Holding Loosely

August 23, 2016August 23, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Go, bid the hero who has run
Thro’ fields of death to gather fame,
Go, bid him lay his laurels down,
And all his well-earn’d praise disclaim.
(from The Captive Ribband ~ Robert Burns ~Scottish poet ~ 1759-1796)

Late one recent night, fallen prey to a short-lived spasm of conscience brought on by too much time spent in front of one screen or another, I took up a volume of Robert Burns’ poetry and determined to wade through it. Or, at least a portion of it.

My resolve—along with my guilty conscience—was in the final stages of relenting when I came across the jewel which contains the passage quoted above. I had slogged through too many lines of the bewildering Scots dialect, but it took only a line or two for me to grasp the poet’s meaning here.

Mr. Burns speaks of a single ribbon he has saved from the woman he loved, a ribbon he prizes as much as love itself. Thus the comparison to a hero’s fame and acclaim. He will never surrender it.

It is a familiar concept.

Some men can struggle through a lifetime and never be acclaimed a hero or even have their fabled fifteen minutes of fame. But, many people, given just one such opportunity, will hold tight to their proof of superiority for the rest of their lives.

I have to admit, I don’t know many old war heroes. I do know a fair number of old musicians. Young ones, too.

You wouldn’t believe the stories I hear.

I played with .

My band opened for .

I wrote music for .

Fill in the blanks. Big names. Huge stars. Crowds cheering and screaming for more. All in the past.

All of it, in the past.

A memory only, except for those who have mementos. Photographs, recordings (vinyl and otherwise), signed napkins, all are saved and clutched tightly as if they are more precious than gold.

And I, listening to the tale, may be accorded a quick glance at the talisman, as if a pilgrim at a holy shrine.

I find myself both fascinated and saddened by the stories—and the souvenirs. The joy—the pride—is all in the past, with none left for the future. Success achieved, aspiration is shed like a suit of clothes, never to be worn again.

Consider the words of the humbug Wizard to the Tin Woodman:

They are called phil. . .er. . .phil. . .er. . .er. . .good-deed-doers, and their hearts are no bigger than yours, but they have one thing you haven’t got! A testimonial!
(The Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum ~ American author ~ 1856-1919)

Without diminishing the importance of heroic acts—and they are not to be passed over lightly—I want to suggest that if we must look only behind us to see the deeds worth celebrating, we are a sad and hopeless lot.

The Apostle who loved to write long letters (he shares more than just a name with me) had a mountain of mementos and testimonials. A mountain. (Philippians 3)

He called the mountain garbage. No. He called it. . .well, I won’t write out the word here, but in the dialect of his day, it was a coarse word for dung.

Some folks have used that passage of Paul’s letter to the church at Philippi to prove that God has no use for our good works. It’s not what He was saying.

In the journey to our real home, the things we do will not earn us safe passage. They won’t earn us entrance into Heaven. There is only one thing that guarantees eternity with God. Only one.

We rely on what Jesus has done for us, having no confidence whatsoever in our flesh. (verse 3) Salvation is complete, without one iota of effort on our part.

The high calling is just that, a call to come up higher. Share on X

Still, we are called to better things than what is in our past. The high calling is just that, a call to come up higher.

The goal still lies ahead.

The trophies and accolades of the past are nothing to what lies ahead.

If. . .

We must finish the course with integrity and with courage if we aim to win the prize.

If we must grip honor in a clenched fist to retain it, we have not yet earned it. Share on X

If we must grip honor in a clenched fist to retain it, we have not yet earned it.

Let the past go. Nothing in it is anything compared to the trophies and testimonials that are to come.

Nothing.

Better things lie ahead.

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it someday for a crown.
(The Old Rugged Cross ~ George Bennard)

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.
(From Collected Letters ~ C.S. Lewis)

Glory Follows

February 26, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Gloria virtutem tamquam umbra sequitur.

My son has a huge cardboard box full of trophies that still sits in a closet in my house. Now in his thirties, he values them not at all. It’s funny, but even back when he was a kid, they didn’t mean all that much to him.

Except a few. The ones that actually were given for accomplishing something had a place of honor on his dresser. The participation trophies? Relegated to the closet.

I will freely admit it. I may have been part of the reason for his disdain of the you-matter-because-you-showed-up awards. I never vocally disrespected them, but I did praise the hard work which went into earning the championship team awards, and the Best in Class plaques.

Praise should be given when praise is earned. Accomplishment earns a reward.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am an encourager. Atta-boys and way-to-give-it-your-best-shot messages are important, even essential, in the development of a child. If all they live with is high expectations, without support, they become bitter and discouraged. But, a pat on the back is not a trophy.

Encouragement is not glory.

The Apostle, my namesake, was clear in how he put it. In a race, everybody runs the best they can, but only one person gets the glory—the trophy. (1 Corinthians 9:24)

In encouragement, no one could fault the Apostle. Always, he built up his readers, coaxing them to reach new heights, but in this instance, he was blunt.

Run so you can win.

Period.

All of life, every part of it, takes place on the race course. It’s not a dash—not a challenging five kilometer run—not even a half-marathon. As exhausted as it makes me to contemplate it, the race is more like an Ironman Triathlon, only longer.

Swim nearly two and a half miles. Make equipment/clothing adjustments and hop onto your bicycle. Ride one hundred and twelve miles. Yes. One hundred and twelve. Make whatever wardrobe changes are necessary. Run just over twenty-six miles.

The whole course. If you want to win, you must run the entire series of races. They’re all part of the whole. Then and only then will a winner be handed the prize.

Did you notice the quotation at the top of this little essay? Cicero, a Roman philosopher, who lived in the first century B.C. said the words.

What’s that? Oh. You don’t read Latin. Neither do I, if it comes down to it. Let me try again.

Glory follows virtue as if it were its shadow.

As if it were its shadow.

Imagine. You’re in the race, swimming the first leg of the course. Two and a half miles, you have battled. Victory is yours! The crowd waiting at the water’s edge goes crazy with adulation as you wade out of the shallows, well ahead of the closest competitor.

Glory! They love you! What an accomplishment!

You plow into the crowd, high-fiving and fist-bumping as you go. Basking in the glory—glory you earned for yourself—you relax and exult in your accomplishment.

What’s that? What do you mean I’m not finished yet? I won, didn’t I?

Of course, you understand that it cannot be. One leg is not the entire race. While you were beguiled by the praise and glory of a partial victory, others have gone on ahead to complete the course.

Enamored by the shadow—glory—you turned away from the task at hand. And, just like that, the glory has disappeared.

Just for a moment, will you look with me at the picture Cicero has drawn with his words? If it helps you may even want to glance at the photo that accompanies these thoughts.

Shadows follow behind. As we walk toward the source of light, the shadow follows. It never precedes us. Never.

Glory only follows if we continue in virtue.

It almost seems cruel, doesn’t it? We achieve, but we have no time to enjoy the reward.

Can I tell you a secret?

Glory was never our goal. Never.

Virtue.

That’s our goal, always before us. Righteousness.

As we follow closely after God though, His glory will be evident—to those looking on. He himself upholds us. For His Glory.

His. Glory.

It stays only as long as our faces are to the Light, pursuing the prize. Turn to revel in the moment and it is lost.

Face to the sun, we keep running—or swimming—or riding.

Face to the Sun.

Glory follows.

My soul follows close behind You;
Your right hand upholds me.
(Psalm 63:8 ~ NKJV)

Swim 2.4 miles! Bike 112 miles! Run 26.2 miles! Brag for the rest of your life!
Whoever finishes first, we’ll call him the Ironman.
(Commander John Collins, USN ~ founder of 1st Ironman Triathlon ~ 1978)

Dots—Again

December 7, 2015December 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

During the morning church service, the beautiful little girl sits on my leg and moves her crayon confidently from one point on the page in front of her to the next. As she slides the brown-colored wax stick from number to number, the outline of a picture appears, clearly depicting a shepherd with his sheep.

It hasn’t always been like this.

A year or two ago the little tyke, one of my four favorite grandchildren, would have asked, in her version of a whisper (meaning: loudly enough for all nearby to hear clearly), “What do I do here, Grandpa?”

Grandpa would have explained that she needed to start on the number 1 and draw a line to the number 2. A little squiggly line that wandered off to the side and then back again would have been drawn tentatively. At that point, the crayon would be lifted from the page and the question repeated, possibly even a little more loudly.

Eventually the picture would be visible, although not nearly as neat as today’s, nor with as straight of lines from number to number. Clearly, she has learned to connect the dots much more skillfully in the intervening time.

The services are notably quieter too, since she has learned to whisper a little better, as well.

I smile as I think about the beautiful little girl and how she is growing. And learning. But, as I think, my mind wanders. Those dots remind me of something else. They make me think a little about other types of connections.

Human connections.

They’re not so different from connecting the dots, are they?

It has been a year ago. It hardly seems possible, so little has changed.

My young friend, Grace, is studying photography at the local university. She takes photos of what she sees. It is what photographers do. One of her photographs stopped me in my tracks. Dead. In my tracks.

The photograph will likely need some explanation. Then again, perhaps not much.

The news was full of events in Ferguson, Missouri for months. Then, riots and looting broke out as the racial anger boiled over and the filters that, in ordinary circumstances, would prevent such action were lost or discarded.

Windows were broken. Fires were set. Property was destroyed. Guns were fired.

Many words have been spoken and written about the situation since then–words which were and are hurtful and angry. My own emotions have surged as I have seen the images and have heard the angry words from many different perspectives.

I have stood in despair and wondered why those people would be so angry and destructive in their actions. I have listened in horror and wondered why those other people would be so angry and hateful in their words.

Those people.

graceinferguson — Photo: Grace Nast Used by Permission

My young friend went to Ferguson. Herself. Standing in the place where the horrible violence occurred, she took a picture of her feet.

That’s right. Her feet.

On the ground. In Ferguson. In the middle of the bricks and the ashes.

I glanced at the photo and shrugged mentally. Big deal.

Then it hit me.

Those same feet, the ones in the blue sneakers, had walked into my music store one afternoon the week before.

Funny. Her feet–the ones in the blue sneakers, on the ground in Ferguson– they stood on the ground in front of me just days earlier.

It’s the same ground.

Connected.

Suddenly, the miles and the man-made divisions seem insignificant as I begin to grasp the reality. These are not someone else’s problems, occurring in a different world than the one in which I live and move.

These are my people. What happens to them, happens to me.

To me.

In my mind the arguments pile atop each other; the evidence of connections between me and those people is overwhelming. (Romans 10:12)

I want to convince with logic. Perhaps, if I can overwhelm the reader with scientific proof of our shared ancestry, of DNA, of common history–perhaps then we’ll embrace each other. Perhaps then the violence, the slurs, the hatred can stop.

It won’t happen.

The words I would say have all been said, the arguments made again and again. The human heart is turned to evil and deceit, and only God can change it. It has always been so.

But today, for me, sitting on the knee of the one true Artist, I see the connection. Like my granddaughter, the skill at recognizing those points of connection may increase with maturity and practice.

It may.

I want it to be true.

Maybe we can help each other.

We are connected, after all.

We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.
(Martin Luther King Jr ~ American pastor/civil rights leader ~ 1929-1968)

Be joyful. Grow to maturity. Encourage each other. Live in harmony and peace. Then the God of love and peace will be with you.
(2 Corinthians 13:11 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

race

Holding Loosely

Glory Follows

Dots—Again