Lost and Found

January 8, 2016January 8, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

He left the wallet. Just walked away from it.

The set of strings he needed for his guitar paid for, he inserted his debit card back into the slot. Folding the cloth-covered wallet closed, he walked to the back of the music store, carrying it still in his hand.

I didn’t notice the stray item until long after he had walked on down the road. Even then, I knew it was his.

How do you do that? Walk away from your wallet, I mean.

He took his little guitar. Strapped it over his shoulder carefully before opening the front door to the shop. Carefully.

The guitar is worth, perhaps, forty dollars.

He took the guitar, but left the wallet.

I looked in the wallet. There was no cash—not that I expected any. There were, however, several items I would not like to lose myself.

The debit card was there, for starters. How do you function without that? Perhaps the absence of cash in the wallet meant there was an ample supply of the same in his pocket. It seems though, that he would have used cash for a small purchase such as he had made earlier, if he had it.

No. The debit card was his connection to cash. He left that with the wallet.

There was a drivers license. How would he answer the nice policeman, when he said the words driver’s license and registration, please? How would he cash a check? It’s likely he’d need to, since the debit card was you-know-where.

There was a lot more. I didn’t sift through it all. The only reason I looked at all was to find a way to contact the man. I found nothing of the sort.

I did see one more thing though—an item, well two items, really—both more important that any of the others I found.

I found a photo of the man’s grandson. Then, one of his son. Treasure! Good-looking young men, both of them. How do you leave those behind?

Over two weeks ago, he left the wallet. Two weeks, and not one phone call. He never asked. Never.

Not even today, when he came back into the store to buy more strings.

I looked at him and smiled, knowing he’d mention the missing wallet soon. It had to be weighing on him heavily. Perhaps, he even felt guilty about neglecting to come back and retrieve the item. Surely, he’d mention it presently.

He never did.

I couldn’t stand it. I handed him the wallet, smiling expectantly.

He grinned sheepishly and said, “Oh, there it is. I wondered if I’d have to contact the bank soon.”

When his wife arrived to pick him up later, he didn’t even mention the wallet to her.

I’m confused. And, a little disappointed. Well? I wanted him to shake my hand vigorously and exclaim in a loud voice about the little cloth single-fold wallet and its contents.

It’s what I would have done.

Oh. There it is.

It’s not the epitome of relief—not the pinnacle of joy—is it?

I have more to say tonight, much more.

I want to talk about treasures we leave behind, purposely and accidentally.

I want to speak of our search for false treasure, while genuine treasure is staring us in the face.

I wish I could awaken the desire in each reader to seek that which has been lost for so long.

Still. The Teacher thought it enough to simply tell the stories of losing—and finding—that which had been lost. He was sure His listeners would understand His meaning. (Luke 15)

The red-headed lady who raised me always asked the same question when I was looking for something I had lost.

Where did you last see it?

It seems we lose many things over the course of a lifetime—love, joy, passion, purpose. Maybe, it’s time we began to seek them again.

I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that at the end of our search, whatever it is we seek, He’ll be waiting. After all, He’s the One who promised if we ask we’ll receive, if we seek we’ll find, and if we knock doors will be opened. (Luke 11:9-10)

Start where you last saw it. It’s sure to be close by.

Oh. A little enthusiasm when we find what was lost would be nice, too.

There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something.
(J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English educator/writer/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it?And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.
(Luke 15:8-10 ~ NIV)

From the Inside Out

January 4, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is what I know:

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

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

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

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

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

Choose well.

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

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

Raunchy

November 19, 2015November 19, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was in a quandary. The nice young lady had asked me if I would play my horn with the pit orchestra for a musical at the local university. Flattered, and hopeful I would be able to cover the part, I agreed.

I would regret my decision very soon thereafter.

My personal preparation for the production (which ran for four nights) would involve many hours—painful hours—of practice. I’m an old man who has coasted for many years, playing easy, pretty things—the kind of music that makes folks sigh and exclaim that the French horn is their favorite instrument.

This wasn’t that kind of music. I wasn’t able to cover the part without the personal wood-shedding of the pieces over and over.

I wish that had been the hardest part of preparing for the production. It wasn’t. The hardest part had nothing to do with the music, or the time involved, or even the people who would participate with me.

It’s a raunchy story.

Raunchy.

The story of a demented man who wanders the countryside pretending to be a knight. It’s the story of people who steal what they want from fellow travelers. The demented knight is robbed and beaten, and he dies.

He dies.

All of that wasn’t a problem for me.

What was a problem was that one of the main characters, a serving lady in the inn, is also a prostitute. I didn’t like that she has a filthy mouth. I didn’t like that the songs seem to make light of the sinful state of the folks who populate the stage play.

I almost called the nice young lady and told her I couldn’t be involved in her production. You see, I’m not a raunchy person. I don’t want to be identified with that type of stuff.

I’m not raunchy. Right?

I didn’t call the nice young lady. Instead, I listened to a recording of the play one last time before making a decision. I sat through the fight in the inn’s courtyard as the knight sought to protect the serving lady’s honor, a laughable attempt at a vain undertaking, I thought. It was especially futile, given that the first man he did battle with had already paid the cash price the woman demanded for her services.

Moments later in the track, the crude musical explanation of who she knew herself to be left me nodding my head in agreement. She was crude, the crudeness almost overshadowing the shock of her being raped at one point during the story.

No. I just couldn’t do this. I couldn’t be a part of this thing. I would call the nice young lady in the morning and back out as gracefully as I could.

But the recording was still playing.

The mad knight would not be swayed. The lady, his dream of womanhood, could be none other than his sweet Dulcinea, even though she insisted she was neither pure nor sweet.

I never expected to cry.

It’s not a religious story. It’s a raunchy tale of twisted humanity.

And redemption.

Really. Redemption.

An impossible dream.

The prostitute becomes the lady the deluded knight envisioned.

How is that possible?

I cried every night of the production. Every night. As I played my horn, tears ran down my cheeks.

The story of mankind is a raunchy tale of twisted humanity. You may read the whole story in the Bible. Don’t say you haven’t been warned though.

The pages are populated by adulterers, prostitutes, murderers, liars, cheats, and thieves—to say nothing of insane kings and philandering judges.

Yes. The Holy Bible. The same Book that says, whatever is true, honest, just, pure, holy, these are the things to contemplate. (Philippians 4:8)

Here’s the thing: The raunchy tale of twisted humanity is also the story of a Holy God who looked at what was and saw what would be. A God who would take the flawed and filthy and make it pure and whole.

Redemption.

And, raunchy becomes righteous.

Somehow, we don’t want to talk about the dirty stuff. We avoid the filth—as if we’ve never been filthy ourselves. I sometimes wonder if it makes us feel better to think about how perfect we are, comparing ourselves with others who haven’t experienced His Grace. Or, perhaps it simply reminds us of hard truths and sad experiences we’d rather not remember.

But, this I know: Without the depravity—without the raunchiness, there would never have been the redemption. Without sin—no grace.

We do Him a disservice when we sweep the story under the rug, as if it never happened. We lie when we lead people to believe that we are any better than the rest of the raunchy world.

We discount the value of the astounding gift given us when we avoid the stigma of our past lives, as if it had never happened.

What a gift to a people who deserved nothing better than to wallow in their own filth!

Raunchy?

Once I was. Not any more.

Redeemed.

Redeemed.

“Once, just once, would you look at me as I really am?”
“I see beauty, purity. Dulcinea.”
(from Man of La Mancha ~ Dale Wasserman ~ American playwright ~ 1914-2008)

. . .just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless.
(Ephesians 5:25-27 ~ NIV)

Keep Walking

November 13, 2015November 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Yesterday was Windsday. I know, I know—that’s not how it’s spelled, but it is what happened yesterday.

My late father-in-law would have shoved the door open, leaves floating around his white hair, and announced that it was a bit air-ish out. He would have been right, too.

Throughout the whole day, the wind blew at least fifteen miles an hour, sometimes with sustained winds of over thirty. There were even a number of gusts blowing at almost fifty miles an hour.

Trash cans flew over, canvas signs flapped noisily, and the black walnuts falling on the tin roof made a racket like a kid throwing rocks at a stop-sign.

The black monsters in the back yard eventually got so tired of disengaging themselves from the debris and struggling to stay upright that they spent most of the day inside their doghouse.

I wasn’t as bright as the dogs. Needing to conduct business with one of my instrument technicians, I headed out into the blowing night after work. Flying in the same direction as the wind in my pickup truck, I hardly noticed it at all. It would be an uneventful evening ride.

That was before.

Before I turned the other direction to head for home. Before I felt the buffeting wind lifting the body of my truck.

Before I began to see things.

In the wind. I saw things in the wind. Coming right at me.

It is fall in the Ozarks and the leaves are barely clinging to the branches as it is. The blustery wind needed to do little persuading to convince the trembling foliage to turn loose. The problem is, I was driving into that gusting blast.

It wasn’t only leaves that attacked me. Plastic shopping bags of all sizes danced on the wind, spinning and diving madly. In front of me and beside me, they tore past, along with other unidentifiable objects.

It was, to say the least, disconcerting. I didn’t know whether to brake the truck and creep into the wind, or dodge the debris, swerving right and left, hoping against hope that there wasn’t something solid about to crash through my windshield.

I wasn’t the only one. The scariest moment on the twenty-five-mile drive home came on a busy four-lane highway, as all of us motorists scooted for our destinations at sixty or seventy miles an hour.

In the lane beside and just ahead of me, the car suddenly swerved toward the shoulder. Looking at the road right in front of where he had been, I saw a huge mound of some sort of reflective material. Relieved that he hadn’t hit it, I continued on.

Suddenly, I realized the mound was moving quickly into my lane, shoved over in his wake. Worried about the cars in the lane beside me and riding my bumper, I held my ground, heading straight for the object as I steeled myself for an impact.

Swish! The air-filled mass of flexible plastic sucked under my truck and blew up and over the cars following me.

Only a huge plastic bag blowing on the wind! Nothing more.

Say the word. Say the word and I’ll come.

The man nicknamed The Rock was speaking to his Teacher. Impetuous and not a little blustery himself, he was sure it would be safe.

The Teacher waved a hand. Come on, then.

You know the story. Peter walked on the water. Until he noticed something. No, it wasn’t the water. He was fine with that.

Walk on water? Pssssssh! Easy stuff!

No. He saw something else. It was there when he set out. It had been there when he blurted out his challenge to the Teacher to let him walk with Him. But, now it worried him.

The wind was blowing. Hard.

What if the Teacher hadn’t figured on that when He called him? What if the wind made him lose his balance? What if he got salt water in his eyes and couldn’t see where he was going?

What if?

The wind outside has stopped blowing. The weather system moved on to the east during the dark hours last night. It was sunny and warm by this afternoon.

Not so in my soul.

Inside there a storm was brewing. Events and conversations this morning stirred up the storm to an intense blast within a small amount of time. A hurricane of epic proportions.

It’s not my imagination. The storm is real.

I’m seeing things in the wind—Coming right at me.

Do I stop going the way I’m headed? Swerve off on a tangent? Go back?

You know what I’m going through, don’t you? You’ve been here, too. I suspect every one of us has been in the storm.

So—what of the options? Do we stop? Should we go a different direction? Maybe it’s time to just turn around.

No. None of those are any good.

The place we need to get to—Home—is out there, ahead of us.

I’ve thought of that old story I learned in Sunday School years ago a lot. Do you realize that the guys back there in the boat were in the storm, too? The wind was blowing stuff at them just as hard as at Peter.

They just weren’t out there with Jesus. They were still in the storm—still on their own.

Who was safer?

I think I’ll keep walking. Against the wind.

You, too?

WIND
Voiceless it cries,
Wingless flutters,
Toothless bites,
Mouthless mutters.
(J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English poet/author ~ 1892-1973)

“Goodbye,” said Eeyore. “Mind you don’t get blown away, little Piglet. You’d be missed. People would say, ‘Where’s little Piglet been blown to?’—really wanting to know.”
(from The House at Pooh Corner ~ A.A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

“Come,” he said.Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”
(Matthew 14:29-31 ~ NIV)

Can You See Jesus?

September 18, 2015September 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Someday your heart will be asking, What will He do with me?

I grew up singing those words, the closing of a song entitled, What Will You Do With Jesus? I hadn’t thought about the song for a few decades.

A Catholic priest brought it to mind again today. I wish I could remember his name. I saw his words in print for a few seconds. The words are burned into my brain; his name, unfortunately, is not.

When you look at the refugees, can you see Jesus?

The news and social media have been full of the stories for the last few weeks. Refugees from the ethnic and religious purging in Syria have been displaced into surrounding Middle Eastern countries, a process which began almost four years ago. Now, they are pouring into Europe by the hundreds of thousands. There seems to be no end in sight for the crisis.

Over the last few days, I have seen many individuals claiming that it is our national responsibility to take in a large number of these refugees. The argument is that as Christians, we must do our part.

What would Jesus do?

I won’t argue with them. Time will tell what is to be done there.

I have bigger problems.

Or possibly, smaller ones.

I don’t want to talk about the millions of refugees. I don’t want to discuss the millions of babies being slaughtered by abortion. I don’t want to argue about which ethnic or civil group’s lives matter.

You think me cold? Insensitive?

I’m not.

It’s important to tackle the larger issues facing us as a nation—as a world—as people of faith. The problem is that, too often, our participation in that discussion is a cop-out.

You see, for most of us it’s just that—a discussion.

We talk. We get angry. We get self-righteous.

But, we never get dirty. Our hands never once touch the people who need a human touch. All we want to do is to make our point and win the debate.

And, when the government agencies have done their part, when the monies designated to give relief are delivered, when the temporary housing has been fabricated, we will breath a sign of relief and, with one last self-righteous toss of our heads, we’ll turn again to our clean, sterile lives.

We talk a good game, don’t we?

After all, that’s what the Teacher commended His good servants for, wasn’t it?

I was naked, and you gave money to UNICEF. I was sick and you checked to see where Doctors Without Borders were docking next. I was in prison and you signed petitions to the government for my release.

What? You don’t like my paraphrase?

Millions of refugees in the Middle East? Easy-peasy!

African-American brothers and sisters seeking justice in urban areas? You have my full support!

I read the words I have written and realize it seems as if I think we should abandon our concern for a world in need. I don’t.

I don’t!

But, what I know—know beyond any argument—is that we have been given tasks which require our hands to get dirty. When we finish the task we’ve been assigned, we will stink.

We don’t get to stand, like some politician who has just blinded the opposition with his brilliant rhetoric, clasping our hands above our heads in victory.

We get to stand, dejected in the rain as the ambulance pulls away, because the drug addict we tried to help just overdosed and lost her battle with the demons inside—and outside—her.

We get to sit on the edge of our elderly neighbor’s front porch, sweaty and exhausted, and look over the neatly trimmed landscape we’ve just finished mowing. After we had already done our own lawn.

We get to spend our Sunday afternoon with that young lady who has a black eye, finding a shelter for her and helping to fill out police reports.

We get to stand with an arm around the drunk man in the emergency room waiting area as, down the hall, his wife fights for her life after a failed suicide attempt.

The opportunities will never end. The people who need our touch—our touch, not our words—will stretch out from here to the end of our lives.

Because every single one of them looks like Jesus to us. Every single one of them.

The priest had the right idea.

And the Teacher said, “If you’ve done it to the least of these, you’ve done it to me.

The words still echo in my head. Forty years since I last sang them, and certainly with a different perspective, they still echo.

What will you do with Jesus?

Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing? When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’
(Matthew 25:37-40 ~ NLT)

Jesus is standing in Pilate’s hall,
Friendless, forsaken, betrayed by all;
Hearken! what meaneth the sudden call?
What will you do with Jesus?

What will you do with Jesus?
Neutral you cannot be;
Someday your heart will be asking,
“What will He do with me?”
(A B Simpson ~ Canadian theologian ~ 1843-1919)

The First Step

June 15, 2015June 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I don’t believe that dreams are prophecies.

Well, now that I’ve ostracized a good number of folks, let me qualify the statement. When I say dreams, I mean the normal sort. You know–the ones we have when we lie down to sleep at night. The ones made more vivid by that extra round of extra spicy Buffalo wings you had at dinner. Or, the scary movie which was splashed across the television screen as you sat and dozed in your easy chair.

It doesn’t mean dreams aren’t meaningful. They often are. When we sleep, our minds go where they will, no longer guided and controlled by our discipline and resolve. Things we already know about ourselves, but aren’t willing to think or talk about when awake, somehow can be revealed as images in our sleep.

I usually can’t remember what I dream about.

Usually. But, not last night.

Even before I was completely asleep, in the wee hours of this morning, I lay in bed and saw myself standing on the edge. No, not the edge of a cliff, although I have seen that image in my head before, both in real life and in dreams.

The edge I stood upon was that of a circular hole in the floor beneath me. The hole was large enough for a body to fit through comfortably. Funny thing, I could look down the hole and see that it was lined with a white pipe, almost like PVC.

I could only see about ten feet down the pipe and then it curved out of sight. Even in my half-awake state, I could feel my heart racing. In my dream, I backed away from the pipe. Then, drawn by some irresistible urge, I eased forward step by terrified step to peer downward once more.

I really dislike heights. Heights without handrails, that is. Give me a good grip on a handrail and I’ll look down from the highest cliff or the highest tower you could imagine. There was no handrail here.

It was just a hole. A hole that led somewhere–I couldn’t tell you where.

I knew it was a dream. I knew it. You know how your mind works. It seems real, but you know it can’t be. And besides, you’re lying in bed with the fan blowing on you.

It’s only a dream. Jump! What could happen?

No. Wait! What’s down around that curve? You have no idea what’s down there!

What if there’s no more to it than what you can see and it drops you into a bottomless pit (I hear those are real common in dreams)? You’ll fall screaming forever. All because you jumped into a hole you knew nothing about.

I considered the issues. Really.

In my dream.

I wondered–Is this the only way I’ll ever really make the transition from restless dreams to deep sleep? I have to trust myself to this tube that goes who-knows-where without any more information. If you think about it, we do it every night.

Mr. Tolkien talks about roads that sweep you off your feet to foreign lands. Sleep can do that too. Really.

Perhaps the mystery slide is representative of a major decision which I need to make. Life goals stand ready to be grasped, if only I’ll trust myself to the unknown depths. I’ll never get there if I don’t take the plunge.

Decision time. What will I do?

I take one last downward look and–I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go downstairs to get a drink. When I return ten minutes later, the slide is no longer to be found and I sleep.

Ah, wonderful sleep.

After attending church this morning, I came home to help the Lovely Lady prepare our traditional Sunday Dinner. The feast for family and friends has come to be a high point of our week. Food, discussions–escalating to disputes and then diminishing back to agreeable differences, jokes, and lovely memory-making are the stuff these times are made of.

There is a shadow over my memory of today’s feast.

As I helped prepare the table, my brother sent me a text. I wasn’t ready to read it yet.

“He doesn’t feel like she has a lot of time left.”

He is my Dad. She is my Mom.

Tears came to my eyes without warning. Even as I write these words, they come again.

Through my tears, I see that hole from my dream again.

I’m beginning to grasp it now.

You’ve seen them before, haven’t you? Extreme water slides. Thrill seekers flock to them every summer. The drop in altitude is what they love–that quick plunge, setting them free from gravity for just a fraction of a moment, long enough to wonder if they’ll ever stop in time to avoid disaster.

They know they will. It’s been safety tested. Why, they even climbed the tower right beside the tube, exclaiming all the while about where each twist and turn will take place. Pointing to the plastic pipe right beside them soaring up into the sky above, they know just where it starts and where it will end.

They know. And they’re happy to take the plunge.

Because they know.

The red-headed lady who raised me has been climbing for a good many years now. She’s had lots of company along the way, but there is just One who has always been there. Always.

The day is coming. Soon, it seems. No one can know for sure.

I can just see Him standing there smiling, asking her if she’s ready. I don’t know if she’ll be frightened, like I was in my dream. But, I do know her answer will be in the affirmative.

She’s ready.

He’ll wrap His strong arms close around her and they’ll take the first step together. She’s never done this before.

But, He has.

And, He knows.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
(1 Timothy 1:7 ~ KJV)

I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
Jesus died for my sins to atone
In the darkness I see he’ll be waiting for me
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone…
(I Won’t Have To Cross Jordan Alone ~ Thomas Ramsey ~ American songwriter)

Eye Opening

June 2, 2015June 2, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Brother 1: “What did the man say when the clock struck thirteen?”
Brother 2: “I don’t know. What did he say?”
Brother 1: “‘I’ve got to get up! It’s later than it’s ever been before!'”

I sat this evening in my easy chair. Ah, sweet peace!

Leaning the recliner back toward the wall, my eyes closed of their own accord, just like one of those dolls with the weighted eyelids. My busy day had gotten the best of me and a nap seemed appropriate. Okay–at that moment appropriate had nothing to do with it. I fell asleep without even thinking about the implications at all.

We have four striking clocks in the house, all of which are audible from that easy chair. I’ve never been able to synchronize them to strike at the same time.

The sound as they announce the hour, one after another and intermingled with each other, is enough to wake the dead.

Perhaps that’s a bad metaphor, but it’ll do for this situation.

If lying down was reminiscent of the action of those doll’s eyes, waking was that also. In reverse. As I jerked up from my reclining position, the clocks tolling the hour, my eyes flew open.

I had things to do! What was I doing, sleeping away the evening?

It’s late! I’ve got to get busy!

The clocks didn’t strike thirteen, although a stranger in the house might be excused for thinking it was more times than that. The cacophony when they all get in on the act is a little unsettling.

You know, the man with the defective clock was right.

It is later than it’s ever been.

If that seems a Captain Obvious type statement, I apologize. For some reason, I’m always the last one to become aware of the conspicuous facts.

You see, I’ve never been fifty-eight before, an age I’ll attain later this month. I’ve never been married for thirty-six years before. It’s never been 2015 before.

It’s later than it’s ever been.

Oh, I’ve heard the warnings. All about us, people are shouting that the sky is falling. They are scurrying about blaming others, buying guns, and storing up emergency rations to be sure they survive the disasters, both natural and man-made, which are coming.

I will admit to my ignorance.

I will also admit to my lack of interest.

Please don’t misunderstand. I don’t deny that there is change coming–perhaps soon. I just don’t believe that it makes one iota of difference in our mission. And what I see from many who believe the change is upon us is anger, and confusion, and selfishness.

But, the One we follow–those of us who claim to be Christians–the One we follow has given us our instructions long ago.

Love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that a man lay down his life for another.

And, just in case we misunderstood and thought that it was only those who believe as we do whom we are called to love, God reminded us that it was while we were still His enemies that His Son came for us. To die.

Not friends. Enemies.

The cacophony of the voices I hear raised in cursing–yes, cursing–at the world (and those raised in return) is not unlike the clanging of those clocks, reminding us that it is late.

Not too late, I hope. Later than it’s ever been, without doubt, but not too late.

Are you frightened? Upset by recent events? Disappointed with people and situations? Me, too. It gives us no excuse. None of us.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or next week, or next year, for that matter. The government and the courts may turn on us. Our accustomed way of life may vanish from the face of the earth. It changes nothing.

Nothing.

We love. Perhaps enough to die, but we love.

Because He first loved us.

It’s later than it’s ever been.

My eyes are open now.

Yours?

This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters.
(1 John 3:16 ~ NIV)

Q: What time is it when the clock strikes thirteen?
A: Time to get a new clock!

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Jesus