Gifts I Don’t Want

October 4, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I don’t want to write tonight.

Wait. That didn’t come out right, did it? I can hear the murmuring already.

“If you don’t want to write, don’t. We don’t want to read it all that much, either.”

Ah. As the Bard would say, there’s the rub. I’m beginning to believe that when I don’t want to is the very time I must.

But, in these opening words, you’ve been warned.

Read on at your peril. The management takes no responsibility for the outcome, good or bad, happy or sad.

We sat around a circle of friends just yesterday, celebrating the passing of another year for one of them. His wife, at one point in the conversation, suggested that, if we wanted to, we might relate an example of personally receiving a gift, a clear message from God that He loves us.

She told of standing outside her door, admiring the hummingbirds drinking from the feeder she maintains for them. As she stood, motionless, one of them left the feeder and, hovering in the air, looked her right in the eyes for several moments. She held her breath and the beautiful creature came even closer. She almost thought it could have been his way of saying thank you.

We all agreed that truly it was a moment to savor, to give thanks to our Creator for His love and wonder. Then, our friend asked if anyone else wanted to share their “God moment.”

Some did.

I didn’t.

I don’t know why. Or, maybe I know too well. If I do share them, there may be more.

I don’t want any more.

Still, having had 24 hours to consider, I think I will share. With my readers, anyway.

I did warn you.

A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, my phone rang. The lady’s voice was strained and tense. She wanted to know if I was at home. When I answered in the affirmative, she asked if I could come over as quickly as possible.

I rushed over to help my friend, her husband, off the floor where he had fallen and back onto his bed. Then, as she sat beside him, we talked of hardship and growing old, and decisions that were just too difficult to make in the moment.

She cried. I cried. My friend thanked me for coming to help.

It was the last time I would ever see him.

And, that’s my gift from God—my God moment.

I know; it is confusing, isn’t it?

Perhaps it wouldn’t be the right thing to relate at a birthday party. No, perhaps is the wrong word. I should have said, probably. Maybe even certainly.

The moments such as our friend at the party revealed to us—they are, without question, gifts from God. He loves to surprise us with joy and light.

He does.

But life isn’t all about fun; it’s not all about parties. The purpose of our life is decidedly not that we should be happy every moment of all our days here on earth.

I’ve written the words before—the words that begin the Westminster Shorter Catechism.

“The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.”

There! There it is! Enjoy Him forever! That means to be happy, doesn’t it?

Well, no. The thing is, the only way we can enjoy Him is to do what glorifies Him.

We don’t get to pick and choose the parts we like. Truth becomes untruth very quickly when we pick it apart like that.

Long-suffering Job said the words to his wife, millenniums ago:

Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?” So in all this, Job said nothing wrong. (Job 2: 10, NLT)

I don’t particularly like the gifts He’s giving me now. I don’t really want a flood of this type of gift.

Yet, they do come, His gifts of opportunities to serve.

With some regularity, these days.

And still, I believe He uses them to bring about good. His Word says He will. (see Romans 8:28)

I sat beside a hospital bed today and heard the words from the fellow propped up there, this man who is under a death sentence. He lay there, heart racing, sucking in each breath of oxygen through the cannula, tubes strung out of both arms, and he told me how thankful he is for all he has.

Gifts.

Coming down from the Father of Lights.

God moments. All through our life.

He does, indeed, love us.

Whatever is good and perfect is a gift coming down to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens. He never changes or casts a shifting shadow. (James 1:17, NLT)

“Think on these two powerful points: Lean on God in every situation and love others as unselfishly as you possibly can.” (Joyce Meyer)

Joy Is Right In Front Of Us

July 26, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

The pallet of pavers sits right outside my office window. It is a reminder of joy.

Hmmm. I suppose that’s not something you hear every day.

How could a stack of red brick-like pavers symbolize joy?

That, I suppose, would depend on your perspective. It’s not really the pavers themselves that turn my thoughts to joy, but merely my recent experience with them. It’s possible by the time I’ve done the labor necessary to utilize the rectangular chunks of concrete, I may have a completely different frame of reference for them.

Life is like that. Today, joy. Tomorrow, toil. After that, who knows? Joy again. Or, pain. Perhaps, even sadness.

But, what about the pavers?

And, the joy?

Not my joy—well, not exclusively mine—but I was there to get a taste of it.

Perhaps, I should explain.

A friend, who lives next door to my grandchildren (yes, to my daughter and her husband too, if it comes to that), offered to sell me the pavers a couple of weeks ago, so we made a deal. I would need to pick them up myself, no small feat, since there were more than three hundred of the heavy little bricks.

By myself didn’t sound like such a good idea.

I recruited my grandchildren to help me load and count them. Since they live next door to the fellow with the pavers. And, since there are four of them and only one of me. You know—by myself.

So it was that on a recent afternoon we found ourselves in the mid-July heat counting and stacking. Ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit sounded less furnace-like when I was in my air-conditioned living room than it did at the tailgate of that pickup truck.

The sun beat down and the sweat poured from our faces and various other locales. Still, there was nothing but good-natured teasing and joyful banter from the kids and their mom. Black widow spiders and crickets galore did nothing to change the mindset.

Perhaps it was the hundred-dollar bill I offered beforehand that set the mood. No, it couldn’t have been that; there was no such offer.

Maybe, it was the ice cream and pizza I had promised them. Again, no. All I promised them was the chance to help an old man move heavy, dirty pavers from one place to another, all while keeping track of how many they had each moved.

They worked with joy! With no promise of any payment whatsoever, they labored in the blasting sun for over an hour. Joyfully. And then, they offered to come to my house and help me unload every single one of the despicable things.

I don’t understand it. Whatever happened to the carrot or the stick? Shouldn’t they have been either offered a reward for their work, or conversely, a punishment should they refuse to comply? Isn’t that how children learn?

Joy. Simply in achieving a task and spending time with people they love. This is a mystery to me. Really. A mystery.

Perhaps we can work this out.

I am a follower of Christ, also known by the title Christian. We Christians talk a lot about joy, sometimes scolding folks who are unfortunate enough to call it happiness instead of by its proper title. I wonder if that’s the right way to go about demystifying joy.

Possibly not.

Still. What about this thing called joy?

Maybe we could start with, since I am a Christ-follower, well—Christ. You know—the author (the initiator) and editor (perfecter) of our faith. Come to think of it, there’s a passage that says just that. And here’s a surprise; the verse talks about joy, too.

We look to Him, the author and the finisher of our faith, who, for nothing more than the joy of completing the thing, gave His life on the cross, discounting the shame, and sat down beside God in heaven, at the right hand of His throne. (Hebrews 12:2 ~ my paraphrase)

Our Savior, the One who set us on the road of our faith and who will bring it all to completion, came for the joy of doing just that!

I’ve heard it suggested that the joy which was set before Him was being able to sit down beside His Father in Heaven. But He already had that before He came. If that was the joy talked about here, He needn’t have come at all (Philippians 2:5-8)

Yes, He was elevated to that position again, but He wasn’t working for that as a reward. Simply for the joy of accomplishing the task before Him, He came in love for the whole world.

I don’t need to tell you His work conditions weren’t the easiest. Early in life, His parents had to flee their homeland to find safety for Him. As an adult, His people rejected Him. The religious leaders hated Him, persecuting Him and His followers endlessly. He had no place to sleep. He was hungry. He knew the sorrow of losing loved ones. And finally, one dark day, the humans He came to save killed Him.

Joy? It’s still a mystery to me.

And yet, there is something…

Oh, yes! The children. My grandchildren. They did that. For the joy right in front of them, they endured.

And, there it is.

He said to them, unless you become like this little child, you’ll not see heaven. (Matthew 18:3 ~ my paraphrase)

As a little child, with joy and humility, we are to serve. In heat, sweating and thirsty. In cold and rain and floods and sickness and poverty and turmoil and…

He calls us to joy. Always.

Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ…

Joy. In the journey.

And, while we move the bricks.

A joyful heart is the inevitable result of a heart burning with love.
(Mother Teresa)

I pray that God, the source of hope, will fill you completely with joy and peace because you trust in him. Then you will overflow with confident hope through the power of the Holy Spirit.
(Romans 15:13, NLT)

Looking. Seeing

June 28, 2018June 29, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

All I wanted was a quiet place to sit and eat my burger with the Lovely Lady.

It was looking unlikely.

After a tiring day, filled with stress, heat, and hard physical labor, we stopped in for a fast-food fill-up. A burger and fries, with a coke, please. And a quiet place to sit.

It’s not too much to ask. Is it?

The little tyke had different ideas. He was not happy, that much was clear from the wailing. I wondered why his parents didn’t quiet him down. Surely, he could go play on the playground in a minute or two. Couldn’t they trade his silence for the promise of some time on the slide?

It seemed not. The noise level intensified.

It didn’t take me long to get unhappy, as well. I didn’t cry out loud. I did complain to the Lovely Lady. Out loud.

Then, I saw the boy as he ran past. Something—I couldn’t quite put my finger on what—caught my attention in the child’s face. A lady nearby was clearly interested in what was going on, as well. I assumed she might be related to the little fellow and would catch him up and calm him down.

Calm him down. . . That’s it! His eyes! The little boy was terrified of something. I said the words to the Lovely Lady, wondering what he had to be afraid of.

In a moment, the lady who had noticed his distress came carrying him up to the checkout counter and found his mother standing there. By this time, the child was so traumatized that he had no voice with which to express his emotion, only gasps of fear as he gulped air through his mouth. He was shaking, his eyes wild with alarm.

The little boy had been lost, separated from his mother! Everywhere he looked, he saw only strangers. Big, frightening adults who looked like no one he had ever seen.

As his mother gathered him into her arms, the gasping and whimpering subsided, but the trauma was still written on his face. Tears crept into my own eyes as I imagined what a horrible few minutes he had experienced.

“He was. He was terrified. You saw that,” the Lovely Lady said, smiling at me.

I sat, quieter than usual, and ate my food.

I had. I had seen him and his terror. But, it was the lady who also saw him and did something about it.

We saw him. Mostly, we had heard him, but there was—finally—a recognition that something more than a simple temper tantrum was happening.

And yet, my mind can’t move past the event.

The child will grow up. He will. The day will come when he no longer wanders, screaming, through the restaurant.

It doesn’t mean his terror will be any less.

Or ours, for that matter.

We eventually learn how to hide the fact that we need someone to hold us close. The part of us that is broken can be buried so deep we aren’t even aware of it ourselves, much less be able to express it verbally to those around us.

What if nobody sees us?

Really sees. Us.

What if nobody sees us? Really sees. Us. Share on X

A couple of nights ago, a note appeared on my phone’s screen. The lady on the other end, a former schoolmate of mine, had a message for me.

For some reason, she had been sitting and got to thinking about me and my “things”, she called them. She finished her message with a couple of thoughts.

“Everything will be good, Paul. Everything will be right.”

I haven’t told anyone I was unhappy. At no time in the last month have I wandered screaming through the local McDonalds.

It doesn’t mean I’m not broken.

She saw me.

You know there’s a difference between looking and seeing, right? They’re related, but definitely not the same.

For instance, I can look through the drawer in the kitchen, needing a spatula, but the Lovely Lady will open the same drawer minutes later and, in a second or two, see exactly what I couldn’t, picking up the spatula I was seeking all along.

I look.

She sees.

You know it’s true.

I like the phrase that made an appearance in our language—sort of a pidgin English—just over a hundred years ago, the two words that make it up seeming almost redundant.

Let’s go take a look-see.

Look-see. Important aspects, both of them, to the process.

We begin by looking. That’s where we start.

But, even if we do look, we won’t see if we aren’t aware of the necessary traits of what we’re looking for.

I wonder if we’re looking through the wrong eyes. Eyes of judgment. Eyes of selfishness. Eyes of arrogance and pride.

What if we actually looked at people to see the broken parts? What if we could look past the yelling and screaming, the cursing and criticizing, and see what really is going on?

What if we looked past the jokes and the songs and the smiles on faces to see the fear and terror that fills the hearts of people we encounter every day?

Our friends. Our family members. The bullies. The belligerents.

Could we see them through new eyes?

Would it make a difference?

Jesus saw the woman who had been caught in the act. He saw. Her.

He saw the woman at Jacob’s well, caught up in a vicious cycle of seeking love where it would not be found. And, looking through eyes colored with love, He changed her life.

Maybe I could do that. Maybe I could look through the eyes of love. The apostle, my namesake, suggested to the folks at Philippi that it was exactly what was needed.

Stop looking out of eyes that don’t see past the end of your noses. Start seeing—really seeing—others instead. And seeing, serve. (Philippians 2:4,5)

Ah. The miracle of a familiar face in a crowd of strangers! One who knows you! One who loves you, in spite of knowing you.

Look around.

See. People.

Look-see.

Change the world.

Everything will be good. Everything will be right.

“What use is care? What good is watching for that matter? People are forever watching things. They should be seeing. I see the things I look at. I am a see-er.”
(Patrick Rothfuss ~ American novelist)

The Lord looks from heaven;
He sees all the sons of men.
From the place of His dwelling He looks
On all the inhabitants of the earth;
He fashions their hearts individually;
He considers all their works.
(Psalm 33:13-15 ~ NKJV ~ New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

Only What’s Mine

November 30, 2016November 30, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

The preacher came to check on me today. His brother passed away last week, but he came to check on me.

He’s not my pastor. Well, what I mean is, he’s not the man who is the pastor of the fellowship where I attend services. My pastor checks on me too, but I’m not writing about him today.

The preacher came to visit me because he owes me. That’s the way he sees it anyway. It’s his way of paying a debt.

Did you know that on the worst day of his life, Jesus stopped to help a fellow who was just doing his job—and also having a bad day?

Jesus was being arrested, said arrest to be followed by a mock trial and, soon after, a very real execution. Yet, He stopped everything to make life easier for a man He had likely never even seen. (Luke 22:50,51)

He, who was about to die, stopped to heal a slave’s ear.

I marvel at the capacity to love. But, I have seen it again and again. The human heart, pummeled and battered by loss and sorrow, beats the stronger for those around who also hurt.

Did I say the preacher is paying a debt?

It’s a debt we all owe, one that will not go unsettled.

The Apostle, in giving instructions about temporal matters, gave us the words we must live by. The one debt we will carry throughout our whole lives is the debt to each other—to love one another. (Romans 13:8)

We love—because He loved us first.

And yet, I had other things to speak of with my friend. You see, I am struggling with many things right now, things I don’t want to accept.

There are people I love making choices I would change for them if I could. I’m sure if I could just lend them a bit of my brilliance, they’d understand and repent of their error.

And, as I suggest that to him, I suddenly remember that I don’t have a mandate to change people.

Lamely, I say the words: I guess that isn’t mine to fix, is it?

He smiles. But, as he smiles, he remembers why he stopped by. I’ve gotten him off track. He knows I’m still unhappy—perhaps even a little angry—at God for the changes which are being made in my life right now.

Looking around the music store where he sits, he waves his hand in a circle and asks a question I really don’t like.

Is this yours?

I don’t like the question because I know the answer. You do too, don’t you?

I smile, a faux-smile if ever there was one. I give him the right answer, the answer I know he wants to hear. I don’t grit my teeth as I say it, even though it is all I can do not to.

No. Not mine.

And then he is gone. He leaves me standing in the doorway of a music store that soon won’t be.

Worse than that, he leaves me with a revelation I didn’t want and never asked him for.

I only want what’s mine!

I’ve sulked all day.

I cleaned my French horn in preparation for upcoming events and the pride I have taken in the beautiful instrument dimmed as I realized it’s not mine.

After I closed the music store (still not mine) for the day, I climbed up into the driver’s seat of my pickup truck and thought, as I turned the key, this isn’t mine.

I helped the Lovely Lady clean up after supper and as a sparkling kitchen reappeared, I realized that none of the beautiful little home is mine.

I only want what’s mine.

I’ve been sitting here moping about what I’ve lost on this day of revelation, thanks to the preacher. I’ve come to a conclusion.

If I can lose it, it was never mine. Never.

If I can lose it, it was never mine. Never. Share on X

You might think it would be a sad realization. It’s not.

The freedom that comes from knowing what is mine and what isn’t is life changing. If my treasure is bound up in things which can be taken from me, I am the poorest man you’ll ever meet.

I’m not a poor man.

I only want what is mine.

Faith is mine.

Hope is mine.

Love is mine.

There are more things to add to the list. Gifts, every one of them—given by the Giver of all good things. They are things that can never be taken from us. And, in the words of that great theologian, Casey Stengel, you could look it up. (1 Corinthians 12)

We’re told that the greatest of these gifts is love. The more I consider it, the more certain I am it is true.

Funny, isn’t it? If we can lose it, it isn’t ours, and yet we’re told we must give away love.

So, is love ours or not?

Most decidedly, love is ours. You know what makes love the greatest gift? The more you give it away, the more there is to give away.

The more we give love away, the more of it there is to give away. Share on X

God has poured His love into our hearts in a never-ending stream. It should be pouring out in the same manner. (Romans 5:5)

I’m thinking that wealth which can’t be stolen or misplaced is worth more than any treasure trove to be found on this planet.

And, we get to give it away and keep it, too.

Funny. I still only want what’s mine.

And, like my preacher friend, I want to give it away.

Again and again.

Give it away.

Spread love everywhere you go; let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier.
(Mother Teresa ~ Albanian/Indian nun & missionary ~ 1910-1997)

Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.
(1 Corinthians 13:13 ~ NLT)

The Marketplace

August 29, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I wonder if it’s time to shut down my social network page.

You know the one I mean. New stories are added every few moments. Anniversaries are noted, birthdays announced.

One friend is angry at the news media. Another is fed up with evil doctors and wants to be sure I understand the value of something called essential oils. Photos of cute kitties magically appear. There are also awful images of abused dogs, or horses, or turtles.

And constantly, along the side of the computer display, a feed runs down the page, with little bits of information appearing magically, one right after the other. So-and-so likes this; he posted this; she commented about this.

TMI! I’ve learned the acronym, in days long past now.

Too Much Information!

My brain screams the words, even as I devour said information. Without intent, I now know that my old friend’s son believes drug use to be acceptable and even desirable. Another acquaintance vilifies followers of Christ and ridicules the very idea of a God, any God. It’s time to party-hearty with old school classmates. Jokes abound, both in print and picture form. I may or may not have contributed some of these.

And the language! Used-to-be children that I bounced on my knee use words we once would have expected to make a sailor blush. Now, no one blushes.

At times, my soul actually feels soiled, as if a good cleansing with Ivory soap and clean water might make it better.

I should turn it off.

Shouldn’t I?

I sit and think. Another acronym comes to mind. It is an old, tired set of letters, once found on bumper stickers, mugs, and bracelets. Unlike the acronym above, it is not followed by an exclamation point, but a question mark. So overused, it has become a joke to many; still it bears another look.

It requires some contemplation.

WWJD?

What Would Jesus Do?

We know the answer already, don’t we? He spent His days and nights in the center of the population, participating in the discourse of the day. He didn’t waste a lot of time with the nodding, gesturing clergy, but He interacted with the cursing, drinking, perverse people. (Matthew 11:19)

Every day.

I wonder–Did His soul feel dirty from the filth and stench, too?

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In the center of the Agora, the marketplace, the plan to change the world was implemented.

One-by-one, ten-by-ten, thousands-by-thousands, He intersected their daily lives with the truth, with love, with companionship.

The world would never be the same.

Still, I’m not excited about the route this marketplace living takes sometimes.

I’m not comfortable.

Funny. We really like comfortable, don’t we?

The couch is comfortable. Bed is comfortable. The back deck is comfortable. Your house shoes and pajamas are comfortable.

You just can’t accomplish anything in them.

In my mind’s eye, I look back over the path I’ve walked. I think I’ve walked it asking to know WWJD. A long look back focuses on the direction the steps have taken.

Did I take a sharp turn from the lane somewhere? How did I get here, in the marketplace, virtually and actually?

The social network I want to switch off is not so far removed from the retail space in which I labor five days a week. Oh, folks try to control their language, knowing who I claim to be, but what is hidden inside always comes out eventually. The language, the ideas, the lifestyles can’t be disguised behind the facades forever.

Am I supposed to be here?

Again, I glance back. No. My footsteps have led, one weary stride after another, in the same direction. I could not have found another route that would lead to my goal.

I walk in the marketplace. You probably do too.

How do we act while here?

Do we hurry through, as if afraid that we’ll get dirty too?

Do we loiter in the dark corners, participating in the filth and immorality?

Would we rather avoid it altogether?

All of the sudden, I find myself wondering about comfort again. The realization hits about my comments above.

The day I get comfortable is the day I lose sight of who I am and why I’m here in the marketplace. The minute I think I’m home and kick my shoes off to put on my slippers is the instant I’ve stopped walking the path set out for me.

If the marketplace doesn’t make us uncomfortable, perhaps we need to lace up our walking shoes again and look ahead of us.

There is more. People need us up and doing. Where they are.

I’m ready. You?

Just so you know, though, I’m not looking at your selfies of your latest visit to the dentist. Some things really are too much information.

I simply argue that the cross should be raised at the center of the marketplace as well as on the steeple of the church. I am recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles, but on a cross between two thieves; on the town’s garbage heap; at a crossroad so cosmopolitan they had to write His title in Hebrew and Latin and Greek…at the kind of a place where cynics talk smut, and thieves curse, and soldiers gamble. Because that is where He died. And that is what He died for. And that is what He died about. That is where church-men ought to be and what church-men ought to be about.
(George McLeod ~ Scottish pastor ~ 1895-1991)

Do not be deceived: Bad company corrupts good morals. Become sober-minded as you ought, and stop sinning, for some have no knowledge of God.
(1 Corinthians 15:33,34 ~ NASB)

Away From the Light

July 25, 2016July 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The choral professor sat on the stool in the music store, one afternoon decades ago, choosing his words with care.

“I teach on a campus filled with light. Where is the darkness into which I’m to shine?”

I didn’t know the answer. I did know one thing:

I didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

I like the light. It’s where I’m most comfortable. I can rest easy; cares and worries don’t touch me there.

Dark is dismal. It’s frightening. There are unknown creatures in the dark—terrors I can feel, but cannot see.

And yet, the dark is where we’re called to minister.

The music professor didn’t stop with asking the question. I was sure he wouldn’t.

He packed up his family and found a dark place in which to shine his light many miles away from the comfort and clarity of his former life. Instead of the city of light at which he had served, he was forced to shine his lonely light on the pathway in a place where almost no one carried any light at all.

It has been many years since the conversation. The professor has long since passed over into that place where light is ever shining.

Can you imagine how brightly his light shined in that dark place? Think how dramatic the distinction must have been! A match lit in pitch-black darkness can seem almost blinding.

His words still haunt my thoughts.

No great quest is ever played out in the light of day. Darkness—that’s where fierce battles are waged.

The blackest holes imaginable are the delivery rooms for the most brilliant of all victories.

And yet, we don’t begin our journey from those black pits. No. From homes blazing in light and meeting places shining with the brilliance of the sun at its apex, we must set out.

With conscious forethought we turn our backs on the light places and stride into the darkness, carrying only the light we’ve been given.

It’s a frightening journey—no part more terrifying than the first step we take.

And yet, the path through the darkness is of utmost importance.

Our destination has never been on this side of the darkness, but always on the other. We are bound for a better place, but there is ground to be covered before we arrive there.

The inhabitants of this dark world will never know the meaning of God’s light if not for us in their presence. Those who stumble through the darkness will never see light if we never walk beside them.

We are the lamps set on the lamp stand, not under the basket. (Matthew 5:15)

We are the stars that shine in the universe. (Philippians 2:15)

We know that darkness and evil are the hallmarks of existence in a fallen world. Yet somehow, our spirits quell at the prospect of leaving these places of light our Creator has privileged us to experience.

In a sense, you might say light is dangerous. We humans are gluttons, never satisfied with what we need, but demanding what we want.

We would stay in the light, soaking it all up ourselves for a lifetime, if we could. Indeed, some of us never set foot outside our fortresses of illumination.

The day will come—it will—when all is light. Until that day, we shine as His lights in the blackness of an ever-darkening world.

If we don’t, who will?

Backs to the light, we carry the light into a world that cries out without any clue of what it needs. In desperation—and darkness—they seek first one way, then another, for that which we hold in our hands.

It’s not our light. There is enough of it to illuminate the pathway ahead, but it shines to draw those around us.

To Him. The light draws them to Him.

A borrowed light. And yet, it shines through us.

We, who have been brought into the light of day, are sent back into the darkest, deepest night.

Dare the quest!

Take the leap!

By far, more is lost in basking comfortably in the sanctuary of light and warmth than by venturing forth into the dark unknown.

The world around us is getting darker. We can see it happening.

The light will be the brighter for it.

It’s time to turn our backs to the light.

It’s time for us to journey toward the light.

And, yet for all the leaving from and journeying toward, we walk in the light.

Still.

…if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.
(1 John 1:7 ~ NASB)

Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would have never come, had I known the danger of light and joy.
(The Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist ~ 1892-1973)

So carry your candle, run to the darkness
Seek out the helpless, confused and torn
Hold out your candle for all to see it
Take your candle, and go light your world.
Take your candle, and go light your world.
(Go Light Your World ~ Chris Rice ~ American singer/songwriter)

Iron Sharpened

June 6, 2016June 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was only one letter that had fallen. One of fourteen—surely it wouldn’t be missed much.

I fished the defective aluminum “M” out of the hedge beneath my music store’s sign over four months ago.

It was cold then. I hate the cold.

So, I took the letter inside and laid it down on a table in the back storage area. I would reattach it on a warmer day.

Four months, it lay there. I told myself I was waiting for a warm day. Possibly, I was actually waiting for someone to miss it. I waited in vain.

No one ever did. After one hundred and twenty some-odd days, not one single customer had mentioned the missing letter.

I climbed the ladder yesterday—on a warm day—and glued the metal letter back into place. You would have laughed to see me clinging to that shaky ladder as I re-attached the errant letter.

I’m not sure what to think about the episode.

Were the people who do business with me, some of them for almost forty years, worried that I might be offended if they brought it to my attention?

Were they afraid I’d be embarrassed? Did they think I would become defensive and make excuses for my defective sign?

I’m baffled.

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?

A letter missing from his sign? He’s worried about whether people care if his letter is missing?

Well?

I’ve had hundreds, perhaps more than a thousand customers come through my door in the last four months. Surely one would have thought it important enough.

Okay, I’ll level with you. I haven’t lost any sleep over the issue. It was just a letter from a sign.

Still, I am struggling a little with the concept. The concern is so subtle, so niggling, that it’s almost not worth mentioning.

Then again, it really is.

If we care about someone, why wouldn’t we mention that something is missing from their sign—or their car—or their relationship—maybe, even their spiritual life?

Have we so easily forgotten what friendship requires of us?

We live in a day when judge not is the mantra of the masses. In some ways, it’s understandable. We have made it our business for too long to point out every difference, every dispute, every dogma we hold dear, to total strangers.

That’s not what I’m talking about. The argument about our responsibility to correct the sins of the world will continue long after we’re gone.

But somehow, it’s easier for us to shout about the glaring sins of the wide world than it is for us to actually act upon, and change, something we have power over within our sphere of influence

I want to know if we can still help our neighbors realize they have a problem which needs attention. I am suggesting that we should also make certain they understand an offer of aid accompanies our observation of their lack.

When the Apostle Paul wrote in one of his letters that his readers should not only look to their own affairs, but to the affairs of others, he wasn’t only suggesting they point out areas of deficiency; he was clearly instructing them to help correct the problem. (Philippians 2:3-4)

It’s what community does.

We do it because that much, and more, has already been done for us. (Philippians 2:5-8)

In the early days of our nation, evidence of this way of thought abounded. A farmer needing to get a roof on his barn, but caught in the responsibilities of planting his fields, might see a caravan of men and women on horseback coming to help put the roof on.

Expecting no pay but that of continued communion, and under no burden but that of shared need, they gave freely of themselves and their talents. It wouldn’t be very long until one of them would likely need to be the recipient of such attention. The original farmer was almost certain to be in the bunch who showed up the next time.

He wasn’t offended because his lack had been pointed out, but he was grateful it had been noticed and remedied. He would happily repay the generosity.

The truth of our faith is this: We are not in this walk alone. We serve and are served. (Galatians 6:2)

I wonder. If the world around us could see that side of our faith, and not only the list of regulations we’ve drawn up, is it possible they would understand more clearly what grace is about?

How will they know love unless we demonstrate it in our relationships with each other?

In the same way iron sharpens iron, we help each other to be better followers of our Savior. (Proverbs 27:17)

The sign outside my music store is how I show the world what goes on inside the building.

When the message is incomplete, those who pass by may get the wrong idea of what is being offered.

It’s not all that different in the rest of our lives, either.

The next time you see I have something missing, I’d appreciate a heads-up about it.

If you can help with the solution, all the better Your bucket truck may be a little better than my shaky ladder..

I’ll see if I can pay more attention to what you need, too.

Perhaps, we can stay sharp together.

The next best thing to being wise oneself is to live in a circle of those who are.
(C.S.Lewis ~ English educator/theologian/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ NIV)

Good Faith

May 18, 2016May 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The little truck looked as if a strong crosswind would blow it onto its side, leaving the wheels spinning slowly to a stop in the air. The piece of furniture strapped into the bed of the vehicle almost gave the impression it was brushing the utility wires overhead as the huge affair rolled into the parking lot.

My heart sank. Never had I seen such an item before, but I knew immediately what it was intended to be. I had heard the project was in the planning, but didn’t really think it would ever become a reality. Now, I wished it had stayed in the planning stages.

Seven feet tall and six wide, the rolling case was. It was a storage rack, built for a specific use.

For half an hour, we talked. I like the man who drove the truck. He knew, just knew, I needed the huge thing. He had seen the state of my repair area and believed his was the ideal solution. A fair amount of money had gone into the project, and more than a few hours of his labor.

His gamble wouldn’t pay off on this day.

It’s too big. I can’t put it in my store. For that matter, it doesn’t fit my vision of what I’d want for the task anyway.

The little truck, front tires nearly lifting off the pavement from the weight in the bed, made its precarious way back onto the street and headed back in the direction from which it had come. Before it departed though, a few unhappy words had been muttered behind the hands of the fellows who had accompanied the contraption with the intent to help unload it.

They didn’t wish to move it again.

I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t have wanted to move it the first time!

The unhappy words hadn’t been said to me. Still, they had been directed at me. Somehow, it was my fault that the towering storage rack wasn’t finding a home in my little store.

I never promised to buy such a thing. There was no commission for it to be built.

I stood behind the counter in my store and shook my head. When I came home to dinner a couple hours later, the unhappy feelings lingered.

Why did they blame me?

Would it be sacrilegious for me to suggest that I understand how God feels?

I’m not saying I’m God. I’m saying I’ve done just that thing to Him before. Maybe you have too. At the least, we’ve all seen it done.

But Lord, didn’t we do good things for you? Didn’t we have huge fundraisers for folks worthy of our help? Didn’t we speak of you with beautiful words?

I wonder if the King of Creation doesn’t just look up from His work and say, “Nope. I didn’t order it and I won’t pay for it. Take it away.” (Matthew 7:23)

Well now. That doesn’t seem fair, does it?

And yet, when we presume to know what our commission is without consulting the Commissioner, we will work in vain. We simply toil for ourselves, wasting our labor.

And what of those who come along for the ride? They come in what we call good faith. But, is it really?

The old pastor who married the Lovely Lady and me described such a situation once, many years ago. It seems a traveling evangelist from a different state had stopped in to see him one day as the elderly saint sat at his desk reading his tattered, marked-up Bible.

“God has told me that I’m to conduct revival services here in this church,” the hapless young evangelist informed the wise old man.

The gray-headed pastor sat, fingers of his hands laced together on the desk before him. He smiled. It was a kindly smile, not the wicked smart-aleck grin of malice some would wear in such a circumstance. Leaning forward, he quietly gave his answer.

“I’m glad you told me. When I hear the same message from Him, I’ll get in contact with you and we’ll proceed with the meetings.”

Unfortunately, the young man never conducted any services in that church.

If someone makes a promise to you on behalf of God, check with the real Source first, before taking action. Many who haven’t have paid the price.

Some have paid with their lives, as in the case of the People’s Temple and the Jonestown Massacre in 1978. Blindly following their false prophet, hundreds drank poison and died. They acted in good faith.

Heaven wasn’t awaiting.

God hadn’t invited them to be a part of that cult. He certainly didn’t place the order for their suicides.

Almost just as bad is when we blindly follow empty teaching, the result being a lifetime of service to good feelings, but empty deeds. The end of such a life is what the Preacher called vanity. Nothing more. Nothing less. (Ecclesiastes 1:1-3)

Vanity.

Useless and empty.

I wonder if the folks who drove away from my music store in that little pickup felt like that? Useless and empty?

The disappointment was almost palpable.

That old pastor had a saying: When God orders it, he writes the check out and pays for it in full.

I think I want to be sure the order has been placed. I need to see it with my own eyes. It has to come right from the source.

Payment is guaranteed. In writing, it’s guaranteed. (Matthew 25:21)

Now—that’s good faith.

True faith means holding nothing back. It means putting every hope in God’s fidelity to His Promises.
(Frances Chan ~ American pastor/author)

Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter into the kingdom of heaven—only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven. On that day, many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, didn’t we prophesy in your name, and in your name cast out demons and do many powerful deeds?’ Then I will declare to them, ‘I never knew you. Go away from me, you lawbreakers!’
(Matthew 7:21-23 ~ NET)

Bedpans and Handkerchiefs

July 17, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments

Flowers for my heart with tender words
And a gentle touch that says so much
This is how I’ve heard that love should always be. *

I’ve been thinking about love recently. You may be surprised at what I’ve decided.

Love isn’t flowers, isn’t a close embrace, isn’t sweet nothings whispered into an ear as you dance in the dark. And, it certainly isn’t the thousand dollar diamond necklace slipped around the throat of the picture-perfect beauty queen primping in the mirror before slinking out to a romantic dinner for two.

Our culture lies.

It lies every time an ad suggests that all you need to keep your mate’s love is some pretty new bauble. It lies with each new revelation of ways to keep love fresh in some exotic destination or with an amazing new scent.

I want some new images to exemplify love.

How about a toilet seat? Either up or down will do. Love is him, putting it down for her. It’s her, ignoring the fact that it never gets put down.

Perhaps it could be black olives. He loves them, so she includes them in her recipes. She hates them, so he removes them from the frozen pizza before it goes in the oven.

The list could go on, including not a single item that Hallmark could market. The old toothbrush he used to clean up that ugly old vase that she bought at the second-hand store. The spool of thread she emptied to mend his favorite old work coveralls. The ice scraper he uses on frosty mornings, so she doesn’t have to stand out in the cold and do it herself.

In recent years, I have found some new items that illustrate love. You don’t want to hear about them. They are uncouth and will make you say the word gross as you see them in print. And that’s a shame. Because, you see, the other lie that our culture tells is that your mate will always be attractive and will always be healthy.

He won’t. She won’t.

The bedpan and the urinal spring to mind. Bodily functions become the concern of the one who loves. Embarrassment and squeamishness are abandoned as love does, not what it wishes, but what it must.

Not so uncouth, but still not an attractive thought, the fork and spoon push their way into the symbolism, as one mate must feed another. The memory of feeding the cake to each other at the wedding comes back with a rush, and we realize that it is a promise we will keep.

I believe that the one item I would chose to symbolize love most is nothing more than a simple handkerchief.

These cloth relics of the past have fallen out of fashion–replaced by the paper tissues we use and crumple into the trash by the thousands. I still like to have one in my back pocket and would be lost without it.

With the handkerchief we clean the hands of children, and yes, wipe their noses too. I mop my forehead when the perspiration beads and threatens to run down my face. But, all through my life the one thing I have used that square bit of cloth for, more than any other use, has been to wipe away the tears that have come.

When puppy dogs died suddenly, the tears from the children’s eyes were soaked up—those from my own, as well. When the frustrations of financial want were too much, the handkerchief once again dabbed away the tears of fear for the future.

I have seen the tears of spouses as they turned away from the hospital bed their lover lay upon, perhaps for the last time. Other tears have been wiped away as conversations led to the realization that mental faculties were failing, and then again as elderly parents departed from this world to a better place.

Tears fall. Sometimes, they are tears of happiness. More often, as life progresses, they are tears of worry and of sorrow, but always, they are tears of love.

Tears fall. And we wipe them away. For each other.

Tears fall. And we stay.

Because—love.

Life is like an onion; you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.
(Carl Sandburg ~ American writer/poet ~ 1878-1967)

He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ NIV)

* from How Love Should Be by Jeremy Michael Lubbock ~ American singer/songwriter

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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