Clattery Joy On The Journey

March 12, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I saw a beautiful thing this morning.

My friends—those who know me well—would say, “Of course you did! It’s Spring.”

They wouldn’t be wrong. I saw daffodils—and bluets—and crabapple trees—and quince bushes—and…the list could go on forever. Spring is beautiful; not only for what I see, but for what it represents.

New life. The awakening of things that have slept—almost the sleep of death—for all the months of a cold, dark winter.

I saw those, and felt them, on my walk this morning. But, that’s not the beautiful thing I saw.

The wind is blustery today—almost a gale at times—blasting from the south. At my back as I walked toward home, it picked up many things, traversing the schoolyard I was passing. The thing I thought beautiful caught my attention, not only by the sight of it, but because I heard it first.

Paketa, pak, pak, paketa, paketa, pak.

The clattery sound of aluminum on pavement went on and on.

A beer can, thrown from a passing car (or by a wandering pedestrian), had been rescued from its dirty, wet place of inactivity beside the sidewalk, perhaps even saved from the ignominious fate of being chopped up by a passing lawn mower as it made its rounds.

Freedom! Tumbled over and over by the fickle wind, the used-up can traveled a block or more up the road before I lost sight of it. For all I know, it’s still going.

Silently, I cheered it on. But, even before the can left my sight, my mind was freed, just like that aluminum container, from the fog that had overtaken it as I sat in the little coffee shop I haunt with some frequency.

The first thing I thought about was an old game we used to play, much like hide-and-seek, called Kick the Can. I don’t suppose many children nowadays play it.

In the game, as I remember it, one kid was IT, having to find the others who hid. But, when he espied them, he would have to run as fast as he could, attempting to beat them to the can, there to count them out.

“One, two, three, on David!”

But, if David, who was hiding, knew he had been sighted, he could run faster and, kicking the can as hard as possible, gain a new lease on life, taking off to hide in the landscape once more.

I use the pronoun, he, because in my personal experience, all the players were boys. As it happens, the Lovely Lady to whom I am married played the game a time or two in her childhood, too. Right in the neighborhood where we live today.

I look out my window as I type, the house across the street filling my vision. The Lovely Lady tells of the Wards, an older couple who lived there in those days.

Anyone can tell you the game needs to be played at twilight, and just past, as darkness settles over the landscape. But somehow, older people in those days tended to begin to think about heading to bed at dark, especially in the summertime, when the daylight doesn’t fade until nearly nine P.M.

The constant clatter of the can rolling down the street was annoying, but as the evening went on, the children would sometimes take advantage of the darkness to aim their kicks right at the garage door of the Ward’s house.

With some regularity, especially after the can had hit the metal door a time or two, old Mr. Ward would walk out the front door and, without a word, pick up the can, carrying it back into the house with him.

The kids would go home, disappointed, but kind of proud of themselves.

As I walked this morning, the smile had already reached my face before the little beer can rolled out of sight. I could still hear it (and that one in my mind), rolling on the pavement.

Paketa, paketa, pak, pak.

Did I really say the sight (and sound) of that old beer can scooting along the street was beautiful?

I did, didn’t I?

Somehow, it must be what it meant to me, much like the flowers that are awakening from their long winter’s sleep—almost the sleep of death, I think I described it—to new life, rather than just a beautiful sight. It wasn’t that beautiful to look at.

But, my mind didn’t only slip to the Lovely Lady’s old memory of summertime playtime as I considered.

I can’t avoid thoughts of new life. Life from death. The parallel is obvious to me.

The can was finished—no purpose and no intrinsic beauty.

Nowhere to go ever again. Ever.

As it tumbled up the street, it wasn’t just lively. It was exuberant!

Loud, even.

Well? The Teacher, soon to be Savior, did once tell the folks that the rocks would cry out in worship.

Aluminum’s not all that different, as far as inanimate objects go.

Maybe it’s my turn. And yours.

If clattery is the best we can manage, it’ll do just fine.

Joyful noise.

“God made us for joy. God is joy, and the joy of living reflects the original joy that God felt in creating us.”
(G K Chesterton)

“He jumped up, stood on his feet, and began to walk! Then, walking, leaping, and praising God, he went into the Temple with them.”
(Acts 3:8, NLT)

High and Holy

June 2, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

On a recent late spring evening, not long enough ago for the memory to have faded, eight friends gathered in a home for dinner. Dinner and dominoes. And laughter. Perhaps, a few tears. It happens.

We’ve known each other for forty years plus a few. There have been tears. Some of them have come from the laughter. Laughter that starts with a giggle—perhaps a shriek—erupting into full-body fits (you know the kind), and eventually calming down into gasps of amusement with eyes being wiped on sleeves and spare napkins.

Of course, many of the tears never started with laughter. We’ve all raised children; heartbreak was inevitable. Parents and siblings have left this life and we’ve comforted and mourned. All of us are carrying heavy loads of one sort or another by now. We usually share the loads with each other, and we pray about them.

And still, we sit and eat, and laugh. And cry.

And sometimes, we play a game of chicken-foot with the dominoes.

On this Monday evening though, it seemed that something was missing. Something more than a game of dominoes was called for. As we played a second (or was it a third?) round, someone suggested we just needed to sing a little.

So, we sang. A little.

Sometime during the hour and a half we sang, in between songs I wondered aloud if we could keep our friends beside us when we sing in that great multitude of saints in Heaven someday. It only seems logical to me. We’ve sung and harmonized together for over forty years here; surely, we’ll be able to hear these lovely voices when we get up there.

Someone suggested that the singing would be so much better there. I didn’t argue, but I’m pretty sure it can’t be all that much better.

We sang praises. We sang scripture songs. We even sang a kid’s song or two.

There weren’t any spare napkins close to the piano, but I saw some eyes wiped on sleeves a time or two. And, when we finally stopped, hoarse and sung-out, there were smiles on every face.

Somehow, while we sang together, the atmosphere was brighter—the air we breathed in just a little sweeter.

And as we said our goodbyes, all agreed that the time of singing was exactly what we needed to lift our spirits and turn our eyes away from our problems.

No. The children and grandchildren trapped in a foreign country at the epicenter of the pandemic hadn’t suddenly been flown out (that miracle would wait a day or two), siblings facing surgery weren’t instantly healed, and a grandchild dealing with the prospect of a lifelong disease hadn’t been given a reprieve while we sang.

And yet, our burdens were distinctly lighter. All of them.

The storm still raged, but there was joy in spite of it. And peace.

I thought about the evening throughout the week. And I struggled to explain it. I couldn’t.

Then today, on Sunday afternoon, the Lovely Lady and I made our way to the band room at the local middle school for a rehearsal. It was the first rehearsal I had been a part of since the start of the Covid pandemic, nearly a year and a half ago.

The entire group would practice six or seven songs. We (the Lovely Lady and I) had one to play for. The music parts called for a horn and a flute on one song. Only one. I wasn’t sure it would be worth going for.

We went anyway.

We sat, listening to the saxes, trombones, and trumpets as they worked out their parts. I can’t speak for the Lovely Lady, but for me, it was delightful. Yes, there were wrong notes. Perhaps, there might have been some intonation problems. It didn’t matter.

It was wonderful.

And, when it came time for us to play our song, we became part of that community of music makers. We contributed to the wrong notes, at least I did. I may have made an entrance on the wrong beat, or even in the wrong measure. It didn’t matter.

Together, we made music.

There is joy in shared music, a satisfaction beyond the act of combining tonal qualities and counting beats. The process of creating harmonies and countermelodies out of the silence moves well past what the scientific method can explain.

As the music ended and the Lovely Lady and I made our exit, my mind drifted back to that evening of music making with our old friends, wanting to make comparisons. But somehow, the comparisons seemed to fail.

I want to say that the experience with our friends was a high and holy moment.

And it was.

Praises offered to God in a time of storm are repaid with the certain knowledge, the reassurance, of His loving arms holding us tightly through the raging waters. A faith offering, if you will, affirming that our God is faithful.

Paul and Silas knew it as they lay imprisoned in the jail in Philippi. At midnight, they sang hymns. Locked behind bars, with their feet in shackles, they sang and prayed loudly. Knowing it was likely to earn them extra stripes on their backs, they still praised the One they trusted with their lives. (Acts 16:16-40)

We are encouraged, as followers of God, to let His songs fill our hearts and the air around us. Throughout life, whatever our circumstances, we sing, bearing witness to His faithfulness.

And what of the other experience, playing with the folks in the band room? If the singing was high and holy, how do I describe that?

Odd. I think it, too, is high and holy, albeit from a little more earthy starting point. We are God’s creation, designed by Him to live in community. Music is a gift from Him, as is all art, meant to raise our sights from the sweat and pain of everyday existence.

Mere survival was never his plan for humanity. We were designed to thrive and, moreover, to thrive with joy. From Jubal in the early pages of Genesis until modern-day prodigies, music has been a constant in history, a vehicle for faith, for history (storytelling), for entertainment.

As with all of God’s good gifts, many have used it for base, profane ends. And still, music and art have the ability to raise our spirits, to lift our hearts from the burdens of pain and lost love, to bring to mind things higher than our ofttimes drab and difficult circumstances.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights… (James 1:17 ~ NKJV)

Bill Gaither wrote the words I sang years ago in a men’s quartet. More than once, I’ve wondered if it was proper to add the part about making music with friends. I’m coming to believe it’s completely appropriate.

“Loving God, loving each other,
Making music with my friends.”

As often as not these days, the music I make with others of kindred spirits could best be described as joyful noise. Contrary to our human comparisons and judgmental spirits, God doesn’t ask us to offer Him perfection.

Rather, He asks us to come to Him with open hearts and hands, giving our sincere offerings freely. Joyful noise is a sweet offering to His ears.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the lands! (Psalm 100:1)

High. And holy.

Making music with my friends.

It is in the process of being worshipped that God communicates His presence to men.
(C.S. Lewis)

My heart, O God, is steadfast,
my heart is steadfast;
I will sing and make music.
(Psalm 57:7 ~ NIV)

Jubal’s Tribe

June 28, 2017June 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Have you ever considered how music touches our souls?

The preacher sat toying with his coffee cup, now mostly empty. When we first sat down an hour before, it had been filled to the rim with the hot, black elixir.

We had talked of history and faith and friends, along with a sentence or two about the glory days of our youth. As our time together inched toward its termination, the conversation turned toward the philosophical.

My guitar-playing friend was there, as well. He, as was his habit, contributed to the direction of our discussion with a short narrative about a man and his wife of many years who had sung together at a recent music event the storyteller had headlined.

The thing is, the lady has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t know her husband anymore, nor is she able to comprehend even simple questions or enter into conversation. But, she sang.

She sang.

It’s not the first story told about music and how it is so deeply ingrained in our very being. Many others have their own anecdotes, family lore which lightens the darkness of sad periods in their memories. I have my own. too.

The last time I visited with the red-headed lady who raised me—my mom—before she left this life, she didn’t know me. Told me I was no good. Ordered me out of her house.

But, when I sat beside her in church that morning and held my hymnal in front of her, she nearly pulled it out of my hand as she tugged at it. And, she sang.

She sang.

Tears came to my eyes as I visited with my friends that morning, just a week or so ago. The three of us sat on the sidewalk at the cafe, conversations abuzz all around and cars passing by on the busy downtown street; all I heard was my Mama’s voice singing praise to her Creator.

Why does music touch our souls?

How is it that the words and melodies are written indelibly on our hearts when all else has gone dark?

From the depths of our being, when neither voices nor photos, nor even faces can bring familiar, well-worn paths and fellow-travelers back to mind, the introductory notes of an old hymn—or even a folk song or ballad—stir the synapses of the mostly unresponsive brain to recall the words and tune faultlessly.

Even my father-in-law, in the last years of his life almost completely unresponsive, would sit beside his wife as she played the piano, and his once strong voice would ring out the tenor part as if he had no impediment whatsoever.

Why does music touch our souls?

I attempted to interject my thoughts on the effect music has on our emotions, the right sequence of notes drawing tears in appropriate places during the course of a movie, or even the use of certain types of music to inspire courage and fidelity on the battlefield.

The preacher dismissed that as simply emotions, not actually the heart. I, not sure I agreed, ceded him the point, since it was clear that any argument would have been merely subjective, without any possibility of claiming definitive proof.

Perhaps that’s a discussion for another day. I’m not fully convinced. I’ll have to think on that awhile longer.

For today though, the question still demands an answer. Why does music touch the soul—or heart, if you prefer—and leave its mark stamped thereon?

Jabal had a brother, whose name was Jubal. He was the father of all who play the harp and pipe. (Genesis 4:21)

Jubilation and jubilees had arrived. Seven generations after Adam, the gift of music began to be ingrained in the human spirit. The birds in the trees no longer had any advantage over humanity, save that they could fly.

Henceforth, the human spirit would be moved, not only by words and emotions, but by music. Notes and chords, strung together and played or sung, would make their way inexorably and irretrievably into the hearts of men.

For those of us who hold a worldview shaped by Scripture, music would have the purpose of drawing men to God and glorifying Him. The Word is full of evidence. Read Psalm 95:1, Ephesians 5:19, 2 Chronicles 5:13, to only begin.

Scripture’s pages are full of the act of making music. Across the ages, hearts were drawn irresistibly to God in song.

What a gift!

The weekend after that coffee morning with my friends, I stood in the Sunday morning worship service where the Lovely Lady and I fellowship and, once again, the point was made as clear as a mountain spring to me.

Although, I am often privileged to be part of the worship team on-stage, on this day I stood in the midst of the main group on the floor level. My mind, as is too often the case, was on the more practical issues of my life—work, finances (or the lack thereof), uncertainties of the future—rather than focused on worship.

There was nothing spectacular about the music. Nothing.

And yet, as I stood and sang, as I had been taught to do early in life by that red-headed lady I spoke of earlier, the eyes of my soul were drawn irresistibly to higher things.

The God of all the universe has come to live within us. To walk with us. To put eternity in our hearts.

My voice broke. As the tears flowed, my voice fell silent.

My heart did not.

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us.

I wonder if He hears the song in our hearts when our voices fail us. Share on X

I wonder.

Music touches our souls because the God who is Love knew we would need to be reminded. Often.

What a gift! The gift that soothes, that inspires, that makes the heart to soar.

Jubilation!

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
(William Congreve ~ English playwright ~ 1670-1729)

Sing a new song to the Lord,
    for he has done wonderful deeds.
His right hand has won a mighty victory;
    his holy arm has shown his saving power!
The Lord has announced his victory
    and has revealed his righteousness to every nation!
He has remembered his promise to love and be faithful to Israel.
    The ends of the earth have seen the victory of our God.
Shout to the Lord, all the earth;
  break out in praise and sing for joy!
Sing your praise to the Lord with the harp,
  with the harp and melodious song,
with trumpets and the sound of the ram’s horn.
  Make a joyful symphony before the Lord, the King!
Let the sea and everything in it shout his praise!
  Let the earth and all living things join in.
(Psalm 98: 1-7 ~ 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 Same Baby

December 10, 2015December 10, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It is dress rehearsal night for the annual Christmas Candlelight service at the local university. As usual, nerves are frayed.

The veteran director, at other times a jovial prince of a man, is unhappy with what he hears. The handbells aren’t balanced well with the brass, nor even with the choir. His stress is handed off to the technical staff as they scramble to set up the correct microphone array.

Lighting, entrances, even the correct height at which to hold a music folio—all of these details must be attended to. A spectacular presentation depends on the tiniest of details.

There was a day when I too was caught up in the stress and nervousness of the moment. My part is so small, minuscule even, but the charged atmosphere has a way of affecting everyone.

Tomorrow, this has to be perfect! We can’t miss a step!

Funny. Tonight, I sit in my place and, instead of worrying about the details, I wonder when I got old.

No, really.

I was a young man when I started doing this. The members of the student choirs were my peers, young adults who had been sitting at their parents tables just weeks before. That’s no longer the case.

These students could be my grandchildren. My grandchildren. The thought hits home and I let it sink in.

What am I doing here? What purpose can be served by my presence in this gathering?

My mind forges ahead as I consider that many—perhaps most—of these young people would not agree politically with me. In fact, they would most likely oppose some of my most cherished ideals vociferously.

They probably even eat sushi!

Once started down this road, it is easy to barrel on to the bottom at full speed. I enumerate mentally all the differences I can see (and some I can’t) and suddenly, I feel as if I am surrounded by aliens. We are so different.

What am I doing here? I ask the question once more.

I jerk into cognizance, realizing that the white-haired man with the baton is back on the podium and the aliens, I mean—choir members, are standing and ready to sing.

Quickly finding my place in the printed music on the black stand before me, I begin to play the horn along with my fellow ensemble members. With a gesture here, and a short comment there, the man with the stick draws each musician further into the composition.

Before I know it, the answer I sought mere moments before is all around, literally all around, me. Beautiful music, no—soul-moving tonality, emanates from every point of the compass.

It is not seamless. One can sit back and pick out the trumpet notes. The bass voices singing in the back may be distinguished from the sopranos standing closer.

Not one of us—not one—loses his or her identity in the mingling of voices which has occurred. A mosaic, yes, even a patchwork of sorts has been assembled from all the diverse human voices, the odd shapes of brass instruments, and the different sized bells.

Did I say it is not seamless? I’m not sure that is true. The end product, for all its variegated shading and changes in texture, is truly unified. All parts, equally, are integrated into the stunning result.

This. This is why I am here.

Old man that I am becoming, I was intended to be here, at this moment. Each of the youngsters in the choir was destined to be part of this memorable composition of voices and instruments.

A short time later, as the instruments sit quietly and the voices begin an acapella piece, I marvel.

So many different voices. Such varied family backgrounds. Such diversity in religious doctrine.

All singing about one thing. One person.

One Baby. One Savior.

I close my eyes, listening to the young, yet ancient, voices. I can’t help it, I seem to hear angels singing. I’m not saying the choir sounds like angels. I have no evidence to base such a statement on, having never heard an angelic message.

The shepherds, on the other hand—the shepherds heard it. (Luke 2:13-14)

Do you never wonder about the eclectic mix of folk who knew about the little Baby’s birth? Angels certainly, and shepherds, and an inn-keeper. The magi would come, in time. Of course, there was Mary and her husband, Joseph.

All worshiping the same Baby. The One who came to save all of us.

All of us.

Soon, hundreds will sit in the hard wooden pews of this beautiful cathedral. Side by side, they will sit and sing, and listen, and worship.

Rich and poor, educated and illiterate, liberal and conservative, white and brown and black—they will worship. Together, they will worship.

Still worshiping the same Baby—the One who came to save all of us.

And then, from one candle, a thousand will be lit in this auditorium. What a picture!

A brilliant picture of His purpose in coming to earth. From one Light, all who live in darkness will live in light. (Matthew 4:16)

I’ve watched the worshipers with their candles. Some boldly hold them up high. Others sit gazing at the flickering light with their hands on their laps. Still others look to see what everyone else is doing with their candles before they position theirs.

It matters not. The whole room is awash in light. Every corner is illuminated.

The voices stop and again, my musing ends as I am brought back to reality. Tomorrow, we will make music together again, if the Lord wills it.

We will worship the child. Together.

Still, I wonder.

What if we held our lights high through all of our lives, blending the brilliance together?

Would it be possible to make beautiful music with folks who are different than us for all of the years we live?

I would love to see that beautiful patchwork quilt—and listen to that heavenly music.

Glory to God in the highest. Peace on earth to men.

It is what we were made for.

Worship changes the worshiper into the image of the One worshiped.
(Jack Hayford ~ American author/pastor)

. . . so that you will prove yourselves to be blameless and innocent, children of God above reproach in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you appear as lights in the world . . .
(Philippians 2:15 ~ NASB)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

worship

Clattery Joy On The Journey

High and Holy

Jubal’s Tribe

The Same Baby