savior

A Day For A Hero

~ 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.

Photo by Mica Asato from Pexels

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)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.

What is This Thing?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Not to seem like a Scrooge, but something’s bugging me.  Really.

In less than a week, it will all be over again for a year.  Parties. Pageants. Concerts. Shopping.  All done.

The post-holiday depression will soon have many folks in its grip.  It’s a real thing.  You could look it up.  Or, Google it.  Whatever.  We get used to the people, the good cheer, the busy-ness.  And then, just like that, life has us again.  It’s grip, tenacious and oppressive, threatens to choke the joy from our daily journey.

We crave the extraordinary, the fresh, the exciting.  Life after Christmas seems to offer less.

Less.

I hear the voice in my head.  I have written of it before.  Most readers will have heard it themselves, at one time or another.

“Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”

Linus, his ever-present blanket dragging the floor behind him, is walking to center-stage and calling out, “Lights, please.”

Word for word, he quotes Luke’s version of the angel’s announcement to the shepherds.  (Luke 2:8-14) Ending with on earth peace, goodwill to man, he retrieves his blanket (tossed aside during his monologue) and exits, stage left.

Spectacular! 

Angels!  Lights! Music!

That’s what I’m talking about!

Wait.  It is what I’m talking about, isn’t it? 

Perhaps we should move on a bit.  I’m not absolutely sure Linus had enough time in his moment under the lights to give us the whole picture.

You see, the shepherds got together and actually went to see the thing themselves.  This thing.  That’s what they called it.  This thing.  It’s all there in the verses that follow.  (Luke 2:15-20)

The excitement they felt as they went was palpable; they had to see with their own eyes what had been described to them in such an extraordinary fashion.  I would too, after a display such as that in the heavens overhead.

They got to the place they had been directed to and found—a baby.  A normal newborn baby with an exhausted mother and her worried husband-to-be.

It is what they were told to look for, but the Savior of the world?  This baby, squalling and wrinkled, red from the trauma of childbirth, the long-awaited Messiah?

But, it was exactly what the angel had described—exactly as they had been told.  They went on their way rejoicing.

But, I want to know the rest of the story.

The next day, did they awake and wonder about this whole thing? The Savior thing?  The Messiah thing?

What did they do the day after that?  And, the day after that?

Two or three years later, when the child’s parents had to flee with Him to Egypt, did they hear about it and wonder?  Twelve years later, were they still paying attention at Passover when the boy taught the Rabbis in the temple?  Did one of them taste the wine that had been water in Cana, or see the boats foundering under the weight of the fish in the Sea of Galilea?

Did they ever again feel the awe and joy in their lifetimes?  Ever?

Or, did they feel the let-down of disappointment, of expectations unmet?  They had felt the surge of emotion, of certainty that better things were to come. Did they live out their days in disillusionment and doubt?

And again, perhaps I’m focusing on the wrong thing.  I tend to do that, you know.  The red-headed lady who raised me could have told you that.

You just can’t see the forest for the trees, can you?

Details get in the way; peripherals seem to jump into the spotlight.  It’s what we do with our celebration, isn’t it?  Every year. 

Trees.  When the forest is spread out before us in plain sight.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible.  He wants us to see the thing.  This thing.

Unto you is born a Savior.

We look for the spectacular, the incredible. He wants us to see the thing. This thing. Unto you is born a Savior. Share on X

The spectacular thing?  He came as a baby.  Not a king.  Not a conquering hero.  He came as a crying, stinking, weak baby.

The incredible thing?  He came for us.  You.  Me.

Did I say life after Christmas offers less?  I did, didn’t I?  That’s not what I meant to say.  Without Christmas, the coming of a Savior—the thing the shepherds trooped to Bethlehem to see—there is no life. Well, not real life, the kind that matters in the end—in eternity.

The tidings of great joy had nothing to do with the frightening messengers.  It had nothing to do with the star-gazing magi who would wander into the narrative later.  It certainly has nothing to do with our parties and tinsel and gaudy lights today.

This thing is a baby lying in a manger—our Great God come down to live, and walk, and teach us.  Not in a flash of light and joyful celebration, this thing would take another thirty-three years to be fulfilled.  And still, there would be no flash of light.  In fact, it would become dark at midday as He died for us.

I’m trying to look for the thing this year.  Not presents.  Not music.  Not joyous fellowship.

This thing.

Savior.  King. Hero.

Baby sent from God.

 

 

 

Once in our world, a stable had something in it that was bigger than our world.
(C.S. Lewis ~ English author/theologian ~ 1898-1963)

 

And the angel said unto them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”
(Luke 2:10,11 ~ KJV)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Standing at the Gate

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He did it with a smile on his face.  I saw it happen.

We were waiting for the nice lady at the bank to make a copy for us.  I can’t help it; I watch people.  So, while we waited, I watched.

I watched him lock himself and his dad in the vault.

Just to be clear, it wasn’t the big door—you know, the thick slab made of concrete-filled steel and secured with a time-lock.  This was what they call the day gate—a lighter affair, made with open metal rails that can be seen through.

Even so, I watched the little guy, all of three or four years old, swing the barrier back and forth a time or two.  It moved smoothly and noiselessly, so his dad, engrossed in his own activity inside, had no idea of what was happening.

The lad swung it and let go, reaching quickly to hold it and flip it back.  Looking up at me, he smiled.  There was no forethought or malicious intent in his face, simply the joy of being a child and a moment to entertain himself.

He swung it again, reaching for the edge, but missing.  I held my breath, hoping he’d catch it before it reached the end of its arc.  He didn’t.

Click!

The little fellow gave a tug at the door, but it stayed put.  He didn’t.  With one last sheepish grin, and an almost pleading look at me, he turned and dashed back into the room where his dad was still taking care of the task he had come to do.

The nice lady came back to our table and my attention was diverted from the scenario in the vault.  Even so, as she talked, it nagged at my consciousness.

I never heard a sound.  Still, moments later, I knew something was amiss.  I turned around and, there at the metal gate, saw the boy and his father standing.  This time, the pleading eyes were in the father’s face.  He didn’t say a word, but shrugged his shoulders and grinned—that same sheepish grin I had seen on the boy’s face earlier.

I suggested to the nice lady that she might want to let them out of the vault and she gasped, rushing to get the key and open the gate.

Not a single word passed between the man and me.  He needed help. I did what was in my power.  It wasn’t much.

Still, I haven’t been able to get the picture out of my mind.  The man, standing behind the gate, waiting for freedom.  In my memory, I see nothing but bars—that, and his face behind those bars.

Almost. . .Well—almost as if he were in prison.

I know it’s a stretch, but I can’t help but wonder if there are bars that lock me in, again and again.  Then again, what if the bars actually lock me out, too?

Prison isn’t only being locked in and held against my will.  Sometimes, prison is a place of my own making—the freedom of going where I want and doing what I have chosen.

Bondage can look a lot like freedom to us, if we’re not careful.  The little boy swinging the gate in fun found that out.

I’ve locked myself in more times than I care to count.

Just tonight, I read an email and slid home the bolt on the prison of fear.  Tomorrow may bring an unhappy encounter, so I  entered the cell tonight willingly, muttering to myself as I pulled the gate shut behind me.

The fear of what tomorrow may bring is a barren cell, fraught with pain and distress.  And yet, I may lie sleepless in this dreadful place the entire night.

A conversation with someone earlier today brought about the opportunity of making personal comparisons.  Without a thought, I acknowledged my superiority and in doing so, firmly latched myself into the prison of pride and arrogance.

The incarceration of the prideful may seem to be, at worst, a low-security lock-up.  But, like most hardened criminals, we return again and again, never reformed, to hear the gate click behind us as we fall into the habit of a lifetime.

There are so many prison doors.  Greed.  Gluttony.  Bigotry.  Selfishness.  Lust.  The list stretches as far as the cells in the cell block above.

Sometimes, it seems that others close the doors for us, just like the little boy in the bank.  It matters not.  The lock snaps closed and we are trapped once more.

I’ve spent enough time locked in those cells.  Maybe that’s true for more than just me.

I remember that there is One who holds the key to every door.  Every single one.

Isaiah, the one who seemed to see Him clearly through all the centuries that lay between, said the words first.  He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the prisoner—to open the locked gates behind which they await freedom.  (Isaiah 61:1)

Jesus used the same words to describe Himself.

He is the Key Holder—the Opener of Doors.

He is the Key Holder—the Opener of Doors. Share on X 

Locks, prison doors, barred gates—they mean nothing to Him.

I’m ready for better things.  Easier than the lady at the bank opening that gate, the prison doors will swing wide.

Time to walk free.

Free.

 

What a fool am I, thus to lie in a stinking dungeon, when I may as well walk at liberty? I have a key in my bosom called Promise that will (I am persuaded) open any lock in Doubting Castle.
(from Pilgrim’s Progress ~ John Bunyan ~ 1628-1688)

 

The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me,
Because He has anointed Me
To preach the gospel to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty those who are oppressed.
(Luke 4:18 ~ NKJV ~ Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Already Safe

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are two black labs in my backyard. 

They’re not all that smart.

I would like to believe I’m much more intelligent than they.  Some days (or nights), I think I could even prove the point.

Somehow though, that assumption is not always accurate.  Oh, it’s not as if they are as intelligent as I; just that I am as ignorant as they are.  Yes, I realize it might be a fine line, but there is a difference.  I think.  Or is it, I hope?

It was a dark and stormy night—no, really—a dark and stormy night.  I was heading to bed after a frustrating non-writing session at the computer when I noticed a noise from the backyard.  

The two large dogs, brother and sister, were out in the gale, staring up into the huge mulberry tree.  I’ve seen that stance before.  They have chased a critter up the tree.  

This could take awhile.

There are a few things you should know about this situation.  The first is these dogs are stubborn—tenacious—adamant, even.  

Bull-headed, the red haired lady who raised me would call it.

I shone my light into the branches of the tree and found the object of their attentiveness.  The critter was hiding his face, but as I moved around the storage building in my way, I was rewarded with a glance at his black robber’s mask.

The black monsters had treed a raccoon.  The little fellow was lodged in the fork of the branch.  He wasn’t budging.

Down on the ground, the black beasts weren’t going anywhere, either.

Stalemate.

This didn’t look encouraging.  

I asked myself a couple of questions:

The dogs have a really nice, heated dog house in which to pass cold windy nights.  Do you suppose they might just get cold and retire to their comfy home?

The trunk of the tree up which the raccoon had clambered is actually outside the fenced yard in which the big black dogs run.  Is it possible he would just shinny down the rough bole and scamper across the ground to his lair?

Neither was likely.  I did the only thing that made any sense.

I locked the dogs in the storage building.  There is a carpet on the floor, laid there for just such eventualities, and I had the foresight to put their water bowl in with them—in case they had worked up a thirst in the commotion.

I locked them in and went to bed.  Slept like a baby.

Very early in the morning, I did go outside again. Just for a few seconds.  I shone the flashlight up into the tree to be sure, but I knew what I would find.  There was no raccoon to be seen.

I opened the door to the storage building.  My two best friends lay side by side on the carpet, asleep.  It took them a moment to realize I was at the door, but they slowly got to their feet and stretching, ambled outside.  It was as if none of the frenetic activity in the wee hours of the morning had happened at all.

As if nothing had happened.

They slept as well as I did.  Five feet above the roof of the building in which alsatian-344065_1280they slept, the raccoon was lodged in the crook of the tree branch. Yet, they slept as if the critter were ten miles away.

As for the raccoon, his situation was not much different either.  Ten feet below him, the great hunters were as close as they had ever been.  Maybe closer.  

When he could see them, he wasn’t budging.  Not an inch.  I didn’t stay out to watch, but I don’t imagine it was long after the door closed on the shed that he began his trek down to safety.

May I point out something?  It may come as a surprise to you, but the raccoon was never in any danger.  

Never.

Dogs don’t climb trees.  Can’t.  Won’t.  They weren’t coming up to get him.  So, the little fella just waited.  Once they were gone, he would move, but not one second before.

But, he could have left the tree at any time he wanted!  The tree in which he cowered was planted in a safe place.  He never had to cower.  Not one moment.

He was always safe.  

I wonder.  How many days—weeks—years have we cowered here when all we needed to do was walk to freedom?

While we eye the terrifying circumstances circling around us, safety lies as close as a few steps in the right direction.

But first, we have to tear our eyes away from the dreadful creatures below.

Perhaps, we have the need for a loving Creator to make the creatures get out of our sight.  But, I’m not sure He needs to make them go away—not even sure if He will make them go away while we live in this world.

What if all that is necessary is for us to see that safety is already ours?

The prophet Elisha’s servant certainly needed that.  It was one of my favorite stories in Sunday School many years ago.  It still is.  The servant rose up early in the morning and saw a terrifying enemy surrounding them.  It was all he could see.  Chariots and soldiers.  Spears and clubs.  Arrows and swords.  Just imagine the terror.  Imagine.

Surely, the prophet could have prayed for escape.  A chariot from heaven perhaps?  He had seen that chariot before.  But no—he prayed that his servant would be able to see.  That’s it.  Open his eyes, Lord.  He needs to see.  (2 Kings 6:15-17)

Personally, I still find it hard to say the words.  I want the easy escape.  I want the miracle rescue.

Open my eyes.

Do the miracles come?  They do.  But, why pray for a miracle when He’s already made the way?

Sometimes the snarling savage beasts below just close their eyes and go to sleep.

Sometimes, we just need to get up and walk right out of the prison we’ve made for ourselves.

Open our eyes, Lord.  We need to see.

You.  We need to see You.

 

 

Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.
(from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author/educator ~ 1898-1963)

 

 

For I am the Lord your God
    who takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do not fear;
    I will help you.
(Isaiah 41:13 ~ NIV)

 

 
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

No Goodbyes

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m about done here.  Gave my notice this week.”

My jazz-playing friend slipped the momentous news in between the discussion of his guitar amplifier’s deficiencies and a question about some sheet music.

I almost missed it.

“Let me check on that title and we’ll get it printed for…  Wait!  What?”

Ten years I’ve known the man.  Ten years ago, he was temporarily relocated here with dozens of folks when Hurricane Katrina hit his little city in southern Louisiana.  After a few months, most of the others went back home to New Orleans.  He decided to stay.

Now, Atlanta calls.  People like jazz there.  Enough to pay a living wage to the musicians who love playing it. 

He is leaving.  By the end of the month.  For good.

I didn’t take the news well.  He wants me to be happy for him.  I am. 

It’s me I’m sad for.

I hate goodbye.

Funny.  I knew his stay here was temporary from the start.  We were always going to say goodbye. 

Someday.

Just not today. Or this week.  Or even this month.

It’s easy to get carried away by the weight of a word.  This one just has so much packed into it. 

Goodbye.

Goodbye is what we say when fathers and brothers (and not a few mothers and soldiersgoodbyesisters) go off to war, many never to return.  Goodbye is what we breathe as we watch the over-packed car pull out of the driveway with our child on his or her way to college.  Goodbye is what we sob when the casket is closed on the face of someone we loved more than anyone else in this world.

Goodbye.

As a child, I once thought if I didn’t actually say the word goodbye, the separation wouldn’t happen.  Voila!  Problem solved!

Except, it didn’t work. 

I missed the departure of my grandparents one Fall day when I tested my theory.  Knowing it was the morning they would pull out dragging their gleaming, space-age Airstream trailer behind the old 1965 Pontiac Catalina, I simply went out to the field and hid.

Funny.  Goodbye happens whether we say the word, or not.  They were gone, and I missed it.  I missed them.

Goodbye happens.  We’re only here temporarily.  Every one of us.  One day, I’ll say my final goodbye, too. 

That’s odd. 

Final goodbye.  The last one.  For all of eternity.

If, like me, you believe there is more–and I’m sure there is–you’ll understand the impact of that statement.

Not one more goodbye.  Not one.

All tears wiped away.  No more death.  No mourning, no crying, no pain.

But, not every person we know will be there.  Unlike the pap being fed to this world by the deceiver, there is no hope that anyone could ever experience it without the grace our Savior purchased as He died for us.  The free gift is offered, but it must be accepted.

I sometimes wonder if we’ll miss those who have chosen to follow a different path, rejecting the grace of a God who hates goodbyes just as much as we do.  Perhaps those will be the tears–the last ones shed–He will wipe away from our eyes.

What a day!  What a reunion.  And what a multitude of hellos.

My friend is still leaving this month.  I am still sad.

I hate goodbye.

 

 

 

…but if you have been – if you’ve been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you – you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing is ever going to happen again.
(from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

 

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ ESV)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.

 

Got an extra 3 minutes?  You could do worse than to spend them listening to Selah’s version of God Be With You.  Beautiful song with powerful imagery!

http://https://youtu.be/1fqu1ee5QNM