How Did Those Snakes Get There?

March 18, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I know it’s not the right way to begin an article. NCIS Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs would have said it’s a sign of weakness.

But I want to apologize anyway.

I’m sorry for the photo that accompanies these words. I know the subject matter is triggering for some. Childhood memories. Terrifying stories told by uncaring siblings. Nightmares that can’t be erased from the mind.

I hope the reader will give me a chance to explain.

My grandchildren came to help me in my yard a few days ago. I never raked the leaves from my lawn last fall—never cleaned up the mess from the dying of the year. They knew I was embarrassed by my failure. So they came to help me make it better.

Several hours, they labored with me that day. The monumental stack of black bags full of oak, maple, and pear leaves they left behind bore testament to their hard work. The monumental back-ache I had that afternoon also bore testament to mine.

At some point during the early afternoon, one of my grandsons noticed the snake. It wasn’t huge, just an ordinary garter snake. The harmless reptile was stretched out near a hollow in the ground left when our lilac bush died a couple of years back.

My grandson, brave young man that he is, picked the snake up by its tail and, swinging it back and forth, carried it to the back fence and let it go into the wooded area behind our house.

As I examined the hollow in the ground, I noticed movement near a hole in the center. Our activities had shifted all the leaves that had been providing cover for the den. It soon became clear to us that it was home to more than just the one snake.

The two curious creatures in the photo were wondering what happened to their roof, and perhaps, to their brother (or mother, or sister). We helped them relocate over the next couple of hours, as well.

Later that evening, when I showed the photo to the Lovely Lady, she drew in her breath sharply. She then suggested that it might be best if I kept the photo to myself.

A wise husband follows the advice of his spouse in such matters. I’ve never considered myself especially wise.

I had a reason to share the photo. In my mind, it was a good reason.

Knowing that I have my own terrors about snakes and that I am frequently awakened by dreams (not the good kind) about them, I wondered about the things we give power to.

I wanted to drive home the idea that it is our own foolishness that leads us to give fear a place in our everyday lives. I had a number of examples to add to the snakes. Storms. Wildfires. Financial disasters. War. There are any number of things of which we are afraid.

Things we give power over us.

And, along with the photo, I wanted to write words of condemnation, words of derision. A put-down of the foolishness of heeding the utterings from the terror merchants among us—the doomcasting news media, the fearmongering meteorologists, the pulpit-pounding fire-and-brimstone preachers.

I repent.

I stood in a church building this morning and wept. It wasn’t the first time I had done that in the last day or two. But, it was merely a line of a song that pushed me over the edge today.

“Our call to war, to love the captive soul,But to rage against the captor.”
(from “O Church Arise”, by Townend/Getty)

I wonder if anyone else sees it. And then, I think that probably I’m the only one in my tribe who couldn’t see it before.

And that’s okay. I see it now.

Jesus came to free the captives and to heal the sick. He came to set the oppressed free from their oppression. He clearly declared that was who He was.

I have been comfortable showing them their captivity and their oppression and then have blamed them for their situation.

Why do we rage against the captives—against the oppressed?

Everywhere I look today, I see it. I hear it.

I do it.

I said that worship service wasn’t the only time I had cried recently. I had a conversation with a friend who was frightened by an approaching weather system last week.

My friend’s admission of fear was the only trigger I needed to set me off. I began to rant about the folks who are responsible for building up that fear and about folks who hide in their fraidy holes at the mention of a storm coming.

My rant was cut short as my friend’s eyes were lifted up to mine.

Words fail.

I made my way home, seeing through tears.

Do you know what it’s like to be alone? To be impaired? To feel helpless in the face of danger? To not know if anyone will remember you as they evacuate?

God, make my heart soft. Where it is hard as adamant, make it as tender as Yours.

I’m not a newbie at this following Jesus thing. It’s been a lifetime. And still, I repent. And will need to again.

But, His declaration to the folks in His hometown—the prophetic words from Isaiah, the ones that nearly got him thrown off a cliff by his neighbors—is still true.

For me, it’s true.

And for anyone who comes to Him.

He still sets the captives free.

That Gibbs fellow was wrong, he of television fame; it is not a sign of weakness to apologize. It’s a sign of strength—of resolve.

And I’m still sorry for the snakes.

I think the Lovely Lady will let it slide. This time.

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
    for he has anointed me to bring Good News to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim that captives will be released,
    that the blind will see,
that the oppressed will be set free,
   and that the time of the Lord’s favor has come.”
(Luke 4:18-19, NLT [from Isaiah 61:1-2])

“I’m unfinished. I’m unfixed. And the reality is that’s where God meets me, is in the mess of my life, in the unfixedness, in the brokenness. I thought he did the opposite, he got rid of all that stuff. But if you read the Bible, if you look at it at all, constantly he was showing up in people’s lives at the worst possible time of their life.” (Mike Yaconelli)

Still Sitting in the Dark

March 11, 2025March 11, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She left to go to choir rehearsal without me; the Lovely Lady did. As she gathered up her music, she asked the question.

“What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

It didn’t take long for my answer to come. I say it often, sometimes even in jest. Okay, mostly in jest.

“I’m going to do what I always do when you’re gone. I’ll sit in the dark and wait for you to come home.”

Pitiful, aren’t I? The thing is, I sometimes do just what I said I’d do.

It’s not always because I’m sad or down. Sometimes, I just need to think. And the dark is better for thinking. There are not as many distractions in the dark.

I was going to stay in my easy chair to sit in the dark while she was gone, but then I remembered that my sister had sent a note about the moon earlier. It, Ruler of the Night, decided to come out before sunset this evening. I suppose it decided that if we puny humans need to save the daylight by changing our silly clocks, it could help by shining an extra hour or two before its appointed time.

So, instead of sitting in the dark in our den, I went outside and sat in the dark there.

Except it wasn’t. Dark, that is.

I had been thinking I’d look up at the sky before I came back in. Then I could write my sister a nice little note to tell her the moon was okay.

The sun had gone down over an hour before. But the moon was doing its best to actually give us some daylight. The yard and field behind my house were illuminated like daytime, complete with shadows cast by the still-naked trees.

So, I couldn’t have sat in the dark, even though I wanted to.

“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall fall on me,’
Even the night shall be light about me.”
(Psalm 139:11, NKJV)

David, that shepherd boy who became king and poet, also thought he could sit in the dark and let it wash over him. He was wrong.

He was made to live in the light.

I was, too. I think we all may have been.

We don’t always understand what the light is, though. It doesn’t look like we expect it to. Just like the moon tonight, we are often surprised by the light around us and where it comes from.

Earlier in the day, I walked over to a neighbor’s house to talk with him for a minute. I was a little unsettled by the sound of his router. He had been working on another project under his carport for an hour or more.

I wanted to listen to the songbirds.

The cardinals were being all sociable, with half a dozen of them at a time gathering in the oak branches out front—flashes of red in the sunlight everywhere I looked. The finches and wrens fluttered in and out of the holly tree’s foliage, some carrying grass and leaves for the nests they are busily slapping together.

I did. I wanted to listen to the birdsong.

But that noisy router just kept screaming as it ripped into the pieces of wood on the neighbor’s workbench. So, I went to visit with John. I had no intention of grousing at him. I just figured the router would be quiet for at least as long as we visited, and I could hear the birds in that relative silence anyway.

He grinned as I approached, turning off the machinery as I anticipated. Reaching out, he gave me a hug, and then he showed me his project. He is making a container to hold antique serving dishes. Not for himself. A friend, whose grandmother passed away and left her the dishes, was worried they would get broken, so he designed and is making a container for them.

As we talked, he mentioned some things he is storing for another friend. Then, still motioning to the stack under his carport, he told me about a different project he is planning for an acquaintance using the scraps of lumber he has there. In passing, he made the offer to me to take anything I needed from his bounty.

I mentioned one of our widowed neighbors to him, and he told me of going over during a recent storm and bringing her to his house so she wouldn’t be alone while the wind and thunder were raging overhead. And then, as I prepared to head for home, I mentioned that his firewood pile had diminished since I last noticed it. He nonchalantly told about a fellow who had been walking down the street who needed wood for heat, and he had given him most of his supply.

I sit here, and realization hits me; my seventy-something-year-old neighbor isn’t sitting and moping in the dark.

He’s making light! Shining it on everybody he meets, the light of God blazes from his face and fingertips. I wonder if that’s what the apostle Paul meant when he said we were to be lights in the universe. (Philippians 2:15) I think it may have been.

We’re not made to sit in the dark, awaiting whatever or whoever comes next.

We walk in the light as our Savior does. And we have fellowship—communion, if you will—with all others who walk in that light. (1 John 1:7)

I admit it; I haven’t been as successful at shining His light as my neighbor has. I’m not quite as noisy as he is, either, but I’m thinking I should get busy and catch up.

So, no more sitting in the dark.

It’s time to walk in the light.

And maybe—to make a little noise.

“A little bit of light dispels a lot of darkness.”
(Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi)

Indeed, the darkness shall not hide from You,
But the night shines as the day;
The darkness and the light are both alike to You.”
(Psalm 139:12, NKJV)

Morning Guilds the Skies

December 18, 2024December 18, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

As I write this, the sun is shining brightly in the sky outside. I’m sitting beside a hospital bed, listening to the loud beeping of an alarm that should be telling a nurse somewhere to come change an IV medicine bag.

My friends are posting Christmas carols today. I did that earlier this week. Somehow, Christmas isn’t close to my thoughts today.

Even though a niece has started her road trip toward our house from northern latitudes this morning, and a sister-in-law will fly in from eastern longitudes later this week to be with us for Christmas, I find myself contemplating life and its uncertanties on this day.

Sitting in a waiting room of a hospital for nine hours a day ago will do that to a person. Visits with friends who pass by in the hallway—an activity one would expect to lift spirits—allows the shadows to creep into the mind.

A few days ago, I lifted my candle with a thousand other folks and said that the darkness could not overcome the light. I don’t repent of the declaration. It is still true.

Still, the lights of physical life can dim, while the light of Redeeming Grace shines the brighter.

As I waited for the result of a loved one’s surgery yesterday, I learned of a couple of families I know who are facing the loss of their loved ones this holiday season. Somehow, for them, the light won’t seem so bright in this season we call festive.

And, my heart weeps with them.

And, that’s as it should be.

But still, I watched the sunrise this morning before coming to sit beside the bed of my loved one who remains in pain, and I just couldn’t stop the words from welling up.

“When morning guilds the skies
My heart awaking cries,
‘May Jesus Christ be praised.'”

As the day goes on, I don’t doubt that my spirit will flag. Sitting beside a bed is hard work. Elation is not the emotion one feels most in that locale.

But, it doesn’t change the fact that every morning we arise to meet the day is one in which we are blessed by our Creator.

“It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not; they are new every morning. Great is Thy faithfulness.”
(Lamentations 3: 22-24, KJV)

It was true when the words were written. It’s still true today.

Christmas will come. This Advent season builds the anticipation for the day when we’ll celebrate our Savior’s birth.

I’ll sing the carols. I will.

I hope your voice will blend with mine as we give thanks for His good and perfect gifts.

Even if our voices don’t blend all that well, it will be a joyful noise raised up to the God who bends low—the God who hears us, who understands our frailties, and still He came for us.

I’d still like to have the song in my mouth when the evening comes.

“Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning.
Jesus to thee be all glory given.”
(from O Come All Ye Faithful, by John Francis Wade)

“The sun comes up;It’s a new day dawning.It’s time to sing Your song again.Whatever may passAnd whatever lies before me,Let me be singing When the evening comes.”

(from 10,000 Reasons by Myrin/Redman)

Out of the Shadows

December 16, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I will never understand it. The Christmas season is one filled with light and hope, yet more people are feeling sad than at any other time of the year.

I checked to be sure I’m not spreading fake news. The National Alliance on Mental Illness tells us a 2021 survey shows that 3 in 5 people in America say the holidays make them sad.

A friend who has had a rough year posted her annual birthday note a couple of days ago to share her trials and joys with her tribe. I responded and suggested that sometimes the best we can do is stay in the vicinity of the light. In the shadows, but never far from the light.

But, I don’t really believe that. I don’t.

I wrote recently about preparations for the Christmas Candlelight Service at the local Christian university—one in which I have participated for well more than forty years. Nearly every time I have participated, I have found a new truth to enlighten my journey. I’ve shared many of those truths with my readers.

This year is no exception, even though my participation was in a very different capacity than those services for the past four decades.

When I played my horn with the brass group for the event, we always left the stage soon after the halfway point in the service. Sitting in pews reserved for us, we simply became audience members, enjoying the beautiful choral music the young folks (getting younger every year, seemingly) presented.

I was carried away. Every time.

This year as a vocalist, I stayed on the stage until, as my sweet mother-in-law would have put it, the last dog was hung. (I’m not sure what that means, but it seems to indicate staying until the entire event is finished, so I’ll go with it.)

Right up at the top of the risers, I and my compatriots stood or sat, depending on our part in the program. With a bird’s-eye view, one might say.

We were on display to the whole audience, but we also had a clear line of sight to every part of the cathedral. The view was eye-opening. Well, it took me until the last night to open my eyes, but I can’t unsee it in my mind now.

Forty-five times, I had seen it from the same perspective. Yet, it was always moving.

This is different.

I’m mostly thinking about the candlelighting ceremony at the end of the service.

Over the years, we would sit in the pews, with the student candle-lighters stopping at the ends of each row, lighting the candle of the person sitting there. Then that person would pass the flame to their neighbor, and they to theirs, until all the candles were aflame.

As we sang the words to the old Christmas carol, Silent Night, we held the candles close until the third verse. Then, as we began to sing about the radiant beams from His face, each of us would lift our candle high, flooding the huge building with brilliant light.

It was always moving. I know—I’m repeating myself. It’s still true. Again and again, I’ve been moved.

It all changed drastically this year, especially on the final night. I had always thought it was only that last verse—when we raised our candles—that was moving.

But, on this final night, I had tears in my eyes through every verse of the carol. The tears started before the music did.

I have known how it worked—the sharing of the flame, one person to the next. Yet I’ve never seen the big picture of how it occurred, except from my limited perspective amongst the folks right beside me.

I suppose it may be a bit like Job felt in the Old Testament. He had heard with his ears—he knew a little of what he was supposed to know—but seeing with his own eyes made all the difference. Now, he had experienced it. (Job 42:5)

Experiencing it is different than just having a head knowledge. I’m sure of it.

Throughout the entire service (all three nights) I had looked at the dim cathedral and knew there were individuals there—a number of them friends and acquaintances— but because of the darkness, I couldn’t see any individual faces, only a huge indistinct crowd of humanity.

And, as the ceremony began, from my bird’s-eye view, I watched the young folks carry their candles to the dark pews to spread the light. And finally, on the last night, I saw it clearly.

Through the whole room, looking completely random and without plan, the light spread. I could see flames shift from one person to the next, moving laterally along each pew. It wasn’t uniform. There was no pattern—or seemingly not. Row after row, I watched the lights flicker across from side to side.

Now, what was it that I was supposed to be seeing? Sure, the candles were lit in preparation for the holding forth of the light later on, but that wasn’t it.

There! I saw it!

Faces appeared behind the candles. Individual faces. On my left. In front of me, not far back. Then, way back to the right.

Faces.

No longer simply a mass of humanity, the bodies in the pews had faces—identities that could be clearly and individually seen.

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” (Isaiah 9:2, NIV)

How did I miss that?

We who have come to His light come as individuals out of profound darkness. And, His light shines on us.

It shines on us. You. Me.

Yes, we’re part of the great cloud of witnesses—like John the Baptist, bearing witness to The Light—but we come to our Savior and He knows each one of us.

He knows me.

He knows you.

And now, we have the great privilege of reflecting The Light.

Again, from that vantage point, I watched the flames—held close throughout the song—as they were thrust forward and upward to the ceiling. If I had been moved through all of those years when I was sitting in the audience, it was spectacular seeing it from above and in front of it!

Spectacular. An explosion of light!

We can spread the light—one to another. It’s in His plan that we do that. We can even hold our light close and have light for the journey.

He knows each one of us and loves us in our individuality.

But, it’s also in His plan that the world around us be overwhelmed by the brilliance of His Light, shared by His people collectively, walking in love for Him and for our neighbors, the people who dwell in the profound darkness.

Overwhelmed.

I’m not sure we’re doing that yet.

But, it’s not too late.

I’m pretty sure it will be spectacular.

Spectacular.

“I will make you a light to the nations, so you can bring my deliverance to the remote regions of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6b, NET)

^“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, KJV)

“Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God, love’s pure light
radiant beams from Thy holy face
with the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth!
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth!“
(from Silent Night by Joseph Mohr)

Change in All Around, I See

October 29, 2024October 31, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I don’t like change. Well—sometimes, I do. And then—I wish things hadn’t changed after they do.

I’m not explaining this very clearly, am I?

Let’s see if I can do better.

I like trees—especially old ones. Old trees exude comfort and reassurance that all is well with the world. They are a constant—a connection from former generations to the future.

They’ve seen it all, lasting through the storms and the seasons, standing firm.

It makes me sad when old trees are cut down. Except when it doesn’t.

Oh. Here I go again—talking in circles.

Give me another chance, will you?

The old mulberry tree stood outside the kitchen window. For well more than sixty years, it gave shade from the sun blasting down in summer. There were berries in the spring. Berries that fed the birds by the thousands and provided the residents of the old house with flavorful complements to their cereal and, perhaps, even filling a pie or two.

The tree has been a constant throughout the life of the Lovely Lady who lives in the old house with me. She was brought to this home from the maternity ward in the hospital and doesn’t remember a day when it wasn’t there.

Even I, as a relative newcomer (not yet fifty years) to the family, have walked under it on many spring days, pulling down a handful of the purple fruit to munch on, tossing the stems to the ground under the lovely old tree. I have stood under its shade on many a sweltering summer afternoon, grateful for the protection from the sun.

The twisted, gnarled old tree always brings a smile to my face when I think of it. I loved it and thought I would never want it gone.

I don’t like change.

But, it has been evident over the last three years that the funny little tree was reaching the end of its life. The branches at the top began to lose their leaves, drooping lifelessly toward the ground below. And this year, there were almost no leaves to be seen anywhere on the tree, except the few that popped from the trunk itself. Not a single branch bore any sign of green.

I hate to cut down trees. Especially old friends such as this lovely little mulberry. And, it could have stayed right where it was, limbs drooping to the ground, for several more years. Except for one thing; those drooping limbs (and a large part of the upper trunk) hung right over the power line dropping down to the house.

Winter is coming. It is. We live in a relatively temperate area, but in most winters we get at least one or two storms coming through that drop what the meteorologists like to call freezing rain. Simply put, water falls from the sky into the extremely cold air near the ground and freezes solid on every surface upon which it lands.

Water is heavy. Freezing water coating the limbs is a disaster waiting to happen.

I wanted the problem taken care of before winter comes. My heater won’t work if the electricity is interrupted, and I need heat in the winter. Most folks do.

My old friend, Isaac, came by last week to remove the old oak tree across the street (a story for another day) and I asked him if he could extend his stay in the neighborhood long enough to take care of my problem.

He wondered if I could wait for a few weeks. I couldn’t. Even the few days I had to wait for him to finish the other job was a few days too many. The tree needed to come down ASAP!

You see? Sometimes, I do like change.

Yesterday, Isaac took the tree down. Limb by limb, section by section, it came to the ground. I was happy to see the limbs on the grass. Especially that section that hung over the power line.

Soon, all that remained was the twisted and gnarled old trunk. My friend knows what he is doing. He left enough weight above the trunk on the side to which he wanted it to fall.

He didn’t even have to cut a notch near the ground like you see most of the lumberjacks doing in the movies. Just a straight cut right above the level of the dirt. A push, and it was done.

The mulberry tree lay on the ground waiting to be cut into smaller pieces the tractor would lift into the trailer.

I wish it hadn’t.

You see, I don’t like change.

Most of us don’t. We hold on to the things that make us comfortable. Even when it’s clear that they are rotting and decaying, we hold on to them. And then, when they are finally wrenched from our grasping, clinging hands, we bemoan their loss.

As if those things could ever last forever.

Years ago, I played the old portable pump organ (and sometimes a real piano) for my Dad at the nursing homes where he preached on Sunday afternoons. He would let the old folks pick the songs they wanted us to sing. One we sang again and again was “Abide With Me”. It was far from my favorite then.

I like it now. I think it’s because I understand it better.

“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away.
Change and decay in all around I see.
O thou who changest not, abide with me.”
(from Abide With Me, by Henry Francis Lyte)

Come to think of it, part of the change we’ve lived through is the moving away from common use of the old hymns. It’s part of the natural ebb and flow of life, but we don’t like that change, either.

All things move on. They always have.

My young friend, who writes songs for followers of Christ today, wrote a line in one of his songs a few years ago. It’s as powerful as the last line in the old hymn above.

“You cannot change, yet you change everything.”
(from Rest in You, by Leonard/Jordan/Fox)

It’s true—there is decay in everything around us. Science tells us that everything is decaying. And yet, there is new life. And growth.

And, these places of discomfort we move into become places of comfort. Places we’ll eventually move on from again. And again.

Change and decay in all around I see.

But God—He never changes.

A Rock. A Fortress. The place we run into and find rest. Before change comes—again.

More trees will grow. And fall.

We have a certain anchor in every storm.

In a world of change and decay, a Solid Rock.

I still miss the old tree.

“Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.”
(John F Kennedy)

“Long ago you laid the foundation of the earth
    and made the heavens with your hands.
They will perish, but you remain forever;
    they will wear out like old clothing.
You will change them like a garment
    and discard them.
But you are always the same;
    you will live forever.”
(Psalm 102: 25-27, NLT)

Regrets

October 15, 2024October 15, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was over thirty years ago, but I still remember my brother-in-law’s words:

“Your grandma’s covered, Paul. The preacher is the one who messed up.”

A famous television evangelist had been exposed for the charlatan he was. His diamond rings—the ones that had been air-brushed out in his publicity photos—had been reported to the world, along with his mansions and luxury cars. It was finally clear that he was fleecing the little old ladies who had faithfully sent him their five and ten-dollar bills for decades.

I was angry. I could only air my unhappiness to the family member standing beside me that day, but I was pulled up short by my brother-in-law’s declaration.

I had wondered aloud what the little old ladies (and anyone else who had supported the man) were feeling knowing their money was supporting a lavish lifestyle for a very wealthy man and his family but had not gone to the ministries they intended to help at all.

We’ve all done it—given to help someone, only to find they didn’t really need it, or they used our gift for some other purpose altogether. We are hurt and angry, deciding to never help that person again.

Then there is the person we’ve helped again and again in their need, giving money or furniture or time, only to realize that they will never be there to help us when we need something.

I read the statement on social media the other day. My first thought was to agree. I’ve been there. Giving and not receiving.

“I regret the good things I did for the wrong people.“

Perhaps your response is the same as mine was initially.

I simply sat nodding my head. Remembering the hurt—the resentment.

Then, the words came to my mind. Quietly, but with purpose. I don’t know where they came from; they were just there.

“I wonder if God ever feels like that.”

Oh.

That hits home.

I don’t think He feels like that.

But, I do know what He did. And what He does.

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
(Romans 5:8, NIV)

That’s what Love does.

But the world lies. It lies.

All around us, the catchphrases and memes fly.

“You deserve to be loved!”
“Don’t waste your time on people who don’t reciprocate.”
“Don’t give to people who don’t deserve your gift.”
“Stay away from negative people.”

We’re not the world! We’re not.

In His prayer for His followers, Jesus said, “They do not belong to this world any more than I do.” And yes, He was talking about His followers throughout the ages to come as well. He went on to pray, “I am praying not only for these disciples but also for all who will ever believe in me through their message.“
(John 17: 16,20—NLT)

That’s us! Not of this world.

So why do we adopt their philosophies? Their slogans? Their lifestyles?

If I refuse to give to anyone who can’t or won’t give back, I’m nothing but a businessman, making a transaction. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo.

Here’s the thing: The one transaction that matters has already been made in the gift given to each of us who claim to be followers of Christ. The only thing required of us, who have freely received, is to give freely.

Freely. No encumbrances.

No anticipation of reimbursement.

Open hands, giving from open hearts.

We are responsible for our responses to God’s instruction. Others will answer for how they responded, but that’s none of our affair.

One of my favorite moments in the Narnia series of books by C.S. Lewis is in The Horse and His Boy. The protagonist, Shasta, is introduced to Aslan the Lion in a terrifying manner. Even in his fear, he asks several questions—one of them about an injury that happened to his companion.

The Lion answers back clearly.

“Child, I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”

In modern terminology, the instructions are to stay in our lane. God has given each of us a road to walk, with our own tasks to accomplish. What others do should not determine how we respond to Him.

But, along the way, our road will intersect with others who have needs—needs we are equipped to help fulfill. We need to be obedient in aiding them, regardless of what they do afterward.

There is no regret to be felt when we do good, especially the good our Creator has asked us to do.

Don’t let someone else’s actions turn you away from the journey, or its destination.

Don’t regret what you failed to do, worrying about how they would respond.

Open hands. Open heart.

No regrets.

It seems a good way to honor our Savior who somehow I doubt feels regret for what he did to help us at all.

“Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words, and slander, as well as all types of evil behavior. Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.”
(Ephesians 4:31-32, NLT)

“’Then it was you who wounded Aravis?’
‘It was I.’
‘But what for?’
‘Child,’ said the Voice, ‘I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Shasta.
‘Myself,’ said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again, ‘Myself,’ loud and clear and gay: and then the third time, ‘Myself,’ whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all around you as if the leaves rustled with it.”
(from The Horse and His Boy, by C.S. Lewis)

I Give Up/At the Car Wash

October 13, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes it’s just hard to give up control. Really hard.

I went to the car wash recently. It’s been a few years since I gave up fighting the trend and started running my car through the wash tunnel. For most of my life, I insisted on using the old-style quarter machines to do it myself. But, I’m getting old, and sitting in my car while it gets laundered seems a good idea now.

It took me a while. I didn’t want to give up on doing it myself. But, I always seemed to put off the job. It could be hard work. Sometimes, it was too cold outside. Or, too hot.

So, the car was almost always dirty.

And, I like clean. I do.

The vehicle in front of me entered through the member lane. That means they had already paid for unlimited washes and there was no need to wait for the attendant to help with payment. I assumed it also meant they were familiar with the process and would make no trouble for me or anyone else behind them.

Well? It seemed a reasonable expectation.

They made trouble.

There is a white line on the pavement as one approaches the entrance to the tunnel. Folks in the know understand one needs to line up their driver’s side front wheel on the painted stripe to be straight with the steel track inside.

The driver missed it by a foot.

After the attendant helped them get the vehicle straightened out, I was sure all would be well. My own wheel was sitting on the line now as I waited my turn.

The small pickup stopped where the attendant indicated. Next, he waved his hand at the sign sitting beside the track. The instructions should have been clear;

Put your car in neutral
Take hands off the steering wheel
Keep foot off the brake pedal
Do not open your window or turn on your wipers

The attendant walked toward me. I was next! I prepared to pull forward onto the track. But, it wasn’t to be.

Suddenly, he spun around and, racing back to the wall, slapped the big red button there. The emergency stop quickly brought the entire operation to a halt. Lights darkened, and the entire place went quiet—for a second. Then, he sprinted toward the pickup, yelling as he went.

That truck definitely wasn’t in neutral! It should have been sitting still, waiting for the conveyor to pull it along, but it was still moving under its own power toward the waiting brushes.

Brake lights went on, along with the cargo light above the truck’s bed as the driver opened his door to see what was happening.

They talked briefly and the truck’s door closed. The attendant walked back toward the big red button, shaking his head. Turning the safety release on the button, he pushed it again.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I’m sure he did, as well.

Too soon!

Both of us saw it at the same time. The conveyor had picked up the wheels of the truck and was pulling it forward, but suddenly, the backup lights shone from the rear of the vehicle!

Now, they were reversing!

Red button time again. More shouting and running. The cargo light came on again.

After the door slammed once more and the poor fellow trotted back to start the machinery up again, I waited—not as hopefully this time—to finally start through the wash myself.

There were no more delays. Still, the entire time I was being pulled through the wash tunnel, I kept my hand near the horn button—ready to blast away at that person who seemed to be reluctant to give up control of his/her vehicle to the process. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the exit ahead of me, with no sign of the truck blocking the way.

Why is it so hard for us to give up control?

From the dim, dark reaches of my brain, the anecdote emerges. I read it somewhere a lifetime ago. But, it stuck with me.

The old fellow was sitting patiently in the hallway, waiting for the ladies meeting at the church to finish. As the custodian, it was his job to set up (and later, take down) the tables and chairs for the refreshments, and he had done it without complaint, even when the requests and directives came fast and furious from more than one of the ladies.

The pastor stopped by where he sat waiting to clear up.

“You seem so calm, John. How do you do it?”

“Well Preacher,” John said, with a smile across his face, “I just put my brain into neutral and let them push me around wherever they want me.”

I laugh every time I think of the old fellow. Still, he knew what it took to accomplish what he came to do.

But, the driver of that vehicle in the car wash the other day? They needed to do one thing. Only one.

Relax.

That was it. Sit back and let go.

The result would be a gleaming, clean truck.

The driver’s way would have resulted in chaos. It very nearly did. And not only for him. Damaged machinery. No clean cars for anyone following behind. No work for the attendants while repairs were made. Loss to the insurance company, the driver, and the car wash.

Sit back. Let go.

Moses gave the same instructions to the folks following him out there in the desert all those years ago.

“‘The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’” (Exodus 14:14, NLT)

The Children of Israel were afraid. They wanted to go back and give themselves up to that old, gritty life of slavery. But Moses suggested they go straight ahead, into the car wash.

No, really. A great big—terrifying—car wash. Right through the middle of the sea.

He said—in essence, “Sit back and let go. God’s got you.”

And, He did.

And, He does.

In the car wash. In the hurricane. In the wildfire. In the emergency room. In the hospice bed.

He’s fighting for us.

It’s hard to let Him. Hard.

I’m still learning to let go. Maybe you are, too.

But, I did learn to put my car in neutral and take my foot off the brake. I’m going to keep working on the rest of it.

Trusting Him, we learn to rest.

And, He cleans us up in the process.

I like clean. I do.

“Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength. However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it.”
(Ann Landers)

“But Moses told the people, ‘Don’t be afraid. Just stand still and watch the Lord rescue you today. The Egyptians you see today will never be seen again. The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’” (Exodus 14:13-14, NLT)

Bells Toll

October 5, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was noon. A few weeks ago. Maybe, a few months. Time seems to run together these days. I write notes to myself so I’ll not forget and then I do.

This note seemed ominous.

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.“

I wrote the words—a quote from a writing by John Donne in the 1600s—to remind myself of that noontide reverie on a future day when I had time to flesh it out in my thoughts.

On that late morning, I had walked up to the local university where the Lovely Lady has worked for many years. As on most days, I was simply anticipating a pleasurable walk home with the one who has walked beside me for most of a half-century.

The bells would intrude.

They always do.

I stood, leaning against the brick wall outside the library building on campus, and waited. As I waited, the chimes in the Cathedral of the Ozarks tower began to sound, beginning with the familiar Westminster pattern. Then slowly, one after the other, the clock knelled out one dozen slow and distinct tones.

The words popped into my head. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls…”

It was high summer. The temperature where I was standing was well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Yet, suddenly I felt goosebumps on my arms.

Was it a premonition? An omen?

Nah. Just a silly thought. But, it did seem important enough that I needed a reminder for later.

Somehow, it also seemed appropriate that, as the Lovely Lady exited the building and, taking my hand, started down the sidewalk with me, the carillon in the bell tower began to play a verse of the wonderful old tune “Beautiful Savior”.

The words from the old hymn—also written in the 1600s—flowed through my mind as we walked;

“Beautiful Savior, Lord of all nations,
Son of God, and Son of Man!
Glory and honor, praise, adoration
Now and forever more be Thine!“

I have thought about the other words that went through my mind that early afternoon any number of times since the day. Enough so that I explored the origin of the phrase. I was surprised to learn Mr. Donne simply believed we are all connected, perhaps even dependent on each other.

He wasn’t being prophetic about anyone’s death; he simply believed that any person’s passing affected all of the community of man.

If I expand the meaning a bit, it implies we all feel each other’s pain. We share in losses; we benefit from each other’s well-being.

I wonder if that’s why the Apostle for whom I am named told us to rejoice with those who rejoice and to weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

And perhaps, it’s why he told the folks in Athens that the “unknown god” they had erected an altar to was the One who gave life and breath to every living creature and who satisfies our every need.

He went on to say, “From one man, He created all the nations throughout the earth.” (Acts 17:26, NLT)

Science bears out our relationship. We share 99.9 percent of our DNA with all other humans. There is no arguing our shared humanity, our familial connection.

But, we don’t need science to tell us that, do we? Over and over, we feel the closeness, the affinity, and yes—the sympathy that only those connected by birthright could feel for each other.

We’ve felt it in the United States this week as we’ve seen the devastation of the hurricane in the Carolinas and surrounding areas.

Each time we see news on our screens of fresh devastation of war and natural disasters, we weep along with the mourners.

We are all—without exception—made in the image of our Beautiful Savior, who still holds us in His hands.

In my reading of John Donne’s work, I noticed another famous saying which originated from the same short piece of prose. The reader will surely have heard it also.

“No man is an island, entire of itself.“

Paul Simon begged to differ when he made the familiar claim in one of his songs, “I am a rock. I am an island.“

He was wrong. But then, I think he knew that. His song was a statement of the attempts people make—unsuccessfully—to insulate themselves from hurt and pain.

I don’t want to be insulated.

Engaged. That’s what I need to be.

In engagement, we feel the extreme pain of losses. Still, we also feel the surprising joy of life’s miracles—and we experience the giddiness of undeserved triumphs and the unexpected ecstasy of prodigals who return to the arms of their waiting Father.

Yes. The bell tolls for us all. Together, we weep.

And yet, together we labor side by side to repair life’s devastation.

And—still together—we will rejoice again.

Every tear will be wiped away. Every one.

Even so…

“The voice so sweet, the words so fair
As some soft chime had stroked the air.”
(from The Mind, a poem by Ben Jonson)

“No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were:
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.“
(from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, by John Donne)

Living in the Cracks

September 17, 2024September 17, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Paul? Maybe you’d like to sing the baritone part instead of the tenor. Would you try it?”

The director of the combined university chorus/community choir didn’t have to ask twice. Well, except perhaps because I thought I might have heard him wrong. I hadn’t.

So I’m singing baritone. And, a little bass.

And, it feels like I’ve come home.

Do you ever feel like you don’t fit in?

You know—everyone else in the car wants to listen to music from the latest boy group, but you heard that Yo-Yo Ma recorded a duet with Alison Krauss and you’d like to listen to that. Or, you’re walking with a group of people on the fitness trail and you realize that they’re all synchronized on the left foot and you’re on your right foot. Or, the family members all want to go for tacos, but you want chicken.

I’ve felt like that all my life. If you really know me, you know I was the strange kid, always zigging when everyone else zagged. I’ve freely admitted in these little pieces I write that I’ve never felt completely at home, no matter where I’ve been.

My father-in-law used a descriptive phrase, many years ago, that I’ve always thought fit me to a T. He was a piano tuner and would often be asked to work on instruments that had been neglected for many years. When a piano is left to its own devices for too long, the strings tend to stretch, making the overall pitch drop. The result is an instrument that may be in tune with itself, but sounds horrid when played with another instrument at standard pitch.

He would say to me, “This one is playing in the cracks.”

I understood exactly what he meant. The piano didn’t play well with others (I think that phrase might have described me at many points in my childhood as well—and perhaps after).

I always had the image in my head, as he said those words, that the sounds the instrument made were what might have come from down between the ebony and ivory keys, instead of dead center on top of them.

I suspect I may have been playing in the cracks for most of my life. And for some reason, I’ve always thought I needed to be fixed—to be tuned up to standard pitch.

I’m beginning to think differently.

I’ve indeed spent most of my life singing tenor. But, I’m a baritone.

If you know vocal categories, you realize that often the baritone is left out in choral music. Music is written in SATB form (soprano, alto, tenor, bass), so there’s no place for the baritone to fit in easily. Many notes in the tenor part are comfortable and sound great when sung by a baritone, but when those soaring notes fly up above Middle C, the baritone voice begins to lose its luster. The same thing happens in the bass parts, except it’s in the lower range of that voicing that the baritone singer gets lost in the mix.

I still remember my pastor’s wife sitting in front of me in the choir during my high school years. Back then, the choir needed a bass voice, so I covered that part for them.

Mrs. Slaughter was always kind, always sweet. She’d hear me sing a bass line (that should have been full and deep, but for me, the notes were just barely audible) and she’d say, loud enough for the entire choir to hear, “Oh! Listen to that basso profundo!”

I don’t think anyone else in the choir was rude enough to laugh, but I did. Every time. I knew better.

I’m no bass singer. Nor am I a tenor.

I sing in the cracks between the two.

And, it’s finally okay.

Dr. Cho says it’s okay.

Can I make a suggestion? If you don’t fit the mold they’re pushing you into, stop trying. Be who you are. More than that—be who God made you to be.

The world will try to make you fit their standard. You don’t belong there. And, if you’re really following Christ, you’ll never fit in—never feel comfortable—singing in that key.

“This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through…”

Living in the cracks.

Until we finally reach home.

There, we’ll be singing in His key. With His voicing.

He—the Master Conductor—says it’s okay.

You know the music will be spectacular.

I hope you’ll sing with me. I’ll be the one singing baritone.

“I’m not asking you to take them out of the world, but to keep them safe from the evil one. They do not belong to this world any more than I do. Make them holy by your truth; teach them your word, which is truth. Just as you sent me into the world, I am sending them into the world.”
(John 17:15-18, NLT)

“Harpists spend ninety percent of their lives tuning their harps, and ten percent playing out of tune.” (Igor Stravinsky)

Dust in My Eyes

September 8, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I noticed the post on a friend’s social media page earlier:

“Getting hard to breathe as CA fires blow our way.”

She’s praying for rain, while smoke makes it hard to catch her breath. Many others are too.

I didn’t expect it, but I got a catch in my throat as I read her message.

There are no fires near me, but I had an inkling of her misery today as I mowed my lawn. There has been very little rain for a few weeks and the soil under the grass is parched. With more than a few mole tunnels pushed up across the width and length of the yard, I knew I was in for a dusty job when I headed out to begin the task.

I did borrow a face cowl from the Lovely Lady before venturing out. I had no idea how much I would need it. As it turned out, I should have found some swim goggles to go with it.

Dust billowed out from my mower—by the buckets full, it seemed to me—and yet I sped on across the yard. I soon found that, if I rode along in a straight line, I could stay ahead of the murky haze of flying dirt. But eventually, I had to turn, always back directly into the hazy cloud.

The face cowl helped considerably. I could breathe, at least. But again and again, I was overcome by the dirt in my eyes, burning and stinging. It would go dark as I was forced to close my eyelids against the irritating dust. Each time it happened, I released the grab bars that controlled my forward progress and, sitting atop the roaring machine in the diminishing fog, would wipe my eyes, either with my finger or with a handkerchief dampened from my water bottle.

I felt a little like Pigpen, the Peanuts character who raised dust wherever he walked in the comic strip. I’m certain the neighbors were almost as relieved as I was when the task was finished.

But, on a couple of the occasions I had to stop the mower today, I did so in the darkness, caused not only by the dust but also by panic. Momentarily, I would be confused as to where (and into what) the machine and its rider were headed.

Was I going to hit a tree? A gas meter or water faucet? Perhaps the flowerpot that held the Lovely Lady’s columbine plant was in my path! I’m not sure a little dirt in my eyes would have sufficed as an adequate excuse for that damage!

Do you know what it feels like to lose sight of reality? Of the straight road you’ve marked out in front of you?

It was only an inkling. Merely the tiniest glimpse of what hopelessness could feel like.

But, while I was in the midst of it, it seemed to me that I might never breathe easily, nor see clearly again. I knew I would, but it’s easy to be overwhelmed when in the grip of an uncomfortable turn of events.

As I contemplated later, clean and grit-free in my easy chair, my thoughts went back several decades and I finally began to understand.

I remember standing outside that hospital with tears in my eyes. I cried again later that evening as I attempted to understand the darkness one had to feel to attempt to end their own life.

It was years ago—in the last century—if you must know. We’ve moved more than once since then. The names have faded into obscurity; the faces almost so.

The couple, not young, lived near us in a small rental house. Their lives hadn’t been easy, but there had been no events that prepared me for hearing the ambulance outside our back door. And, I certainly didn’t anticipate following the paramedics to the hospital with an inebriated husband in my passenger seat.

The wife had taken a lot of pills. More than a handful. In her mind, it was the only alternative she had in a hopeless situation. Her husband, incapacitated as he was, was no help. But, eventually, he figured out she was in trouble and called 911.

Thus, the trip to the hospital. I offered to take him since it was clear he was in no condition to drive.

The team at the hospital was able to save her life. It didn’t fix her problems. Nor his. But, she lived. They moved away just weeks later, so I don’t know how their lives have gone, except that I heard their marriage ended soon after that.

I’m not sure the darkness ever lifted for them. I pray it has.

Did I say there were tears in my eyes? One might wonder why. They hadn’t been great neighbors. They argued loudly late at night. When he had had a little too much to drink (which was not infrequent), he sang country music at the top of his lungs from the front porch of the little house. They borrowed tools—and money—and my old bicycle, and didn’t always feel the need to return them.

And yet, I cried. For her, and her blind despair. And for him, and how he was treated by the doctor at the hospital. Rudely and with no respect nor regard for his terror that his wife might die. All the doctor saw was his drunkenness and poverty, and he had no time nor sympathy to be wasted on the man.

And so, I sat tonight and wondered anew at how we look at each other—at our neighbors and strangers on the street corners. At friends who have lost someone and can’t get over it. At people who look different, and act differently, than we do. Addicts and mentally ill. Politicians and the spectacularly wealthy (or even poverty-stricken). The list is endless.

And yet, they are neighbors. Every one of them.

We all get the dust in our eyes at some point. And, it’s easy to give up hope. For ourselves. For others.

Still, we’re all part of the human race. We share a common condition—that of being part of Adam’s fallen progeny. Our shared ancestor’s blindness has come over every one of us who walks this earth.

I know the tiniest thing about the blindness and fear that can overcome us.

And yet, hopelessness is not what has been promised to us. Not at all. We have hope. In Christ, our hope is certain. And, we walk in light.

We do. We walk in Light.

The Light that shines in every dark place. And we have the astounding privilege to share that light, carrying it within our very souls.

The smoke will clear. The rain will fall and settle the dust. It will.

And, the Light will never be overcome. Never.

That’s a promise. (John 1:5)

So for now, we get to shine. In this house, in this neighborhood—be it hillside or valley, and in this world.

You might want to bring your goggles along, too. There’s dust in the wind that’s blowing.

But, the Light shines still.

“Satan, who is the god of this world, has blinded the minds of those who don’t believe. They are unable to see the glorious light of the Good News. They don’t understand this message about the glory of Christ, who is the exact likeness of God.” (2 Corinthians 4:4, NLT)

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness.”
(Christopher M Rice)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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