Hunting Cats Don’t Purr

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

He doesn’t hate cats. He never has.

It’s just that my Dad thought cats should earn their keep. In an environment rich in prey for the furry felines, he expected them to do what God created them to do.

We didn’t feed the cats a lot.

They did their jobs.

Many hours were spent in my childhood, watching the sneaky critters hunt mice and lizards around the various buildings on the property. Stealthily and patiently, they would wait for just the right moment. Any error in calculation would result in missing the kill. Hunger was the result.

They became quite skilled at their task.

Even the most elusive of prey can be caught.

On several occasions, I would notice the cat giving up after waiting for a long period of time, only to return the next day or week. Nothing escaped them forever.

A few times, they were even lucky enough to find the nest of a cottontail rabbit. The fat little bunnies were no match for the cunning hunters. We were always unhappy to see the result of these forays.

But we were never as sad as the lady of the house was when she found the feathers of her beloved songbirds scattered in the yard, the result of some stealthy, sneaky kitty’s hunt. A slink—a crouch—a spring in the air, and the deed was done. I think she would have rather fed the cats daily than have the sweet songs of those winged creatures fall silent.

Nevertheless, I also remember the times when we set the feast out for the brood of feline hunters. Scraps from the table, perhaps the leftover from one of our fishing trips, would find their way out to the porch on saucers.

The purring kitties would devour the meal in seconds, with heads raised immediately to see if more was forthcoming. When it wasn’t, the cats would wander away to lie in the shade, still purring, those plump mounds where their hungry bellies had been now gorged with the bounty.

Funny thing. The next day they would return to the place they had been fed, in hopes that the generosity would be repeated. When it wasn’t, they slunk away disappointed. Usually, after the second day with no repetition in the feeding, they would return to their usual activities, once more catching mice and other prey.

It wasn’t a bad system. My father believed that things should work the way God designed them to. Cats are hunters.

Some may think it cruel to have let them fend for themselves. In this day and age, we pamper our pets, providing beds and central heat/air for them. Offering them gourmet meals, we wouldn’t think of making them hunt.

Dad believed them capable, and they proved themselves to be all that and more. Not one ever starved.

But beyond the discussion of our treatment of pets, I have to wonder: Do things actually work the way God created them to?

There is a deeper truth to be found here. We may have to hunt for it a little while.

It may take some skill.

Truth is so elusive at times.

Why is it that sometimes we have to struggle so hard to find it? I have questions—questions for which I need answers—but they are nowhere to be found.

Years, I have sought the answers in some cases. It is true that many have been revealed.

But many more, I still seek for.

And perhaps, that is the deeper truth we can learn from the feline creatures.

The hunt for truth, God’s truth, is a lifelong quest. Wisdom and knowledge, of who He is and what He desires of us, depend on it.

Our relationships depend on finding it.

Why then is it so hard to find sometimes? There are seasons when I feel I’m wandering in a desert, with nothing to be found. There is no truth, no direction, no comfort to be seen anywhere.

But, I remember the words of the Teacher, the one who wandered in the desert Himself, hungry and thirsty:

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. They will be filled. (Matthew 5:6)

In the desert, we can still find His truth. The water He provides still quenches thirst, even if it does have to be wrung from the cactus plant.

I remember too, that He has plans to bless us, and not plans to harm. He wants to train us for a future, and a hope. If we seek Him with everything within us, He promises—promises—to be found. (Jeremiah 29:11-13)

There will be time for rejoicing later. The day is coming!

Until then, we hunt. We seek. We examine.

It is enough.

Before you get depressed about the desert, I wonder if I can remind you of something?

The same God who designed us to hunt in the desert also leads us by the still waters and prepares a feast for us. (Psalm 23)

The same God who sends us to wait in the wilderness sometimes simply puts the saucer down on the floor and calls out, “Here Kitty, Kitty.”

Taste it! Taste it and find that the Lord is good. (Psalm 34:8)

Full is good.

Is that purring I hear?

Where I found truth, there I found my God, who is the truth itself.
(Augustine of Hippo ~ Early Christian theologian ~ 354-430)

O God, thou art my God; early will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is;To see thy power and thy glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary.
(Psalm 63:1-2 ~ KJV)

Own the Music

March 13, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He taught me more about playing the French horn than any other teacher I had. That said, I can remember clearly only two things he taught me.

Funny isn’t it? All that instruction and all I recall can be summarized in two sentences. What can I say? These gems of wisdom came from Mr. Marlar when I was in my early twenties.

It was a time in my life when I already knew everything.

I wish I had been a little more ignorant. That wouldn’t come until later.

Mr. M’s wise words:

“You will make mistakes; play them loudly so everyone can hear them.”

“If you can hear the pitch in your head, you can play it on your horn.”

The first statement made me laugh—then. It’s not as amusing now as it once was. Perhaps we’ll talk more about it another time.

But the second thing Mr. M taught me—that bit of brilliance has been more useful than even he could have thought. Again and again in my work and personal life, I have proved the truth of the idea.

I was still his student when I played horn for the local university production of the musical, Brigadoon.

I’ve related the story before of my disastrous introduction to the tenor lead’s solo—the too-high pitch I played leading the vocalist astray and causing him to start his solo in the wrong key.

He started on the wrong note! Because of me!

What a catastrophe! A few measures into his solo, he had to stop and restart on the correct note.

If looks could kill, the Lovely Lady would have been a widow that very night.

My solution to that disaster was to show up the next evening with a pitch generator connected to an earphone so that I could indeed hear the pitch in my head and then play it on my horn.

It was, I believed, an ingenious solution, and worked splendidly.

For every subsequent night of our performances, my entrance on the opening phrase was impeccable and the tenor followed suit.

I heard the pitch. I played it.

I was proud of myself.

I am less proud than I once was.

You see, in the years since, I have matured a little (only a little). I have also become a better musician, understanding some of the foundational principles which escaped my youthful brain back then.

The electronic pitch in the ear missed the point of Mr. M’s statement completely.

If one is to be a successful musician, the sense of pitch, the center of the tone, must be in one’s head, not in their ear. When I listened to the tone and then played it, the pitch wasn’t mine; I just borrowed it.

I have to own the music! It has to come from inside of me. It has to be a part of me.

The principle works in all of life.

Don’t believe that? Watch what happens when kids leave home to go to college or into the work place.

For too many, the principles and beliefs they learned at their parents’ feet are shed left and right as they realize that such things have always come from somewhere outside of themselves.

They have heard the whispering (and perhaps shouting) of morals and creeds in their ears and believe them only as long as it takes to get out of range of their parents’ voices.

Instantly, there is silence where those things are concerned. If they hear the echo at all, it is easy to ignore as the clamor around them grows in support of different ideologies and moralities.

Suddenly, they have to make decisions themselves, have to determine the appropriateness of choices in what amounts to a vacuum.

Unless we ourselves own our values and our faith, unless they speak from deep inside of us, we will never hit the mark when it comes time for the performance which will occur in the public eye.

If, deep down, all we hear in the moment of our engagement is silence, any mark will do, and we’ll hit exactly what we aim for.

Nothing. Or anything.

Either way, the result will be the same. We will miss the mark.

The wrong note will sound and those who take their cue from us will also miss their mark.

Suddenly, I realize that anything else I write here will just be a sound coming into your ear through a head phone.

The manufactured pitch may aid temporarily, but it will have no permanent effect. I also realize that most who are reading this already have the pitch solidly in mind and are hitting the mark on a daily basis.

It’s high time that I turn off the tone generator and get down off this soapbox.

Come to think of it, it’s time to go home and practice the horn for awhile before heading for bed. I think I hear a high G coming on.

I only hope the neighbors won’t mind.

Pursue one great decisive aim with force and determination.
(Carl Von Clausewitz ~ German military leader/theorist ~ 1780-1831)

For if the bugle produces an indistinct sound, who will prepare himself for battle?
(1 Corinthians 14:8 ~ NASB)

The Magical Sky Fairy

January 25, 2016January 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

Thinking that some magical sky fairy will take care of your problems is a problem in itself.

The words appeared in my Twitter feed today in response to a recent article I posted there. I have seen them before, or at least similar words.

The young lady who wrote them doesn’t believe in God. She is not alone in her unbelief.

I want to strike back. Ugly words come in response to her mocking ones. I can’t help it. They rise without permission—a natural reaction from a human standpoint.

Immediately, I realize I will never say them. It is not who I am—or, more to the point—not the person He is making me. But, I want to examine her motivation, to wonder publicly why someone who claims there is no God would be so vigilant to mock those who believe in Him. Perhaps, I should write about that.

But I wonder. I wonder.

What if this is not about her? Do I really believe in some sky fairy? Is that what God is to me?

Click your heels together three times and repeat the words, there’s no place like home.

Is that all this is? Is it all humbug? Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!

My mind races as I review the evidence. I want desperately to be able to speak intelligent and convincing words. I know I’m supposed to be ready to give an answer—to explain the hope I have deep inside.(1 Peter 3:15)

But then, I remember that I can’t convince anyone; it’s not my job. I will give the answer. That is my job.

The convincing? That’s way above my pay grade. (John 16:8)

So? Is it real? Do I live as if it is?

A few weeks ago, I came back from my childhood home with treasures. They are items which have little value to any other human being on this planet, but which are priceless to me. My memories are tied up in many of them.

Last Sunday, three generations of my family gathered, as we do each week, to sit around the dining room table and make new memories. I thought perhaps it was time to inject an old one into the conversation.

As I prepared the table earlier, I cleaned and filled a glass and aluminum container with little white granules. Then I set the old salt shaker down in the center of the table to await the arrival of our guests.

Five generations. Five generations of my family have used that salt shaker now. I flavored mashed potatoes and vegetables from that shaker at my grandmother’s table when I was not even as old as my youngest grandchild is now.

Five generations. Lovely folk I have personally interacted with. Members of each of those generations have asked their questions and made their decisions to follow the same God. I’m sure there were others before them. I trust there will be more to follow.

Wanting to save a photo of the shaker on the table, I set it out the other day. As I snapped the shutter, I noticed the reflection on the table’s surface.

I can’t help it. My brain just works that way. The mental picture was more real to me than the actual photo.

Salt. Light.

The Teacher made it clear that His followers were exactly that. Salt. And light. Salt to help preserve the world. Light to show them the way. (Matthew 5:13-16)

We must keep our lives fresh and relevant. We can’t hide the light that shines from within us, or fade into the background.

Funny. The instructions I remember better right now have to do with the words we say. Let speech be flavored with grace, as though seasoned with salt. (Colossians 4:6)

The other instructions have to do with how we act. In the middle of a world bent on evil and twisted living, we need to shine like stars beaming out of the blackness of the universe. (Philippians 2:15)

It’s real. The God I follow is not fake, not made up. Of that, I am convinced.

I’ve asked the questions. Again. And again. I’ve asked the questions and had them answered. Like those before me and those who are coming after me, I believe because I’ve seen the evidence in walking, talking witnesses. Folks who are salt and light.

I will follow in their footsteps, because others are following in mine.

And others are watching from a distance.

They are watching. And mocking.

And perhaps, asking their own questions.

I hope it’s not too much to ask if they can be preserved long enough to see the light shining in their own darkness.

I want to be salt. And light.

You?

Conduct yourselves with wisdom toward outsiders, making the most of the opportunity.Let your speech always be with grace, as though seasoned with salt, so that you will know how you should respond to each person.
(Colossians 4:5-6 ~ NASB)

Grace must find expression in life, otherwise it is not grace.
(Karl Barth ~ Swiss theologian ~ 1886-1968)

Does That Really Work?

December 6, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The old guy leaned against the fender of his car as he watched the display change on the gasoline pump. In itself, that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. People do it all the time. It was what he did when the pump clicked off, indicating a full tank, that surprised me.

Moving his hip away from the car, he smacked it back against the fender three or four times in quick succession. The car swayed and bounced violently back and forth a few times before settling into a little wiggling motion. Then the fellow clicked on the handle of the pump nozzle again.

I laughed. It might have been out loud. The old fellow sneaked a look back at me and I pretended to be fiddling with the gas cap on my own car. I couldn’t help it. It was just such an odd thing to do. And useless.

You see, the only purpose I can imagine for taking such action is to allow a little more gasoline to fit into the tank. The swaying motion of the car would slosh the liquid back and forth, dislodging any air pockets that might be trapped away from the spout.

He burped the car! Just like a tiny baby, he burped his car.

As any young parent can explain, babies should be burped while being fed. Air passes into the stomach along with the milk or formula, causing a couple of problems. One problem is that the child will often have gas pain resulting from the trapped air if not soon released. The other is, since the air takes up space in the infant’s stomach, the feeding may be incomplete. The child will be hungry sooner than is normal—certainly, sooner than the parent desires.

The baby is raised to the shoulder and patted or rubbed gently on the back. Experienced parents are almost always rewarded by the gentle (and sometimes, not so gentle) expulsion of air, and the feeding may be resumed.

While the method of feeding may have some effect on how often this should happen, usually it is essential to the well being of the child.

Not so with the automobile. At best, another few ounces may be squeezed into the tank, yielding another mile or two of travel before the tank is empty once more.

It is a useless thing to do. Still, I would venture to suggest that this man will never—not once—fill the tank on his vehicle without taking this action.

No doubt, at some time in the past, it was suggested to him by someone much older, who drove back when there were very few stations around, as an effective way to stretch a tank of gas. Habit has made it a way of life, in spite of the uselessness of the action.

As I did today, you laugh at the old man at the gas station. But, what about that friend who taps on the top of every can of pop he holds before opening it? His action is even more useless than the aging automobile owner’s. It will never, ever, stop the can from erupting into a spewing, foaming mess if it has been shaken beforehand.

I’m wondering tonight—wondering about what I know. Or, maybe I’m wondering about what I think I know.

We have so many practices, things we believe to be rooted in necessity, which we never give a second thought. It’s possible—just possible—that a fair number of these habits are only rooted in hearsay and myth. They may even be harmful without us knowing it.

By now, it may be apparent to the reader that I am not only referring to our physical quirks and routines. We have spent a lifetime, many of us, learning beliefs and practices which have only human repetition to recommend them.

If I were to attempt to name the silly things we do because it is what we were taught to do, this already-too-lengthy article would stretch on into tomorrow—to say nothing of the arguments it would engender.

You should feel free to let your mind run wild on the subject, though.

I wonder if it would be helpful to have a manual? Could we check that to find what activities would be of benefit or which would harm? (Proverbs 3:13-14)

You know, I’m pretty sure there is such a manual. (Hebrews 4:12)

Perhaps, it is time to refer to it again.

Maybe it’s past time.

But, don’t look for it in the glove box.

If fifty million believe in a fallacy, it is still a fallacy.
(Samuel Warren Carey ~ Australian geologist ~ 1911-2002)

All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness,that the man of God may be complete, thoroughly equipped for every good work.
(2 Timothy 3:16-17 ~ NKJV)

Cream and Sugar?

November 17, 2015November 17, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Did we save any room for dessert?

The young lady waiting on our table clears away the dishes, while asking the question. I wonder a moment if she is including herself in the query, but it is clear she uses the word we to avoid any hint of accusation that we would have stuffed ourselves while eating our meal.

We did, in fact, save room for dessert on this occasion and we tell her what we would like. To carry on the charade of not being gluttons, we will share the giant-sized portion of the brownie sundae.

I want a cup of coffee and tell the young lady so. She writes a note on her pad and asks if I’d like cream and sugar with it. I don’t.

I never did.

That is changing, though. I’m remembering that my mother always liked a little evaporated milk and a spoonful of sugar in hers. I have wondered why that was.

On a recent visit to the grocery store with the Lovely Lady, I suggested we buy a container of flavored creamer. Italian Cream. You know—for our daughter and her husband, when they came to visit. And to satisfy my curiosity.

Wow!

Can I tell you a secret? I drink coffee—the habit of many years, but it’s not my favorite flavor. Oh, the slightly bitter taste is palatable, but I can’t drink it very quickly. I sit and nurse a cup for an hour. By the time I’m ready for another, the dregs in my cup are cold and I toss the useless liquid into the sink before pouring my next cup.

On that fateful day we arrived home with the flavored creamer in our grocery box, I wasn’t all that hopeful. Cream was for wimps.

May I say it again? Wow!

I poured a little into the bottom my cup and filled it up with coffee. Ten minutes later, I was back for another cup.

Ten minutes.

She’s still buying the creamer at the grocery store. Two bottles last week. I refuse to look at the calorie count on the label.

I still get that old familiar coffee flavor in my cup. Only now, it’s a smooth, mellow flavor. The bitterness is not evident at all. And the sweetness? I love sweet things.

Now I can drink so much more!

What do you mean, I shouldn’t do that? It tastes great! Smooth and sweet—how could that be bad?

The realization was a real wake-up call. No. Literally.

A wake-up call.

On a recent night, as I sat and wrote into the wee hours of the morning, I consumed five cups. Five.

I lay on my bed and stared into the darkness until daylight.

Did you know that, even though the tan-colored liquid in my cup tastes so much better and goes down more smoothly, it’s still coffee?

It’s still coffee. With caffeine. And acid.

Did you also know that there is more to talk about here than just coffee?

I’m a little embarrassed to admit my little affair with the coffee creamer to you anyway. But, not nearly as embarrassed as I would be if I had to admit all the other lies I tell myself everyday.

I’m not gossiping. I’m sharing concerns. We can pray for them, too.

I’m not really a glutton. I’ll run an extra mile to make up for it later.

It’s not actually a lie. I’m really just bending the truth a little. It’s for his own good anyway.

It’s not really envy. I simply need to work a few extra hours each week, so I can have the same nice things my neighbor has.

These are only the tip of the iceberg. In so many ways, I twist the truth and present myself in just the light I want you to see me. The creamy brown sweetness is so much more appealing than the bitter, blackness of my heart.

Pour all the milk and sugar in you want. It’s still coffee in the cup.

Put pumpkin flavoring in it with the milk and call it pumpkin spice latté.

It’s still coffee.

And, it still keeps me awake at night.

The heart is more deceitful than all else
And is desperately sick;
Who can understand it?
(Jeremiah 17:9 ~ NASB)

For a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,
The medicine go down, the medicine go down—
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way.
(from Mary Poppins ~ Robert/Richard Sherman ~ American songwriters)

The Truth About Can’t

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

Can’t.

I can’t.

There it is.

No such word? Ha!

Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t.

Somewhere right now, there’s a positive thinker reading this who would like to be able to set me straight. That person would like to convince me of the importance of speaking positive words, of thinking positive thoughts. They would explain to me that negative thoughts become self-fulfilling prophecies.

I understand the theory.

And yet, the simple truth is that can’t exists.

There are physical truths. I can’t be in two places at one time.

There are intellectual truths. As useless an exercise as it would be, I can’t calculate all the digits of pi.

There are spiritual truths. I can’t make myself into a good person. There has been one good person ever to walk this earth. I am not Him.

Numerous other truths—things which can’t be done—will come to your mind as you contemplate my half-hearted stab at providing examples here.

I do know one other truth about can’t, as well:

Frequently, the fact that a thing can’t be done today doesn’t mean that it can’t be done tomorrow.

Last night, I sat in the living room and proved this particular truth to myself. I sat in a wooden chair with my silver French horn bell resting on my leg, as the Lovely Lady played the piano to accompany me. Looking ahead in the piece we were working through, I noticed a high A-flat followed by a B-flat coming up in the notation.

This was the test.

Two months ago, I sat in that same chair and said aloud, “I can’t. I can’t play anything higher than a G on my horn.”

It was true then. In fact, the G itself was a little iffy, truth be told. Years of neglecting to practice have, sadly, impacted my ability to play the horn in the higher range expected of an advanced player. Something needed to be done.

I have played that horn many hours since that day. Purposely, I have exercised my lips to achieve a higher range—a range not accessible to me before.

But last night, I was ready to give it a shot. The A-flat and B-flat were coming up in the music. What would happen?

The A-flat was upon me. I depressed the thumb trigger and the middle valve and tightened up the muscles around my lips. Supported by my diaphragm, the air flowed through the mouthpiece, into the horn

Clear and in tune, the A-flat sounded. Perfect!

Success!

But now, the B-flat was there, too. The trigger stayed where it was and the first valve went down as the middle came up. Still the air flowed.

Disaster! No B-flat came out. A sad (and very wrong) G sounded instead. Ashamed, I continued on and finished up the piece. The Lovely Lady, sitting on the embroidered piano bench cover, looked over at me, a little smile playing on her lips.

“The A-flat was nice.”

It wasn’t enough! Stubbornly, I put the horn back up to my lips and pursing my lips, blew through the tubing. The sequence of notes was right there on the page and in my fingers. Right up to the A-flat I charged, and then on to the B-flat.

There it was! A high B-flat!

I’m not saying it was pretty. It wasn’t even that clear. But, it was a B-flat! It was.

I can!

This little lesson holds true in many aspects of our human existence.

Today we can’t. We don’t tell a lie when we admit it. It doesn’t mean that we can’t achieve the goal in the future, if we work toward it.

Can’t today doesn’t always have to be can’t tomorrow.

Three years ago, I started to ride a bicycle. Oh, I rode when I was younger. Much younger. That was for fun. When I started again, it was for fitness.

I rode my bike six miles the first time. Six miles!

I was sore for a week.

The next time I got on my bicycle, I rode two miles.

As I got stronger (and less sore), I rode eight, then ten miles. Twelve miles was a trek. I don’t want to talk about how slowly I rode.

I couldn’t ride any farther.

“Fifteen miles? I can’t go that far!”

It wasn’t a lie.

But, that too changed. These days, thirty-five mile rides aren’t all that unusual for me. I ride almost twice the speed I did back then.

I’m not looking for a pat on the back. You see, several of my friends ride what they call century rides a couple times a year. One hundred miles at a time!

I can’t. Really, I can’t. Not today anyway. Time will tell.

I may never be able to ride that distance. There may actually be a physical limitation which keeps me from doing that. And, folks who want to encourage me remind me of my friends, some of them older than I, who ride that distance regularly.

“They can do it. Surely, you can too!”

Here’s what I’ve figured out about that:

Their can’t is further down the road than mine. For today, anyway.

Does it seem that I’m being foolish? Is this much ado about nothing? French horns and bicycles—what difference do those make?

I do have a larger point. Really.

I’m tired of hearing things called truth which just aren’t. There are limitations. There are laws which don’t change. They haven’t from the beginning of time.

As nice as it sounds, the words I think I can repeated by a little train again and again will never overcome the laws of nature set into motion by the Creator.

Regardless of the printed text in a book, or the scenes in a movie made way back in the seventies, a seagull can not fly into the rock face of a cliff and just reappear on the other side.

Too depressing? Oh, don’t give up on me yet! Hope is not lost.

You see, I do know the One who made everything that can be seen out of that which could not be seen. (Romans 4:17)

Perhaps you do too.

And, silly hypothetical paradoxes aside, can’t is a word which does not apply to the Creator of all we see and don’t see.

He can.

I said earlier, when talking about spiritual truth, that I can’t make myself good. I can’t.

He can. He will. (Philippians 1:6)

It is a real word—can’t. There are many situations in which its use is warranted. And, quite a few where it is not. I’m working to learn the difference where it applies to myself. The reader might do well to study the matter, too.

But, I’m also learning, sometimes the hard way, not to tell God He can’t.

It may be just me, but it seems that the creature giving instructions to the Creator is just a trifle arrogant. And, perhaps even completely futile.

He can.

He does.

He will.

If you can’t fly then run, if you can’t run then walk, if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward.
(Martin Luther King Jr. ~ American minister/civil rights leader ~ 1929-1968)

I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.
(Philippians 4:13 ~ NSRV)

The Marketplace

August 25, 2015August 27, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

There are times when you just know. Beyond a shadow of doubt, you know: This is why you are here.

This moment. This person.

The Lovely Lady had first crack at her today. The lady, like many others we see this time of year, is struggling with acquiring a musical instrument for her aspiring band member. No money. No knowledge of what constitutes a good instrument, nor how to tell if it is in good condition. No one she can trust to be honest with her.

She does have a clarinet in her hands as she enters the music store. She also has a discouraged look on her face. I never heard the full story of how she came by the clarinet, but I do know she wants us to make it play correctly for her sixth grader. She is not optimistic.

“I’m sure it needs a repad. Can you do that for me?”

The Lovely Lady opens the case and looks over the horn, expecting the worst. Since I am busy with another customer, I leave her to handle things by herself. It is obvious she is a little confused, and I expect a call for help momentarily. What I hear is her suggesting the lady is mistaken.

“Well, a repad is quite expensive, but I’m not sure that’s what you need. Let’s wait for the expert.” (She always says that, but it’s not really a good description of my abilities.)

As soon as I can break free, I head for the counter where the diminutive lady is waiting, still with an unhappy visage. I’m prepared to point out the problem areas and make an estimate for the nervous mom. Taking the individual pieces of the horn in my hand one after another, I look for something to point to. Nothing.

That can’t be right. This lady came in expecting big problems. Surely I can find something.

I look again. Testing the sealing ability of the pads, I find no sign of any leaks anywhere on the instrument. The corks are fine. A little dingy, but completely intact. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the clarinet.

I have a dilemma.

The lady came in expecting to leave the instrument with us for repair. She assumes there will be a sizable charge due when the repair is finished.

I’m in business to make a profit. How hard can this be?

“Oh yes, Ma’am. We really do need to replace quite a few pads here. And, the corks—they’ll need to be changed also. It won’t cost as much as a repad, but still, it will take a good bit to get this horn into shape for your daughter.”

So easy. She would never know. It’s what she expects anyway.

The decision is made without hesitation. It is who I am—who we are. Now.

“No Ma’am. The horn is in excellent condition. What? Oh no. No charge.”

You would hardly have recognized the woman who walked out that door as the same lady who had come in moments earlier. A smile shone across her face, the like of which hadn’t likely been seen there recently.

I felt good. I felt bad.

It was almost the same feeling I had a day or two ago, when a girl and her mom had come in to purchase a small item. The lady spoke no English. None at all. Her daughter translated every word for her as the transaction was made.

The two were still in the store when a regular customer of mine walked nearby shaking his head. His eyes shot daggers at the two, as he spoke the words to me.

“I hate that! Why don’t they learn our language?”

Do you know how easy it would have been for me to simply nod my head? Just a nod. No words would have been necessary.

But, this also is why I am here.

I explained to him my admiration for folks who leave their land in search of a better life for their families. Struggling to be at home in a strange place, they walk out of their door into a battleground every day. I will not participate in the hatred of another human being.

I say the words kindly to him, but he rolls his eyes in disgust as he walks out.

I may have lost a customer. I hope not, but I would do it again.

I felt bad. I felt good.

This is why I’m here. It’s why you’re where you are.

To do the right thing. Even when we’d rather do the easy thing.

To show a life that is different because of what God has done in us.

It is how He works in this world—how He has always worked.

I don’t necessarily want this to be why I’m here. Sometimes, I wonder why God won’t leave me alone to make a comfortable living like any other red-blooded American. If that means taking advantage of folks who have their wallets in their hands, so be it. If I have to walk on a few people to gain the approval of others, why not?

And then I remember a God who told His Chosen People that their scales were to be honest, their weights to be accurate, their measurements to be correct.

Thousands of years ago, He made it clear.

The world has one standard: Every man for himself. All is fair in love and war.

God has another standard, a standard which has never changed: Love your neighbor as yourself. Period.

The standard applies in our family life; it applies to our friendships; it applies in our churches. And, no less than any other place, it applies in the marketplace.

Perhaps, more.

The marketplace is where who we really are is on display for all to see. It’s where our integrity comes out of the dark of night, and into the light of day.

It’s where our talk of following a Savior is proven, or else belied, by our walk.

Can I let you in on a secret? I have kept my mouth shut too many times. I have found myself letting folks spend more than they should on things they didn’t need.

I don’t write about the two interactions above to draw attention to my stellar accomplishments, but rather to draw attention to who we need to be—who we must be in our marketplace.

We all fail in our determination to walk in integrity—I, as often as anyone I know.

But. Grace.

Grace is a wonderful thing; its beauty is in its resilience. Failures become victories. Timidity becomes boldness.

Selfishness becomes love.

The Teacher spent a good bit of His time in the marketplace.

Doing good. Showing love.

Our turn.

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

At the Edge

July 7, 2015July 7, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Do you know what fear looks like?

Of course, you do.

You’ve seen frightened children, so scared they don’t believe that even Mommy can save them from the monsters in the closet. You’ve even seen fear exhibited again and again on the movie screen and on television, as actors open their eyes wide and let their mouths stand agape in terror at the appearance of some malevolent creature, extracted from the dark corners of a writer’s imagination.

I know all about that kind of fear, either the honest reaction from an innocent, untaught yet in the arts of deception, or the feigned emotion of a hardened pretender.

The fear I wonder about tonight is the fear all around us. I’m wondering what the terror of disasters imagined, or the memory of catastrophes which really occurred in the past looks like.

Do you know? Can you describe the face of fear—real fear?

I am coming to realize that I cannot, because I don’t know what it really looks like. All the stereotypes of the looks of fear I know are false—or at least lacking in understanding.

On a recent day, a couple hiked along the ridge on a mountaintop. The beauty of the morning was so real, you could almost have grasped it between your fingers. Swallowtail butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom of the wildflowers beside the trail, along with a buzzing honey bee or two. Every so often, a clumsy bumblebee would come humming by, intent on claiming his portion of the sweet nectar in the blossoms.

The air was cool and a gentle breeze carried the chant of songbirds, oft repeated and frequently elaborated upon, to their ears. The deep greens of the leaves and the azure blue of the skies, which could be seen almost below their feet, were brilliant.

What would one need fear up on that mountaintop?

The trail led to a lookout point, an outcropping of boulders solidly set upon the side of the ridge. They stood beside each other and marveled at creation and also at a Creator who could imagine such a place and then speak it into existence. Just then though, something caught the eye of the man.

Fifty or sixty feet to the north of the lookout upon which they stood, a promontory jutted out, the sheer fall below it dropping down many feet to the valley floor.

It was an invitation not to be ignored.

“Stay here,” he suggested to the woman. “I’ll go out there and you can take my picture.”

She wasn’t happy about it, but agreed to be his photographer, waiting patiently as he made his way over to the point. There was no trail to it but, slipping and sliding a little here, creeping down a boulder there, and in between steps, keeping an eye out for snakes, he eventually arrived at the destination.

Feet spread far apart, he stood atop the pile of rocks with hands on hips and arms akimbo, looking for all the world as if he had just discovered a new land. In that stance, he waited to ensure that photographic proof existed of his courage and daring. She snapped the picture.

It’s not possible to see his face in the photograph. It doesn’t matter. He is smiling.

Smiling.

With a quick glance down to the bottom of the chasm before him, he turned and climbed back to the marked trail, laughing as he rejoined his lovely wife. He shrugged off her repeated objection to his foolish insistence of making the risky tramp out onto the rocks. He was proud of himself.

Proud.

Until that night. In the dark, he closed his eyes to sleep, falling instead to his death again and again in the visions that filled his mind. Behind closed eyelids he could see nothing but the edge of the abyss, and the ground coming up to meet him as he tumbled through the air.

Terrified.

He was terrified. No, not just as he lay sleepless in his bed. He had been terrified as he slid and stepped clumsily to the edge of the precipice in the light of day.

Standing arrogantly and smiling, his spirit was, in truth, melting into jelly inside of him.

The face of fear smiles. It smiles.

I wonder then—what about the other emotions we feel so deeply? What does sadness look like? Or depression?

I stood and talked with a woman today about her two-year long bout with depression, still ongoing. I have seen her often in the last two years, but never had an inkling—not an inkling.

Sickness, abuse, stress at work, cruelty of friends—all have surrounded her spirit and informed her very soul that she is of little worth and that nothing will ever change.

Still she smiles and jests, the facial expression and jokes a thin covering over a festering wound that will one day destroy her and those around her.

The face of depression doesn’t just mope, doesn’t only frown—it also smiles broadly.

Is it any wonder we think we are alone? If fear smiles and depression tells jokes, surely pain shows a false face to the world as well. The hurts of a lifetime are penned up behind the facade of impenetrability. And, we believe we are alone in this world.

Surely no one feels as badly as I. Certainly no normal person deals with my pain, my sadness, my fears. How easy it is to believe the lie which deception tells.

I sat with friends tonight and admitted for the first time my fear of the edge, of the heights above which I stood on that recent excursion onto the mountain. As we talked I found, to my surprise, that I was not alone in that fear, even in that small group of people.

The magnitude of the truth hits me where I live tonight.

How many smiling faces I see every day are hiding terror? How many happy-go-lucky folks are concealing their deep sadness behind the jocularity? How much pain have I missed in folks with whom I shake hands and exchange light-hearted greetings daily?

Do you suppose ten percent of the people I see are hiding feelings such as these? Thirty percent? Fifty?

It’s time for us to stop lying to each other. Time for us to stop hiding behind faces frozen into smiles and laughs which tell a different story than the truth of what lies within. Time for fear and sadness and pain to be brought to the light of day.

Jesus stood at the pinnacle of the temple looking down and the tempter told Him not to be afraid of falling from that great height. He stood at the tomb of His close friend and wept tears of sadness. He knew the pains of the heart—friends who abandoned Him and a people who refused to listen, and the pain of physical torture—yet He conquered both.

We’re not alone. Even if no one in the world is ever honest enough to admit their fellowship in our condition, we have a Savior who walked where we walk, and who felt the things we feel. He hasn’t forgotten who we are, nor has He lost His ability to touch us where we live.

And, He has given us the ability to help each other. Even the empathy we feel for others comes from His great love for us.

It all starts with the truth of who we are. Facades will have to tumble before changes are made. Truth doesn’t imprison us, nor allow us to stay in that state.

We will know the truth, and freedom will be ours.

Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.
(James Baldwin ~ American writer ~ 1924-1987)

Therefore, having put away falsehood, let each one of you speak the truth with his neighbor, for we are members one of another.
(Ephesians 4:25 ~ ESV)

Plucking Thistles

June 30, 2015June 30, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Die when I may, I want it said by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. *

The boy had hope written across his smiling face.

Hope is a beautiful thing, especially in a child. It animates and motivates, forging dreams for the future. I love the beauty hope generates in young folks.

Hope is not something I enjoy dashing on the rocks of reality. The results can be ugly. I don’t love ugly.

This had all the earmarks of ugly.

His father, having told me he was trying to teach his son the trade of picking—of buying used objects for a small amount of money and flipping them for more money, asked me to advise the boy.

The hopeful young man handed me a clarinet-shaped object. By that, I mean the long black piece of plastic with metal keys attached had been a clarinet in another life. No longer.

It was unplayable, with bent keys and broken springs. The pads, the life source for a woodwind instrument, had long ago deteriorated and crumbled away to dust, leaving no way for the individual notes to sound.

A re-pad job on a clarinet would cost more than the price this sad instrument could ever bring. The other issues—bent keys and broken springs—would only drive the potential investment in the old horn up into the stratosphere.

As I examined the instrument, my dismay showing on my features, the hopeful face of the boy that peered into mine changed perceptibly. He steeled himself for the bad news he sensed was coming. I glanced into his eyes and saw the unhappiness there.

What a disaster!

I wondered—for a moment—if I should tell him a fib, a white lie. Just a little one—for his own good. I would save his pride and give him hope for another day.

“It’s a fine clarinet, but I’m not buying them right now. You might check at another store. They may need it worse than I do.”

Can’t you just hear me? For him. I would be saying the words to save him the pain of failure.

I didn’t say those words. That would have been the easy way out for me, too. But sooner or later, the boy would have to face two different truths: First, his investment was not going to bear fruit. Second, the hateful old shop owner lied to him.

I won’t lie.

Gently, I began to speak to him about what makes a clarinet play and what gives it value. Pointing out the catastrophic defects in his instrument, I explain why it would not make sense to repair the horn.

He is disappointed. Horribly disappointed.

But, he wants to learn. Asking questions, he probes my store of knowledge so he will make better choices the next time. I happily share what I know, taking time from my workday tasks to aid him. We make comparisons with functioning instruments. We talk about the need for knowledge about the brands of horns and of the importance of a good carrying case.

As he prepares to leave, he reaches out to shake my hand, his tiny one dwarfed by mine. His father follows suit, expressing his gratitude for my time and my willingness to share. He mentions a sacrifice on my part to help the young man, and I wave aside the thought. There is nothing to what I have done, I suggest.

Suddenly, I remember why I do this—why I have done it for a lifetime.

The opportunity to plant seeds far exceeds the objective of making a profit.

Oh, I need to make a profit to keep my doors open, but the reward of seeing the eyes of that young man when he left—no longer just full of hope, but also bright with the pride that comes from being treated with respect—no money in the world could ever purchase that.

Some would say the loving thing would have been to let him keep his dream alive—the dream of making money on that instrument. Some today even suggest that speaking hard truth in the face of error is hateful.

I wonder which is more loving: Is it to dash his immediate hope as his expectation for the future is built up and he is equipped to meet that future, or is it to keep quiet and let him believe a lie?

The boy will return, of that I am sure. The day may come when he has learned the lesson taught him today so well that he is a threat to my own livelihood. I smile at the thought, enjoying the expectation of his success.

Weeds are uprooted—seeds of hope planted in their place. What better task could I have? What more reward could I ask?

How does your garden grow?

These are the things that you shall do: Speak the truth to one another; render in your gates judgments that are true and make for peace.
(Zechariah 8:16 ~ ESV)

Anyone who doesn’t take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either.
(Albert Einstein ~ German born theoretical scientist ~ 1879-1955)

* (Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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