Entertainment Value

March 4, 2024March 4, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You’re not boring; you’re entertaining.”

I apologized to our teenage guest at the end of our visit. Even with those twinkling eyes smiling at me, the reply I got was a little unexpected.

Surrounded by aging adults, the youngster had endured the dinner with grace. And yet, the discussion of hospital visits and doctor’s appointments, along with a drawn out semi-argument about the location of long-defunct grocery stores and ancient history had to have been wearing to a member of this generation steeped in technology and media connectivity.

I will admit the high-schooler’s reaction to finding out that the old Piggly-Wiggly grocery store in our town had morphed into a current-day funeral home was delightful. I’ve always found it amusing, to say the least, and was happy to have that opinion shared by one so young.

The idea of a Piggly-Wiggly funeral home does set off the giggle reflex, doesn’t it?

I’m still wondering about the entertainment value of a group of old people sitting around a dinner table, though.

Perhaps, even more than that, I’m wondering if it’s important for us to be aware of how attractive (or, entertaining) we are to folks who are watching.

I’ve been in church all of my life. I’ve listened to thousands of sermons. When I was a kid, there were three to listen to every Sunday. And, one on Wednesday.

I’ve heard my share of boring preachers. Some of them would use the scripture that Paul the Apostle wrote about folks with “itching ears” as a rationalization for the dryness of the message.

“For a time is coming when people will no longer listen to sound and wholesome teaching. They will follow their own desires and will look for teachers who will tell them whatever their itching ears want to hear.“
(2 Timothy 4:3, NLT)

Except, that verse has nothing to do with instructing people to make their conversation (or sermon) dry and boring to avoid error. It’s talking about people who insist that their teachers and pastors teach them the things they want to hear. They want to hear their own opinions coming from the mouths of the people to whom they listen.

Sounds familiar, even in this age, doesn’t it?

It can apply to those who move to a new church every time a pastor expresses a thought they don’t agree with. Or, it can pertain to college students who protest against speakers they think they detest. It’s a common disease among humankind.

But if we insist our teachers teach with dry, lifeless words, we’ll lose our audience. Either they won’t come to our next dinner (or church service), or they’ll zone out while we speak.

Or, like that fellow Eutychus in the Bible, they may simply fall asleep. (Acts 20:7-12)

After supper, the Apostle (who may actually have believed in dry, boring talks) decided that since it was his last night in town, he’d preach a little longer sermon. Past midnight, he droned on!

Eutychus, poor boy, fell asleep long enough to be included in the text we still read today. While he napped, he slid off his window seat, falling to his death on the ground, three stories below.

Paul, hurrying down with the crowd, lifted him up, telling them the boy wasn’t dead, and they went back upstairs where, of all things, Paul continued to talk until the sun came up in the morning!

I like to imagine that, after the intermission, the folks there listened more closely. Whether the Apostle’s delivery was more lively and engaging, I don’t know. But, they were motivated to listen!

Talk about entertaining!

A boy had been brought back to life! Besides the joy and relief, it would be a living reminder to stay alert, one would think.

Clearly, the lines above about the Apostle Paul’s teaching were written a little tongue-in-cheek. We really don’t know if he was a boring speaker or an entertaining one.

Still, even my old Bible professor friend, the esteemed Dr Andrew Bowling, used to say to his students, “If you talk for half an hour and haven’t hit oil, quit boring.”

I may take his advice in another line or two.

Entertaining is better than boring, especially if people are paying attention to what we have to say. As long as what we’re saying is not just tickling their itchy ears.

And, if it keeps them awake.

“Just as it is written and forever remains written, ‘How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news of good things!’”
(Romans 10:15, AMP)

“Tell the stories! Use words that are accurate and attractive. Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm. Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone. Tell the stories!”
(from The Storyteller, by Paul Phillips)

Time to Play in the Rain Again

October 25, 2022October 25, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Again. As before, here I am.

The rain falls outside, finally. Months, it seems since it fell.

I should be celebrating. All about me is wet. Hydrated, they call it. At least, that’s what they would call it in the medical profession.

Like the earth, we need hydration. It’s why we drink water. When we are thirsty, having struggled through some grueling course—those obstacles that challenge and stretch us—we drink it. By the gallons, it seems.

So easy. Are you thirsty?

Drink.

I remember it from my childhood days in church, the call to all who are thirsty. Congregations sang songs about it—the thirst and the cure. Preachers shouted the words from the pulpits.

“Ho! Everyone who thirsts,
Come to the waters;
And you who have no money,
Come, buy and eat.
Yes, come, buy wine and milk
Without money and without price.“
(Isaiah 55: 1, NKJV)

What could be simpler?

Are you thirsty?

Drink!

The scripture is a clear reference to God’s grace, His salvation offered freely. Millions, including me, have already satisfied their thirst in that fountain that flows without cost to us.

But, it’s raining now. And, some yet feel a desert inside themselves. Not from the lack of salvation, but from a deficit of joy.

The folks who wept at the reading of God’s Word in Ezra’s day knew that deficit.

“…for this day is holy to our Lord. Do not sorrow, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” (Nehemiah 8:10b, NKJV)

One of my young artist friends who, I think, knows the feeling of being in the desert herself, today described the feeling of the rainy day as gently claustrophobic. It is the certainty of rain—life-giving showers from heaven—flooding the earth, but the unsatisfying reality of watching it from the cloister of her front room.

I know how she feels.

If you’re thirsty, then drink.

Can it be so simple?

When I was a child, I danced and cavorted in the rain. Soaking wet, my playmates and I floated sticks and dug channels in the earth for the runoff.

Joy-filled and water-logged, with no thought for the opinions of others, neither peers nor parents, neighbors nor passers-by, we were saturated with water and a wild love for life.

I want that again.

Who wouldn’t?

And the Teacher said to them, “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.“ (John 10:10b, NKJV)

I am struggling, having passed through what have seemed like insurmountable obstacles over the past weeks and months. My soul is thirsty. Dry.

All around, the rain is falling.

Really. Pouring.

I wonder what I should do next.

For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,
And do not return there without watering the earth
And making it produce and sprout,
And providing seed to the sower and bread to the eater;
So will My word be which goes out of My mouth;
It will not return to Me empty,
Without accomplishing what I desire,
And without succeeding in the purpose for which I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10-11, NASB)

Go Ahead and Camp Out

April 28, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

She was wrong.

My mother-in-law was. The dear lady is gone and can no longer defend her position, but her daughter may take up the argument for her—may have even done so before anyone else reads this—in her absence.

I’ve written before about my first experience playing the piano at my in-law’s house, many years past. A near-stranger in a strange place, I awaited the evening meal with my new girlfriend’s parents.

The beautiful Chickering grand piano stood begging in the living room and the Lovely Young Lady encouraged me to yield to its call while I waited. Sitting down at the keyboard, I noticed a book of arrangements from which I had played in the past.

I started well. I did. I know the starting notes of many songs. Most of them begin simply, single notes in each hand blending and playing off each other, drawing the listener in as the melody is introduced.

It’s the parts that come later in most pieces I am not so sure of. That’s what happened on this occasion. After whizzing through the early parts with ease, I ran up against some of the less familiar—and more difficult—sections.

My hands began to falter and fingers to stumble. Finally, in one difficult section of multiple chords—with notes stacked from the bottom of the staff to the top—I stopped. Leaving the sustain pedal down to keep the last correct chord sounding, I took a breath and a moment to analyze the upcoming chords.

A voice rang out from the kitchen.

“Don’t camp out on it!” came the words.

Until just weeks before she died, she was a piano teacher. She never stopped correcting; never stopped encouraging. She knew that a pianist who developed the habit of slowing the tempo every time the music became difficult would retain that habit for a lifetime.

I never faulted her for her vigilance. I don’t today.

We have phrases similar to the piano teacher’s mantra in common use in our daily life.

“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

“Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.”

“Idleness is the Dead Sea that swallows all virtues.” Benjamin Franklin contributed that gem, along with many others in the same vein.

And yet, there are a few words I want to add to my late mother-in-law’s reproof, as well as to others who would motivate us to higher planes continually. Words to comfort and to heal. Timeless words that have quieted stressed and struggling spirits for centuries.

“Come away.”

The words are not my own, having been uttered by the Teacher who would become Savior. He acknowledged, all those years ago, the toll that constant activity, disappointments, and defeats could take on the humans who followed him.

And He said to them, “Come away by yourselves to a secluded place and rest a little while.” (For there were many people coming and going, and they did not even have time to eat.)
(Mark 6:31, NASB)

I want to tell you they’re words I’ve heeded all my days, taking time to stop and study the music of life, analyzing the hard passages, and developing a plan for going on. I can’t say that.

I have spent a lifetime in an upward spiral of activity and stress, stopping only when I crash into the incomprehensible tangle of problems and quandaries life invariably throws at me. It seems most of us do that.

But He says to take the time to camp out on it. To turn our attention to all that surrounds us and see the beauty in the midst of the chaos.

This morning, I ran into that difficult section again. I took one of our dogs to the veterinarian, thinking I might not return home with him again. Ever. The vet gave me better news than I expected, but the emotion of the morning still hit hard.

I camped out on it for the rest of the day. At first, I berated myself. The poem my dad used to quote played on repeat through my mind.

“Not half the storms that threatened me
Ere broke upon my head…”

Why do I fall for it every time? Why do I worry when I know God wants good things for me? The barrage of questions hit me again and again. I sank down into regret and disappointment.

But, here’s the thing about camping out. We take time, not only to assess the problem but to work past it—to find the way forward.

Better men than I have fretted and despaired. Abraham, Moses, David, Elijah, Peter, even Paul—and a lot more since then. The tangle of life loomed larger before them than their puny intellects could work through.

But, when they took time to look at the issues and to see the provision their God had already laid out for them, the tangle invariably gave way to become a path forward.

It’s the same for us today.

If our troubles seem too much for us, we get to take a minute or two to breathe.

Go ahead and camp out on it. Take time to relax and see His solution.

Come away.

The music will be all the sweeter for it.

Rest.

The Lord will fight for you, while you keep silent. (Exodus 14:14, NASB)

All men’s miseries derive from not being able to sit quiet in a room alone.
(Blaise Pascal)

Safe on the Stairway to Heaven

April 22, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I walked up the stairs again today. And, I cried.

She was with me—the red-headed lady who has climbed with me for most of a lifetime. The stairs didn’t make her cry. And yet, she stood beside me as I looked sightlessly through the liquid prisms in my eyes, out the big windows in the waiting room of the hospital.

I haven’t been in that place since my brother died. I had climbed those stairs again and again for most of two weeks, knowing it wasn’t going to end the way I wanted it to.

Today, a friend was admitted to a room on the same floor. We went, the Lovely Lady and I, to visit. He and his wife, along with their children and grandchildren have been like family to us. I think he’ll be okay.

My tears weren’t for him. Hopefully, that time won’t come for many years.

But, I remembered something today, there on the stairs. It was a conversation I had with my brother, all those weeks ago.

His body worn out, my brother was experiencing some mental confusion in those last days of consciousness. I stood beside his bed, recognizing the fear in his eyes and I said the words to reassure him.

I’ve thought, over and over, about how untrue they were, those words so easily spoken.

Then again, I’ve come to realize the overwhelming truth in them as well.

“You’re safe here. There’s no need to be afraid.”

I repeated the words to him before I left his side that night. He said them back to me as I walked out the door.

“I’m safe here.”

Safe.

I struggle with that word. All around us, folks see danger and build their bunkers. We pad sharp corners and put exploding bags of air in our cars. We buy alarms and lights. We buy insurance and surround ourselves with medical people or natural healers, and all the best advisors we can gather near.

And still, we’re not safe. None of those achieve safety for us.

I didn’t lie to my brother. Even though he was in the hospital under the doctors’ and nurses’ care, he is still gone today. But, I didn’t lie to him.

In those long night vigils and weary daytime watches, I sang the words to him often. I don’t know if he heard them.

But, I did.

Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast,
There by His love o’ershaded,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.

The prolific poet, Fanny Crosby, wrote the words over a century and a half ago. She wasn’t wrong.

There is one safe place. One.

I wish I could assure you troubles won’t overtake you. I’d like to promise comfort—health—prosperity.

I can’t.

And yet, safety awaits. It does.

The name of the Lord is a strong fortress;
the godly run to him and are safe.
(Proverbs 18:10, NLT)

The words translated are safe in that verse literally mean set on high.

Set on high.

Safe.

We’re safe here. In His arms, we’re safe. And we climb the stairs together.

And sometimes as we climb, we’ll cry.

Ah, but we’ll laugh and sing, too.

You’re safe here.

It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if You don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.
(J.R.R. Tolkien, from The Fellowship of the Ring)

He will cover you with His pinions,
And under His wings you may take refuge;
His faithfulness is a shield and wall.
(Psalm 91:4, NASB)

How Did This Place Get So Scary?

April 14, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I remember it like it was yesterday. He sat, a long-haired rebel-without-a-clue, beside the calm and picturesque creek, waiting. Waiting for what? He had no idea. But, it was as nice a place to wait as he could think of.

The ancient stone table the skinny young man sat upon wasn’t all that comfortable, but the water flowing through the creek was quiet and calming. And what nineteen-year-old, eight hundred miles from home, doesn’t need to have his spirit calmed?

I love the water. I think I always have, my propensity for accidents in water notwithstanding. I’ve never really been afraid of water at all.

On that day, my waiting would be rewarded by being able to walk a passing acquaintance, a lovely red-headed young lady, to her door at the other end of town. I’ve walked with her many more miles since that day.

But that’s a rabbit trail for another day. Today, I’m thinking about the water.

Quiet and rippling, the kind of stream you want to skip stones across or float on in a canoe, trailing your fingers in the cool wetness. Perhaps, one could even toss a baited hook into one of the deeper pools along the edge, awaiting a tug from a curious bream or bluegill.

We love water. When it’s behaving, we love it.

Last fall, I stood on an old concrete bridge, not fifty feet from where the unwitting young man awaited his future love all those years ago, and I took the photo you see above.

You see why I love the water, don’t you?

But tonight I’m rethinking my admiration, my lifelong delight with water. I’m not so sure anymore.

Why the change of heart?

See for yourself.

I stood this morning on that same concrete bridge and snapped the picture. It wasn’t calm. I wasn’t calm. I was disoriented—discombobulated—as the Lovely Lady’s father would have described it.

The furious flow, rising nearly two feet over the little stone dam, tumbled and roiled down below me, riotously overflowing its normal channel. The sheer motion of the water was terrifying, the volume that passed under the little bridge I stood upon causing it to shake and vibrate.

I’m not sure anyone who fell into that flow would have escaped alive. From where I stood, it was only a couple hundred feet to where the water was forced under a single-lane bridge, continuing on beside the park, moving still faster as the rocky bottom of the creek dropped down again and again.

I didn’t dally on the bridge.

How does that happen? How is it that something I’ve loved for all of my life, something so placid and lovely, turned into a hideous nightmare, ready to consume everything in its path?

There are other things that seem to do that, aren’t there? Families, marriages, friendships we’ve been part of—relationships so calm and loving, so fulfilling. And yet, in the blink of an eye, they can seem to be monstrous, poised to consume all that has been good.

There are so many more situations and things we treasure that turn ugly and terrifying in such a short time. Our work. Our neighborhoods. Our churches.

For years we float in the gentle current, row-row-rowing our boat gently down the stream, and suddenly we’re screaming at our God to wake up and save us before we die.

He will, you know. Save us.

It doesn’t always work in the same way He did it back then. Sometimes, instead of saying, “Peace, be still,” to the waves, he asks us why we’re so afraid of the storm.

And sometimes, He just asks us to trust Him as our stumbling feet carry us on through the roiling water.

I believe He’ll bring us through. The apostle (who my parents thought it would be nice to name me after) suggested that these are only temporary troubles. (2 Corinthians 4:17)

It doesn’t seem like they’re all that temporary. But when we look back at them we’ll laugh at how they terrified us so.

Troubles aren’t eternal. They’re not immortal.

We are.

By afternoon today, the waters in our little creek were already receding, the frightening currents slowing to a noisy gurgle. As if nothing was ever amiss, the stream flows on down to the river it is tributary to, making its quiet way eventually to the Gulf of Mexico, hundreds of miles to our south.

I think I may go stand on that little bridge again tomorrow.

I love the water.

Don’t you?

When you go through deep waters,
    I will be with you.
When you go through rivers of difficulty,
    you will not drown.
When you walk through the fire of oppression,
    you will not be burned up;
    the flames will not consume you.
(Isaiah 43:2, NLT)

Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.
(Charlie Chaplin)

Christmas Begins Again

December 9, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I sat in that church sanctuary again last Sunday evening. You know—the one I had never been to before. I never expected to go there again. But the Lovely Lady needed to make a return visit. I needed to be with her.

What I didn’t know was that I also needed to be with that group of people. It wasn’t just the choir this time. The sanctuary was filled with bodies. Old ones. Young adult ones. Little children’s bodies.

These weren’t my people. I worship in a building filled with chairs instead of pews, where a church calendar is barely acknowledged (I remember Christmas Sundays when the pastor carried on with his expository series in Romans, just as if it were any other Sunday), and where the impact of items in the sanctuary is more functional than symbolic.

The service was all symbolism. All of it. Even the music. There was a lot of that. The Lovely Lady played her flute with the choir. Her brother played the pipe organ. There were guitars and drums. And an accordion. Along with the piano, they all combined to draw us into worship.

Did I say these weren’t my people?

They were. They are.

How have we decided we are not related? When did we begin to determine our relationships by differences in style? In doctrinal differences? In musical preferences?

I sat in that sanctuary, a stranger surrounded by family members long estranged.

And we worshipped together.

Together.

If Jesus does not bring us together, pushing aside our differences, are we truly following Him?

If love and kinship in Him do not still draw us to each other, how will we ever worship together in eternity, in that great gathering around His throne?

“Oh come let us adore Him.
Worship Christ the Lord.”

Adore.

Do we?

Will we?

Keep Both Hands on the Handlebars

August 21, 2020August 24, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The university campus looks different this school year. A lot different. Face masks with social distancing are the rule of the day. Outside classes. Meals in the quad. Tents under the trees and a stage thrown up in the large grassy area.

A lot of work has gone into the preparations for the resumption of school in this time of uncertainty. All are hoping the unseen enemy may be held at bay by the weapons and schemes being utilized.

Time will tell.

On a recent afternoon, I walked up to collect the Lovely Lady, who works there. It’s not a long walk. I don’t wear any protective gear—no helmet, no gloves, no goggles—since it’s not usually a dangerous walk.

I may have to reconsider now.

On that recent afternoon, I strode onto campus from the crosswalk at the four-way stop, assuming I had navigated the only iffy spot and would be home-free until I had her safely by my side. I glanced at the pavement ahead of me.

The westward border of the university grounds shares its walking right-of-way with the city’s fitness trail, so I’m never surprised if I meet a cyclist, speed-walker, or jogger there.

Still, the sight that met my eyes that day was a little perplexing. Nevertheless, I continued on my way, straight toward the individual coming at me. It was a college-aged young lady, out for an afternoon ride on her bicycle.

She was prepared. She had even donned a helmet, an accoutrement notably absent from the wardrobe of most college riders I see daily. She was also wearing a face mask properly, over both the mouth and nose, fastened behind her head.

She had another necessary tool with her, one I never go out on my own bike without. The cell phone is invaluable to me, giving me a map, should I need one. More than that, it links me with the Lovely Lady at home via the GPS function which will let her know where to send the EMTs, should I fall into a ditch or ravine.

But, that’s where the preparation thing unraveled. The young lady was pedaling down the trail toward me at a fairly high rate of speed, with no hands on the handlebars of her bicycle! Not one!

I was further astonished to see that she was holding her smartphone in front of her body, both thumbs moving a mile a minute as she tapped out a text.

No hands and no eyes!

I’m not lying when I tell you I don’t think she ever saw me. It is possible she was aware of my presence, but I’m certain she would never have recognized me should the need to identify a body arisen. And, that was appearing more likely by the second.

I moved off of the right side of the trail to give her a wide berth. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh out loud or to yell at her. I did neither and, of course, since I’m still here to relate the story, she sped right on past, with no necessity to identify a body afterward.

I have some thoughts about the event. Why certainly, I’d be delighted to share them!

Preparation without execution is meaningless.

Or, as the Preacher would have said, vanity. Useless and void.

All the training completed ahead of time and any amount of protective equipment donned is without purpose, if there is no follow-through. If we don’t keep our eye on the goal—if our attention is drawn away—failure is nearly assured.

In this battle we (society) and the university are in right now, the enemy is invisible. Oh, the enemy’s consequences are clear, but if they are visible to us, it’s too late.

Somehow, the young lady has reminded me of important lessons I believed were learned in my younger days. It is certain that, if I ever really learned them, I have forgotten them again.

Everywhere we turn these days, we see the result of spiritual battles. Across the world, we see them. Sometimes, just across our tables, we see them. Results.

Disastrous results.

Hate. Apathy. Despair. Racism. Violence.

I forget, again and again, that my enemy has never been a human being. Never.

The Apostle who loved to write letters was so very clear on that point, reminding the believers at Ephesus exactly who their enemy was—the unseen and terrifying power at work all around them.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world rulers of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavens. (Ephesians 6:12, NET)

If the one we’ve called enemy has a beating heart, blood running through their veins, and is breathing air, we have identified the wrong suspect.

It doesn’t matter what the person’s position is, what organization he or she represents, and what heinous (or pedestrian) transgressions they stand accused of in our judgment.

If we claim to be followers of Christ and hate them, we lie.

We lie.

All our lives, we have prepared. We have studied; we have discussed. We have tried on the protective gear, turning it this way and that, getting comfortable in it.

For this reason, take up the full armor of God so that you may be able to stand your ground on the evil day, and having done everything, to stand. (Ephesians 6:13, NET)

Why is it, when we have all the preparation down—all the defensive and offensive tools—why is it we take our hands off the handlebars and text our Moms?

It’s not only the college kids and us, either.

The sons of Ephraim were ready with their bows. But they turned away in the day of fighting. (Psalm 78:9, NLV)

Fighting men, they were. Well trained. Well equipped. But, in the day when they were put to the test, they turned tail and ran. Or maybe, they just lost focus. Perhaps, it didn’t seem so important anymore.

I know many in both groups. Many are paralyzed by fear. I know some in this group who are turning tail and running. Just when the preparation they’ve done would be the most help, they’ve decided they want no part of the battle.

And then, there are those who have lost interest. Apathy (or is it despair?) has them in its grip and they have turned their attention elsewhere. On the day of battle, they’ve got better things to do.

I don’t want to be in either of those groups.

There is no reason for us to live in fear. God is with us. Always.

If we turn away, the battle is lost.

So, why does it feel like we’re boxing with shadows?

Perhaps, it’s because we are. Only, like that old Pink Panther cartoon I viewed recently, the shadows are fighting back.

Ah, but do you know what defeats shadows? Every time? Of course, you do.

The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5, NIV)

No shadow can lay a glove on us when we walk in the Light.

Prepare.

Execute.

Stand.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1, KJV)

If you don’t know where you are going, you’ll end up someplace else. (Yogi Berra ~ Athlete, Coach, Philosopher)

Headstrong

April 15, 2020April 15, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Image by Jose’ Alejandro Cuffia on Unsplash

Headstrong.

It’s not a complimentary word. There’s a reason for that.

It was a lifetime ago. The highlight of summer camp was always the time we spent riding horses. For this kid, anyway. Swimming was good; archery, too. But horseback riding? The pinnacle of every day was the time spent in the saddle.

Before we rode, we actually had to saddle the beasts. It was no small accomplishment to wrestle those heavy western-style leather saddles up above our heads, but the wranglers wouldn’t do it for us. Then there was the bridle—with a bit.

Some horses didn’t care much for that process. I’m remembering that, as a 10-year-old boy, I didn’t either. Those teeth were larger than I was comfortable with. A few of the beasts didn’t mind nipping with them, either.

I learned.

Well? It was either learn or go do leather-craft.

After the bit went into the mouth, the bridle had to go over the ears. And it had to fit. Not too tight. Not too loose. Too tight, and it could injure the horse. Too loose and it could injure the rider. That’s right. The rider.

I found that out the hard way. One day, as we were riding the trail—the one with the barbed-wire fence on one side, and the mesquite trees and prickly-pear cactus on the other—the wrangler noticed the straps of the bridle on my horse were slack over his head. He made a comment about it but decided we could wait until we were back at the corral to readjust the strap. In hindsight, it wasn’t a great decision.

Mere moments later, the skittish horse jerked his head and, chomping his teeth down on the bit that was hanging a little too low, took off running. At first, it was just a trot, but within a few feet, the gait turned into an all-out gallop.

I stuck in the saddle like a sand-burr on a sock, but the headstrong pony soon left the trail. Fortunately for me, he headed into the cactus and mesquite instead of the other direction. I’ve seen what happens when a horse runs his rider into a barbed-wire fence. Still, I was terrified.

Ducking below the low-hanging branches of the stunted trees and pulling my legs up as high above the cactus as I could, I sawed on the reins, but to no avail. With the bit lodged where my mount was in control of it, nothing I could do affected him in the slightest.

It might have been all of 20 seconds (it seemed much longer) before the wrangler caught up to us and, pulling his horse in front of mine, reached over and grabbed the cheek strap of the bridle, turning my horse gently in a circle and then to a stop.

I got off and tightened up the bridal strap.

Then I pulled some prickly-pear spines from my leg. The ones I could get to. There would be more pain later.

Headstrong. It’s a good word to describe a horse with the bit between its teeth. Somehow, it seems, the word might be used to characterize more than just horses.

But I don’t want to leave the horses just yet. I’m remembering another time when we were riding all those years ago.

It wasn’t all barbed-wire fences and cactus out there. At one point the trail led through a mowed field, with grass on either side. The wrangler who was with us suggested we might like to learn what it was like to sit astride a galloping horse.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Give him his head.”

It was beautiful. Beautiful and frightening. But mostly it was beautiful.

My mount, given permission to run, took the opportunity and stretched out. Like sitting in a rocking chair, it was. Sort of. Nothing like that wild dash through the bush and cactus had been, anyway.

As we neared the perimeter of the meadow, all it took was a gentle backward pressure on the reins in my hands, and the cooperative beast slowed to a trot and then to a walk.

It was the same horse. Both times.

No. They didn’t take the animal out and shoot him after he had run me through the cactus and mesquite, bit held firmly in teeth. They knew what he was capable of. Good and bad.

There was still hope for him.

For days, I’ve been thinking about the Scripture reading I did during Holy Week. Just last week, on Thursday night. It doesn’t seem to fit much with an old man’s memories of summer camp, but stick with me a little while longer.

I read about something Jesus said on the same night in which He was betrayed. (1 Corinthians 11:23 ~ KJV)

How many times have I heard the words? The pastor stands before his congregation, the communion table behind him and reads again the familiar passage.

But, did you know the Savior did—and said—other things on that fateful night besides eating the last supper?

On that same night, the night on which He was betrayed, He told Peter, the headstrong disciple, that he would deny his Teacher, not once, but three times.

He knew the man.

Knew how impetuous he was. How stubborn. How inclined to go his own way.

He had already prayed that Peter’s faith wouldn’t fail. And, these—these—are the words He says to Peter:

“When you have turned back to me, strengthen your brothers.”
(Luke 22:32 ~ NET)

Before Peter denied being His follower, He was assured of restoration.

Before!

Chew on that a minute.

Peter would turn around (repent). He would spend his last breath and his last reserve of strength serving and encouraging his brothers.

But I am just now digesting, just now getting the slightest glimmer of comprehension of the love of this Savior who came for us.

He will never let go of us!

Headstrong though we are—and that, we are—He restores us again and again.

What I am declaring is this: The One we serve, the One who holds us in His hand, is able to hold us until we stand before Him in Glory.

His forgiveness knows no limit, His mercy has no boundary.

I have been the headstrong horse, again and again, taking the bit between my teeth and going my own way. At a gallop, going my own way.

Still, He calls me back. From the brambles and from the desert, He restores me to the green pastures and cool waters.

Sometimes—in His good time—He even gives me my head.

I’d like to run along this path for a while. There’s room for more than one here.

It’ll be beautiful and frightening. Mostly, just beautiful.

Are you coming with?

I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee…
(Luke 15:18 ~ KJV)

I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.
(John 10:28 ~ NIV)

And does Jesus, our Messiah, hold forever those He loves? (He does)
(from Is He Worthy ~ Andrew Peterson/Ben Shive)

The World Changers are Living Just Next Door to Me

September 12, 2019September 12, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are evenings when the Lovely Lady and I retreat to our den, huddled or sprawled—whichever—in our comfortable corners, and chew bubble gum. Well, it’s not real bubble gum; that stuff wreaks havoc on the dental work at our time of life.

The bubble gum we chew is of a more enigmatic character. Mental bubble gum, I like to call it. Time-wasting programs on the television; game shows or travelogues, sometimes a murder mystery.

Why the term bubble gum? The similarity must be evident to even the most unconcerned of observers; something to occupy the facilities, but not to overtax their abilities. No actual tasting and swallowing (and certainly, no nutrition), simply a repetition of motion and result, until finally, there is no desire left for the tasteless pap.

On this evening, however, I sat up and listened. Virtually speaking, we had traveled with the host of a certain travelogue to the islands of Scotland. Being of Scots-Irish descent, I thought perhaps I might learn something of interest. And, strangely enough, I did.

You may have heard the story before, of the struggles of a Scotsman named Calum MacLeod, living out his life on the island of Raasay, just to the east of the more well-known Isle of Skye. A crofter (one who makes a living off the land, usually as a tenant farmer) and a lighthouse keeper by trade, he and his neighbors saw the government build good roads on the more populous southern end of the island while they still had to walk the final two miles to their homes and farms from the northern end of the road.

In the mid-1960s, at the age of 56, Calum decided one day that, in the absence of help from the government, he would remedy the inequity himself. For most of the next 10 years, he single-handedly built a road for the last mile and three-quarters to the settlement where he and his wife, among others, lived and farmed.

With no better tools than his pick, shovel, and wheelbarrow, and aided by the knowledge gained from an engineering manual he purchased, Calum (when he wasn’t working at his other jobs) dug, and carried, and laid a roadway that could be traveled by car to an area hitherto inaccessible to most vehicles.

Today, Calum’s Road stands, a testimony to one man’s desire to have a positive impact on his world. A mile and three-quarters of single-lane roadway leading to a place where, when it was completed, only he and his wife still lived.

A world changer, I call old Calum. Claims of empty conquest aside, his indomitable resolve and plodding triumph will etch his name indelibly into the list of those who leave this world better than they found it.

Recently, I read an article written by a friend about another world changer, Percy Spencer. You too can read about Mr. Spencer here: 5 Lessons from a World-Changer.

It’s a story about a man who had a chocolate bar melt in his pocket. Now he’s a world changer. Strange, that.

The thing is, Mr. Spencer’s reaction to the melted chocolate bar was to develop a device now present in most homes in our country, and indeed, many around the world. Yesterday’s coffee—the eye-opening potion I drink from my mug while I wait for a fresh pot to brew each morning—is steaming hot in seconds because of the microwave oven. My lunch of last night’s leftovers is a snap to prepare inside this electronic box. No muss, no fuss. Set the time, wait a few seconds, and eat the hot food.

World changer. He is that. Because of a melted chocolate bar, and his response to it. Read the article.

World changer. It’s a strange term.

We both love and hate world changers.

They are our heroes and our villains, our ideal and our reproach. They are always people who do big things in a big way that transform the pattern of life on this planet.

Or, are they?

We have been programmed in our day and age to accept the fact that some humans—a very small number of us—are world changers, stars if you will, while most are only extras, wandering the movie set in search of our opportunity to get an autograph or a selfie with one of these celebrities.

The programming is a lie.

I would suggest that I know no one who is not a world changer. Every one of the people I see as I walk downtown, through the park, around the university, and on the country roads is a world changer in their own right. And yes, all the people of Walmart are world changers.

I am a world changer.

You are, too.

I hope it makes you feel good. It did me—for a few seconds.

The reality is that none of us lives in a vacuum, a sterile environment where others are unaffected by our actions and our words. We change the world around us by reacting and responding, by speaking and acting, by turning away or by our involvement.

Every single word. Every single action. Potential world changing events.

Dramatic, isn’t it? I don’t intend it to be. Over the top, I mean.

But, if you will stop and think, all of history is an amalgamation of the results of words and actions, most of which the author thought insignificant as they were initiated, but some of which were premeditated to bring about the desired result.

Regardless of the intent, the world is constantly being changed by insignificant (and significant) choices, leading to action and to communication.

Oh. Now, I don’t feel so good.

I’m remembering some of the horrible words I’ve said. And, some of the despicable deeds I have committed.

What if those are the world changing footprints I am going to leave behind? What if they—or even, just one of them—become the thing for which I will be remembered?

Or worse, what if those vile actions and words convince just one person to abandon his or her search for God’s truth for their life? And that person convinces just one. And that person…

This being a world changer isn’t at all what I had hoped it would be! What a burden!

I wonder though.

He—the One we claim to follow—promised a light burden and an easy harness (Matthew 11:28-30). Perhaps, I make the task more difficult than it really is.

Are we not all then, world changers?

We are! Of this, there can be no doubt.

The reality is we are changed to bring change.

We reflect what has shined into us. The Light of the World cannot be overcome by the darkness. And, He has shined into our hearts, we who come to Him in faith.

Light, we are.

And salt.

World changers.

Using whatever tools He has placed in our hands, and whatever words He has put into our mouths, we are called to change forever the flavor and the beauty of the world through which we walk.

It’s okay to feel good about it.

Even if we’re only pushing a wheelbarrow filled with tools.

They will serve. To build roads.

To change the world.

We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why. Not until the future eats the present, anyway. We know when it’s too late.
(Stephen King)

You are the salt of the earth. But what good is salt if it has lost its flavor? Can you make it salty again? It will be thrown out and trampled underfoot as worthless. You are the light of the world—like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and then puts it under a basket. Instead, a lamp is placed on a stand, where it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father.
(Matthew 5:13-16, NLT)

Did You Just Call Me Stiff-Necked?

August 9, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The phone jangled in my pocket signaling—well, I didn’t know what. That smartphone (much smarter than I—obviously) is always signaling one thing or another. Since I can’t always identify the different tones, I had to pull it out to see if I was missing something important.

The message was from one of my cycling buddies. “I am going to ride around 10:30.”

Even though it didn’t sound much like an invitation, it was. I like riding my bike. I like riding it with friends. I don’t even mind getting time away from my desk in the middle of the morning.

I turned him down.

“Not today. I woke up with a stiff neck.”

I hear it already.

What a wimp!

Stiff neck? Is that all?

You call yourself a rider?

I will readily agree with the criticism. I am a wimp. I let too much interfere with my riding. My commitment is definitely not on a level with many of my friends.

This is different.

Besides the pain (a secondary consideration, to be sure), there is the problem with my vision. If I can’t see my surroundings clearly, I won’t be able…

What’s that?

My vision? Well, no my eyes aren’t affected.

It’s just that I can really only see what’s straight ahead of me if I can’t turn my head. You have to be able to view everything around you with a full range of vision when you’re riding. Otherwise, you’re just asking for disaster to strike.

I didn’t ride today. Sitting at my desk seemed a safer option.

No one ran into me at all while I was sitting here. It didn’t help my stiff neck any, but I was safe.

I didn’t get any exercise. Neither am I lying in a ditch.

Safety first. I suppose it’s a decent enough consideration. Still, I get the feeling I’m missing something.

Can we go back to the stiff neck for a minute? While I was sitting at my computer earlier, holding my neck with whichever hand was free, I began to wonder about that description of our malady.

MY…My malady.

I’ve known for a long time when someone calls you stiff-necked it means you’re stubborn.

Persistent.

Obstinate.

Intractable.

Tenacious.

There are other words we often use in place of stiff-necked. The red-headed lady who raised me—always with an old saw at the ready for any situation—simply said I was stubborn as an old mule. Except for when she described me as pigheaded.

But then, I always like to put things (at least my own actions) in a positive light. I think the word I would choose is focused.

Focused is good, isn’t it?

I have a goal in mind and I travel, unwavering in my single-minded attention to the objective.

I listen to the voices around me and I am encouraged.

Follow your own path.

Seek your true purpose.

Don’t let anyone or anything convince you to abandon your dream.

We love comfort, don’t we? We long for safety.

Like this humble cyclist, we shun any hint of imprudence. Avoiding danger at all cost, we seek old, well-worn paths already known to us.

Then, when our Creator gives us new directions to follow, new roads to travel, we are reluctant to turn aside. Our intransigence, our single-mindedness comes from our stiff necks.

We have a limited field of vision. And, we like it that way.

Is it any wonder He used the exact words—stiff-necked— to describe His own followers again and again?

God wants us to open our eyes and be aware of our surroundings. All of our surroundings. He wants us to see, not only the blessings He has for us, but also the difficulties and the tasks that await us.

When He has new things for us, we may have to shift our focus from what we’ve done previously to the new roads ahead.

I don’t know what those roads will be like. I’d like to think I’m past all the difficulties. I want to believe I’ve learned all the hard lessons.

We desire the pleasant, the comfortable. And, it’s possible that’s where He may lead us. David spoke of that path, of that lot in life:

The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;
Yes, I have a good inheritance.
(Psalm 16:6, NKJV)

Somehow, I think it just as likely our road will take us through difficult and dangerous locales. It is where our God likes to make his new roads, the roads only people with open eyes and flexible necks will be able to follow:

See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:19, NIV)

The wilderness is new and strange. Wasteland seems uncomfortable, perhaps even dangerous.

New territory.

Often, when I ride my bicycle, I ride familiar, well-traveled roads. They always take me to the same places I’ve been to before. Every time.

I’d like to try a new road or two before I’m done.

I’m going to do that.

When my neck is feeling better.

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
(from The Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

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