I’m Going to Tell the Truth for the Next Month

July 9, 2020July 9, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

You can’t believe everything you read

The red-headed lady who raised me was the first person I heard say those words. I suppose it’s not unusual to learn truth from your mother. Her truths came mostly in short, easy-to-remember maxims and sometimes, in long run-on sentences with Bible verses thrown in for good measure.

Those truths, I remember. Some, I even still live by. Especially these days, I remember often that you can’t believe everything you read.

I never expected to learn anything from a fortune cookie. It’s probably a good thing.

We’d been cooped up in the house for weeks on end, waiting out the virus. Restaurants were closed; drive-through lanes, the only way to get food we didn’t have to cook ourselves. We finally gave in one evening and bought Chinese.

The meal was wonderful, the flavors a nice departure from the familiar menu of the kitchen at our place (not that I’m complaining about home-cooking at all). It didn’t take long for the Lovely Lady and me to clear our plates of the rice and various chicken recipes that accompanied it.

What about the fortune cookies?

Oh yes, all that was left were the fortune cookies. One for her. One for me. I don’t have any inkling of what hers said. I suppose that’s normal.

For some reason, we think the little pre-printed piece of paper inserted into the fold of the hard, crunchy cookie material is only meant for the one who happens to crack it open and pull it out.

I suspect, if we’re silly enough to think the phrase or sentence contained on the paper is of any importance, we might as well believe it was specifically intended for the person who opens it. It is, after all, a fortune cookie, is it not?

Still, the fateful words in my cookie were a little shocking.

“The truth will be important to you for the next month.”

The first thought in my head was, and what about the day after the month is over? I want to be sure of my options, you understand.

Right about then though, another thought took my brain captive: The truth hurts! No, literally! It hurts!

As I read the fortune, I had bitten the cookie, expecting it to crunch into little crumbs on my tongue. Instead, the sharp edge sliced into the roof of my mouth, drawing blood immediately. Every time I ate solid food for the next couple of days, I remembered that the truth hurts, because of the very real pain I felt.

Yes. It was another of that red-headed lady’s truths. Short and not-so-sweet. The truth hurts. Once again, she was right.

Truth is essential

Okay, I’m over the pain now and I want to talk about that fortune. I’d like to know why the truth is going to be important for me, but only for the next 30 days.

I’m certain the truth is always essential. Full-stop.

To a follower of Christ, truth is not an on-again, off-again option but is an ever-present tenet of our faith. His Word is filled with instructions that are clear and unmistakable. For example:

The Lord detests lying lips,
but he delights in people who are trustworthy. (Proverbs 12:22, NIV)

Why then, do His followers so often deal dishonestly? Why do we lie to those we love? To those we barely know?

On a recent afternoon, as the Lovely Lady and I sat around the table with friends and family, the conversation turned to lies told us by our parents. Several at the table told of untruths they learned about either late in their parents’ lives or after they had died. I don’t exaggerate when I tell you there was emotional devastation for those left to deal with the consequences of some of those lies.

When we tell a lie, we bind ourselves to that lie. Until the day we confess it and finally tell the truth, we are shackled to it. Again and again, lies are required to prop up the original untruth. Lie upon lie, compounded until the guilt must be unbearable.

And yet, Jesus told his followers (in front of His detractors) that there is freedom in the truth.

To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31–32, NIV)

Truth is freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from shame. Freedom from a dishonest past that ties us up in knots of failure and terror of discovery.

Truth doesn’t always hide in plain sight

Boy, that’s an understatement! We live in a day of truth-twisting like none before, public officials who build cases from half-truths and generalities, people groups who purposely blend lies with myth and call it truth, individuals who spread information they know to be inaccurate, defending their actions with excuses and slander. More than a few on that list above claim the title of Christian.

Did I say it’s a day of truth-twisting like none before? I’m sorry. That wasn’t quite accurate.

We complain today that we no longer know what is truth and what isn’t. An influential man, in about 33 AD, said the same thing.

“What is truth?” retorted Pilate. With this he went out again to the Jews gathered there and said, “I find no basis for a charge against him.” (John 18:38, NIV)

Sound familiar? The political/religious leaders had fabricated a case against Jesus, using witnesses who actually reported words He had said, twisting them to make Him appear treasonous. Then, when the entire group was in agreement, they took that information to the Roman governor.

After speaking with the accused, Pilate tried to square the “truth” from the priests with what he heard from Jesus. His response to the confusing dichotomy was that phrase we hear repeated again and again today. Two thousand years later, we still are seeking the answer.

What is truth?

Confusion reigns right now

We have a virus that won’t be pinned down to any recognizable modus operandi, with no response that can be agreed upon. There is massive racial unrest that has fractured even the most conservative and liberal organizations in our country, with slogans and accusations hurled in the name of truth from all directions. Our government is in disarray — every voice claiming the high ground of truth, with no sign of any resolution.

When we employ the truth for our own ends, we almost always wrap it in exaggeration and innuendo, the final result being something that resembles the truth not at all.

And yet, we must strive for the truth, searching it out, stripping away the falsehoods and non-essentials. If we don’t, we will be bound in this confusion indefinitely.

I’m reminded of a conversation between two characters in The Lord of the Rings story. Eomer, confused by events beyond his comprehension, wonders how one should decide what is right in such a time. Aragorn tells him nothing has changed. Nothing.

Nothing has changed

Truth is still essential. We are still called to be ambassadors of truth. It can still be found. Though not easily, I’ll grant you. And, when it is found, it will not be our servant, lending itself to our selfish causes. But it will be found.

I wonder if we don’t search in all the wrong places for truth. Perhaps, if we focused on the basics, we might find a way to walk in truth, to live the truth in our lives.

Basics? Where can we find those?

For us, who claim to follow Christ, we simply need to start there — following Christ. His claim is to be the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

If we’re following Truth, really following it in the spiritual sense, I have a strong suspicion that truth, in the practical, physical sense, will become clear to us.

When we participate in the truth-twisting, divisive conversations of the world, we are not following truth.

The basics are that we are to love God (who is truth) with everything we have in us.

The basics are that we must then love people, wanting the same good things, the same advantages, we claim for ourselves. Our truth-telling is to be done in that same love, building them up and not making them less.

The basics are that we are to focus on good things, truthful things, things that are honorable, and worthy of admiration. It’s a focus I’m not seeing all that much these days, even in myself.

So, here’s what I’m going to be doing

For the next month, I’m going to stop listening to the lies. For the next month, I’m going to stop telling the lies. For the next month, I’m going to focus on the good and true things that are all around me.

Then, after next month, I’m going to do the same thing for the month after that, and the month after that, and the… Well, you get the idea.

I could use some company. Then, if the truth hurts, we’ll be able to comfort each other.

Truth does that sometimes. Literally and figuratively. It’s still better than the alternative.

For the next month. And then some.

Eomer said, “How is a man to judge what to do in such times?”
“As he has ever judged,” said Aragorn. “Good and evil have not changed since yesteryear, nor are they one thing among Elves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.” (from The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien)

Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ. (Ephesians 4:15, NIV)

Esse Quam What?

August 3, 2018August 3, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m not sure they’re right.

I’m not sure they’re wrong, either. They could be.

But they could be right, too.

I made a mistake the other day—one I thought I could rectify with minimal effort. I wrote a cute little note about my recent experience with the Internal Revenue Service and posted it on social media.

I was trying to be funny. It was a little funny. A little. And, come to think of it, more than a little snarky.

In the post, I suggested that the IRS folks I had dealt with by telephone that day weren’t very good with numbers. Just a little sarcastic tweak at the huge bureaucracy’s nose.

The problem is, I don’t like to be seen as snarky. I don’t want to be thought of as not nice. So, I added a few words. Just a few. To make myself look better.

. . .I don’t get to keep the large sum they sent me this week. I’m okay with that.

They did the job. The words, I mean. Making myself look better.

The check was for a huge amount. To my mind, anyway. The fellow on the phone, who took nearly an hour to decide, told me it was mine to keep. Well, mine and the Lovely Lady’s.

Only, I knew it wasn’t.

The next day, armed with documentation, I called them again and, taking another hour out of my life, convinced the kind lady that the money wasn’t mine.

She told me where to mail the check.

My friends think I have integrity.

As I said, they could be right. I think they may not be.

I want them to be. Right, that is.

Can we talk about integrity? Again?

I’ve written about it before. If you’ve read those articles, you may remember I used the example of a piece of cloth, woven neatly and with good thread. In my mind, it’s the very definition of integrity.

The cloth is stronger than the sum of the threads. But, I’m not. Stronger, I mean.

In the back of my mind, I know the cost of keeping money that doesn’t belong to me. Oh, I don’t mean the guilty feelings that come inevitably. And, they will come.

What I mean is, I’ve seen what the IRS does when it realizes it made a mistake. The penalties. The interest charges. The seizing of the entire bank account until their agents are satisfied.

And, again in the back of my mind, I wonder; did I send the money back because I don’t want to pay that penalty? Was I afraid I’d get caught? That’s not integrity.

It’s not.

Integrity is about doing the right thing. Because it’s the right thing.

Period.

Integrity is about doing the right thing. Because it's the right thing. Period. Share on X

It’s the whole cloth holding together, because every thread is in its place, doing what it does. Strong. Steadfast.

I like to read. A lot. I learn from reading. Good things. Bad things. And, at my age, I keep wondering when I’ll have learned all the new things I can glean from other writers.

Obviously, not yet.

The other day, as I read a historical novel, the description of a phrase inscribed above the entrance to some imaginary palace caught my attention. Arrested my attention. Made me read it again. And, yet again.

You’ll understand when you read it for yourself.

Esse quam videri

See what I mean?

Oh, sorry. Latin may not have been the right language in which to introduce the concept. Let me make a literal translation (from a Latin dictionary; not from my feeble brain) for you.

To be as seen.

It’s often expressed as to be, rather than to seem. That’s okay, but I like the literal, word-for-word, translation better. We in the computer age have a similar phrase, expressed in equally unintelligible language.

WYSIWYG

What you see is what you get. It works with computers. Not so much with humans.

It should.

Why does God have to look on the inside, while man is fooled by outside appearances? (1 Samuel 16:7)

Why aren’t they the same thing?

Facades, masks, clever disguises—we manage to look the part, one way or another. Even we who claim to follow Jesus have our deceptions in place.

Alive and beautiful on the outside. But, what if there’s death and decay on the inside?

The world is not wrong when it labels us hypocrites. The word simply means, actors. Someone who pretends for his/her livelihood. I don’t know many in the world who are not that themselves, but it should be different for us.

It should.

Mr. Lewis may be accurate when he says that integrity is doing the right thing even when no one is watching, but there’s more to it than that. A lot more.

Integrity is about telling the truth even when it costs. It’s about being generous even when one is impoverished. It’s about controlling my tongue when all around folks are sharing the latest gossip. It’s about not drinking the milk from the carton even when the Lovely Lady isn’t looking.

It’s about all those things. But, those things aren’t integrity.

Integrity isn’t about doing. It’s about being.

Integrity isn't about doing. It's about being. Share on X

Because what is in the heart is what will always—eventually—bubble up to the surface. The thing that is at the bottom of who I am, my very foundation, is the thing I will do and become.

A word of caution. If I believe myself to be a man of integrity and proclaim it to be so, you should assume there is some filthy secret hidden in that foundation that will become known soon. I’ve seen it too many times. You have too.

The apostle who loved to write letters, my namesake—who, by the way, had reason to understand the principle personally—suggested that when we believe we are standing firmly on both feet, we should be careful not to get hurt in the fall. (1 Corinthians 10:12)

I want to be a man of integrity. Want to be.

I’m not that man. Too often, my integrity is guaranteed only by the odds that someone is watching, or that someone will eventually uncover my offense.

But, I want to be that man.

Someday, I will be him.

No mask. No facade. No disguise.

Esse quam videri

To be as seen.

And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.
(Philippians 1:6 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

The image is one thing, and the human being is another. It’s very hard to live up to an image, put it that way.
(Elvis Presley ~ American singer/entertainer ~ 1935-1977)

Breathing is Good

May 23, 2018May 23, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’ve been reading a lot recently. Sitting in the comfortable old upholstered chair by the front window, I’ve leaned back, lost in the wonder and peril, and the hours have flown before I knew it.

I realized something the other night while reading, though. I’ve talked about it with the Lovely Lady and she’s not sure she agrees, but since she doesn’t disagree, I could be right.

I could be. Perhaps.

The world outside my window is a living, breathing organism. And somehow, we can choke it to death or lend it our breath.

Stick with me now.

What happened is this: Often, I don’t listen well when reading (just ask her about that), but I gradually became aware of the sound. As first, I thought someone in the next room was breathing rather loudly, but as I stopped to listen, it became clear. The world outside was actually breathing! It sounded like an asthmatic old man, but it was breathing.

Heee. Hooo.

Well, I said it became clear, but it wasn’t long before I realized the sound I was hearing was actually the tree frogs in the trees around our house. A chorus would start nearby—Heee—and the chorus up the road a bit would answer, the distance separating them making it seem as if there was a different pitch—Hooo.

Inhale, exhale.

The world is breathing.

I still think I could be right. Stick with me a little longer.

The Apostle told the amateur philosophers in Athens that everything in the earth had life and breath because of our Creator. (Acts 17:25)

To this day, we continue to live and move—and exist at all—because He sustains us. (Acts 17:28)

But I suppose it’s not the tree frogs that are evidence of the inhale and exhale of the world that lives around us. Not really.

Still, I contend that we have the power to choke or to replenish the breath of life to the world given us by our Creator.

I don’t just mean nature, either. Many have written and spoken about our responsibilities there and I don’t disagree. But, I have a more human aspect in mind.

On the Sunday afternoon just past, I heard the breathing again. I’m sure I did.

An invitation had come a week or so ago, suggesting that we might like to celebrate the ninetieth birthday of a friend with him and his family.

We thought we would, and so it was that we found ourselves in the social hall of a retirement village in a neighboring town. We had waited until the early arrivals cleared out a bit, so there wasn’t such a crush around our old friend.

I sat beside him and the memories came back with a rush. Forty years—give or take a couple of years—it has been that I’ve known him (much longer for the Lovely Lady, who grew up with his children).

All those years ago, he taught me how to breathe. Well, not really, but it seems so now.

In my teen years, I had developed a kind of stage fright that guaranteed I would never stand in front of a crowd and do anything by myself. Every time I attempted it, I could feel the heat rise from my neck, up into my face, as I turned a bright crimson red and became unable to continue. It had happened too many times. I would never—never— attempt it again.

He was patient. A little.

Planting the seed and encouraging me for a few weeks, he convinced me that all it would take to lead the singing in our little church was for me to stand there and sing along with the people. The only talking I needed to do was to call out a hymn number.

I was terrified and refused. Again and again.

He wouldn’t give up on me. Again and again, he asked. Just one more time than I refused, he asked.

I didn’t turn red. I didn’t freeze up. The people sang. I sang. I couldn’t believe it.

Since that time, I’ve been able to lead music many times. I’ve even preached numerous times.

Not once has the old fear returned. Not once.

Someone breathed encouragement into my lack of confidence, courage into my fear. He taught me how to breathe on my own.

I sat, last Sunday afternoon, remembering his kindness and was lost in the past for a moment or two before realizing that he was talking again.

I’ve written numerous times about the house the Lovely Lady and I moved into last year, the house in which she grew up. Her uncle built the structure, back in the nineteen-forties, and her family—first another aunt and uncle, then her mother and father—has lived here since.

I didn’t know that my old friend had helped to build the house, too.

“Oh yes, I helped to work on the foundation of that house. I remember taking the wire from the forms around the cement.”

I had no idea.

He laid the foundation to the house in which I live today.

I know now.

Need I go on? Would it be possible to miss a truth so obvious?

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying the foundation for a living breathing body which, in the next generation—or in the one after that, or the ten after that—will breathe its life into the world around it.

We breathe our life into the world around us, laying a foundation for a living breathing body which will breathe its life into the world around it. Share on X

What if we refuse?

Selfish, rude, ignorant kids! What a waste of space!

I was all of that and more. And still, they breathed into my life.

What if they hadn’t?

What if we won’t?

Outside, the frog chorus has begun again.

Inhale. Exhale.

Breathe.

It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise
We pour out our praise
It’s Your breath in our lungs
So we pour out our praise to You only

And all the earth will shout Your praise
Our hearts will cry, these bones will sing
Great are You, Lord
(from Great Are You, Lord ~ Leonard/Ingram/Jordan ~ © Essential Music Publishing, Capitol Christian Music Group)

Then he said to me, “Speak a prophetic message to the winds, son of man. Speak a prophetic message and say, ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Come, O breath, from the four winds! Breathe into these dead bodies so they may live again.'”
(Ezekiel 37:9 ~ NLT ~ New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

And the Stars Sang Together

February 13, 2018February 13, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I suppose I may have actually gone for a year or two without looking at them. I really can’t remember. I may have.

It’s not that I ever stopped believing in them. I just never saw them, so they almost didn’t matter. To me, they didn’t matter.

It’s funny when I actually write the words. No, not funny. Stupid. And, sad. Mostly sad.

I looked at them tonight. The stars, I’m talking about. I walked out into the winter night, just as the temperature showed thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and simply stood there staring at the spectacular light show in the sky.

Do you think the light show was good at the last concert you attended? I don’t get to many rock concerts, but they’ve changed a little over the years. Besides the obvious increase in volume, I mean.

The light arrays on the stage are astonishing in their scope, utilizing everything from LEDs to old-style incandescent spotlights to pyrotechnics, all operated by one man sitting at a control board, or perhaps even pre-programmed and actuated by computer software at the proper time.

The lights move up and down or side-to-side, oscillating and flashing all the while. They don’t just highlight the musicians on stage, either. Some are aimed at the audience and, from time to time, shine so brilliantly in their eyes that the band members onstage are not even visible at all.

Still. The gaudiness and brilliance of those stage lights fade into a dim memory as the attentive human wanders under the night sky.

I stood in my shirt sleeves tonight, the glory of the heavens spread out above me, and, for a few moments, forgot how cold it was. The blue-black canopy of space overhead was overwhelmed by the constellations and galaxies, and the night sky was alive with light. Pure, brilliant, untouched Creator’s power.

For the better part of twenty years, the Lovely Lady and I lived in a house which was part of a commercial zone in our little town. We could often see the big orb of a moon as it rose on the eastern horizon, or hung like a giant smile overhead. And, the sun had no problem showing its face day after sweltering day through the long humid summers.

But, to walk out the door and look up at the stars in the sky was never as easy as that. The man-made lights shone garishly in our eyes like so many rock-concert LEDs obscuring the main act, the stars, if you will, overhead.

It’s easy, when you don’t often see the stars, to forget how spectacular that light show is. Over a period of years, one might be forgiven if it’s not on their top ten list of the most important things in creation to take time for.

It would be foolish, however, to decide that the stars are no longer shining in the sky. Just because we don’t take the time, or make the effort, no one would aver that they don’t exist anymore.

I wonder. Do you suppose any of those stars gave up on me in the years when I wasn’t able to walk out under the dome of the heavens in the middle of winter and be blown away by their splendor? Maybe just one called it quits.

No?

The faithful in northern Greece were encouraged to stay just that—faithful—in the letter written to them by the apostle Paul. He described them as stars that shone in the sky, in the midst of a damaged and deceived generation. (Philippians 2:15)

Nearly every day, I read of someone else who is advancing the claim that our time—those of us who follow Christ—is ended. We’re not needed anymore; not relevant to our culture.

I could have made the same claim during all those years of living under the halogen glare of parking lot and street lights on poles. Who needs stars when you have automatic lights that shine on demand?

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The stars are irrelevant!

And yet somehow, they’re still shining. Still in their constellations. Still wheeling across the cosmos in synchronization with every other ball of burning gas set into motion all those centuries ago by our Creator.

And our sun, dwarf star that it is in a galaxy of giants, ushers in each new day, and season, and year, just as if it is as relevant today as it was on the day when the stars sang together and the angels shouted for joy at the marvelous creative power of our God. (Job 38:7)

Somehow, I think I’ll keep shining too.

No one may be looking at the little light right now. There may never be a single voice that testifies to the power that makes my light visible.

It doesn’t matter. He made us to shine.

Not like the fake, gaudy light of the stage array, nor even like the brilliant, confusing glare of Gideon’s lamps in the enemy camp.

But, simply with the bright, steady light of His love and grace, we shine.

With the bright, steady light of His love and grace, we shine. Share on X

Lighting the way to Him. For a world blinded by too many lights that illuminate nothing at all, we are lighting the path to Him.

We shine.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars
Waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
(from The Peace of Wild Things ~ Wendell Berry ~ American farmer, author, and poet)

Look up into the heavens.
    Who created all the stars?
He brings them out like an army, one after another,
    calling each by its name.
Because of his great power and incomparable strength,
    not a single one is missing.
(Isaiah 40:26 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Sugar Is Good For You

September 25, 2017September 25, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 10 Comments

It was just an overheard conversation.

Funny, how a few words directed at someone else can change the tenor of the day. A thought, tucked away in a vacant corner of the brain and carried through the afternoon unnoticed, gives a different perspective which can’t really be explained.

The earlier parts of the day hadn’t worked out at all as I had planned.

A trip into the attic to correct a simple problem had turned into three trips into the attic. I had planned to be up there only during the coolest hours of the morning.

When I finally tumbled out at noon, drenched in sweat and nearly choking on the dust from the rock wool insulation, the mood was set for the rest of the day.

That’s the way it seems to go, isn’t it? I’m not saying it has to; it’s just what we expect after a morning filled with disappointment.

I was gloomily mowing in the hot afternoon sun when my labor was interrupted by a message from the Lovely Lady.

He says we should come over now if we want it.

She had found a cabinet she wanted that someone in a town thirty miles away was selling. Did I mention it’s the weekend for one of the biggest motorcycle gatherings in the country?

The busiest weekend of the year as far as traffic goes, and we were going to be on the highway.

Great! Just great!

I told you it would only get worse. You just watch! We’ll get behind a bunch of those bikers out cruising and will be stuck for miles. Miles!

We stopped at the ATM to get some cash for the purchase. The machine only gives cash in twenty dollar increments. We would have to stop and break the bill to have the amount of the asking price.

Frustrated and ready to do something desperate, I suggested we just buy a couple of Cokes. It was, I suppose, my way of making a statement of protest while demonstrating my problem-solving abilities.

I do like to solve problems.

Well? It’s in my nature. I am a man, you know. This fit perfectly. I could break my self-imposed no-sugar rule while getting the correct change into my pocket.

It was a rotten day already. Why not just wallow in it?

Someone had different plans. I would like to say it was to show me that sugar is good for me. That’s probably not it.

Inside the convenience store, I walked back to the cooler and picked out a couple of twenty-ounce bottles, carrying them back to the counter. The two ladies behind it were just talking. With each other.

I wasn’t included in the conversation. Except, I was.

I was intended to hear every word. I’m certain of it.

“We were listening to the news last weekend and they reported that the boy with autism was missing.”

I set my items on the counter and she scanned them without missing a beat.

“My little boy wanted to pray for him to be found, so we did—right then. That’ll be three dollars and sixty-three cents, please. The next morning we heard he had been found. My son was so excited! So excited!”

I pocketed my change and walked out the door, a different person than I had been when I walked in.

It took us almost two hours to go over, pick up the cabinet, and come back. And, just as I had predicted, we did get behind a group of touring bikers on the way back. They rode about forty-five miles per hour on the winding two-lane road all the way home.

What a great afternoon! No. What a perfect afternoon!

There might still be some who would credit the sugar-high from the Cokes. They’d be wrong.

The apostle who loved to write letters said it this way as he closed his missive to the good folk at Philippi: Whatever is great news and worth talking about, that’s what you need to keep in your mind. (Philippians 4:8)

He wasn’t talking about the power of positive thinking. He never said you could name it and claim it.

The reality is this world is an unhappy place. We wrestle with things we don’t understand.

When we dwell on those things, we are overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed with fear.

Beaten by pessimism.

Conquered by worry.

But, I’m sure of this one thing: The truth we know is bigger than the doubt we feel.

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When we fill up the corners of our mind with the reminders of His love and power, His peace reigns.

Sometimes, it’s no more than the knowledge that He cares about little boys who pray, as well as the little boys who wander away.

Just in time, I stood at that counter to overhear, eavesdropping on a conversation I wasn’t part of.

I’m saving up those worthwhile stories, squirreling them away in the vacant corners of my memory.

It may be time to sweep out some other cluttered nooks and crevices to make room for more.

It has become so easy to collect darkness and gloom from almost every source we see. Our lives will be swept away in those currents if we allow them to take root.

Courage to walk on is born in the corners where excellence is stored.

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Peace along the road is the product of true and honorable thoughts.

I do wish it had more to do with the sugar.

I’m fixing my mind.

Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.
(Romans 12:2 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up all those things – trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones.
(from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English novelist/theologian ~ 1898-1963)

Treasure in the Dumpster

July 4, 2017July 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I usually punch the snooze button on my alarm once—maybe twice. Okay. Three times.

Not today.

The noises outside my second-story window had been going for awhile. You know how sounds creep into your slumber, disturbing your dreams, especially in the moments just before the alarm begins to sound.

As I reached for the alarm button, a clatter from the dumpster reached my ear.

I got up.

I stood at my upstairs bedroom window and watched the shirtless man for some time. The dumpster had been almost full—or so I had thought.

He had stirred through the entire container, moving the larger items from the top to the bottom and around the sides. By the time I was aware of his presence, he was standing on the bottom of the dumpster, just like Moses in the middle of the Red Sea, with the mountains of debris piled up on either side.

Items (my trash!) he wanted to keep were carefully balanced around the edges of the steel container.

I decided I wouldn’t interfere with the man’s treasure hunt. I hadn’t wanted the items. Why should I keep him from taking whatever he thought he could use or profit from?

Treasures from trash.

The concept hasn’t left my head all day.

Trash. Treasures.

It’s nothing new. We don’t even have to say the entire maxim and most will finish the thought. One man’s trash. . .

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

The underlying premise is that one is no better than the other.

I have no intention of demeaning the homeless man foraging in my dumpster. He is doing what he knows to do to provide for himself.

Additionally, I have no desire to point a finger at any person, comparing them to others for the reader to make a judgment of character.

It’s just that I know something of dumpster diving.

I don’t know quite how to put it. Well, yes, I do. It won’t make some people happy.

The truth is like that.

I know two things about looking for treasures in the trash bin:

1. Even if useful items may sometimes be found in the trash, most of the time, there’s nothing but trash to be found.

2. If one digs for treasures in the trash long enough, eventually that person begins to forget that it’s trash they’re digging through.

It will most likely become evident soon—if it hasn’t already occurred to the reader—that I’m not really that concerned with dumpsters and the practice of digging through the ubiquitous receptacles.

There are some who spend their lives dredging through the garbage. Their lives and hearts are filled with the stench.

And still, they dive in.

A friend, many years ago, regaled me with the story of his sister-in-law and her experience at the local casino.

The first time—the very first time—she entered the casino, against her better judgment and at the urging of her friends, she won a large sum of money while gambling.

Willingly, eagerly, she returned to the gaudy, glitzy place again and again, certain she would find treasure once more at its tables. She never did. Even if she had, the losses could never have been surpassed by her gains.

There was never treasure to be found there—never more than false promises and empty hopes.

Still trash.

As to the second point, I can’t help but think of the Tolkien character of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings. He had lived in the dark and stinking places of the world for so long that when he, starving and weak, was offered the delicate cake of the elves’ lembas, he choked on it and called it ashes.

Ashes.

As I write this, in the wee hours of the night, the sun will be rising soon on another Independence Day in the United States. I’m saddened by what I see in the hearts of many in our country, even in my little town, and I have to wonder, what do we have to celebrate this July 4th?

We, and I include most folks I know—Christians and otherwise, liberals and conservatives, politically active and indifferent—seem to revel in the trash pile. We delight in all that is negative and hateful, dredging it up again and again, in whatever form we find it in the garbage container, only to throw it in the faces of our used-to-be friends and acquaintances.

It almost seems we believe this is how we were meant to live.

It wasn’t.

It isn’t.

In our interactions with others, we must—absolutely must—rise above the garbage and restore community. If we don’t, our country is lost, I fear.

And yet, there is an even more essential element to this conversation.

The Teacher, imploring His followers to set their affections on more important things, warned against the garbage.

Where the source of your treasure is located, your heart by nature will turn to. (Matthew 6:21)

If we do things the way we’ve always done them, the result will always be the same.

Every time.

Soon after that astounding Day of Pentecost, the disciples Peter and John were going to the temple to worship. A lame man sat there, in the place he had sat every day for as long as he could remember. It was all he knew, this detestable begging for his living. And yet, as the two men passed him, he looked at them, expecting nothing more than a few pennies to extend his unhappy misery an hour or two more.

Peter looked at him and said, “It’s time you stopped dumpster diving.”

Well, that’s not really what he said. What he told the lame man was that they had no money. I assume the disappointed man would have turned his eyes toward the next party approaching. Well? He wasn’t going to get what he needed here. Why shouldn’t he?

We have no silver, nor do we have any gold. Here’s the thing: What we do have, we’re going to give to you. Get up. Walk with us into the temple to worship. (Acts 3:6)

You know, there’s no treasure in any dumpster worth more than what God offers every single one of us.

His Grace and mercy will lift us out of whatever garbage receptacle we’ve been digging through to find our worth.

His love reaches down right where we’re searching, whether ankle deep or neck deep in refuse.

He sets us in higher places.

He sets us in higher places. Share on X

Higher.

It’s time to stop hoarding trash that looks like treasure to us.

It’s time to begin storing away the real thing.

In a place it will be safe.

In a place where we’ll be safe.

It’s time.

I lived through the garbage. I might as well dine on caviar.
(Beverly Sills ~ American opera singer ~ 1929-2007)

Why spend your money on food that does not give you strength?
Why pay for food that does you no good?
Listen to me, and you will eat what is good.
You will enjoy the finest food.

“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord.
    “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.
For just as the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so my ways are higher than your ways
    and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.
(Isaiah 55:2, 8-9 ~ NLT)

Trusty

July 2, 2017July 2, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

She had stored the instrument in an attic.

Attics are hot.

I know. I spent most of an hour in one today.

Sweat poured from my face and body—almost as if I were melting—while I completed my task. When I finally crawled out, filthy and soaked through, from the sweltering darkness I wanted nothing else but to escape outside to the relative coolness of the mid-eighty degree afternoon temperatures.

Attics are hot.

As I sat and drank down a cold bottle of water, my mind, as it tends to do, brought back the picture of the old lady, who has long since left this life. Thirty years ago, she wandered into my music store, carrying the large container that looked almost like a suitcase.

Her head shook up and down as she spoke in a squeaky voice.

“I’ve been holding on to this for a long time, but it won’t play anymore. Can you fix it?”

I opened the huge case and lifted out the ancient accordion. As I shifted it to sit on the countertop in front of me, there was a clatter from the interior of the instrument.

That wasn’t good.

The lady had left the squeeze-box with a friend she trusted for safe-keeping and the friend thought it would be safest in his attic.

Attics are hot.

All the reeds—the part of the accordion that air blows through to make the sound you can hear—are held in with beeswax. That’s all—beeswax.

You do know what happens to wax when it gets hot, right?. You know, like when you light a candle?

Sure, you do. It liquefies.

Every single reed had fallen out of place and into a huge pile inside the center of the instrument. It wouldn’t make a sound. Well, except for the jangle of loose reeds bumping against each other, it wouldn’t make a sound.

Useless. Absolutely useless.

Somehow, the remembrance of the experience—one that eventually had a happy ending, with a repair being effected and the instrument being saved for the lady—the remembrance brings to mind another story of great heat and complete failure.

The mind does run on, doesn’t it?

I have always loved to read. In my childhood, I was especially drawn to myths and fantasies, a juvenile escape, I suppose, from the hard and sometimes unhappy realities of life.

One of my favorite myths, probably a favorite because I have always dreamed of what it would be like to fly, was the story of Icarus. In Greek mythology, Icarus and his father were imprisoned on an island, but escaped by flying away on wings they fashioned from feathers and wax.

Icarus ignored his father’s warnings and, trusting the make-shift wings too much, flew higher and higher until the sun melted the wax, causing the feathers to fall off. He fell into the ocean below and drowned.

Both stories reminded me that good intentions—and even solid planning—don’t always work out the way we expect.

As I sat outside today, nearly back to normal, I realized words were running through my head—either the result of the strange line of thought or, perhaps, the cause of it. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

We’ve wanted to be trusty and true, but the feathers fell from our wings.

A week ago, a friend shared the song. I had never heard it before. The words hit hard as I listened, and moved me as much as any I’ve heard in recent memory. I found myself agreeing with the artist throughout.

Even though it’s not a Christian song, its truth is still profound.

I want to be dependable, to act as one who has proven, time after time, to be trustworthy.

I want to be trusty.

I do.

But, again and again, I do the thing which shows the disaster I really am.

Flapping for all I’m worth, my feathers have all melted away and I’m going down. Again.

The Apostle, my namesake, tells us he had the same problem, as well. The things I say I want to do, I don’t seem to be able to accomplish. The acts I want to avoid at all costs—those are the ones I find myself performing. (Romans 7:15)

Somehow, the heat is always on. Somehow, our feathers never will stay put.

And, the harder we try, the more the notes won’t sound.

Some would say we’re trying too hard.

I just say, we’re trying. And, we can never succeed in the strength we have. Never.

The problem is not that we're trying too hard, it's that we're trying at all. Share on X

Every attempt we ever make at being trusty on our own will ultimately end in failure. Every one.

We fly, only when He gives us wings to do so. We make music because He puts the reeds into place.

He saved us, not because of our own righteousness, but because of His unending mercy. By the washing and renewing of His Spirit, we are His. (Titus 3:5)

Even when the heat is on, our faces dripping with perspiration and lungs filling with the filth of this world, we are His, saved by His Grace.

Time to fly.

Fly high.

The only One who is Trusty and True has us.

We just have to come.

We’ve wanted to be trusty and true
But feathers fell from our wings
And we’ve wanted to be worthy of you
But weather rained on our dreams.

So I advise you to buy gold from me—gold that has been purified by fire. Then you will be rich. Also buy white garments from me so you will not be shamed by your nakedness, and ointment for your eyes so you will be able to see.
(Revelation 3:18 ~ NLT)
Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.

The Storyteller

February 17, 2017February 17, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

So I says to him—I says—that’ll never go through this door.

My grandfather died the year I graduated from high school, but still, I hear his voice, telling another of his stories. Always—always, they were punctuated with spaces.

They were spaces in which he caught his breath.

When he walked from the front porch to the kitchen, he always stopped at the desk behind his easy chair. Every time. Leaning with his big hands on the edge of the desktop, he breathed deep, his powerful chest muscles expelling the bad air and drawing in good.

I felt the tell-tale tightening in my chest earlier today, a sign that my own bronchial issues may soon overtake me again. I couldn’t help but think of the old man.

Experience tells me that, even should I succumb to the malady completely, I will breathe freely again very soon. But, these moments remind me of folks who’ve gone before—people I have loved and who have loved me.

They remind me of other things, as well.

My grandfather, he of the interrupted sentences, was a storyteller. He loved a good story. More than that, he loved being surrounded by people who listened to the stories he told. The gaps for breathing, at first an annoyance to both the teller and the listener, soon became room for thought and reason for suspense.

A good storyteller uses the tools with which he is provided.

Grandpa was a good storyteller. Health impediment or not, he was going to tell his stories.

I’m a storyteller too. You might say, it’s in my blood. Kind of like the lung issues. From my grandfather to my son, the males in my family have experienced similar problems of varying degrees. Without a say in the inheritance, we have each passed down the frailty to the succeeding generation.

May I talk about the storytelling and passing things down for a moment? I promise to be nearly succinct. The reader will have to be the judge of whether the time is well spent.

Did you know our Creator commanded us to be storytellers? And, He expected us to pass the love of telling stories down through the generations? His instructions—oddly enough, passed through another storyteller—were clear.

Parents tell your children. Tell them in your home, as you’re hiking on a trail, and when you’re in the shopping centers. Through all the ages, tell them. Give them reason to believe and to trust in a God who provides and protects. (Deuteronomy 11:18-20)

The testimony of previous generations is a bridge over which we cross the raging floods of cultural deception and shifting doctrine. If we fail to provide those bridges for our children, our progeny will be washed away in the roiling currents and howling rapids.

Tell the stories! Use words that are accurate and attractive. Put them to music, rhyme the syllables, and give them rhythm. Paint them on a canvas, or carve them in stone.

Tell the stories!

The Lovely Lady—my favorite walking companion—and I wandered along an abandoned roadbed just a few days hence. We had a goal in mind, a century-old bridge, now abandoned, but still standing. It has not carried traffic for a number of years.

A monument to the past, the framework stands. There is even a roadway across, but a few steps onto it and one soon realizes that it will never support the weight of a vehicle again.

A monument—nothing more.

Bridges are meant to be more than monuments. Properly maintained and kept, they smoothly move traffic from the place left behind to the destination. Abandoned, they serve no purpose, but rust and rot into the landscape, forcing the traveler to choose a different route or be carried away in the flood.

I will build bridges.

With my last breath, I will tell the stories.

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As my lovely companion and I wandered, almost sadly, away from the beautiful old span, I realized that my faulty lungs might make the half-mile trek back to the road difficult and wondered about the wisdom of making the trip.

I needn’t have worried. Companions are made to help each other on the road.

We don’t walk the road alone—don’t build the bridges alone—don’t cross them alone.

Surrounded by a great cloud of storytellers, we press on.

To our last breath.

Tell the Story.

Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we’d better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit!
(Hebrews 12:1,2 ~ The Message)

For in Calormen, story-telling (whether the stories are true or made up) is a thing you’re taught, just as English boys and girls are taught essay-writing. The difference is that people want to hear the stories, whereas I never heard of anyone who wanted to read the essays.
(from A Horse and His Boy ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

Where Will We Go?

August 30, 2016August 30, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

My old friend came in and sat down. It seemed like a morning for remembering the past.

It turned out to be a morning for looking to the future.

Somehow though, there are always more important things to consider than those that are most obvious. We talk about life as we know it, but larger truths lie waiting to be appropriated.

Our conversation was interrupted a time or two by customers, come to replenish their supply of guitar picks, or banjo strings. Then she came in lugging a case that could only hold a trombone. I remembered the young lady from her visit just days ago.

“I did what you suggested. I brought it by to be sure it’s not going to be a bad horn for my son. Do you mind taking a look at it?”

I didn’t mind. It was a good horn and I told her so, suggesting a few things she might do to keep it in that condition. She thanked me and left.

As I returned to my seat, my friend, who had listened and watched the interlude carefully, stared at me—a mixture of surprise and annoyance written on his face.

He wanted to know how she had the nerve to walk in with an instrument she had purchased elsewhere and ask me to help her determine its suitability. He had also noted that there was no request on my part for a fee, nor had she offered one.

I brushed his concerns aside.

“I told her to do it. I want to be sure as many kids as possible get good instruments, even when I’m not the one to provide them.”

He sat in silence for a moment or two. Mouth hanging open in disbelief and hands waving in the air, he digested the concept.

In a return—of sorts—to our earlier conversation, he asked one more question.

“Where are they going to go to get that done when you’re not around anymore?”

My friend avers that we offer a service no other business would offer. I’m sure he’s wrong, but I can’t prove it.

I do wish I could answer his question. It bothers me.

I have thought about it before. I thought about it more after he left today.

It’s an odd thing, though. That more important truth I mentioned earlier keeps intruding on my consideration.

Peter said to the Master, “Lord, to whom would we go? You have the only words capable of giving life. There is no one else.” (John 6:67-69)

A large number of people who had been following Jesus were deserting Him, not able to accept the truths He was teaching. He had wondered aloud if the original disciples were also going to abandon Him.

Peter and his comrades knew the truth. There was no one else to turn to. No other person who walked the earth, no other teacher who offered his version of truth, had words that could give eternal life. There was no one else.

There was no one else.

There never will be.

You know, my friend is wrong.

Others will come behind me. If they don’t do the same things, the new methods will suffice.

The music will not die. It didn’t really need me in the first place.

The same cannot be said of those who follow Jesus. There will never be a different Savior. There will never be another Son of God.

No one else will ever offer the words of life.

Ever.

No one else will ever offer the words of life. Ever. Share on X

And unlike me, He won’t be retiring. His offer stands. To every generation. Until the end of days.

Come unto me, all who are weary and burdened with care, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28)

Leave your money at home. You can’t afford this service.

He wouldn’t accept it anyway.

The graveyards are full of indispensable men.
(Charles DeGaulle ~ French statesman ~ 1890-1970)

Your eternal word, O Lord,
stands firm in heaven.
Your faithfulness extends to every generation,
as enduring as the earth you created.
(Psalm 119:89-90 ~ NLT)

Disruption

May 22, 2016May 24, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She’s no better than she ought to be.

The proper English lady sniffed pompously as she said the words. Quite obviously, she considered the woman about whom she was speaking beneath herself. I don’t have many British friends, so I’ve never heard the phrase used in conversation.

I am happy to say the BBC comedy program the Lovely Lady and I were watching has provided the impetus for many trips to the dictionary of origins for me.

I suppose I may be a little odd (perhaps, more than a little).

I have always loved words. Big words. Little words. Obscure words. I want to know where our language came from. If it comes to that, I want to know where it is going. Still, I didn’t have to do much research to figure this one out.

The female person about whom the words were spoken was quite clearly poor and uneducated. Her morality was also suspect. Somehow, for quite a few people, the two states are inseparable.

They believe poor and uneducated leads to immoral, every time.

Apparently, if you get a bad start, you aren’t expected to rise any higher in the years which follow.

If you are born disadvantaged, you’ll never be any better than you ought to be.

And, that might be a true statement.

Except. . .

Did you know that every one of us was born disadvantaged?

Did you know that not one of us has the ability to become good?

We can never be any better than we ought to be. None of us.

All of us have sinned. All of us fall short. It is the norm—the common condition of man. (Romans 3:23)

Except. . .

Except, the Disruptor came along. He made us better than we ought to be.

You know what a disruptor is, don’t you? In the jargon of today’s marketplace, a disruptor is someone or something which has the ability to change forever the item or entity with which it intersects.

It’s not that things are done in a different way; things actually are different.

For all of history before the Disruptor’s coming, our Creator, knowing that we were disadvantaged, and understanding where we came from (He fashioned us, after all), overlooked our sin.

Oh, it had to be covered; that’s what the sacrifices were for—a covering for sin—but God, understanding we were made from dirt and would always act like dirt, loved us anyway. (Psalm 103:8-14)

He loved us anyway.

And, in His time—at the perfect juncture in history—He sent the Disruptor. Because He loves us, things would be different forever.

We will be better than we ought to be.

Will be!

No more will we be able to point to our heritage and suggest that we are just as good as they were. Never again will we know the limitation of being only as good as our past allows.

He makes all things new! Disruption means that nothing will ever be the same again.

We have been re-created. And, not out of dirt! (2 Corinthians 5:17)

The very thought of it makes me sit up straighter. This new reality changes everything. I don’t have to go through life trapped in the same state as when I was born.

But still, the lie intrudes.

You’ll never be any better. Never.

Somehow, even in the truth of newness, and in the reality of not-dirt, we begin to believe the lie that we are worthless. And, being human, we find ways to build our own worth.

Bolstering our own worth always involves diminishing the worth of others. Always.

She’s no better than she ought to be.

Still, we say the words. The lie prevails. Pride rules in our hearts. And, as we take aim at others, we hurt ourselves.

He changes the rules. It’s what He came for.

Go ahead then; stone her. But the first stone must be thrown by one who has never sinned. (John 8:7)

Do you think He came to leave us in the same condition in which He found us? Without question, the most disruptive person in all of history is the Son of God.

He calls us to follow Him in his disruptive ways.

He calls us to love each other anyway.

We are the hands and feet—and heart— of the Disruptor here on earth.

Where we walk and serve, nothing should ever be the same again.

Perhaps, it’s time for us to get started.

Dust are our frames, and, gilded dust our pride.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ English poet ~ 1809-1892)

The Lord is like a father to his children,
    tender and compassionate to those who fear him.
For he knows how weak we are;
    he remembers we are only dust.
Our days on earth are like grass;
    like wildflowers, we bloom and die
The wind blows, and we are gone—
    as though we had never been here.
But the love of the Lord remains forever
    with those who fear him.
(Psalm 103:13-17 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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