God Stoops Low

April 7, 2023April 7, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I went to Church tonight. And I cried.

I knew I would.

I told my friend, the one who rang my doorbell five minutes before I was due to leave, that I probably would. She (not purposely) had reminded me of the man who once was her husband. The memory brought sadness; sadness for separations here on earth and sadness for the separation of death. The loss is temporary, yes, but still painful.

The man to whom she had once been married often cried at church, too. I admire other men who are tender-hearted and not afraid to show it, but I’ve never thought it one of my best attributes. It’s funny how that works.

Still, there it is. I cried.

Singing with my friends, I cried. And, as we took the bread and the wine of communion, the tears flowed freely.

I admit it. My mind wandered as the Pastor shared about our Servant Savior who showed the attributes of God in His suffering. I couldn’t help it.

We have several Spanish-speaking folks in our number, so the main points of the sermon are noted on the overhead monitor both in English and in Spanish.

It was only one letter. A very common one. The letter “s” had been omitted from one of the Spanish words. But, try as I might, I could think of nothing else.

In Spanish, as in English, the word “no” means just that. No. Negative. Not at all.

So, in the context of this particular written sentence, it told anyone reading the Spanish text that Jesus did not show God’s wisdom as He served. That couldn’t be what it meant. Could it?

For several minutes, I heard nothing the Pastor said until, in a split second, the slide on the monitor was changed, adding the “s”.

Oh! Of course! The word was “nos“. In that instant, the meaning became clear. Nos means us! It wasn’t that He didn’t show wisdom—not at all. It was that He showed it to all of us.

All of us.

Tears came once more.

The Pastor said the familiar words again tonight. “On the same night that Jesus was betrayed, He took bread…”

My mind, still wandering a bit, reminds me that also on that same night, before He took the bread, He told His disciples, “Take off your shoes. You are on holy ground.”

Well, perhaps the words weren’t the same as those that Moses heard in the wilderness eons before, but it was true just the same. Not one of the disciples had their shoes on when He finished washing their feet Himself.

And they were, undoubtedly, on holy ground.

I’ve written of this holy ground before but, as my mind wandered further afield during the service tonight, I saw the truth of it anew.

In the presence of our Servant Savior, we are ever on holy ground. For where ever God stoops to serve and save, there it is sacred.

In the garbage dumps of Guatemala, in the halls of political power.

In the tiled mansions of the Upper East Side of New York, in the stinking, fetid shacks of the refugee camps across the Rio Grande.

In the quietness of the forest clearings, in the riotous racket of the championship soccer match.

Wherever God stoops, we stand on holy ground.

And He stoops where we are. All of us.

The word is not “no”.

The word is “us”.

On holy ground, He stoops to all of us.

And, He washes us clean.

And, behold, there came a leper and worshipped him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean. And Jesus put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed.
(Matthew 8: 2-3, KJV)

A subtle thought that is in error may yet give rise to fruitful inquiry that can establish truths of great value. (Isaac Asimov)

Seeing Clearly Through the Tears

April 19, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are moments when time slows and I see life with a clarity I never thought possible this side of heaven. And by life, I mean in the overall sense of our existence here on earth, not just my life or yours.

I had one of those poignant moments recently. In a season that has been chock-full of poignant moments, not one of which I wanted to live through, for that instant I saw it all a little more clearly than I ever have.

It was a moment that should have been a private one but wasn’t. So many of our vulnerable times happen like that. I wish it weren’t so, but it is.

A man cried. His circumstances were too difficult for him at that moment, and he wept. With his wife there and friends standing nearby, the tears flowed.

Did I say I didn’t want to live through any of those poignant moments? I don’t repent of the words but I do admit that, having lived through them, I wouldn’t trade away a single one of them, not least this one.

I watched his wife’s loving response to his emotion, gently pulling his head to her shoulder; I noted that not one of his friends turned away or expressed disapproval or discomfort.

There may even have been tears in my own eyes as I stood nearby.

The moment passed, but the lesson I am learning is still fresh.

We have believed—mistakenly—that it is impossible to see clearly when our eyes are full of tears.

Those of us who care about such things seem to think the Bible teaches that tears are bad, that they are so horrid God will eventually do away with them forever. (Revelation 21:4)

I have come to believe instead that tears are a gift from above, straight from the heart of a Loving Father who Himself cries.

In times of great sadness, tears are a way for the body to release extreme stress, communicate our sorrow, or even take away pain. It’s a scientific fact; crying releases endorphins, chemicals that actually reduce physical and emotional pain.

A precious gift from a wise Creator who knew we would need relief in our times of sadness.

So, tell me again—Why it is we shame folks as too emotional when the tears fall?

Why is it we tell our children the lie that crying is for weaklings?

The poet, ancestor to our Savior and a man after God’s own heart, made the claim eons ago that his God so valued the tears of His people that He kept a written record of them and even collected the tears in a bottle.

There is, without question, poetic license in the imagery.

It doesn’t change the truth, one I firmly believe, that God values our tears, our laments.

He values them.

In the month since my brother died, I have cried as many tears as at any time in my life. I cried them knowing that my brother is in the arms of the God he loved, but also overwhelmingly aware of his absence from mine.

We all know them—the tears that come with loss. Every one of us has cried tears of disappointment, tears of frustration, even tears of joy. And yet, we are embarrassed by them still.

Jesus wasn’t.

He came to the people who were mourning His friend, Lazarus, and he was deeply moved. After He came to the grave, He wept. It wasn’t a little sniffle, with a tear or two wiped from the corner of His eye. He sobbed out His own loss and the loss of those around Him. (John 11: 1-45)

You know the story. But, may I point out one thing?

Our Teacher—our Savior—our God, was surrounded by His friends in his grief.

I don’t believe for one moment He stood alone at that grave and wept to the air. He was with His followers, His closest companions.

His tears flowed into their shoulders and onto their robes as they gathered around Him. It was the nature of their culture to uphold each other in grief.

I hope we don’t turn away from our friends when the emotion of their sorrow, their disappointments, their loss has them in its grip.

I hope we won’t suggest to them that their tears are displeasing in any way to their God.

Some do.

And yet, others stay close. I received a note just this morning, on the one-month anniversary of my brother’s death, from one I’ve known for many, many years. She lost her own brother just a few months ago and she is painfully aware of the loss of a one-time playmate, co-conspirator, and strong supporter.

Because of the distance between us, there was no shoulder to cry on, no offer of a handkerchief with which to wipe away the tears, but I felt her presence and her love as my tears flowed again.

Weep with those who weep.

Real tears. Shared emotions. Yes, we’ll cry alone in the dark at times. But, not always.

We’ll get through this as we walk each other along the road home.

And, we will undoubtedly have the opportunity to rejoice with those who are rejoicing along the way, too.

Gifts, bestowed by a loving Creator who knows our frame and our innermost thoughts.

And still, He loves us.

Always.

Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.
(Romans 12:15, NKJV)

You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.
(Psalm 56:8, NLT)

Wind in the Oaks

February 16, 2018February 16, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I sit at my desk and listen to the wind.

Change is coming.

At the end of the street, the last leaves from an autumn, very nearly forgotten, whirl and take flight. The commotion is impressive to the casual witness—less so to one who has observed the scene from the vantage point of my window over the last couple of months.

From his play, Macbeth, Mr. Shakespeare’s description of life seems apropos:

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

The leaves go in circles. Now to the end of the road, now across to one yard to lie breathless for a time. With the next gust of wind, they revive, shoving each other aside in their hurry to rise on the current, only to scurry back around the cul-de-sac and alight once more. Right back where they started.

Probably, within feet of where they tumbled from the tall oak trees last fall.

Going nowhere fast.

But the wind roars still. Through limbs of trees, standing naked in the late winter sun, it shoves—and grabs—and pulls. Like so many windmills twirling in the sky, the giant oaks twist their extremities this way and that, almost it seems, trying to catch hold of the leaves spinning below.

I’m sure it may be only my imagination—it is my imagination, isn’t it?—but, for just a moment—the barest hint of a moment—I have the idea that they would—if they could—reattach themselves to the leaves that abandoned them mere weeks ago.

What a silly notion. Old dead leaves are of no use to the trees now, save possibly to nourish the ground around them as the natural process of decay and deterioration does its work.

I know this wind is blowing in another change in the weather. A warm day today, but cool again tomorrow with the front blowing in. Spring is coming. Rain will fall. Stronger winds than these will swirl and stream through the treetops.

Even now, the mostly sleeping giants are showing tiny dark nubs on the spindly ends of their gray branches, nubs that will become leaves. They will be new, green, living things—luxurious and lush—covering the entire tree with vitality and vigor.

And yet. . . And yet today, the towering trees are naked—bereft of their former glory.

The wind blows, and merely accentuates their lack—adding insult to injury, the red-headed lady who raised me would have said. Surely, there is something about which one could complain.

But, you know, as much as I prefer spring to winter, as much as I love a leaf-covered tree more than a bare one, I would never look at a tree in winter and suggest it would be better off with the old leaves back on it.

I complain frequently about winter, suggesting that everything is dead. I am reminded, as I sit in my chair and watch the empty branches wave, that the tree has never been dead. Never.

It is simply directing all its resources to the roots underground and getting ready for something spectacular to happen. A little rest before breaking out.

It seems to me that things are a little drab right now.

Am I the only one who thinks about the past and how good that life was? Am I the only one who wishes I could turn back the calendar a season?

Do you think we really could put the old dry leaves back on the trees? No, I suppose not.

But, here is what I know. Without worry of being proven wrong, I know it is true.

The earth turns and revolves around the sun; the wind blows and the rain falls. Suddenly, without warning—well, almost without warning—the explosion of color and life will be upon us.

To everything, there is a season; a time for every purpose under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

And, the Creator has made everything to be right in its season.

And, He puts eternity in our hearts so we know to look ahead and not behind.

He puts eternity in our hearts so we know to look ahead and not behind. Share on X

Seasons come. They go. Sometimes, we are so busy, we have no time to consider the work He is doing in us. But, we gain strength; and, we grow.

Sometimes, in the drab time, we sit and contemplate the reason for our very existence. That also, is a season through which He moves us and makes us stronger.

And, sometimes, as they have this week, tears come.

And the tears, like the rain which has just begun outside my window, fall to the ground and water the future, to ensure that it will be brighter.

Through tears, and even a little bit of dreariness, He will bring us, step by weary step—to spring once again.

There are indeed, Mr. Lewis, far better things that lie ahead than any we’ve left behind.

I wonder if the wind will still be blowing.

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
(J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring )

‘The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former house,’ says the Lord Almighty. ‘And in this place I will grant peace,’ declares the Lord Almighty.
(Haggai 2:9 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.)

On the Mezzanine

February 14, 2017February 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I remember that mezzanine.

Tears do that, you know. Remind you.

And they fall, unbidden. We don’t want them to; they just come.

So, with the salty liquid running down my cheeks I remember that day, now over thirty-five years ago.

Visiting my folks in my childhood home, I agreed to ride along with my old friend as he made his sales rounds one summer afternoon.

We stopped by a produce warehouse, a corrugated metal structure where they prepared vegetables for shipment to various marketplaces. The building my friend entered was the onion operation. Right outside the metal building—by the truckloads—the dirty yellowish bulbs had been hauled from the fields and were dumped onto the conveyor lines that would carry them though the process.

The process would change them dramatically. On that summer afternoon long ago, it would change me, too.

From a filthy orb with roots hanging off one end and stem jutting out of the other, to a beautiful shiny sphere just waiting to be sliced, battered, and deep fried—turning out the most delicious tasting snack you could ask for—the transformation was radical.

But, you ask, what about the mezzanine? Where are the tears?

I’m getting there. Soon, there would more than enough tears to last a man a lifetime.

I hung back in the factory while my friend talked with his contact there. In just a moment though, he was beckoning with his hand for me to follow him on into the plant. He explained that he needed to check the stock levels for the products he provided to the company.

As I prepared to follow him up a steel staircase, he gave me a hint—just a hint—about what was to come.

You’ll want to stay close. Don’t worry, I won’t walk away from you.

Stay close? Why would I need him near? I snickered. As if I needed someone to hold my hand climbing up some stairs.

As if.

That was before the tears.

The stairs led to a mezzanine made of steel beams covered by a steel grate that served as a floor surface.

Right. Above. The. Production. Line.

Let it sink in for a moment. We walked above the line where the onions were washed. Where the roots were sliced off. Where the stems were removed. The round veggies banged and battered each other as they collided all along the conveyor.

Think about the strongest onion you ever sliced into and multiply it a few thousand times.

I couldn’t see a thing. It was a good thing my friend stayed near. It was as if I had been struck blind in seconds. The terror was nearly instantaneous. There is no other word to describe what I felt.

Shaking, I held onto his shoulder all the way across the mezzanine and back down the stairs.

Did you know the chemical in onions that makes you cry is the very same component that lends the edgy flavor which livens up so many dishes?

This seems a strange thing to write about on a day when we talk about love, doesn’t it?

Be my valentine.

Roses and chocolates.

Diamonds and gold.

Love is more than the fluff.

Not less. More.

Spicy and playful. Stinking and bitter.

Laughing. Crying.

To get through it, we have to stay close.

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Standing on the mezzanine of life, we stay close to the ones we love.

And, they are there.

He promised that, too—the One who gave His lifeblood to show us the way.

I’ll be with you always. Even though the world around you disintegrates, I’ll be there. (Matthew 28:20)

He’s a Promise-keeper.

You’ll want to stay close. He won’t walk away.

He won’t.

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)

Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.
Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you.
I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.
(Isaiah 41:10 ~ NLT)

Leaving

December 23, 2016December 23, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He had tears in his eyes.

I thought about that for many of the eight hundred and fifty miles it took to make the journey from my childhood home to the place which has been home to me for all of the forty years since that day.

Exactly forty years ago today, I arrived in this little town. One of my old friends jogged my memory of what day it was as we reminisced together one recent evening.

The first day of winter in 1976 saw me packing every possession I owned in the little yellow Chevy and leaving my home in south Texas to make the one day journey north. To what, I had no idea.

He had tears in his eyes.

The man I can’t say I ever really knew as a child, even though I had spent nineteen years living in the same house with him. The man who had taught me so much about forgiveness and grace, but from whom I never heard the words, I’m sorry. The man who was unmoved by the maudlin; untouched by the mushy emotion of human drama, was crying as he said goodbye to me.

I don’t remember ever seeing tears in his eyes before. I’m sure now that he had cried in that time, but he was never one to show emotion to his children. He disciplined and rewarded us; he taught and rebuked us; he provided all the necessities and encouraged us to be self-sufficient. We saw the different facets of what a father did, but he did it without undue emotion and effusiveness.

Yet, he was crying as I pulled out of the driveway. To say it was a moving experience (with absolutely no pun intended) would be a drastic understatement.

I don’t recall what he said as we parted. I don’t remember if he gave me any money or last minute advice on life. But, whenever I think about leaving home, I remember the tears in the eyes of the man whom I had always counted on to be rock solid.

Big boys don’t cry.

I reminded myself as I pulled away from the house. It didn’t work.

They do—and I did.

It was the best going away present a man could give his son. In retrospect, I wish he had been able to do that earlier in my life, so I could have started learning the lesson I’m still absorbing.

There is no shame in showing your feelings. None.

God designed us to feel emotions.

A lot of pain could be averted if we would simply allow the people we love to know how deeply we feel for them. Words are good, but the emotions which spring from our hearts and move us to tears—or joy—or even fear, teach and reassure so much more than mere words.

I realized on that day, a significant date in my journey to manhood, that real men aren’t afraid to cry.

There have been a lot of other firsts in the forty years since that day for me. First marriage (okay—the only one). First child. First snowstorm. First time I was fired (I keep telling myself it wasn’t a real job anyway). First day in business. First car wreck (the other car was parked). First time a policeman drew his gun on me (last time too, I hope). The list could go on and on.

Some of the firsts have been monumental, some coincidental. Not many have been more eye-opening than on that day thirty-five years ago, when for the first time, I saw my Dad cry over me.

This week we celebrate the leaving home of another Son.

This was no heading out without purpose, no going where circumstances took him. This Son left His home to perform a specific task.

His Father knew, as the child left to go on His journey, that it would end badly (from a father’s perspective). He also knew the journey and its end would achieve an amazing victory, a history-changing paradigm shift. So He stood by and let His Son go.

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Did He cry? I don’t know.

I like to think He did. Still, I don’t know.

I do know His heart was moved with Fatherly pride as the boy grew into a man (Matthew 3:17) and that in the pain of loss He couldn’t watch as the inevitable end came (what father could?), but turned away. (Mark 15:34)

I really don’t know if God cries the way we experience it.

I do know He cares about us more than any physical father ever has—that He wants us to be with Him in the worst way.

That’s what Christmas is about.

The manger, the shepherds, the wise men and the star? They’re just incidental.

The Baby came for one purpose. To die. For me and for you.

I’m thinking if God does cry, it might be because some of us choose to remain separated from Him. Grace is ours for the taking because of the Son who left His home that day so many years ago.

My journey from home, forty years ago, is of no consequence in the grand scheme of the universe—my father’s tears of little moment in history.

But, the reminder of both for me at this season, points dramatically to the real reason for our celebration.

I’ll draw my loved ones close. I’ll embrace some whom I don’t know, but who need to feel His love.

I even might, as I contemplate a Father’s love, shed a tear or two of my own.

I am, after all, a big boy.

And, big boys certainly do cry.

You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.
(Psalm 56:8 ~ NLT)

A little girl once asked, “Mommy does God cry?”
“Don’t be silly, God can’t cry, baby,” her mother replied.

“But what about when He looks down from Heaven above
And sees all the people who need His love?

And what about when He looks down and sees
The playground kids fall and scrape their knees?

Or how about Aunt Jane who can’t have baby girls or boys?
Or what about the poor kids who get no Christmas toys?

Maybe God would cry if He lived with my friend Tommy.
Whose daddy beats and bruises him and his mommy.

Or maybe if He looked down and saw people being killed,
I think He’d surely have eyes that are tear-filled.

But I think most of all, Mommy, what would have made God cry,
Is when He looked down at the cross and watched His baby die.”

The mother stood in silence as her eyes filled with tears,
For she knew her little girl was wise beyond her years.

Staring into deep blue eyes, the mother found courage to say,
“Yes baby girl, I think God looks down and cries every day.”
(Anonymous)

Message from a Hypocritical Fake

July 29, 2016July 31, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

It’s kind of hard for Mom to see the road when she has tears in her eyes.

Our house guests had been gone not even an hour when the text arrived on my phone. I laughed. And then, I wiped the tears from my own eyes.

As we hugged and said our goodbyes that morning, the girls’ mom mentioned how sad it had been for her to be packing. I understood. Their days had been full of old friends and swimming, of family gatherings and sleep-overs. They were leaving to go hundreds of miles away.

It is sad. But, I have to tell you—it’s also joyful.

It’s what happens when we love people.

The homecomings are all laughter and excitement, the separation, tears and sadness.

In between, the sweet times of fellowship are a delight; the distance of disagreement—heartbreak.

Love keeps us coming back. Again and again, the cycle is repeated.

Joy, sadness. Smiles, tears.

I know. It’s hokey. Sentimental slop.

But, that’s life.

Life is hokey. It’s mushy. It’s sloppy.

It’s horribly messy. Horribly.

But, I’ll say this: Better are tears wiped from the eyes while driving away than the voice of regret for never having come.

The memories of times, happy or sad, spent with loved ones are infinitely more to be treasured than the times passed in self-centered pursuits. When, in the passing years, we sit and speak of the good times, we will remember occasions filled with voices and faces, laughter and tears.

The time we share with people is precious; hours wasted in the dark and quiet are hardly remembered at all, save with regret.

One could read the words I’ve scattered on this page and nod his or her head in affirmation, agreeing completely about time spent with family. And yet, I stopped talking about family quite a way up the page.

The statement was: It’s what happens when we love people.

Sad. Joyful.

People.

Family. Neighbors. Strangers. Enemies.

People.

Being a writer, and working to make my articles more accessible has led me to visit and read more divergent views of faith and life than I once did. There is a recent theme that has disappointed me, even worried me.

Why I Ditched the Church Scene (and why you should, too).

Folks who have been hurt, or seen sin in the lives of others, or had disagreements with leaders, are leaving the church in droves. They are not going out to start a new fellowship. They are ditching church altogether.

I wonder.

I’ve said it before myself. I don’t want to go to church today.

And, I will admit here for the first time publicly, in my head I have said it differently. I don’t want to go to church ever again.

Not ever.

Do you know why I keep going to church, with all those hypocrites and fakes—with all those sinners?

They need me.

No, not because I’m so holy. Not because I’m so wise. They need me because I’ve got some rough edges that can bump against the rough edges they bring with them each week. (Hebrews 10:24-25)

This hypocritical fake, who still has a problem with sin, loving them can do what humanity is intended to do. Help them to be better people.

Help me to be a better person.

Is the church full of two-faced fakes?

Duh!

So is my music store. So is the restaurant where I break bread. So is the university where you got your degree. We interact with them in those places, as well.

We are all flawed. We all need help.

God gives it in the form of other flawed, helpless humans. If we abandon them, we serve only ourselves.

And, in the end, if we serve only ourselves, we harm everyone.

Will there be tears?

Will there be unhappiness?

It is a certainty.

What is also certain is that as we live in community, we learn to be the men and women God intended for us to be.

From each other. By being with each other.

I said there will be tears and unhappiness. There will also be great joy and celebration.

It’s what happens when we love people.

And God.

Some day, He’ll wipe those tears away Himself. (Revelation 21:4)

For now, I’ve got a sleeve I can wipe them on.

Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.
(Anonymous ~ attributed to Dr. Seuss ~ American author ~ 1904-1991)

Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works. And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of his return is drawing near.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ NLT)

Crying In the Open

July 12, 2016July 12, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I never knew him.

The same could be said of many whose voices have fallen on my ears—whose hands I have shaken—whose eyes I’ve looked into.

Him, I never spoke with—never laid eyes on.

The young African-American man was moved by an article I wrote and was kind enough to send a note telling me so. We were connected only by the information superhighway, a mode of transport that never brought us closer than a note here, a click of the “like” button there.

Friends, they call it.

As if applying the label could tie the cords to bind individuals together. As if we could struggle past our differences in locale and in community.

He was a student of the martial arts; I a student of classical music. He was city through and through; I lock the doors to my car on the outskirts of any urban center, unlocking them only if there is no other choice or when I have passed the city limits sign on the other side.

And yet, it seemed there was something there—a connection of sorts.

Tears filled my eyes on the day he wrote the words: He’s gone. Sitting right across the table from me, and he dropped dead.

His best friend had died of a massive heart attack as they sat eating and joking. He never got over it.

I wrote a note, which he acknowledged. We exchanged other notes, but they were vague and disconnected. Something had changed.

A few months later, I was shocked to read the words from a relative in a message to the young man’s online friends.

Tonight, he decided there was nothing left worth living for. I’m sorry to have to tell you this way. Thanks for being his friends.

I know. I cry too easily. This was different.

A friend died, his life ended before he was a quarter of a century old.

I never knew him.

Still, he was my friend, my brother. The tears flowed.

They fill my eyes even now.

Can I tell you something? Even if I had never exchanged a word with him, we would have been connected. Even if his name had never been in the listing of friends I had made in my social network, it would be true.

If I haven’t made it clear enough before in my writing, let me say it again here:

We are all connected. All.

There was one Man who insisted on it. At the crossroads of history, He stood and said: If I do this—if I allow myself to be the sacrifice—it will be for every human whose heart beats within his breast. I will draw all men to myself. (John 12:32)

I am not a universalist. Many who are drawn will not come. I know that.

And yet, what if all that is standing between one who is drawn and the Man-God I claim to follow is me?

Or what if—on the flip side of the coin—what if I’m the one who will help that one who is drawn to make up his or her mind?

If I say I love God, but do not love my brother, I am a liar. The truth is not to be found in me. (1 John 4:20)

I watch with horror as the barriers are being erected. High and strong, the walls are being fortified.

Brothers dwell within every fortification, but few will venture out from behind their safety. Few can abandon their petty claims—to hold out a hand in friendship, to embrace family.

Family.

We argue about words and slogans, while people die. We insist on our version of truth while souls hang in the balance.

I’m convinced we will meet again one day, where no barrier stands. Together, beyond that dividing line between this earthly existence and eternity in Heaven, we’ll stand and will weep as we realize the powerful truth of His words.

All men. Black, white, brown—called out of every nation, every tribe.

Drawn to Him—away from worship of false gods, from following false prophets, from teaching false doctrines.

We’ll weep until He wipes away the tears from our eyes Himself. (Revelation 21:4)

I said earlier that I cry too easily. I wonder.

Perhaps we need to cry more while we’re here, not less.

We need to cry more while we’re here, not less. Share on X

My young friend who abandoned hope sat and listened to music right before he took his last breath. Missing his friend who had died before his eyes, he thought he heard in the words of the song an invitation to join him.

Perhaps, it seemed easier than walking a difficult, lonely road without him.

Another young friend, who also has known the horrible pain and emptiness of losing someone he loves, wrote recently of his struggle to comprehend a God who allows such things.

He has reached the conclusion—not lightly nor easily—that likely, it’s our understanding of God that is flawed and not the other way around.

We build a box and stuff God in it, much as we do with people.

Neither will stay in the boxes we have built.

He is too big.

People are too stubborn.

And yet, out in the open seems dangerous, doesn’t it? Too exposed, too brightly lit, too vulnerable.

But we’ve tried hiding. It achieves nothing lasting, leaving only suspicion and hatred.

Perhaps, it’s time to try openness.

There’s more room for hugging and handshakes out here.

There will even be some tears.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

So let the light guide your way, yeah
Hold every memory as you go
And every road you take, will always lead you home, home

It’s been a long day without you, my friend
And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
We’ve come a long way from where we began
Oh, I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
When I see you again.
(See You Again ~ Franks, Puth, Thomaz ~ 2014)

How wonderful and pleasant it is
    when brothers live together in harmony!
For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil
    that was poured over Aaron’s head,
    that ran down his beard
    and onto the border of his robe.
Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon
    that falls on the mountains of Zion.
And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing,
    even life everlasting.
(Psalm 133 ~ NLT)

Because—Love

February 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 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.*

Valentine’s Day.

Again, the commercialized and cloyingly cute messages are filling the in-boxes, mail boxes, and trash boxes across the country. More flowers, candy, and cheaply-made cards will be purchased than at any other time of year.

All to express a love that never was and never will be.

Love, that is. It will never be love.

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 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 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, but I like to have one in my back pocket. I would be lost without it.

With the handkerchief we dry the tears 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 elderly parents departed from this world to a better place; they were wiped away as conversations led to the realization that mental faculties were failing.

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.

And, there’s nothing cheap about that.

You can keep your cheap paper valentines. You can keep your sugary-sweet chocolates (well, maybe just one). You can even keep your diamonds and jewels. They’re cheap too, in a way.

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

Beauty and Chaos

January 19, 2016January 19, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He’s doing an art project.

An art project.

Only two months ago, his little boy died.

Today, he’s working at making something beautiful.

I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around this one. I have a few questions.

Does God feel sadness? How is it that He keeps giving us beautiful things, long after we, made in His image, have hurt and destroyed others, also made in His image?

Long after we killed His only Son.

Why would He continue to bring us each new gorgeous dawn—each new colorful Spring—He who upholds all with the power of His hands? (Colossians 1:16-17)

Does He feel sadness?

His Son did, as He walked on the earth. I’ve told you before of one of my favorite verses in the Bible. I’ve committed it to memory. Even now, I can remember it word for word.

Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

Along with His followers, He felt intense sadness. He had no fear of lessening His influence on them by allowing them to see His tears. There was no embarrassment in showing His emotional state.

Yet, He was the embodiment of His Heavenly Father. The exact image. (Colossians 1:15-16)

God feels sorrow.

He feels sorrow, yet He continues to astound us with beauty.

Me? I mope when I’m sad. I sit in my chair and sigh pitifully. I gripe and I grouse, lashing out at those around me.

Work on an art project when I’m down? Produce things of beauty when I hurt? Hardly.

He does.

The young artist/father I visited with in my business today does, too. He, in the midst of the storm, turns to creativity to bring beauty out of his chaos. Then, when the art project fizzles, he makes music.

From the ashes of catastrophe, he draws out beauty.

It doesn’t mean the pain of loss isn’t ever-present—a shadow lurking on the fringes. He just refuses to wallow in it, to let it have the reins of his existence.

The sun didn’t show its face today in the sky. The gray day worked its way into my spirit in much the same way the cold crept into my bones But in my store, the brilliant illumination couldn’t be cloaked.

Light overcomes darkness. Always.

Always.

Maybe it’s time for us to give the dark times to a God who still makes beauty from darkness.

Give your dark times to a God who still makes beauty from darkness. Share on X

I’m thinking brighter days are ahead.

Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness.
(Martin Luther King Jr. ~ American pastor/civil rights activist ~ 1929-1968)

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
(Genesis 1:2-4 ~ KJV)

Arise and Go

October 27, 2015October 27, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I will arise and go.

The words came to me as I sat among the mud and scattered corn husks tonight.

You laugh. Perhaps with good reason.

And yet…

And yet, I find it easy to drift away into the dark places of my mind these days. People are gone from my life and from the lives of friends. Some have gone beyond recall, never to be reunited this side of eternity. At times, the pain is nearly palpable, the sadness overwhelming.

Others are separated by events no less catastrophic, but perhaps less permanent. Perhaps.

The sadness of broken relationships has become more personal and more crushing with every passing year—indeed it seems—with every passing day. The hopeless feeling bewilders me and doubts grow that broken marriages can be salvaged, or that adult children estranged from parents and siblings
can ever put aside their petty feuds and be reconciled. Somehow, that feeling is hardly less devastating than what I feel for those separated in that final, irrevocable farewell of death.

On the heels of the abrupt loss of an old friend last week have come numerous reminders of other recent losses by friends and in my own family. I listened to a beautiful song by a young friend this evening and wept anew for the cruel scars left by the theft of once-bright minds in aging parents and grandparents. The never-ending stories of broken friendships and rifts in family relationships only add to the sadness.

No. The mud and corn husks of a pig wallow seem to be an apt description.

I may have even heard the startled grunt of a pig a moment ago, as I shifted my position in my seat. It is dark in here.

But, the words come to mind again.

I will arise…

I will arise and go.

Although the path leading here didn’t jibe with the story those words belong to, I’m thinking the cure may be the same.

Funny, isn’t it? Some places, you just arrive at by chance. Without even trying, I find myself frequently at the doughnut shop miles away, and once in awhile, at the ice cream parlor just down the street.

I don’t have to decide to go there. Why is it the places that are not healthy for us just seem to appear before us?

When we want to do healthy things, we have to struggle. We must force ourselves out of our easy chairs, or push away from the dinner table. We dress for the specific activity and select the correct shoes. Protective gear is carefully adjusted and equipment is checked again.

I never, never, just find myself exercising. You?

Come to think of it, we have to make an effort to do most everything which is profitable for us. But the dark places, the damaging activities, almost seem to find us on their own.

I certainly didn’t go looking for this place. I just found myself in here.

I am going to have to take action if I want to leave it behind, though.

I will arise. My Father has things so much better for me.

There might even be a party going on there.

You’ll come too, won’t you?

It might take some effort on your part, as well.

I will arise. And, go to the Father.

He’s already waiting.

He always has been.

But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.
(Luke 15:20 ~ KJV)

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British novelist/Christian apologist ~ 1898-1963)

Flee as a bird to your mountain,
Thou who art weary of sin;
Go to the clear-flowing fountain,
Where you may wash and be clean;
Fly, for temptation is near thee,
Call, and the Savior will hear thee;
He on His bosom will bear thee,
O thou who art weary of sin,
O thou who art weary of sin.

He will protect thee forever,
Wipe ev’ry falling tear;
He will forsake thee O never,
Sheltered so tenderly there!
Haste then, the hours are flying,
Spend not the moments in sighing,
Cease from your sorrow and crying,
The Savior will wipe ev’ry tear,
The Savior will wipe ev’ry tear.
(Flee as a Bird ~ Mary Dana Schindler ~ American hymn writer ~ 1810-1883)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

tears