Good to all People

March 11, 2016March 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The old man is rumpled and smudged.

You might think I’m only speaking of his clothes, but indeed, the man himself fits the description to a tee. His clothes are themselves rumpled, but so too, is his demeanor and his facial features.

Wrinkled and sad, he pushes inside my store to stand before me—his dirty, smudged clothes hanging from him as he asks me his favor.

“I have some things to sell. Do you think you might be interested?”

It is a question that comes with some regularity these days. I tell him I’ll look at what he’s got and follow him out to the old battered pickup truck—itself rumpled and smudged. Another man, looking much like my new friend, is sitting in the cab, awaiting the verdict.

As I look through the hodge-podge of items which he pulls, one by one, from the bed, he tells his story. They’ve all got a story these days; it seems to be a requirement to include one in their pitch.

“I can’t pay my insurance. If I don’t have insurance, I can’t work.”

I ask him what kind of work he does and he tells me that he buys junk and resells it. I should have guessed. Everything he has shown me fits that description—junk.

I am tempted to leave it all in the truck and walk away, but I cannot. We make a deal for a couple of items and he returns with me inside the store to take care of the details.

I am surprised as I view his ID (a legal requirement for me) and learn the old rumpled man is less than a year older than I.

With his own filthy, gnarled one, he grasps my hand in gratitude as he takes the small amount of cash. Turning, he walks out waving the bills above his head triumphantly to show his bounty to his companion. I shake my head, knowing that the scene will be played out several times more, either today or in the very near future.

The stories will vary; the players will be taller, or fatter, or of a different gender, but all will be rumpled and smudged, and all will need my help. I stare at the side of my store building, looking for the mark which I often suspect is there, but I cannot see it.

The mark?

Go back in our country’s history nearly a century. We were in the midst of a depression, with high unemployment and many folks losing their homes and businesses. It seems that it may have been a lot like the present day, only a good bit worse.

Many of the unemployed took to the highways and country roads in search of temporary work, but little was to be found. These people, mostly men, were forced to beg for food, a practice which soon turned many of the more fortunate against them.

The hobos soon developed a system of signs to communicate to others coming after them by the same way. The signs would be placed along the road and on buildings, written with coal or chalk. They would warn of antagonistic officers of the law or stingy housewives, as well as declaring the location of a generous soul.

This last category came to be known as an easy mark. We use the term today. I often use it to describe myself, when thinking about people who are in need. Perhaps, they do too.

Apparently though, there is no necessity of a written mark for my location. Word of mouth seems to suffice, as more come each week.

Can I let you in on a secret?

Recently, I have grown weary of it. To be blunt, I don’t have a lot of ready cash. I’m not what you would describe as a wealthy man, a fact my banker could easily corroborate.

Wherever the mark is, I wish they would remove it. I might even erase it myself, if I could locate it.

But, as I sit and wallow in self-pity, almost enjoying the little party it inspires, I am reminded that there is much more to this than the simple transaction of handing over a bit of cash.

I am a follower of Jesus, with all that is attached to that statement.

Specifically, it’s probably a prerequisite that I follow His teachings.

Many of my fellow believers have come to the conclusion that only the doctrinal, intellectual part of their religion is of importance. I am not able to separate the intellectual from the physical.

The Teacher gave instructions—indeed, He gave an example—as He walked with his original followers. He used words like cups of cold water, hungry and feed, naked and clothe, thirsty and something to drink. (Matthew 25:31-46)

His instructions were not for us to provide intellectual comfort, but to actually do something.

If I claim to be a follower, I must do just that—Follow.

Follow His instructions—His example—His Word.

I know many who give much more than I do, many who are actively involved day after day in helping those in need. Mine is not a heavy burden; I just seem to be getting weary of bearing it.

Every once in awhile though, I remember what the Apostle said as he encouraged the folks under his care.

Don’t grow weary of doing what is right. At the proper time, a harvest of blessings will be ready to reap, provided we don’t give up. (Galatians 6:9)

The day for harvesting doesn’t seem to be much nearer, but who can say?

Tomorrow might be the day.

I’ll be here, either to do the work or to enjoy the bounty. There is still plenty of work to go around. You looking for a job?

Oh, when you do come by, could you look to see if you can find that mark on my building?

I’d still like to have it removed. . .

Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people. . .
(Galatians 6:10a~NIV)

Charity never humiliated him who profited by it, nor bound him by the chains of gratitude, since it was not to him, but to God that the gift was made.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupery~French author~1900-1944)

It Rubs Off On Us

February 5, 2016February 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Be sure to bring an extra pair of coveralls tomorrow. We’re going to the wheel factory.

The electrician made the suggestion to his apprentice as they parked the service van and headed home for the night. The young man’s heart sank.

Wheel factory? Tomorrow? What a disaster!

He had hoped for a day of residential service calls instead. Those, he liked. They kept your brain active, trying to crack the mystery of where a certain circuit ran, or why the washing machine shocked the owner when she touched it.

He might even get to wait patiently by an outlet, watching a test meter as the electrician flipped breakers and clipped wires, trying to bring a dead circuit to life once again. That was simple, clean work which gave you a good feeling when you left the house with a satisfied customer waving from the doorway.

The wheel factory? There was nothing worse!

I’ll attempt to paint you a picture, shall I?

The factory looked like any other ordinary industrial facility. Stacks of iron wheels and brake drums stood round, strapped to pallets and awaiting their turn to be moved—the finished ones by semi-truck to the distant factories which had ordered them—the unprocessed ones by forklift into the plant nearby. There, they would be machined and drilled to the specifications which the tractor, automobile, and truck designers had determined.

Before the men headed in, our apprentice and his boss pulled on their coveralls and changed shoes. You’ll understand this a little better in a few moments. Walking toward the plant, with a tool belt on his waist and a fiberglass ladder over his shoulder, the full effect of the nightmare which was about to begin was still not clear, and the young apprentice thought, perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.

Ah! But, when the doorway was breached, and the vista of the huge building stretched out before him, the panic struck anew.

The first thing he noticed was the screech of the metal lathes pulsating and rising in pitch as each cut was made. The noise was not only deafening, but to his ears (he liked to think, sensitive musician’s ears) it was horrific, jarring him to the core. The din was almost painful—the perpetual squeal altering and dulling his other senses.

After the initial shock of the noise, he noticed the thick ever-present smog hanging in the air. Blue, oily smoke wafted up from every machine that cut and shaped and drilled, aided by the heat of the process and the liberal use of the viscous fluid to cool the cutting edges. The huge fans at the end of the building dragged the thickening atmosphere across the length of the entire building before pulling it, square foot by sooty square foot, from the building.

He shuddered to think what the air would be like in this horrible place if the fans were not functioning, but still it seemed they only sucked the nasty stuff in never-ending waves across anyone who was between the machines and the giant rotating fan blades. He would soon be breathing in that vile mixture…and the eerie place was only to get worse.

The plant maintenance man saw them come in and motioned them over. They followed him along rows of raw materials and machinery until he stopped beside one mammoth drill press. Pointing to the oily, slimy monster, he shouted over the shriek of the nearby lathes and the high-pitched whine of the drill presses;

“This one! It’s got to be rewired!”

With that, he was gone. As he disappeared into the maze of iron and machines, the apprentice looked down at his own hands. He would swear that he hadn’t touched anything, but they were black with grime already. He coughed with the stench of iron shavings mixed with oil and realized that his nightmare had already begun.

Hours later, when he and the master electrician picked up their tools and ladders and headed out to the blessed quiet and clean air of the world outside, they were both covered from head to toe with the filth. Their coveralls would take several cycles through the wash to come reasonably clean and they couldn’t wear their shoes anywhere until the soles were cleaned with de-greaser and solvents.

The young man coughed up black junk from his chest for hours. The headache would last longer than that.

Is the picture horrible enough for you? Is there a point to this horror story?

You know there is.

What I’d like to be able to do is to draw the parallel between the filthy factory and the dirty places in the world we can get into. We can’t rub shoulders with filthy people without some of it rubbing off on us. The transfer of polluted substances is almost instantaneous.

I’d like to be able to tell you that the moral of the story is that we should stay out of those places. I want to suggest that we should never associate with those dirty people and places.

What a simple solution! To avoid getting dirty, stay away from filthy locations and grimy humans.

I’d like to be able to tell you that, but I would be wrong. For too long though, it is just what we have done.

We don’t drink, smoke, or chew; and we don’t go with girls that do.

Our pride and our arrogance have led us to believe that if we can keep our clothes and our hands clean, nothing more is required of us.

We live upright and impeccable lives and think we have achieved the goal.

We couldn’t be further from the truth.

Several times in my writing, I’ve mentioned the hugs I get from some of those dirty people. My clothes stink until they are washed. A customer who walked in my store immediately after one such episode actually wrinkled up her nose as I waited on her.

Dirty rubs off on us. It sticks and leaves evidence.

The religious leaders in Jesus’ time thought so too, as they accused him of being a drunkard and a sinner. He spent His time with people who needed baths and who needed medicine and who needed a Priest.

The stench sticks to everyone in the vicinity.

Mother Teresa ministered among the diseased and poor of Calcutta, India for decades. I believe the love of Jesus shone through her life. I wonder, do you imagine this little woman smelled good? Do you think she was always spotless and clean? You don’t live and minister in the filth of one of the poorest, dirtiest cities in the world and stay clean and fresh.

Dirty rubs off on us.

Have you been in the vicinity of someone who is dirty recently? I’m including the spiritually dirty, as well as the physically unclean. It’s not necessarily a nice feeling, is it? There was residue left on you—on your person and on your soul—was there not?

Dirty rubs off on us.

But, here’s the other thing we need to know.

When we spend time with, and give of ourselves to, the kinds of people who need our attention—the poor, the lost ones, the souls who are wandering—we infect them too.

This infection, you can’t smell and you can’t see. But we are promised there is a payoff. Promised.

God says that, without fail, His Word achieves its purpose (Isaiah 55:10-11), and also that as we give, we receive. (Luke 6:38)

If we’re stingy and keep what we’ve been blessed with for ourselves, we’ll lose even that. (Luke 19:24)

Like the young electrical apprentice, we may hate the process. It will involve pain, and filth, and discomfort.

We’ll also have the uninhibited joy, as we walk away, of knowing that we’ve accomplished exactly what you went for.

The dirt—the stench—that ringing in our ears? They will go away, but the joy will remain.

Dirty does indeed, rub off on us.

But, the original cleanser still washes whiter than snow.

“Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full–pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap. The amount you give will determine the amount you get back.”
(Luke 6:38~NLT)

“If my baseball uniform doesn’t get dirty, I haven’t done anything in the baseball game.”
(Ricky Henderson~Former Major League Baseball left fielder)

No Accidents

December 24, 2015December 24, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Exhausted. Physically worn out.

In a minute, I’ll turn off the coffee pot and the lights. As I check the door though, I see the glow of the candles in the windows next door and my mind wanders.

Candlelight . . .

Earlier on this long Eve of Christmas day, we sat in a dimly lit church auditorium. It’s not a beautiful sanctuary, just an old Quonset hut gymnasium finished out to seat a couple hundred people, but it’s warm.

Comfortably we sat, and then stood to sing as the familiar carols began.

It was no accident that he picked our building to wander into. That homeless man could not have known who would be there; he could not have predicted his reception. But in he walked.

There are no accidents.

We stood and sang. He trudged right up the middle aisle. You know, usually folks in his condition take a seat near the back, awaiting the chance to ask for help quietly. This fellow? Right up front.

No. This was no accident.

The man set his plastic Walmart sack on the communion table. In Remembrance of Me, the words cut into the wood declare to the onlookers. Somehow, I think that’s no accident either.

There are not many items in our church building that we would call sacred. It’s just not how we worship. Altars, fonts, icons–those are not really part of our experience. We believe that true worship is from our hearts, disregarding the physical trappings, almost to a fault.

The Communion table though–that’s the Lord’s table. If not sacred, it is at least worthy of respect.

Dirty Walmart bags don’t scream out respect.

Sinking to his knees, the unhappy fellow bent himself down to the bare concrete floor and began to speak quietly. I couldn’t hear the words and I still don’t know what he prayed, but soon, others would kneel beside him and pray as well. They were still ministering to him as the rest of us left, nearly forty-five minutes later.

I need to say the words.

It was no accident that the man set his dirty Walmart bag on our Communion table.

I wonder. How many of us who were there left unchanged tonight?

I’ve written on numerous occasions of homeless folks and our responsibility to them. Their stories always pull at my heart, and I’ve attempted to communicate that same sense to the reader in my writing.

Tonight though, on the eve of our observance of the birth of Christ, a dirty man set his dirty sack right down in the middle of my worship.

Right down in the middle of it.

But, as I stare over at the candles in the house’s windows, I begin to understand.

You see, it was no accident that the Baby was born to an unmarried young lady and laid in a feeding trough.

It was no accident that His companions throughout His life on earth were outcasts, and drunks, and the poor.

It was no accident that this Holy, perfect God-man was hung on a cursed, profane tree.

His intent was to show us that often what we define as profane is what He calls sacred. For all of His time here, He made clear as well, that much of what the religious folk of that day called sacred was actually profane.

I wonder if there are similar words He would say to His Church today.

The Baby in the barn calls us to care about the sacred instead of focusing on the profane.

He calls us to speak grace instead of declaring law. He calls us to offer mercy instead of dispensing justice.

He calls us to let the dirty Walmart bag sit atop the Lord’s Table.

In some ways, the bag is more sacred. It is if it allows a seeker to find once more the Baby who came to be Savior.

Sacred.

The Savior came to offer grace. More than that, He came to change who we are.

I know. He’s still changing me.

And that’s no accident either.

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)

Anything that happens to you, good or bad, must pass through His fingers first. There are no accidents with God.
(Tony Evans ~ American pastor/author)

Can You See Jesus?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would Jesus do?

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

I have bigger problems.

Or possibly, smaller ones.

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

You think me cold? Insensitive?

I’m not.

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

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

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

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

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

We talk a good game, don’t we?

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

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

What? You don’t like my paraphrase?

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

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

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

I don’t!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The priest had the right idea.

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

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

What will you do with Jesus?

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

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

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

Only a Test

June 25, 2015June 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Are you selling stuff in my parking lot?”

The little girl’s instinct to close the mini-van’s door as I approached was the right one. I was angry.

I own the building from which our little mom-and-pop store operates. It’s not much of a structure—a concrete foundation with a frame building topped by a metal roof, but the Lovely Lady and I have spent the last seventeen years working to pay off the loan the bank was kind enough to advance.

Earlier, the Lovely Lady had come back in after watering her flowers to let me know there was a vehicle sitting in the middle of the parking lot next door, but I shrugged it off.

They’d leave soon enough. Why make a big deal about it?

Two hours later, they were still there. I watched a couple of cars pull up beside the mini-van and exchange bundles of something with the occupants. Then each of them drove away. The van remained.

I was conflicted. Perhaps it was just folks stopping by to check on them. Maybe they were just helping out.

Or, maybe they were selling something and had chosen my lot as a place to set up business! The nerve!

My lot! The one I’m paying for. The one for which I fork out my own dollars each year to seal and re-coat.

My lot!

When the third car pulled up, I was done waiting. Storming out the front door, I headed straight for the dingy mini-van. Seeing me coming, a young girl in the back seat quickly reached for the sliding door and slammed it shut.

Asking the question on my mind in an accusatory tone, I didn’t expect the answer I got.

I don’t know why I didn’t expect it. I should have thought about it.

I should have asked.

“No sir! We’ve got a flat tire. Those people just took our spare, which was also flat, to get it repaired.”

I mentioned seeing the other cars and the lady in the driver’s seat, her face tired, almost to the point of exhaustion, explained. She delivers newspapers at night to augment her husband’s too-small paychecks.

They had been out since 11:00 PM last night trying to get the papers to their destinations.

It was the second flat they had had during that time. The second one, and the reason they were waiting for someone to get their spare repaired. The spare was actually the tire on the car, now flat.

The extra cars? The packages exchanged?

Friends who were helping get her papers delivered.

Friends. Who wanted to help.

Apologizing for misunderstanding, I offered to help if there was anything else to be done.

Too little. Too late.

I trudged back through the lot—My lot—and into the store. My head was not held high, nor was I in good spirits.

Two hours. Two hours, and not once did the thought cross my mind that I should see if they needed help. Not once.

It was almost another hour before the repaired tire was brought back and installed. There was some consolation in that the folks availed themselves of the bathroom facilities in the music store, but it was not enough to disperse the clouds of guilt in my heart.

Their cheerful and heartfelt thanks for my help was merely enough to heap coals on my head. What help? What had I done, save to be suspicious of them and remain ignorant of their need for assistance?

The Lord said, “I was hungry and you didn’t offer me food; I was thirsty and there was nothing for me to drink. I was a stranger and you left me standing outside your door.”

The words are not lost on me. Not today.

Another test. There is no curve on which to be graded. I failed.

It would be easy to hold on to the guilt—a simple thing to wallow in the shame and believe that failure is permanent. It would be wrong.

Better men than I have stood right where I am. Beaten. Worn out with tests and failures. I look back and see the long string of the failures in my life.

But, in my mind I see another man, standing beaten. A friend is there also, his long accusing forefinger poking him in the chest.

You. You are the one!

And, King David, broken and beaten, does the only thing he knows to do, indeed, the only thing there is to do. Turning his back on the prophet Nathan, he falls on his knees before his God and pours out his heart.

Create in me a clean heart, oh God! I am broken and grief-stricken for what I have done. I implore You to accept the sacrifice of my broken and stained heart.

I haven’t committed adultery or killed anyone to cover up my sin. It makes me no less guilty.

It makes Him no less able to restore a right spirit in me. And, no less willing.

And Jesus said to the lady caught in the act, “Neither do I condemn you. Go. sin no more.”

Tomorrow is another day.

There will be more tests.

And a few passing grades, I trust.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
(from King Henry VI ~ William Shakespeare ~ English playwright/poet ~ 1564-1616)

Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts; And in the hidden part thou wilt make me to know wisdom.
(Psalm 51:6 ~ ASV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

poor

It Rubs Off On Us

No Accidents

Can You See Jesus?

Only a Test