Of Advent—and Spit

December 5, 2016December 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Oh, that’s just gross! Why do you guys have to do that on the floor?

It was about this time of year, a few years past.

My little brass group had just finished practicing and were quickly moving our chairs and stands off the stage. The choir had a rehearsal scheduled right after us and we wanted to be out of their way. The young man speaking was one of several moving equipment back into the space we were vacating.

I looked at the floor, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Quizzically, I looked at the young man.

He gestured in a wide circle, indicating spots of liquid standing in close proximity to where the chairs had been moments ago.

“This—this—spit! What is it with brass players?”

He shuddered once for effect and turned away without waiting for an answer. The instrumentalists around me who had heard the exchange laughed, a condescending dismissal of the young vocalist’s squeamishness.

Yes. I want to talk about spit.

It’s a conversation I’ve been waiting to have for many years.

No one has ever wanted to discuss the matter with me. I wonder why that is.

Perhaps, I should begin by explaining the liquid which is left on the stage when wind players complete their performances or rehearsals. The liquid is not spit.

That’s right. Not spit.

It’s merely condensation. It’s what occurs when you blow warm, moist air into a cold metal tube. Almost exactly what happens when you enter a cold automobile on a winter’s evening. The windows fog up. Do you call that moisture on the windshield spit? Of course not.

So. The irate young man was wrong. Only condensation—not spit.

But still, I would like to talk about spit.

On a day in the music store not long ago, a mother stood with her brood of children, awaiting her turn at the checkout. She looked down at the oldest of the four urchins and noticed a black mark on his cheek.

Without hesitation, she licked her thumb and rubbed his skin. The black mark didn’t disappear, but it was less noticeable than before.

The same couldn’t be said for the young man’s indignation.

“Did you just put spit on my face?” He sputtered in his frustration. “Why would you do that?”

The mother’s attempt at an explanation was only met with more disgust, and the young man stalked out to the parking lot to await his family in solitude. He turned his face to glare back at the group as he exited. The black mark was still there—smudged, but very much in evidence.

My mind goes back again.

I remember hearing the story when I was a child, not much older than that indignant young man. You may find it in the book of John in the Bible. (John 9)

The blind man stood, as he always had, waiting for something. Something. But, he didn’t know what it was he awaited.

He had always been blind. From the day he had arrived, squalling and screaming, light had never passed from his eyes to his brain. Never.

He didn’t ask for anything. He just waited.

The Teacher let His followers argue the existential questions for a moment or two. Why? Who? How?

They were the wrong questions.

Jesus had been sent to bring light to the world. Here was His big opportunity.

Time to impress with big words and ostentatious prayers. He would wave His hands in the air and—Wait! What is He doing?

He spit in the dirt.

Spit. In the dirt.

Then He mixed up some mud and, hands filled with the gross mixture, stood and slathered the slimy stuff on the blind man’s unseeing eyes.

“Did you just spit in my eyes?”

The words aren’t recorded, but one wonders. Did the man hear the Teacher spit on the ground? His ears, acutely trained to be his guide since he had no eyes, must have heard. They must have detected the sound of dirt being mixed with the spit, and then recognized the rustle of robes, as the Master stood again.

Did he back away, putting his hand up to keep the ghastly stuff off of him?

No. He stood, listening to the Man speak, giving His instructions. He went, still blind, and washed the mud from his eyes.

What an astounding result!

Light, pure and clear, streamed through the once useless orbs. Familiar voices spoke to him and, for the first time in his life, he put faces with the voices.

He saw his home! And his family!

Light shone in darkness—just not in the way anyone would ever have anticipated.

Spit. What a gross thing!

Why would Jesus have used spit, of all things?

I have no answer.

I do know this. We who believe are even now in the time of year we call Advent.

Waiting.

Waiting for the Salvation of God to appear.

Just a warning. It won’t be pretty.

Or sanitary.

Not even a little sanitary.

A baby will be born in a barn, among the filth and stench. Dirty shepherds will come, not clean and freshly bathed, but straight from the dust and filth of caring for their livestock. Stinking and crusted with grime.

The end of the story won’t be any more sanitary. Bloody and sweat-covered, nailed to a cross of wood, He will die.

It won’t be pretty. It won’t be romantic. It won’t smell good, with aromatic candles fluttering in the breeze.

The little boy in my store didn’t understand that his mom wanted only for him to be clean. All he saw was the spit.

I wonder. We’re waiting.

With the blind man, we’re waiting—for light.

It might not be as pretty as we’d like. Perhaps not as dramatic, either.

A baby who is born in a barn can’t be all that powerful, can He?

His light comes softly, and in unexpected ways.

His light comes softly, and in unexpected ways. Share on X

I think I’ll stand here and wait.

You?

We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

…but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong, and the base things of the world and the despised God has chosen,the things that are not, so that He may nullify the things that are, so that no man may boast before God. But by His doing you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, and righteousness and sanctification, and redemption, so that, just as it is written, “Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord.”
(1 Corinthians 1:27-31 ~ NASB)

Away From the Light

July 25, 2016July 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The choral professor sat on the stool in the music store, one afternoon decades ago, choosing his words with care.

“I teach on a campus filled with light. Where is the darkness into which I’m to shine?”

I didn’t know the answer. I did know one thing:

I didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

I like the light. It’s where I’m most comfortable. I can rest easy; cares and worries don’t touch me there.

Dark is dismal. It’s frightening. There are unknown creatures in the dark—terrors I can feel, but cannot see.

And yet, the dark is where we’re called to minister.

The music professor didn’t stop with asking the question. I was sure he wouldn’t.

He packed up his family and found a dark place in which to shine his light many miles away from the comfort and clarity of his former life. Instead of the city of light at which he had served, he was forced to shine his lonely light on the pathway in a place where almost no one carried any light at all.

It has been many years since the conversation. The professor has long since passed over into that place where light is ever shining.

Can you imagine how brightly his light shined in that dark place? Think how dramatic the distinction must have been! A match lit in pitch-black darkness can seem almost blinding.

His words still haunt my thoughts.

No great quest is ever played out in the light of day. Darkness—that’s where fierce battles are waged.

The blackest holes imaginable are the delivery rooms for the most brilliant of all victories.

And yet, we don’t begin our journey from those black pits. No. From homes blazing in light and meeting places shining with the brilliance of the sun at its apex, we must set out.

With conscious forethought we turn our backs on the light places and stride into the darkness, carrying only the light we’ve been given.

It’s a frightening journey—no part more terrifying than the first step we take.

And yet, the path through the darkness is of utmost importance.

Our destination has never been on this side of the darkness, but always on the other. We are bound for a better place, but there is ground to be covered before we arrive there.

The inhabitants of this dark world will never know the meaning of God’s light if not for us in their presence. Those who stumble through the darkness will never see light if we never walk beside them.

We are the lamps set on the lamp stand, not under the basket. (Matthew 5:15)

We are the stars that shine in the universe. (Philippians 2:15)

We know that darkness and evil are the hallmarks of existence in a fallen world. Yet somehow, our spirits quell at the prospect of leaving these places of light our Creator has privileged us to experience.

In a sense, you might say light is dangerous. We humans are gluttons, never satisfied with what we need, but demanding what we want.

We would stay in the light, soaking it all up ourselves for a lifetime, if we could. Indeed, some of us never set foot outside our fortresses of illumination.

The day will come—it will—when all is light. Until that day, we shine as His lights in the blackness of an ever-darkening world.

If we don’t, who will?

Backs to the light, we carry the light into a world that cries out without any clue of what it needs. In desperation—and darkness—they seek first one way, then another, for that which we hold in our hands.

It’s not our light. There is enough of it to illuminate the pathway ahead, but it shines to draw those around us.

To Him. The light draws them to Him.

A borrowed light. And yet, it shines through us.

We, who have been brought into the light of day, are sent back into the darkest, deepest night.

Dare the quest!

Take the leap!

By far, more is lost in basking comfortably in the sanctuary of light and warmth than by venturing forth into the dark unknown.

The world around us is getting darker. We can see it happening.

The light will be the brighter for it.

It’s time to turn our backs to the light.

It’s time for us to journey toward the light.

And, yet for all the leaving from and journeying toward, we walk in the light.

Still.

…if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.
(1 John 1:7 ~ NASB)

Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would have never come, had I known the danger of light and joy.
(The Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist ~ 1892-1973)

So carry your candle, run to the darkness
Seek out the helpless, confused and torn
Hold out your candle for all to see it
Take your candle, and go light your world.
Take your candle, and go light your world.
(Go Light Your World ~ Chris Rice ~ American singer/songwriter)

He Still Hangs the Moon

July 22, 2016July 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The cares of this life are thieves. They rob from us while we watch, eyes trained on their every move.

I wish I could tell you I am too much a veteran of their schemes to be taken in anymore. At this time of life one would imagine experience has taught me its lessons, and all danger of being victimized is past.

One would be wrong.

For some time now, I have allowed those rascally cares to run amok in my soul, robbing me blind.

Really. Blind.

It is what they crave. The little creations of our tiny imaginations and self-centered natures are themselves blind to the reality of joy that fills our lives as humans made in the image of a loving God.

And, you know what they say.

Well, the red-headed lady who raised me said it all the time anyway, so I assume it must be true:

Misery loves company.

If the little monsters can’t see joy and truth, they are determined to steal the ability from anyone foolish enough to afford them shelter and sustenance.

And so, with my permission, they have been at work again in my own soul.

At times when they work their craft, the darkness is profound. The black of this night is, I think, made all the more encompassing by my willing participation in the malfeasance.

An evening or two ago, as light shone brightly—too brightly for me—in my house, I crept to my office to let the thieves practice. While the Lovely Lady and our guests worked and laughed and played happy music, I sat alone in the dark and pulled the misery over me like a blanket.

After the lights were finally extinguished at the house and all were asleep in their beds I left my office and, blindly walking hand in hand with the little unseeing pickpockets, headed toward home.

Three words. Really. Just three.

I know folks who hear a voice that speaks whole volumes. Entire poems. Sometimes, they carry on conversations with the voice.

Me? I get three words.

Lift your head.

I know. It seems a bit inadequate, doesn’t it? It’s kind of like saying chin up to a guy heading to the gas chamber.

Lift your head.

Then I noticed it. All around me, in what is normally a pitch black yard, the air fairly glowed with light. Long shadows were cast by the tree branches above me.

I lifted my head.

The brilliant and huge full moon hung almost directly above, washing the night time world in its reflected light. It was astoundingly beautiful.

He still hangs the moon. Every night.

He still wakes the sun every morning and sends it on its daily rounds.

I’ll admit it. The notion isn’t all that scientific, nor is it an accurate description of what actually takes place.

Still, it is His power that keeps all of creation doing what it was designed for. (Colossians 1: 6-17)

The realization struck me as powerfully as those beams of light had just seconds before.

His plan is still in place. I’m part of that plan.

His plan is still in place. I'm part of that plan. Share on X

I’m part of that plan!

Every one of us is.

I looked back down to check on my cares, but all the little felons had disappeared. They can’t stand to be in the company of light. Just as in nature, the darkness of doubt and despair flees at the coming of light.

I’m not naive. Darkness will come again. It always does.

Cares will crowd around to steal again. They always do.

But the truth is, light will come again as well.

It always does.

He still hangs the moon.

And, not just for me.

Lift your head.

But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
(Psalm 3:3 ~ NIV)

‘Now, lord,’ said Gandalf, ‘look out upon your land! Breathe the free air again!’

. . .Suddenly through a rent in the clouds behind them a shaft of sun stabbed down. The falling showers gleamed like silver, and far away the river glittered like a shimmering glass.

‘It is not so dark here,’ said Théoden.
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist/poet ~ 1892-1973)

The Magical Sky Fairy

January 25, 2016January 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

Thinking that some magical sky fairy will take care of your problems is a problem in itself.

The words appeared in my Twitter feed today in response to a recent article I posted there. I have seen them before, or at least similar words.

The young lady who wrote them doesn’t believe in God. She is not alone in her unbelief.

I want to strike back. Ugly words come in response to her mocking ones. I can’t help it. They rise without permission—a natural reaction from a human standpoint.

Immediately, I realize I will never say them. It is not who I am—or, more to the point—not the person He is making me. But, I want to examine her motivation, to wonder publicly why someone who claims there is no God would be so vigilant to mock those who believe in Him. Perhaps, I should write about that.

But I wonder. I wonder.

What if this is not about her? Do I really believe in some sky fairy? Is that what God is to me?

Click your heels together three times and repeat the words, there’s no place like home.

Is that all this is? Is it all humbug? Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!

My mind races as I review the evidence. I want desperately to be able to speak intelligent and convincing words. I know I’m supposed to be ready to give an answer—to explain the hope I have deep inside.(1 Peter 3:15)

But then, I remember that I can’t convince anyone; it’s not my job. I will give the answer. That is my job.

The convincing? That’s way above my pay grade. (John 16:8)

So? Is it real? Do I live as if it is?

A few weeks ago, I came back from my childhood home with treasures. They are items which have little value to any other human being on this planet, but which are priceless to me. My memories are tied up in many of them.

Last Sunday, three generations of my family gathered, as we do each week, to sit around the dining room table and make new memories. I thought perhaps it was time to inject an old one into the conversation.

As I prepared the table earlier, I cleaned and filled a glass and aluminum container with little white granules. Then I set the old salt shaker down in the center of the table to await the arrival of our guests.

Five generations. Five generations of my family have used that salt shaker now. I flavored mashed potatoes and vegetables from that shaker at my grandmother’s table when I was not even as old as my youngest grandchild is now.

Five generations. Lovely folk I have personally interacted with. Members of each of those generations have asked their questions and made their decisions to follow the same God. I’m sure there were others before them. I trust there will be more to follow.

Wanting to save a photo of the shaker on the table, I set it out the other day. As I snapped the shutter, I noticed the reflection on the table’s surface.

I can’t help it. My brain just works that way. The mental picture was more real to me than the actual photo.

Salt. Light.

The Teacher made it clear that His followers were exactly that. Salt. And light. Salt to help preserve the world. Light to show them the way. (Matthew 5:13-16)

We must keep our lives fresh and relevant. We can’t hide the light that shines from within us, or fade into the background.

Funny. The instructions I remember better right now have to do with the words we say. Let speech be flavored with grace, as though seasoned with salt. (Colossians 4:6)

The other instructions have to do with how we act. In the middle of a world bent on evil and twisted living, we need to shine like stars beaming out of the blackness of the universe. (Philippians 2:15)

It’s real. The God I follow is not fake, not made up. Of that, I am convinced.

I’ve asked the questions. Again. And again. I’ve asked the questions and had them answered. Like those before me and those who are coming after me, I believe because I’ve seen the evidence in walking, talking witnesses. Folks who are salt and light.

I will follow in their footsteps, because others are following in mine.

And others are watching from a distance.

They are watching. And mocking.

And perhaps, asking their own questions.

I hope it’s not too much to ask if they can be preserved long enough to see the light shining in their own darkness.

I want to be salt. And light.

You?

Conduct yourselves with wisdom toward outsiders, making the most of the opportunity.Let your speech always be with grace, as though seasoned with salt, so that you will know how you should respond to each person.
(Colossians 4:5-6 ~ NASB)

Grace must find expression in life, otherwise it is not grace.
(Karl Barth ~ Swiss theologian ~ 1886-1968)

Beauty and Chaos

January 19, 2016January 19, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He’s doing an art project.

An art project.

Only two months ago, his little boy died.

Today, he’s working at making something beautiful.

I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around this one. I have a few questions.

Does God feel sadness? How is it that He keeps giving us beautiful things, long after we, made in His image, have hurt and destroyed others, also made in His image?

Long after we killed His only Son.

Why would He continue to bring us each new gorgeous dawn—each new colorful Spring—He who upholds all with the power of His hands? (Colossians 1:16-17)

Does He feel sadness?

His Son did, as He walked on the earth. I’ve told you before of one of my favorite verses in the Bible. I’ve committed it to memory. Even now, I can remember it word for word.

Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

Along with His followers, He felt intense sadness. He had no fear of lessening His influence on them by allowing them to see His tears. There was no embarrassment in showing His emotional state.

Yet, He was the embodiment of His Heavenly Father. The exact image. (Colossians 1:15-16)

God feels sorrow.

He feels sorrow, yet He continues to astound us with beauty.

Me? I mope when I’m sad. I sit in my chair and sigh pitifully. I gripe and I grouse, lashing out at those around me.

Work on an art project when I’m down? Produce things of beauty when I hurt? Hardly.

He does.

The young artist/father I visited with in my business today does, too. He, in the midst of the storm, turns to creativity to bring beauty out of his chaos. Then, when the art project fizzles, he makes music.

From the ashes of catastrophe, he draws out beauty.

It doesn’t mean the pain of loss isn’t ever-present—a shadow lurking on the fringes. He just refuses to wallow in it, to let it have the reins of his existence.

The sun didn’t show its face today in the sky. The gray day worked its way into my spirit in much the same way the cold crept into my bones But in my store, the brilliant illumination couldn’t be cloaked.

Light overcomes darkness. Always.

Always.

Maybe it’s time for us to give the dark times to a God who still makes beauty from darkness.

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I’m thinking brighter days are ahead.

Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness.
(Martin Luther King Jr. ~ American pastor/civil rights activist ~ 1929-1968)

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
(Genesis 1:2-4 ~ KJV)

Shadows

December 23, 2015December 23, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Winter Solstice.

Here, in the northern hemisphere, it is the shortest day in the year. Throughout the winter, because of the earth’s tilt on its axis, the sun is not visible in the sky overhead for as long each day. Shorter days equals colder weather. Theoretically.

On this shortest of the short days in this year, the wind is blowing a gale out of the south. Rain, says the weatherman. Tornadoes, others whisper ominously. Listening, some will be afraid. I shrug my shoulders. What may come, may come.

Or, it may not.

In my experience, mostly they don’t come. Worry won’t change the odds, either way.

Funny. It’s not the big things, the disasters, that cause me the most problems.

Shadows. I worry about shadows.

I remember watching the shadows as a skinny little urchin under the heat of the South Texas sun. Early in the morning, we rushed to beat the daylight to the fishing hole, trusty Zebco rod and reels slung over our shoulders. We hoped to be fishing before our shadows could be cast across the feeding place of the perch we sought. No doubt it was childish imagination, but we were positive the shadow would spook the fish, guaranteeing a morning devoid of the victorious shouts echoing along the banks: I got one!

Then again, in the evening as we ambled toward home down the long avenue, our shadows would stretch for yards, as the sun dropped down to the western horizon. Shadows meant the day was over. That could only lead to one thing. We were never ready to go to bed. Never.

Ah, but in the middle of those wonderful, carefree days? No shadow was cast by the sun at all. High above us, the brilliant yellow sun was all light. We moved, unencumbered with the dark appendage following or leading.

In the middle of such a day, who would worry about the coming night? It (and its shadows) were endless hours away.

But the skinny urchin is an old man now, living many miles north of that childhood home. In winter, the shadows are long during all of the daylight hours. All of them.

Just last weekend, as I lazed in the sunlight, I glanced over at my backyard companions. It was midday, yet the shadows cast by my canine buddies lying nearby stretched toward the north, looking for all the world like the going-home-shadow of the westering sun on the backs of those boys, all those years ago.

Somehow though, the shadows I dread in winter aren’t only those springing from the southern-fleeing sun. There are other shadows, not explained by scientists or weather maps, that gather thick as the year ebbs.

Imagined or not, the shadows creep, as the nights grow longer, deep into the soul. Whispering at first, they warn of impending loss and sorrow. Soon the shadows are all we see; their threatening voices fill our hearing with raspy, wailing torment.

Why is it, do you suppose, the Church fathers chose December, the month of shadows, for the celebration of the coming of brilliant Light to all the world? It is not likely that we celebrate the event at the time of year it actually happened. And, it really doesn’t alter the reality of the marvelous story.

Still, I wonder—why this month?

Oh, but what a contrast! Night and Day!

The shepherds felt the contrast. We’ve heard it so many times, we don’t really think about it. In the dead of the night, every shadow fled from the field in which they lay. (Luke 2: 8-12)

The glory of the Lord shone round about them?

Sounds like the shadows were nowhere to be found. As with the South Texas midday sun, the light blazed. Absolutely blazed.

Uh. They were afraid. Really afraid. I think that’s what sore afraid means. Maybe even really, really afraid.

And the angels told them they had nothing to fear. Nothing. This kind of thing—this blazing light at midnight—was about to be the norm. The Baby, the one they would find lying in a manger, had come to bring light. To all people, He would bring the noonday sun into their midnight darkness.

To all people

The light has shined in the darkness. It will never be truly dark again. (John 1:5)

And the shadows? Well, they’re just—just—shadows. No substance, only threats. With the coming of Light, they slip away, as if they never really were there.

Light trumps darkness every time.

Even in the short, gloomy days of winter. Maybe, especially then.

Worship Christ, the newborn King.

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.
(2 Corinthians 4:6 ~ NIV)

She bore to men a Savior, when half-spent was the night.
(from Lo How a Rose, E’er Blooming ~ German carol ~ ca. 15th Century)

On a Clear Day

December 21, 2015December 21, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I hear her still, the beautiful pure tones spilling into the air like bird song in the early morning quiet.

“On a clear day, you can see forever…”

It was many years ago I first heard the heart-stopping sound of Barbra Streisand’s unique voice singing that song.

I thought she was right.

All of life lay in front of me. In plain sight, I could see the future—the beautiful wife, two kids, a great career. I could see all the way to grandchildren and retirement. There would always be friends, and always a church. Always.

I could see it vividly, on those clear days.

It may come as a surprise to some. It did to me.

They’re not all clear days.

Oh, there have been days, when as Christian in Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, I stood on the mountaintop and thought I could just make out—barely—the lights of the Celestial City.

Lately, I’m not even sure they’re mostly clear days.

I certainly haven’t stood on any mountaintops recently to take a peek through the telescope at what’s coming. Days are just filled with daily things.

Family concerns, friends with health concerns, and loved ones lost—all these and more are what is reality for me—and many others—these days. Happy times? They come too, but somehow we can’t see far beyond them.

Step by slogging step, the road goes past.

I may not see forever all that clearly anymore. But what I do see, by the calendar and by the frenzy of last minute preparations around me, is that it’s Christmas week.

I used to wonder if the Baby, whose birth we celebrate this week, saw it all before Him as He stepped out to take His place among men.

Did He see the path laid out from His lowly birth in a cow barn, all the way to an ignominious criminal’s death on a man-made tree? Was every step clear to Him?

They are questions I cannot answer. Theologians have been arguing them from that day until now.

Here is what I do know:

He knew who He was. As a young man He taught in the temple, calling it His Father’s house . (Luke 2:49)

He knew why He was here. He went about His Father’s business. When He began His ministry, He never faltered in His purpose. Always, without leaving the path, He moved steadily toward the day when He would die on that cross.

He knew who He was here for. Along the way, He touched people’s hearts and their bodies, healing and making whole. Teaching them, feeding them, exhorting them, He demonstrated His heart and drew them to Himself—by the thousands.

He was, indeed, the light of the world! (John 8:12)

And with that thought kindled in my mind, I begin to see the truth about my own situation.

The truth.

I don’t have to see the end of the journey; I just have to put one foot in front of the other.

There’s enough light for that.

The Word, the One who came and lived among men, is the same Word that is the lamp to my path and the Light for my feet. (Psalm 119:105)

Barbra needed her clear day.

We’ve got a light for the darkest night.

And on a clear day…
On a clear day…
You can see forever…
And ever…
And ever…
And ever more.
(from On a Clear Day, You Can See Forever ~ Alan Jay Lerner ~ American lyricist ~ 1918-1986)

For we walk by faith and not by sight.
(2 Corinthians 5:7 ~ NIV)

Frosted Glass

November 24, 2015November 24, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I woke up this morning and, looking out the window, wondered about the fog.

Didn’t the weather man say it would be sunny this morning?

Mere seconds later, the fog cleared. No, not the fog I was seeing through the window. The fog in my brain.

Looking at the window again, I remembered that the exterior storm windows, set at a distance of a few inches from the original single-pane glass, hold in the moisture of the night. On cold mornings, the view through the windows is dim and foggy, regardless of the weather outside.

Sunny. There was no fog—no mist.

A beautiful morning.

It would not be many more hours before the fog was back. The fog in my head, I mean.

I read the words once. “Saying goodbye to my father…”

I read them again, this time through tears. His father is a friend, an encourager, a tease. One of my favorite people.

It’s not true. He can’t be dead.

I don’t know what happened to the sun. Perhaps the tears that came unbidden fogged up the view, but it was dim even after I wiped them away.

The rest of my day was viewed through a dark lens. Tears, sarcasm, anger—all of them were close to the surface and likely to be unleashed without provocation.

I argued with two young men on separate occasions this afternoon. They needed to know how dark the world is.

I took care of that task.

One of them, a man in his late twenties, now clearly understands that his days of carefree happiness are numbered. The reality of death, which will close in to take scores of his friends as he ages, has been explained thoroughly to him.

The second, a slightly older father of two, now grasps fully the ugliness of sin hidden inside every person he respects and loves. I did my best to explain to him that it would be every person who would disappoint. Every person.

The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested at this juncture that misery loves company.

I wasn’t done yet.

Late this afternoon a longtime friend about my own age related his enjoyment at watching a documentary of a famous singer who, though struggling with Alzheimer’s, still finished his farewell concert tour. It seemed, to my friend, a triumph in the face of overwhelming odds.

Astounded that anyone should see even one ray of sunshine on such an obviously dark day, I set him straight, citing my mother’s experience with the horrible disease before her death last summer. I wasn’t gentle, helping him to understand with graphic descriptions of the horror.

I have apologies to make.

More than that, I need to learn to trust a loving God, who sees the beginning and the end. When events overwhelm, He sends messengers to offer words of comfort, but I, drowning in the dark waves, attempt to pull them down as well.

I will make my apologies.

Learning to trust will take longer—perhaps a lifetime.

Tonight, I’m in agreement with the Psalmist, who suggested that he had some complaints to make and asked that they be heard. (Psalm 64:1)

Funny thing. He got to the end of his complaining and found there was light at the end of the darkness. (Psalm 64:10)

Light. And hope.

It is not so dark here as I thought.

I’m hearing from lots of my friends who believe the entire world is dark and without hope. Events and fears have colored the glass through which they view all of God’s creation.

This morning, as I walked out of my house, the sunshine was brilliant beyond description. The storm windows, designed to protect, had given an illusion of a world covered in cloud.

Beyond the illusion, the sun is still shining.

The light has shined into darkness and has not been overcome by it.

It is not so dark out here.

Following the light of the sun, we left the Old World.
(Christopher Columbus ~ Italian explorer ~ ca. 1451-1506)

Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
And lean not on your own understanding;
In all your ways acknowledge Him,
And He shall make smooth your paths.
(Proverbs 3:5-6 ~ NKJV)

More Where That Came From

September 28, 2015January 20, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There’s more where that came from!

The older ladies in the kitchen had it in for Wilma from the start. She was a cook’s helper, meaning she did whatever they needed done. From fetching pots and ladles, to carting the prepared dishes out to the serving line, the tiny lady with the energy of a squirrel storing nuts for the winter did it all. Mostly, she did it without complaint.

From my nearby station, where I washed the pots and pans, I listened to the abuse she took. Day after day, the cooks, who were the royalty in that little domain, made snide remarks—about her size, or hair color, or mental abilities. And, day after day, the hard-working lady went about her duties patiently and quietly. I knew she couldn’t be happy, but didn’t think it was my place to interfere in kitchen politics, especially given that I was a newcomer there.

Then one morning, the cooks stepped over the line. One of them made a rude comment about Wilma’s daughter. It was common knowledge that the girl had made some poor decisions, the result being an unwanted pregnancy at an early age. The other cook started to comment as well, but Wilma ended her long silence in that instant.

It seemed the weeks and months of abuse she had endured were like gunpowder packed inside her, and the comments about her daughter, the match to the fuse. She exploded in fury.

I can’t repeat her words here.

Within seconds, the kitchen supervisor was out of her office, inviting (with no option of refusal) the ladies into her inner sanctum. We heard voices raised again and again from the other side of the door, but half an hour later, we were hard at work (or pretended to be) when the three returned to their stations.

For the remainder of that morning, if the cooks spoke it was only to ask for a necessary ingredient to go into a dish, or for a container to transfer the food into on its way to the serving line. Wilma didn’t utter another word, but scurried about her duties as if nothing had happened.

When it was time for our dinner break, the other kitchen employees gathered around her on the way to the dining room.

“Wow! Wilma, I’ve never seen you so worked up!”

“I hope everything is going to be all right. They’re not going to fire you, are they?”

“Boy! You told them!”

Wilma just smiled wryly, her lips pressed tightly together. It seemed that, perhaps, she had been sworn to secrecy about what had transpired in the office. When she spoke, it was just to mutter a few words. It was all she ever had to say about the event.

Six words. “There’s more where that came from!”

The cooks never mentioned her daughter again, nor did they dare to abuse the slight lady as she went about her duties. Apparently, they had had more than what they wanted from the little lady’s store.

More where that came from.

Many years down the road of life from that detonation, I find myself wondering if there is more for us to learn from Wilma’s words than the lesson those cooks acquired the hard way.

Odd. I’ve never heard the words used in a positive sense. I’ve only heard them when people have either told others off, or even attacked them physically. The words are usually said as a warning to beware of lighting the fuse within a second time.

But, one has to wonder—why would we only have more anger and vitriol stored up? Why would we only promise more of the same when we physically overcame a rival?

Are we so full of ugly things? How did we get that way?

Surely, there should be more good things where that came from? Are there more compliments? More hugs? More slaps on the back? More blessings?

I’m just full of questions tonight aren’t I?

I suppose one could say the questions are mostly rhetorical, meant to inspire soul-searching, rather than requiring answers.

You see, I already know the answers. Oh, I know. Perhaps you do too. You do, don’t you?

From deep down inside, we know what we have stored up. From the darkest places in our souls, we have intimate knowledge of the nasty stuff—the powder ready to explode, with a short fuse.

It is there. We have carefully stockpiled it over a lifetime of interaction with folks.

We’ve tamped it down carefully, in preparation for the time when it will be needed. Packed it tightly in the wadding of our excuses and justifications. The explosion will come.

It will come. Unless we do what it takes to render it harmless.

Do you know how to keep a firecracker from exploding?

We might try removing the fuse and leaving it where it’s stored. It’s not completely futile to do that. Without a fuse, there is nothing to touch the match to.

Still. The device can explode when exposed to the right amount of heat, or pressure. It has exactly the same explosive power it always had. Exactly the same.

But, there is a simple way to disarm that little explosive device. So simple. Get it out into the open air. Tear open the paper tube. Let the breeze blow the powder away. Exposed to the light and air, the destructive components of the firecracker become harmless.

I’m thinking it’s time—for me, at least—to empty the arsenal.

But, I have lived my life as a follower of the Christ! He began a good work in me decades ago. He has continued to do that work. (Philippians 1:6)

What about that?

What about the good things down there?

The Apostle—you know, the one who wrote all the time—suggests that we need to be tireless in doing good if we want any result worth working toward. Tireless.

The good is already down there. All we have to do is share it. And then do it again. And again.

Perhaps it’s time to make the words a promise. Not a threat.

A promise.

There’s more where that came from!

A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.
(Luke 6:45 ~ NIV)

To be doing good deeds is man’s most glorious task.
(Sophocles ~ Ancient Greek playwright ~ 496 BC-406 BC)

Perspective

May 6, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The blind man stands at the counter in front of me and asks his questions.

I wonder, really, how much he sees. As I speak, his eyes seem to be fixed on me, and he hangs on to every word I say. When I smile, he responds with a smile of his own. I suppose it’s probably a response to the inflection of my voice, but still, I have an unreasonable suspicion he is seeing me in his own way.

Later, he will sit down for a while and play a classical guitar in my store. I will be amazed by his technical ability and sensitivity to the music. Most folks who see the world more clearly will never be able to reach the level of his musicality. I include myself in that group.

But for now, I’m struggling to answer his questions.

“Is that stack switch an on-off arrangement? Can I use it as a kill-switch for an instant off?”

“How do you wire a guitar for stereo output?”

As I give him the benefit of my meager store of information, I realize he is not asking simply to tuck away the knowledge in his head. He has a project in mind which he is going to attempt for himself. He is going to build a guitar.

Without the advantage of sight. He will build a guitar.

He is blind, but he has a vision. A vision he sees clearly.

After he leaves, I sit and reflect. This man, with no light by which to see, is going to take individual parts and assemble them to produce a complete instrument. He will then play music on that instrument–still in the dark.

I have assembled a guitar before. The lights were on, with extra lights focused on the small parts I needed to attach to the instrument. I even used a magnifier to see those parts with more clarity when necessary. With my eyes wide open, I struggled with the project from start to finish.

He will do it in the dark. Feeling his way.

I don’t write about my blind friend to belittle sighted readers, nor even to diminish my own deeds. I simply mean to encourage us to reach further. We all have challenges to overcome.

Your challenges aren’t the same as mine. Mine aren’t the same as his. Sometimes, even emotional challenges can loom large and cut off the light in much the same way that physical blindness does.

The darkness in our spirits can often be as profound as the physical lack of sight. We struggle simply to put one foot in front of the other.

Ultimately, in this physical world, we all–every single one of us–must live, and love, and achieve, guided by the light given us. Whether the blaze of a noonday sun, or the flicker of a candle from afar, we walk in that light.

The same applies to our spiritual walk, with one incredible difference. Here we can only walk in His light. His light has no sign of darkness, nor loss of vision, at all. As we walk in the light, His light, we walk in tandem with other travelers, who also count on Him for strength and salvation.

Sick though we may be, stricken with blindness, or crushing sorrow, all of us have the same advantages, the same Source from which to draw both strength and light for the journey.

I like the idea of having fellow travelers with whom to walk, sharing our visions with each other, and helping others over the rough spots. Your strengths are not mine, nor my weaknesses yours, but together we can work to reach the goal.

The blind man has vision.

I’m just beginning to see the light.

“Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there’s a difference for me you know. Because in that other room, I shall be able to see.”
(Helen Keller ~ blind American author/lecturer ~ 1880-1968 )

“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)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

light

Of Advent—and Spit

Away From the Light

He Still Hangs the Moon

The Magical Sky Fairy

Beauty and Chaos

Shadows

On a Clear Day

Frosted Glass

More Where That Came From

Perspective