A Day For A Hero

April 19, 2019April 19, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

(Today’s post is a repeat of an earlier article. I haven’t changed my mind.)

Scott was cool. Well, to this one-time band geek he was. The big offensive back was six feet tall and all muscle. He was no slouch on the football field either. I was sure he was going to be a star running back.

But, that was before.

I was there when it happened. Not that I had any part in the event.

Okay. To be honest, I didn’t even know what was going on. I just knew something bad had happened.

Scott dated a girl in the band, so occasionally he and a few of his football buddies would come to our marching practices at the stadium. They would sit in the stands and yell encouragement once in a while. We could tell they were having a good time, but most of us had no idea how good.

That all came to an end one Tuesday evening. We heard the next day about how it had shaken out.

What we hadn’t been able to tell from our disadvantaged perspective down on the playing field was that the fellows kept up their high spirits in the stands with just that–spirits. Each Tuesday evening, one of the guys would find someone to get him a carton of beer since he was underage. He would distribute the bottles to the guys before they ascended to their seats in the bleachers. Then they would spend the next couple of hours joking and cheering—and sipping.

It seems that finally somebody on the staff figured out what was happening and alerted the school administration. On that fateful Tuesday evening, the boys were unaware a trap was about to be sprung. However, just moments before the head football coach started up the steps to where they were, one of the jocks figured out something was up.

What would they do?

Scott made a quick decision. He would be the martyr—the hero.

“Quick guys! Shove your bottles under my seat. Then move away from me before they can get up here.”

They protested, but only weakly. Within seconds, the preparations were completed, and Steve was by himself in the stands, evidence galore to be found under his seat.

He was finished as a football player. Shamed and kicked off the team, he would never play offensive back again.

The other boys?

They played football that Friday night. They played football every other Friday night of football season as long as they were in school.

All because one guy had taken the brunt of their punishment. One guy had accepted responsibility for their contraband.

The school was abuzz the next day and for several after that. It wasn’t fair! They all should have been punished! Scott was the good guy here, but he was paying the price! Where was the justice?

Students protested to teachers and administration alike, but it was for naught. The rules were clear and he had broken them. Under-age drinking on school grounds—there would be no reversal of the decision.

Scott was a hero.

Or, was he?

It is Good Friday once again. Today is a day to consider heroes.

No.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

Today, we commemorate the Cool Guy who took the beer bottles for every person in the world and claimed them as His own.

Right about now, I’m guessing there are some readers who are offended.

More than a few of you are unhappy I described the Savior as a cool guy–as if many who followed Him didn’t do so because they saw Him as what we would today call cool.

Some of you who wouldn’t touch a drop of alcohol if you were dying of thirst are offended I’ve equated your sins with that filthy stuff.

Others, who regularly quaff the liquid are offended because you think I’ve equated your sins with the refreshing drink.

Even though both assumptions are wrong, I will admit I’m almost hopeful that you are offended.

I am offended.

I am offended that The Hero had to take the penalty for my wrongdoing. We’re not talking about being kicked off the team here. My wrongdoing had a slightly more weighty penalty attached.

The penalty for my sins was death.

I am offended that I so lightly regard the Heroic act—accomplished on this day nearly two thousand years ago–that I return to my beer bottles again and again.

As Peter, one of our Hero’s followers (who himself faded into the crowd to avoid punishment) later reminded us, like a pig who has been cleaned up, we return to the filth of the wallow.

Is that offensive enough for you?

Try this on then–Like a dog, I come back to eat my own vomit. Yes, also Peter’s words. (2 Peter 2:22)

Are you offended by the crudeness?

Are you offended by the crudeness? Share on X

Will you, just for a moment, think of where the real offense was–and is?

God made a perfect place for us to live and we rejected Him. Again and again, He offered ways of escape.

It was no surprise to Him, but again and again, the human race laughed in His face.

And then, in the fullness of time, at just exactly the right moment, He sent His own Son, the Hero of Heaven, to be born.

The Hero walked with us. He taught us. He loved and healed us.

And we repaid Him by shoving our beer bottles under His chair and slinking out into the night.

We were so crude as to spit on Him, and taunt Him, and beat Him.

We left Him to face the bitter end—the penalty for our evil ways.

Alone. Naked. Beaten. Bleeding.

And, in spite of the offense, and the crudeness, and the rejection, He never wavered in resolve.

He would take the offense to the grave.

Our offense.

Mine. Yours.

Scott was a nice guy. A loyal friend, even. But, never a hero.

You see, if you count the beer bottles under his chair and then count the buddies who skulked away from him, you will come up with one extra. Count them again.

You’ll see that I’m right. One extra.

One that belonged to Scott.

Scott simply got what was coming to him. He didn’t pay the price for anyone else’s wrongdoing, only his own.

Not a single one of the sins piled under that horrible, offensive cross on that Friday so many years ago belonged to the Hero who hung on it, bleeding and beaten.

They are too numerous to be counted. I know. I’ve contributed too many of my own. Perhaps you have, too.

But, the fact still remains. Not one was His own.

Not. One.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
(Henry Ward Beecher ~ Congregationalist clergyman ~ 1813-1887)

For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare even to die. But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:7.8 ~ NASB)

Put it Down

October 29, 2015October 29, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Three times.

Not once. Not twice. Three times.

The messenger had to come through my doors three separate times today. I got the message on the third attempt.

Loud and clear, I got the message.

Early this afternoon, I spoke with him on the telephone.

“Hey Paul. Do you have some drum parts?”

Well, of course I have some drum parts. I needed more information. He clarified the request.

“I broke a lug-mount on the side of my tom.” (Just so you know, a drummer never calls it a tom-tom, just a tom.)

I told the fellow I thought we might find a used one somewhere and hung up after hearing he would be by later in the afternoon. Then I went about my labors, never giving the conversation another thought.

He arrived some time later with the broken part in his hand. I looked at it and went to scour the salvaged parts box. But, I found no tom lug-mount—at least, not one which would fit his drum.

Suddenly an idea came to me, and I headed up to the front of the store. Sitting next to the wall is a stack of cheap drums. When I say cheap, I mean worthless. I really don’t want to sell them, they’re so horrible.

The lug-mounts were the perfect size! I removed one and carried it to where he was awaiting my verdict. The man was ecstatic!

Never asking about the cost, he set a little box on the counter and showed me the contents: Miscellaneous parts, scavenged from an old electric guitar.

“I was hoping this would be about the same value.”

I made the trade with him and he left.

It never occurred to me that the man had no money to pay. Even after I made the swap, it never dawned on me. I now had a few parts to sell to someone else. It was the same a cash to me, or almost so. I was satisfied.

Half an hour later, he was back.

“Another one broke, Paul.” He had a hang-dog look on his face, as if I would be upset with him.

No problem. I removed another lug-mount from the same drum and laid it on the counter in front of him. He had some other miscellaneous parts in his pocket and I took them, plunking them in the box with his first offering.

As he left, cheerfully telling me he’d be back soon, I sat back down at my desk, deep in thought. Something was bothering me, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

Ah, well. It would come to me. Or not. I went about my business once more.

Half an hour later, he walked through my door again. I wasn’t even surprised to see him. As soon as I saw his face, the something that I couldn’t put my finger on came in a flash.

He needed a drum. The whole drum. Otherwise, I was going to see him every half-hour for the rest of the day. Or however long it took to replace all the lug-mounts on the one he had. One at a time.

He had no money. That, too was clear by now.

Did I mention that the drum I had was worthless? Did I say the word horrible? I may have forgotten to tell you that it was given to me.

Given to me.

I was the one with a hang-dog look on my face now. Walking back up to the stack of drums—the ones which had cost me nothing—I picked up the entire drum and laid it gingerly on the glass counter he leaned against.

“Yours. No charge.”

He laughed. There was no humor in the laugh, but he was relieved.

“I was going to have to owe you for this one. I don’t have anything more I can trade and now I need gas in my car. I’ll just drive my wife’s until I get paid.”

Do you ever wonder if you’ll know God’s messenger when you see him?

I know the answer to that question now. It will take me a few tries, but eventually I’ll know him—or her.

I want a voice in the dark.

Samuel got that. Of course, it took him three times too, but he was just a boy. God hadn’t talked with him before.

Three times, God called him before he answered, “Talk to me Lord. I’m listening.” (I Samuel 3)

I want the voice in the dark, but instead, I get a guy who needs drum parts. Still, three times, the messenger came. I should have been a little quicker on the uptake.

But, after the third time, I was listening.

Talk to me God. I’m ready to listen finally.

I wish the lesson were something so simple as just giving away a useless, junk drum. I obeyed, right? I want that to be the end of it.

It’s not the end of it.

I look around and I realize I’m surrounded with stuff. Things. Most, I have purchased with cash. Some, I have traded for. It’s all stuff.

None of it belongs to me.

Finally, I hear the messenger. None of the stuff, this dragon’s hoard upon which I rest, is mine.

Understand this. I said the junk drum was given to me. That was true. And, in my self-centered heart, I want to differentiate between that and all the things I have worked and paid for.

There is no difference.

From Him. Through Him. All things. (Romans 11:35-36)

Oh! Did I forget something? Oh yes. To Him.

They didn’t just come from Him and through His provision.

They are His.

Every last lug mount. And drum.

And the guy behind the counter, too.

His.

Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~ American poet ~ 1807-1882)

Then the Lord said to him, “What is that in your hand?”
“A staff,” he replied.
The Lord said, “Throw it on the ground.”
(Exodus 4:2,3a ~ NIV)

Light the Match!

May 26, 2015May 26, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

What a day!

It had been a beautiful time–the stuff of dreams for the skinny boy. Twelve years old, he was on his first real camp out. The two-hour ride to the lake in the back of the old pickup truck wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it might sound. Besides, Mr. Bell had the foresight to find a place about halfway to the campsite where the group of Junior High boys could play a game of basketball in an old dilapidated gymnasium.

When they reached the lake, the tattered old tent was erected quickly as all of the eight or so boys and their two leaders pitched in. The tent had seen a lot of these trips over the years Mr. Bell had given his time for groups just like these boys. They didn’t care. It looked perfect to them.

That job complete, they grabbed their cheap Zebco spinning rods and reels from the floor of the truck and headed down to the lake to see what they could catch for supper.

The skinny kid chewed on the stem of a match as he cast his hook out again. All he had snagged so far was a tiny bream or two, and he wasn’t about to keep them. The rest of the boys had about the same luck, but still, there were a couple of perch caught worth keeping.

They weren’t worried about starving. The cooler packed with hot dogs was back at camp, along with the makings for S’mores. Even the boys who couldn’t stand the taste of fish were assured of having a decent meal. There were a couple dozen eggs in the cooler, too. Breakfast would come, in time.

“Time to head back up to camp, boys!” The big voice from Mr Bell, himself a big man, echoed across the lake.

From all along the shore, the boys groaned, but they dutifully wound up their lines and headed for the tent and a hot meal. Before that could happen, there was a fire to be built and even a couple of fish to be cleaned.

The skinny kid wearing the horn-rimmed glasses knew how to clean fish, so he volunteered to help while the others gathered kindling and firewood. Scraping scales and removing the unneeded parts of the perch would be messy work, so he took the match from between his teeth and dropped it into his pocket. It would be safe there.

He finished his part of the job before the others began returning with the makings for the fire, so he headed up the trail toward the restrooms. Not that the boy was all that fastidious, but fishy hands needed to be washed. Even he couldn’t eat with hands covered with scales and. . . Well, you get the picture.

He approached the little wooden structure and, finding a young bat with its wings spread clinging to one of the window screens, spent a few minutes trying to coax it into flight with a long sprig from a nearby mesquite tree. It wouldn’t budge, so finally he just found the water faucet and washed up in the cold water.

Clean again and drying his hands on his tee shirt, he headed back down, realizing as he did that the wind off the lake had picked up quite a bit. It was unusual for the month of June, causing him to shiver a little as he felt the cool gusts in his face.

No matter. The fire would be going soon. They would be warm enough.

The boy arrived at the campsite just in time to hear Mr. Bell ask the question.

“Well, now what do we do? Does anybody else have matches?”

The situation was immediately clear to the lad. Someone had forgotten to check the match supply. When the box was opened, only three of the sulphur and pine fire-starters were to be found.

“No problem,” Mr. Bell had said. “It only takes one.”

He had lit the match and then shoved it down toward the newspaper wadded among the kindling. The wind snuffed it out on the way down. The second followed, with the same result.

Carefully shielding the third and last match in his hand and keeping it right next to the paper, he managed to get the flaring flame to light the edge. Still shielding the blazing kindling, he waited a moment before backing away. A gust of wind puffed the flame out in that instant.

“Anybody?” The big voice was almost plaintive as Mr. Bell repeated the word. “A match?”

The skinny boy clamped his mouth shut. He said not one word about the match in his pocket. Not a word.

Two things kept him quiet. The first thing was a little silly. But, not to him, it wasn’t.

The match was his. His. And, nobody else’s.

What’s that? Selfish, was it? Sure. But, he wasn’t wrong. It was his. Besides that, the second thing wasn’t silly at all. Well, maybe a little silly, but again, not to him.

He needed that match. In case.

In case what?

Duh! If he was starving, he could light a fire to cook something. If he was freezing, he could get warm. If he was lost in the wilderness, he could build a signal fire to attract attention.

His. His last match.

If they used that match and it blew out, all hope would be gone. No chance of a fire over which to cook, nor to be warmed by. As long as it remained unlit, he had hope.

No fire, but hope.

They ate cold hotdogs and chocolate bars with whole marshmallows that night. There were no fried eggs for breakfast the next morning either. Bread and apples slices. That was what the shivering boys ate before they broke camp to head back home.

The skinny kid kept the match in his pocket all the way home.

Silly, huh? Dumb twelve-year-old kid.

What adult would think like that? Why would anyone keep quiet about a treasure they had hidden which could be of value to others?

What good is hope if a person never bothers to put it to the test?

When I write, there is usually no dearth of words to make my point. The narrative complete, I always have a moral to offer. Tonight should be no different.

But, I don’t want to fill the page with more words.

You see, the twelve-year old kid still lives in me.

Maybe, it’s time to light the match and see what happens.

“But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him?”
(I John 3:17 ~ NASB)

“One who cannot cast away a treasure at need is in fetters.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ English author/poet ~ 1892-1973)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

sacrifice

A Day For A Hero

Put it Down

Light the Match!