breathing, the words in the book of Acts came to mind. Ironic doesn’t really describe it.

“Then Saul, still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord…” (Acts 9:1, NKJV)

Oh. In that dichotomy, the breathing out of evil earlier in life and then later, breathing in of God’s Word, there is great hope.

Hope for all of us!

We breathe out our hate, our despair—our wretchedness. And, just as He did for Adam in the beginning, God breathes life—and promise—and bright hope.

Still. His breath gives us life.

I remember, decades ago, trips to the mountains covered with evergreens with my family. As we gathered on the banks of a roaring river, alive with whitecaps, my Dad stood drawing the air into his lungs—clean and unsullied with the pollution and smoke of man’s carelessness.

“Ah! That’s good!”

It was.

It is.

Good.

Breathe deep.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” (from The New Colossus, by Emma Lazarus)

“For this is how God loved the world: He gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life. God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but to save the world through him.” (John 3:16-17, NLT)

Come to the Manger

December 24, 2023December 24, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I remember hearing about a family who visited a live nativity production a few years ago. They had seen Mary and Joseph with the Baby Jesus, the shepherds had come, and the production was over. Some of the kids were going over where the animals were kept so they could pet them.

One little girl’s mom suggested that she might want to go to pet the sheep, but she had a different idea.

“No, Mom. I just want to stay at the manger for a while, okay?”

It’s a simple story; sounding perhaps a bit too contrived. But, I’m wondering why we couldn’t do that.

This morning at our church, the hymns and carols finished, a bearded man mounted the steps to the platform. He almost looked like Santa Claus himself, with his full white beard and twinkling eyes.

He wasn’t. It was simply one of our elders, preparing for prayer time. He started out with a friendly, “Merry Christmas,” to the congregation (which we responded to in kind) and then began to pray.

“Lord, what more can we say?” He had hardly started to pray when a youngster’s voice piped up from somewhere near the front.

“Happy New Year!”

Of course, a ripple of laughter ran through the entire auditorium. We were amused that the child had responded so vocally.

The thing is, others thought the phrase. We’ve been taught that the two go together. Merry Christmas is followed by a Happy New Year. In the calendar, as well as in our greetings to each other.

But, I’m wondering if we could just slow down a bit and stay at the manger awhile.

We’re always in such a hurry to get to what comes next. Through all of our lives, we find it hard to live in the moment because other things, perhaps bigger and better, are coming.

I’m guilty of it, too. I know I’ve written before at Christmastime, assuring readers that we don’t worship a mere baby in a manger, but we worship a Savior who died and rose again for us.

As if the Baby in the manger wasn’t already the Savior of the world.

You think I’m wrong?

What did the angel say to the shepherds?

“For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2: 11, KJV)

At no time in His time on earth was He any more the Savior than when He was born and laid in that manger.

Or, when He taught the teachers in the Temple. Or, when He turned the water into wine. Or, when he wept at the tomb of His friend, Lazarus. Or, when he washed His disciples’ feet. Or, when he healed the ear of the servant in the garden.

Or indeed, when He died on the cross for the sins of the world.

Our friend, Simeon, whom I referenced the last time I wrote, made it clear. He had heard, had known all his life, of the salvation of the Lord. But, as he held the Child in his arms, he saw it.

“For my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke 2: 30, NET)

He saw the baby and he saw in that moment—he held in his own arms—the salvation promised for all of human history.

I’m reminded of the story of Job in the Old Testament when he saw the power of God. Job said:

“My ears have heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and I repent in dust and ashes.” (Job 42:5-6, NIV)

In the manger, for the first time, humans could see the salvation for which provision had been made before time began.

“…the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world.” (from Revelation 13:8, KJV)

I have a hunch that when our eyes are on Him, they can’t be focused on ourselves, our plans, or our silly little time schedules.

So, I’d like to stay at the manger a little longer, if you don’t mind.

The shepherds will visit and return to their fields and the magi will bring their gifts and depart again to their countries. Here and now, the new year will come and go—the parties will go past in a dizzying flash—the demands of the world around us will go on and on.

The Savior—our Salvation, our Light—remains.

You’ve got time.

Stay awhile.

Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road,
and hear the angels sing!
(from It Came Upon The Midnight Clear, by Edmund H Sears)

Chestnuts Roasting? No Thanks!

November 28, 2023November 28, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I stand at the kitchen window, glad of the warmth inside this old house. Out there, the clear, frigid night edges inexorably into the wee hours, lit by the cold, white light of the moon, only a day past the full.

I always love these bright wintry nights observed from my warm post. I can sense the chill but stay comfortable without the aid of a coat and gloves.

Out under the old mulberry tree, itself not likely to last the winter, the dark outstretched shadows cast by the bare limbs remind me (appropriately) of old bones, gangling and spindly, across the leaf-covered ground.

And just for a moment, practical matters take my thoughts, reminding me that my grandchildren promised to help me rake those leaves later this week. We’ll enjoy the time spent doing that. We always do—teasing and laughing as we work together.

There is something bothering me—I’m not quite sure what. Yes, I know I don’t laugh quite as much as I used to. I get tired more quickly; my back aches from the repetitive motion of raking. The kids step up and carry the load I once did. It will all work out.

But, that’s not it at all. What was it?

Oh, yes! Now, my old brain catches up. In the bright moonlight, I see the two nut trees. The walnut tree, for one. The ground underneath its slim, straight shadow was covered with fallen nuts, long before the leaves fell. We’ll have to rake those up too—a nuisance, at worst.

My eyes (and thoughts) are drawn to the chestnut tree next. The large, brown leaves from its branches are spread far and wide, blown by the cold wind that brought in the last blast of arctic air. It had dropped a few nuts before that, as well.

There will be pain. I’ll have to remember to have the kids wear gloves and be extra careful as they pick up the leaves under that tree. Suddenly, the job loses its appeal, the joyful anticipation turning almost to dread.

Chestnuts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be (if you’ll pardon the pun). In my head, as I write this, I hear the smooth, sweet tones of the man they called the Velvet Fog, Mel Tormé. The lyrics tell of the unusual nuts roasting near the fireplace, and of Jack Frost doing what he is tonight—making my nose cold once again.

Funny. I never think of that beautiful song while I’m bobbling the needle-sharp nuts in the fall, or when I’m sucking the blood from my fingers while muttering nearly bad words under my breath.

Chestnuts are more than a nuisance, waiting under the leaves in ambush for me and my helpers. They seem almost like a threat, a danger to avoid at all costs.

My poor brain, seemingly in ADHD mode tonight, begins to play other words (from a different Christmas carol) almost as quickly as the mellow sounds of Mel begin to fade.

“No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground.”
(from Joy to the World, by Isaac Watts)

Mr. Watts was a little premature in his banishment of thorns from the world. But, he did have the right idea about sins. And he was absolutely right about the eventual healing from the curse under which we labor.

We have entered the season of Advent, leading to Christmas. The media and the world around us are already alive with the tumult of their sales pitches for what is becoming known as “merch”. Voraciously, they pursue our purses and bank accounts.

It will likely be an unpopular opinion, but the “merch” they peddle is what I would describe as the thorns that infest the ground of Advent.

All around us lie the leaves of the season, awaiting our attention, our joyful gathering up, accompanied by people we love. The happy anticipation of celebrating the Child, born to bring light into the world—born to bring us back to His Father.

But the thorns! There will be pain—and stress. Angry words will be spoken to salespeople. Horns will be blown and gestures made at other drivers on the busy roads.

It has ever been so. The serpent present in the Garden yet seeks to subvert our Creator’s plan, hiding lies within half-truths and good intentions. And willingly we participate in his schemes.

Perhaps this Advent season will be the one when we finally push aside the thorns, leaving them to rot in the trash pile while we revel in the reality of God’s gifts.

The joy of the season is in the Gift from Heaven. Everything else is covered in thorns, awaiting redemption from above.

The Light of the World still bathes His creation in brightness like the full moon bursting from the black sky. The bonelike shadows and reminders of lurking thorns only increase our desire for His presence.

I’m waiting. With hope and joy, I’m waiting.

While I’m waiting, I’ll keep the gloves handy.

“The people who sat in darkness
have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
a light has shined.”
(Matthew 4:16, NLT)

“He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.”
(Henry David Thoreau)

One more tune for you—well, two really—to separate the thorns from the joy of the season. Take a few minutes to soak in the words.
https://youtu.be/IetPAANnhzQ?si=RFv_39qNgXUhtnbu

Outside the Camp

January 18, 2022January 18, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The black monsters in the backyard had been jumpy all morning. The city crews in their noisy trucks were way too close for comfort and the mean man inside the house had already called the two dogs down for their rowdy behavior a time or two.

This was different. The yelping and barking from the black labs had increased from a nervous bark or two to a cacophony.

I stuck my head out the door to shout at them, but saw it was only my neighbor and his sweet granddaughter walking along the border of my yard, so I just spoke to the dogs this time. They ignored me. They often do.

I walked out the front door to say hi to John and his little 4-year-old companion. She immediately let go of the doll stroller she was pushing to run toward me. Her arms were already outstretched in anticipation of the hug she would receive from Mr. Paul.

“I’m sorry, Sweetie. I can’t hug you today.”

She pulled up, her face crestfallen. With disappointment in her voice, she asked her one-word question.

“Why?”

It’s a question I’ve been asking repeatedly in the last few weeks. I think I’m not the only one.

Why?

Our holiday plans were interrupted by the disease. Houseguests did their best to avoid contact with me while canceling their own interactions with the folks they had anticipated visiting for months.

I sat, as is my custom, in the upholstered chair near the front window on one of those mornings. Wanting a different angle for my view across the yard, I scooted the chair back an inch or two.

Crack!

Suddenly, I was tipping toward the window, as the back leg gave way under the old chair. I caught myself on the windowsill and yelped in surprise. Before I could recover, the non-infected residents of the house rushed out from the room they were gathered in.

Struggling to my feet, I laughed, trying to cover up my embarrassment. One of the younger onlookers wasn’t so lackadaisical in her response. My accident with the chair was just one too many in a series of disappointments she wasn’t prepared for.

“Why is everything bad happening to us?” She asked the rhetorical question almost angrily.

There it was again.

Why?

I reassured her (from a distance) that it was only a chair, an inanimate object that could be replaced easily. But it was clear the chair wasn’t the issue. Not the most important one to her, anyway.

I didn’t (and don’t) have an answer to her question. I don’t think anyone does.

I do know this: Disappointment is a recurring facet of this life. How we respond to that disappointment is essential to who we are, and perhaps as important, to who we are becoming.

In trying times, we can choose to retreat inside ourselves, allowing unhappiness and doubt to wash over and paralyze us. Or we can stand firm, perhaps even pushing onward through our adversity.

In some ways, our current quagmire reminds me of a particular class of people in Bible times. From ancient days, folks with diseases assumed to be highly contagious were separated from society. Those with the visible skin condition they called leprosy had to live apart from family and friends.

They were forced to stay outside the encampment or town, separated from everyone they knew and loved. And when they had no option but to pass close to anyone healthy, they were required to call out a word of warning. Just one word.

Unclean.

I felt kind of like a leper when the sweet little girl headed toward me the other day.

Unclean.

But I remember Jesus touched lepers.

He touched them. Not because He had to but because He wanted to.

On one occasion when He came across such a person, the man had the audacity to suggest it himself.

“If you wanted to, you could.”

Jesus did want to. And He did touch him. The unclean one. Touched by the One who had never been anything but clean.

Imagine it!

No more isolation. No more shame.

Outcast no more.

We need touch. We need hugs. We need love.

I don’t know why the bad things happen. Perhaps, I never will.

And yet, it’s okay.

Because we have a Savior who’s not afraid to touch us where we live. In all our sickness and sin, and our ugly realities, He reaches down and embraces us.

And He holds us close.

I’m going to get hugs from the little girl again. Hopefully soon.

No longer outside the camp.

Clean is good.

Suddenly, a man with leprosy approached him and knelt before him. “Lord,” the man said, “if you are willing, you can heal me and make me clean.” Jesus reached out and touched him. “I am willing,” he said. “Be healed!” And instantly the leprosy disappeared.
(Matthew 8: 2-3, NLT)

God will meet you where you are in order to take you where He wants you to go.
(Tony Evans)

A Day For A Hero

April 19, 2019April 19, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

(Today’s post is a repeat of an earlier article. I haven’t changed my mind.)

Scott was cool. Well, to this one-time band geek he was. The big offensive back was six feet tall and all muscle. He was no slouch on the football field either. I was sure he was going to be a star running back.

But, that was before.

I was there when it happened. Not that I had any part in the event.

Okay. To be honest, I didn’t even know what was going on. I just knew something bad had happened.

Scott dated a girl in the band, so occasionally he and a few of his football buddies would come to our marching practices at the stadium. They would sit in the stands and yell encouragement once in a while. We could tell they were having a good time, but most of us had no idea how good.

That all came to an end one Tuesday evening. We heard the next day about how it had shaken out.

What we hadn’t been able to tell from our disadvantaged perspective down on the playing field was that the fellows kept up their high spirits in the stands with just that–spirits. Each Tuesday evening, one of the guys would find someone to get him a carton of beer since he was underage. He would distribute the bottles to the guys before they ascended to their seats in the bleachers. Then they would spend the next couple of hours joking and cheering—and sipping.

It seems that finally somebody on the staff figured out what was happening and alerted the school administration. On that fateful Tuesday evening, the boys were unaware a trap was about to be sprung. However, just moments before the head football coach started up the steps to where they were, one of the jocks figured out something was up.

What would they do?

Scott made a quick decision. He would be the martyr—the hero.

“Quick guys! Shove your bottles under my seat. Then move away from me before they can get up here.”

They protested, but only weakly. Within seconds, the preparations were completed, and Steve was by himself in the stands, evidence galore to be found under his seat.

He was finished as a football player. Shamed and kicked off the team, he would never play offensive back again.

The other boys?

They played football that Friday night. They played football every other Friday night of football season as long as they were in school.

All because one guy had taken the brunt of their punishment. One guy had accepted responsibility for their contraband.

The school was abuzz the next day and for several after that. It wasn’t fair! They all should have been punished! Scott was the good guy here, but he was paying the price! Where was the justice?

Students protested to teachers and administration alike, but it was for naught. The rules were clear and he had broken them. Under-age drinking on school grounds—there would be no reversal of the decision.

Scott was a hero.

Or, was he?

It is Good Friday once again. Today is a day to consider heroes.

No.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

Today, we commemorate the Cool Guy who took the beer bottles for every person in the world and claimed them as His own.

Right about now, I’m guessing there are some readers who are offended.

More than a few of you are unhappy I described the Savior as a cool guy–as if many who followed Him didn’t do so because they saw Him as what we would today call cool.

Some of you who wouldn’t touch a drop of alcohol if you were dying of thirst are offended I’ve equated your sins with that filthy stuff.

Others, who regularly quaff the liquid are offended because you think I’ve equated your sins with the refreshing drink.

Even though both assumptions are wrong, I will admit I’m almost hopeful that you are offended.

I am offended.

I am offended that The Hero had to take the penalty for my wrongdoing. We’re not talking about being kicked off the team here. My wrongdoing had a slightly more weighty penalty attached.

The penalty for my sins was death.

I am offended that I so lightly regard the Heroic act—accomplished on this day nearly two thousand years ago–that I return to my beer bottles again and again.

As Peter, one of our Hero’s followers (who himself faded into the crowd to avoid punishment) later reminded us, like a pig who has been cleaned up, we return to the filth of the wallow.

Is that offensive enough for you?

Try this on then–Like a dog, I come back to eat my own vomit. Yes, also Peter’s words. (2 Peter 2:22)

Are you offended by the crudeness?

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Will you, just for a moment, think of where the real offense was–and is?

God made a perfect place for us to live and we rejected Him. Again and again, He offered ways of escape.

It was no surprise to Him, but again and again, the human race laughed in His face.

And then, in the fullness of time, at just exactly the right moment, He sent His own Son, the Hero of Heaven, to be born.

The Hero walked with us. He taught us. He loved and healed us.

And we repaid Him by shoving our beer bottles under His chair and slinking out into the night.

We were so crude as to spit on Him, and taunt Him, and beat Him.

We left Him to face the bitter end—the penalty for our evil ways.

Alone. Naked. Beaten. Bleeding.

And, in spite of the offense, and the crudeness, and the rejection, He never wavered in resolve.

He would take the offense to the grave.

Our offense.

Mine. Yours.

Scott was a nice guy. A loyal friend, even. But, never a hero.

You see, if you count the beer bottles under his chair and then count the buddies who skulked away from him, you will come up with one extra. Count them again.

You’ll see that I’m right. One extra.

One that belonged to Scott.

Scott simply got what was coming to him. He didn’t pay the price for anyone else’s wrongdoing, only his own.

Not a single one of the sins piled under that horrible, offensive cross on that Friday so many years ago belonged to the Hero who hung on it, bleeding and beaten.

They are too numerous to be counted. I know. I’ve contributed too many of my own. Perhaps you have, too.

But, the fact still remains. Not one was His own.

Not. One.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
(Henry Ward Beecher ~ Congregationalist clergyman ~ 1813-1887)

For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare even to die. But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:7.8 ~ NASB)

Looking. Seeing

June 28, 2018June 29, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

All I wanted was a quiet place to sit and eat my burger with the Lovely Lady.

It was looking unlikely.

After a tiring day, filled with stress, heat, and hard physical labor, we stopped in for a fast-food fill-up. A burger and fries, with a coke, please. And a quiet place to sit.

It’s not too much to ask. Is it?

The little tyke had different ideas. He was not happy, that much was clear from the wailing. I wondered why his parents didn’t quiet him down. Surely, he could go play on the playground in a minute or two. Couldn’t they trade his silence for the promise of some time on the slide?

It seemed not. The noise level intensified.

It didn’t take me long to get unhappy, as well. I didn’t cry out loud. I did complain to the Lovely Lady. Out loud.

Then, I saw the boy as he ran past. Something—I couldn’t quite put my finger on what—caught my attention in the child’s face. A lady nearby was clearly interested in what was going on, as well. I assumed she might be related to the little fellow and would catch him up and calm him down.

Calm him down. . . That’s it! His eyes! The little boy was terrified of something. I said the words to the Lovely Lady, wondering what he had to be afraid of.

In a moment, the lady who had noticed his distress came carrying him up to the checkout counter and found his mother standing there. By this time, the child was so traumatized that he had no voice with which to express his emotion, only gasps of fear as he gulped air through his mouth. He was shaking, his eyes wild with alarm.

The little boy had been lost, separated from his mother! Everywhere he looked, he saw only strangers. Big, frightening adults who looked like no one he had ever seen.

As his mother gathered him into her arms, the gasping and whimpering subsided, but the trauma was still written on his face. Tears crept into my own eyes as I imagined what a horrible few minutes he had experienced.

“He was. He was terrified. You saw that,” the Lovely Lady said, smiling at me.

I sat, quieter than usual, and ate my food.

I had. I had seen him and his terror. But, it was the lady who also saw him and did something about it.

We saw him. Mostly, we had heard him, but there was—finally—a recognition that something more than a simple temper tantrum was happening.

And yet, my mind can’t move past the event.

The child will grow up. He will. The day will come when he no longer wanders, screaming, through the restaurant.

It doesn’t mean his terror will be any less.

Or ours, for that matter.

We eventually learn how to hide the fact that we need someone to hold us close. The part of us that is broken can be buried so deep we aren’t even aware of it ourselves, much less be able to express it verbally to those around us.

What if nobody sees us?

Really sees. Us.

What if nobody sees us? Really sees. Us. Share on X

A couple of nights ago, a note appeared on my phone’s screen. The lady on the other end, a former schoolmate of mine, had a message for me.

For some reason, she had been sitting and got to thinking about me and my “things”, she called them. She finished her message with a couple of thoughts.

“Everything will be good, Paul. Everything will be right.”

I haven’t told anyone I was unhappy. At no time in the last month have I wandered screaming through the local McDonalds.

It doesn’t mean I’m not broken.

She saw me.

You know there’s a difference between looking and seeing, right? They’re related, but definitely not the same.

For instance, I can look through the drawer in the kitchen, needing a spatula, but the Lovely Lady will open the same drawer minutes later and, in a second or two, see exactly what I couldn’t, picking up the spatula I was seeking all along.

I look.

She sees.

You know it’s true.

I like the phrase that made an appearance in our language—sort of a pidgin English—just over a hundred years ago, the two words that make it up seeming almost redundant.

Let’s go take a look-see.

Look-see. Important aspects, both of them, to the process.

We begin by looking. That’s where we start.

But, even if we do look, we won’t see if we aren’t aware of the necessary traits of what we’re looking for.

I wonder if we’re looking through the wrong eyes. Eyes of judgment. Eyes of selfishness. Eyes of arrogance and pride.

What if we actually looked at people to see the broken parts? What if we could look past the yelling and screaming, the cursing and criticizing, and see what really is going on?

What if we looked past the jokes and the songs and the smiles on faces to see the fear and terror that fills the hearts of people we encounter every day?

Our friends. Our family members. The bullies. The belligerents.

Could we see them through new eyes?

Would it make a difference?

Jesus saw the woman who had been caught in the act. He saw. Her.

He saw the woman at Jacob’s well, caught up in a vicious cycle of seeking love where it would not be found. And, looking through eyes colored with love, He changed her life.

Maybe I could do that. Maybe I could look through the eyes of love. The apostle, my namesake, suggested to the folks at Philippi that it was exactly what was needed.

Stop looking out of eyes that don’t see past the end of your noses. Start seeing—really seeing—others instead. And seeing, serve. (Philippians 2:4,5)

Ah. The miracle of a familiar face in a crowd of strangers! One who knows you! One who loves you, in spite of knowing you.

Look around.

See. People.

Look-see.

Change the world.

Everything will be good. Everything will be right.

“What use is care? What good is watching for that matter? People are forever watching things. They should be seeing. I see the things I look at. I am a see-er.”
(Patrick Rothfuss ~ American novelist)

The Lord looks from heaven;
He sees all the sons of men.
From the place of His dwelling He looks
On all the inhabitants of the earth;
He fashions their hearts individually;
He considers all their works.
(Psalm 33:13-15 ~ NKJV ~ New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

Offerings

December 6, 2016December 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The young voices sing in tight harmony, the air surrounding us almost trembling with astonishment at the beauty of their song. We in the pews are in agreement with the atmosphere; to a person it seems, holding our breaths, not wanting to miss a note or a chord.

The carol began as a common Christmas song—with familiar words and melody—but it has become much more than that. The young artists, led by that genius with a stick in his hand, started with the simple familiar tune and turned it into a symphony, a masterpiece of beautiful music and brilliant poetry.

Quietly, scarcely louder than a whisper, the voices draw us upward until, with more volume than seems possible from those young throats and greater skill than seems imaginable from musicians so inexperienced, we are overcome with wonder and with awe.

We who sit in the hard seats and listen have been carried far beyond the restraints of our time and circumstances. For a moment which seemed an eternity, our spirits soared with the melodies and harmonies that have drawn us into the very presence of the King of Christmas.

It has always been so for me. This music has power—power to soothe the spirit—power to move the soul—power to draw the heart from its deepest, darkest hiding place and lay it open before the Creator of all the Universe.

I know it is not the same for all. My life has been full of music from the day I was born, until now in my waning years. Many have had different experiences and have also lived joyfully. I freely admit it.

Still—music moves me.

Can I go a step further and tell you what else moves me?

Just as much as the music.

It may come as a shock to the reader. It did to me.

You see, I sit in the beautiful cathedral and am moved to tears by nothing more than sound in the air—that and the Spirit of God—and somehow, it feels natural and right.

But just this week, in my place of business, I was also moved to tears. . .

The old man had been in before. He had The Look. You know, that look in his eyes—almost empty, but a little wild, a little confused, and perhaps even, dangerous. He shuffled in, shoulders slumped, a defeated shell of a man, without hope.

He is homeless, or nearly so. Drifting from one relative to another, living under the stars when the weather permits, he calls no place home, but any place he lies down his bedroom.

He had a guitar to sell. I’ve told his story before. Well, not his, but the same basic story anyway. No money, no food, the urge to find funds has led him to my door. The guitar would feed him for a few days anyway.

Or, so he thought.

I didn’t want his guitar.

It is damaged and worn now. It was not much better when it was new. If I had bought it, the guitar-shaped-object would have found a semi-permanent home in my back room, a room which is already packed full by too many cheap, broken guitar-shaped-objects.

I didn’t want the guitar. I told him so.

The wild eyes turned angry for a few seconds, and I worried that things might get ugly. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and looking dejected, turned to go.

I wasn’t done, though. I know, after years of sleepless nights and remorse-filled days, that it was not my place to turn him away without help. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple of bills which I laid on the counter for him. Immediately, the angry eyes were back and he waved away my offer disgustedly.

He didn’t want my hand-out. He wanted to sell his guitar.

Quickly, I explained my dilemma. Motioning with my arms at the guitars leaning against the back wall and the cases stacked in the aisles, I told him that I can’t—just can’t—acquire another guitar to repair. Without disparaging his instrument, I made it clear. I simply don’t need his guitar.

Again, I held out the money and begged—yes—I begged him to take it. I suggested he could still sell the guitar to someone else who needs it. For a moment, his demeanor brightened, as he saw a way to get more than he expected when he first came through my door.

Then another idea came to him.

“I’ll accept your gift. But, I’m not going to sell this guitar.” The old guy proudly gestured with the instrument. “I know this guy who’s staying down by the tracks. He says he plays, but he doesn’t have a guitar to use. I’ll give this one to him.”

He reached a gnarled hand across the counter, first to take the gift I offered, and then again to grip mine in that ancient symbol of equality and respect, a handshake.

I looked into his eyes.

That’s funny.

They were as clear as a bell. No anger. No confusion. No defeat.

Did I say they were clear? I meant to say that they were clear except for the tears that welled up in the corners of each one. As he let go of the firm grip he had on my hand, there were tears in my own eyes, as well.

He headed for the door. I’m pretty sure he was taller than when he came in. At least, his head was held up and the slump he had when he arrived was gone.

As he stepped outside, I heard his voice, “God bless you, friend.”

I can’t explain it, but I felt chills. Something like I felt when I listened to those young folks singing last night.

Something like it.

The apostle said that when we walk in love, our God smells a sweet aroma, as He did when His Son came for us.

When we walk in love, our God smells a sweet aroma Share on X

This Christmas, as I worship in the beauty and opulence of the cathedral, with its stained glass windows and high ceilings, and all of it trimmed in oak, I’m going to remember that somewhere, out there in the cold and dirty world, a man plays a guitar.

The music inside might be prettier and more skilled.

I don’t know.

Somehow, I think the Savior of the world—the One who came as a baby on that first Christmas—I think He might consider the sound of that guitar playing down by the railroad tracks just a little sweeter.

Just a little.

A sweet aroma.

A song will outlive all sermons in the memory.
(Henry Giles ~ American minister/author ~ 1809-1882)

And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.
(Ephesians 5:2 ~ ESV)

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)

New Things

February 29, 2016November 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Open your eyes. I am going to do a new thing.

The voice in my head was as clear as if someone in the room had spoken. The only problem was no one else was there. The Lovely Lady had already left for her morning of work at the library.

I was by myself. There was not a soul in the house besides me.

I’m not a dreams and visions type person. I’ve always believed that God gives us wisdom and intelligence to follow the path laid out before us. As we make educated decisions, His Spirit guides us. Gently.

I never wanted to hear a voice in my ear as I awake in the morning. Well, except for the Lovely Lady’s telling me there are doughnuts to go with the coffee. . .

I would understand it if I had just been reading that specific chapter in the Bible right before retiring. Isaiah 43 is a powerful chapter, with reminders of who our God is, and what He intends to do. I’ve read the passage several times since that morning.

But, I hadn’t read it in ages. I don’t think it was put in my head by anything I had heard or read with a similar message.

The words just hung in the air.

A new thing? Really?

I don’t like new things all that much.

My shoes, I like comfortable and broken in. I’m using the same cash register at my music store I was using in the 1990s. It’s not that it’s a great piece of machinery, but I understand how to make it work, and that’s enough.

I like to eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with fried tuna patties every Thursday evening. Don’t ask me out to eat on Thursday. Comfort food night is almost like going to church. If I have my mac and cheese, I can almost believe everything is right with the world.

I don’t really care for new places, or new experiences, or new flavors.

I bought a bicycle the other day. It sat for two weeks before I even threw a leg over the saddle. Another two weeks later, I actually wheeled it out of the front door.

On Saturday, I put air in the tires and did something I had never done. I locked my shoes into the clip-less pedals and took a turn around the parking lot out front. I wasn’t happy to see a couple of big, burly fellows sitting on the roof across the street, working on the sign hanging there. I certainly didn’t want to look foolish to them.

But then, I got started pedaling and it seemed to go well. At first.

I actually thought the words as I rounded the lot for the first time.

See! I am doing a new thing!

Not for long did I keep that foolish thought in my head. You see, I quickly discovered that I knew nothing about changing the gears on this particular setup. It was right about that time I realized I would have to unlock my shoes from the pedals soon, too. Without falling over.

Bicycles have only two tires, you know. They don’t balance when they’re not moving forward. This one would come to a stop very soon, and I couldn’t remember which foot I had decided it would be best to put down first. I started to unclip the right foot, just as I slowed to a near stop. It was right about then I remembered I had decided I should unclip the left foot first.

It was also right about then the seat tube decided to slide down about six inches. Whump!

Did I tell you I was worried about looking foolish?

I looked foolish.

I hate it when I look foolish. Hate it.

And perhaps, we have actually uncovered why I dislike new things so much. Unfamiliar territory is territory where I make mistakes. I don’t appear intelligent and wise. I don’t impress.

I am embarrassed. Frequently.

I want it to stop. I am approaching sixty years old, an age at which I believe it is my right to retain my dignity at all times.

I shouldn’t be expected to learn new skills, to venture out on untried bridges, to balance on two micro-thin rubber tires while remembering which foot is which and which shifter changes what gear.

But tonight, I’m wondering—I who have declared in my brashest voice that I am a follower of the Son of God—I’m wondering what it means to really follow Him.

Is it enough that I have followed Him for these few years, the decades of youth and middle-age?

Is that enough?

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there? What then? Share on X

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there—across the bridge?

Would I take the chance—the adventure—and strike out to a new and unknown field?

I’ve never been over there.

What if there are strange people?

Is the bridge safe?

Will I have plenty to eat, a warm place to stay, a comfy bed in which to sleep when I reach the end of each day?

On the best day fishing Peter and his partners had ever had—the best day—the Teacher told them He had better things for them to accomplish. (Luke 5:9-11)

They abandoned their boats and nets—and fantastic catch—on the shore and followed.

They followed.

A new thing.

Maybe it was only learning to ride a different bicycle for me. Perhaps, that will be the end of the matter.

Perhaps not.

Probably not.

I wonder. Could I cross the bridge, abandoning the comfortable, familiar place I’m in? I want to believe that I could.

I might look ridiculous—foolish even.

Would you laugh?

Or, would you cross it with me?

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at.

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at. Share on X

I don’t know where we’re going yet.

He does.

It will be enough.

Do not remember the former things,
Nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I will do a new thing,
Now it shall spring forth;
Shall you not know it?
I will even make a road in the wilderness
And rivers in the desert.
(Isaiah 43:18, 19 ~ NKJV)

“Doubtless,” said the Prince. “This signifies that Aslan will be our good lord, whether he means us to live or die. And all’s one, for that. Now, by my counsel, we shall . . . all shake hands one with another, as true friends that may shortly be parted. And then, let us descend into the City and take the adventure that is sent us.”
(From The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ British novelist ~ 1898-1963)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Jesus