Standing at the Gate

February 6, 2018February 6, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He did it with a smile on his face. I saw it happen.

We were waiting for the nice lady at the bank to make a copy for us. I can’t help it; I watch people. So, while we waited, I watched.

I watched him lock himself and his dad in the vault.

Just to be clear, it wasn’t the big door—you know, the thick slab made of concrete-filled steel and secured with a time-lock. This was what they call the day gate—a lighter affair, made with open metal rails that can be seen through.

Even so, I watched the little guy, all of three or four years old, swing the barrier back and forth a time or two. It moved smoothly and noiselessly, so his dad, engrossed in his own activity inside, had no idea of what was happening.

The lad swung it and let go, reaching quickly to hold it and flip it back. Looking up at me, he smiled. There was no forethought or malicious intent in his face, simply the joy of being a child and a moment to entertain himself.

He swung it again, reaching for the edge, but missing. I held my breath, hoping he’d catch it before it reached the end of its arc. He didn’t.

Click!

The little fellow gave a tug at the door, but it stayed put. He didn’t. With one last sheepish grin, and an almost pleading look at me, he turned and dashed back into the room where his dad was still taking care of the task he had come to do.

The nice lady came back to our table and my attention was diverted from the scenario in the vault. Even so, as she talked, it nagged at my consciousness.

I never heard a sound. Still, moments later, I knew something was amiss. I turned around and, there at the metal gate, saw the boy and his father standing. This time, the pleading eyes were in the father’s face. He didn’t say a word, but shrugged his shoulders and grinned—that same sheepish grin I had seen on the boy’s face earlier.

I suggested to the nice lady that she might want to let them out of the vault and she gasped, rushing to get the key and open the gate.

Not a single word passed between the man and me. He needed help. I did what was in my power. It wasn’t much.

Still, I haven’t been able to get the picture out of my mind. The man, standing behind the gate, waiting for freedom. In my memory, I see nothing but bars—that, and his face behind those bars.

Almost. . .Well—almost as if he were in prison.

I know it’s a stretch, but I can’t help but wonder if there are bars that lock me in, again and again. Then again, what if the bars actually lock me out, too?

Prison isn’t only being locked in and held against my will. Sometimes, prison is a place of my own making—the freedom of going where I want and doing what I have chosen.

Bondage can look a lot like freedom to us, if we’re not careful. The little boy swinging the gate in fun found that out.

I’ve locked myself in more times than I care to count.

Just tonight, I read an email and slid home the bolt on the prison of fear. Tomorrow may bring an unhappy encounter, so I entered the cell tonight willingly, muttering to myself as I pulled the gate shut behind me.

The fear of what tomorrow may bring is a barren cell, fraught with pain and distress. And yet, I may lie sleepless in this dreadful place the entire night.

A conversation with someone earlier today brought about the opportunity of making personal comparisons. Without a thought, I acknowledged my superiority and in doing so, firmly latched myself into the prison of pride and arrogance.

The incarceration of the prideful may seem to be, at worst, a low-security lock-up. But, like most hardened criminals, we return again and again, never reformed, to hear the gate click behind us as we fall into the habit of a lifetime.

There are so many prison doors. Greed. Gluttony. Bigotry. Selfishness. Lust. The list stretches as far as the cells in the cell block above.

Sometimes, it seems that others close the doors for us, just like the little boy in the bank. It matters not. The lock snaps closed and we are trapped once more.

I’ve spent enough time locked in those cells. Maybe that’s true for more than just me.

I remember that there is One who holds the key to every door. Every single one.

Isaiah, the one who seemed to see Him clearly through all the centuries that lay between, said the words first. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the prisoner—to open the locked gates behind which they await freedom. (Isaiah 61:1)

Jesus used the same words to describe Himself.

He is the Key Holder—the Opener of Doors.

He is the Key Holder—the Opener of Doors. Share on X

Locks, prison doors, barred gates—they mean nothing to Him.

I’m ready for better things. Easier than the lady at the bank opening that gate, the prison doors will swing wide.

Time to walk free.

Free.

What a fool am I, thus to lie in a stinking dungeon, when I may as well walk at liberty? I have a key in my bosom called Promise that will (I am persuaded) open any lock in Doubting Castle.
(from Pilgrim’s Progress ~ John Bunyan ~ 1628-1688)

The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me,
Because He has anointed Me
To preach the gospel to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty those who are oppressed.
(Luke 4:18 ~ NKJV ~ Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

Breathing in the Shadows

January 31, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

The moon is blue. Super blue.

Yes, there are scientific reasons for the terminology. You may seek them out for yourself. For tonight, I am just happy to sit on a stump and watch the shadows.

I watched the moon for a while, beautiful thing that it is, but as it approached its zenith, my neck objected, so I bent down to relieve the tension. That’s when I noticed the shadows.

The world is awash in shadows. At midnight.

The old mulberry tree, its spindly limbs bereft of leaves, stretches bony fingers this way and that across the cold sleeping grass. There’s a ghost story waiting to be told there, were the world not so brilliant in the moon’s glare.

I glance at the two Labrador retrievers cavorting nearby, and can’t help noticing their shadows mirroring their every leap and crouch.

Shadows in the moonlight. Creator’s handwork.

Basking in the beauty of the late night, I smile. For a moment.

Then I feel it.

I knew I would. There is a high-pitched whistle as I breathe in. And out. I struggle a bit to hold down the cough that is inevitable.

Time to go in. I bid goodnight to the dogs, with a warning for them to behave themselves until morning, and I head indoors. Indoors, where it’s warm.

I bring my shadows with me. Shadows of resentment. Shadows of doubt.

Shadows of negativity.

Wait. That’s a bit redundant, isn’t it? A shadow is already a negative, of sorts. If the object is the real thing—the positive, the shadow must be its negative. The un-thing, one might say.

So, here I sit, my un-thing weighing on my chest, and I watch the two dogs still cavorting outside—two black shadows dancing with their black shadows.

Not a care in the world.

I watch them and I am envious. Nighttime is the worst when bronchitis hits. The asthmatic aspect makes it difficult to breathe; the cough that follows makes it nearly impossible to sleep.

In the darkened house I lie watching the shadows. Shadows on my soul because of the shadow creeping into my lungs.

Do you feel sorry for me yet? You shouldn’t. I have come to realize that some shadows are darker than others.

Just tonight I read the words of a new friend, one I’ll probably never meet in the flesh, who is in his sixth year of suffering with cancer. His lungs and other organs are full of tumors, some even visible through his skin. Four surgeries, multiple courses of chemo, and still the shadows persist.

He sits in his chair, receiving the infusion of chemicals which will bring waves of nausea and pain, along with rashes, and he prays for those sitting in chairs around him.

He prays. For them.

I breathe as deeply as I dare, trying to keep from coughing and waking the Lovely Lady, but my mind is already on another friend who has a constant shadow, as well. Her lungs are working at a fraction of their capacity, the only cure, a transplant.

She’s not a candidate for a transplant. And yet, her cheerful encouragement comes as an almost daily occurrence—to friends, to strangers—she points out the bright spots rather than the shadows.

If we walk in light (as He is in light), we walk in community with each other, and in fellowship of His saving grace. (1 John 1:7)

We walk this road with heroes. Heroes of faith who show us the light rather than point out the shadows.

When we are in light, there will invariably be a shadow. But, you knew that already, didn’t you?

When we walk in light, there is always a shadow. Always. Share on X

The shadow is strongest in the brightest light. Sunlight—moonlight—streetlight—you name it.

We can focus on the un-thing, the shadow, that comes from walking in His light, or we can keep our eyes on the things that are.

Life. Love. Heaven.

Things that are.

The Apostle (my namesake) was adamant when he spoke of it. The temporary things we are suffering here are nothing (un-things) compared to the glory we shall one day know. (Romans 8:18)

Some, like my bronchitis, are more temporary than any of them, likely to disappear within days. Others may last a lifetime. Or, they may claim that life even. It’s still true.

The shadow is not the real thing. It never will be the real thing.

The shadow is not the real thing. Share on X

Breathe easy. The day will come when the shadows will flee forever, the light in our eternal home, our God, Himself.

No more tears.

No more shadows.

Only Light.

Breathe deep.

Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe
And to love you.
All I need is the air that I breathe.
(from The Air That I Breathe ~ Albert Hammond)

Even though I walk
    through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
    for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.
(Psalm 23:4 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Justification

January 25, 2018January 25, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I am offended.

The note was polite, but to the point. The writer needed to express something that had been in her mind for awhile. To be fair, the words weren’t I am offended, but it seems offensive to me. There is little difference.

Something I have done—language I have used in my business for years—was offensive. I selected the language. I placed it in a prominent place in my advertising.

I offended.

I don’t know the person. Someone else in the church she attends has made numerous purchases from my company over the last few years. The writer of the note is not even my customer.

And yet, I read the words on my screen and my spirits sank. What would I say? How would I respond?

Do you know how easy it is to believe one has been attacked?

Is it not a simple thing to take offense at the one who has taken offense?

My mind, as it does, piled up the words with which to defend myself. I know how to use the English language. I am accomplished in the skill of bickering.

I want the chance to justify myself.

Why is that my first reaction? Is it true for everyone? When we sense that we have been admonished, do we all want to deflect the blame?

I wanted to look better than I did in that moment.

I knew I could come out on top. I knew it.

Sleep hardly came that night. I would present my argument to the imaginary jury I had collected in my head, letting loose with the big guns and obliterating the enemy. I win!

But, a quiet voice from deeper inside asked a one-word question. Just one.

Enemy?

With a mental shrug, I’d decide to think about it tomorrow, only to find myself, moments later, facing the imaginary jury once more.

Time after time I built up my defense against the enemy, only to face that one-word question again. And, again.

Enemy?

But he, seeking to justify himself, replied, “Who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:29)

Neighbor. That’s the word I wanted. Not enemy.

Neighbor.

And the second is like the first: Love your neighbor as you love yourself. (Mark 12:30-31) Jesus said it was the second most important commandment, essentially part of the first. The lawyer who wanted to justify himself (in Luke’s passage) knew it by heart.

I do, too. Yet, every time I am confronted with my own shortcomings, my reaction is the lawyer’s. Every time.

I want to justify myself. I want to make myself look better. And, more often than not, that is accomplished by making someone else look smaller.

Seeking to justify ourselves, we reply.

Seeking to justify ourselves, we reply. Share on X

We use words like snowflake, over-sensitive, entitled, and coddled.

Or, we use words like arrogant, insensitive, and bully.

Either way, the result is the same. We tear down our neighbors to build up ourselves.

Words were the cause of my offense. My next words would either increase the offense, possibly making me feel justified, or they would begin the healing process.

What to do?

Over forty years ago, a wise man wrote, in his beautiful script, in the front of a new Bible he and his wife were giving to their youngest son. He knew his son well, having spent nearly twenty years in close proximity to him.

The words, still quite legible today, were exactly what the argumentative, impatient youth needed. I can attest that he was more annoyed than overjoyed to read them the first one hundred times or so he saw them written there.

The Preacher said the words, thousands of years before. Their truth has not faded one iota.

A gentle answer turns aside wrath, but argumentative words only stir up more anger. (Proverbs 15:1)

I haven’t always lived by the exhortation. In truth, I haven’t lived by it even a majority of the time.

I’m learning. Finally.

Still—I want to know.

Why do we add offense to offense over and over?

Why is it so difficult for us to bind wounds instead of making them bleed more?

Why is it so hard for us to recognize our neighbors, instead, identifying them as enemies, almost without fail?

Why is it so hard for us to recognize our neighbors? Share on X

In a world filled with hate and vitriol, we—all who follow Christ—are called to bind up, and carry, and treat, with the same love we have for our God and Savior, all who walk the same ground we do.

It’s not optional.

It’s not.

I’m justified. By Him. I don’t do that myself at all; it’s what He does. (Ephesians 2:8)

How I respond to others is how I show them what’s really in my heart—in my very soul.

Gentle words.

Peace.

Be at War with your Vices, at Peace with your Neighbours, and let every New-Year find you a better Man.
(from Poor Richard’s Almanac ~ Benjamin Franklin ~ 1706-1790)

Do everything without complaining and arguing, so that no one can criticize you. Live clean, innocent lives as children of God, shining like bright lights in a world full of crooked and perverse people.
(Philippians 2:14,15 ~ 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.

Need to Know

January 23, 2018January 23, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I saw a UFO tonight.

Well, perhaps I should qualify that statement before going any further. I wouldn’t want you to think I was some wild-eyed conspiracy nut, believing the government is hiding the truth about those strange lights in the night sky, or possibly, even in cahoots with some alien society from the far reaches of outer space.

Still, there were strange lights in the night sky. The dogs had warned me about them. I should have paid attention. I didn’t, simply suggesting to them I might consider that they were bad dogs if they continued their barking.

They went to bed.

I’m still awake. I wonder.

I said it was a UFO, didn’t I? It was, indeed, an unidentified flying object. To me, it was. That said, someone somewhere knows what it is.

I suppose, given the proximity of our home to the local university, it could have been a drone from their photography department taking night shots of the local community. If so, they’ve got a shot of me standing in an empty field in the sub-freezing temperatures, staring up at the lights in the sky.

Oh, look! There’s that Phillips nut. You can really tell he’s outstanding in his field, can’t you?

Honestly, I don’t know what the lights were. I stood and watched them until the cold drove me back inside.

I would like to know what that thing was, though. I suppose I’ll probably never discover that.

I bet tonight’s the only night I’ll lose any sleep over it.

I went to the public library with the Lovely Lady the other day. We split up as soon as we entered the front door, each having a pretty good idea of where we’d find the books which would entertain or educate us.

As I stood contemplating a novel or two (entertainment, not education), she came walking past, showing me the important find she had made.

I laughed. It was a bird identification book.

You see, the Lovely Lady has her own version of the UFO. I suppose it was over a year ago when she had her first sighting.

No. That’s not right.

It wasn’t a sighting; it was her first hearing of that bird’s song. She has described it to me several times in great detail, the onomatopoeic repetition being almost as enjoyable as actually hearing the bird myself.

She wants the unidentified winged creature to stand up and be recognized. Absent the willing participation of said feathered creature, she is hoping for aid from other humans in giving a name and image to the sound she has heard numerous times. In recent days, she has enlisted the assistance of my sister in the bird-hunt.

I am not participating.

Some things I just don’t need to know.

Some things I just don't need to know. Share on X

I am happy that the bird sings. I wish it good health and long life, with many descendants.

I don’t need to know what it looks like, nor where it makes its nest. Just as I won’t be searching diligently to find the source of the lights in the sky earlier tonight, I am content to leave our fine feathered friend alone to sing his song.

Why is it we need to delve into the details of so many things?

Why? How? When?

Why are we not content simply to know that they are?

We’re not just talking about UFOs and unfamiliar birds here, are we?

There are days, and sometimes weeks, and yes, even years when we walk without answers—in the dark, if you will—not knowing how or when we will ever see the light of day again, but somehow believing that we will see it.

I claim to walk by faith, but I put the lie to my claim if I demand the evidence before I’ll take another step.

Faith is all the evidence we need of things we cannot see with our own eyes. (Hebrews 11:1)

How about it? Have you crossed the shaky bridge to the unfamiliar terrain on the other side and recoiled at what you found there? Do you need more information before you determine it’s safe to move on ahead?

Why do we hazard the bridge in the first place? Do we suppose the One who told us to take that first step is surprised at what we found when we took the tenth step? Or the fiftieth step?

Here is what I know.

When I hear a bird singing in the tree, I don’t need to see it to know it’s real. I don’t need to know what family it is descended from to believe it is near or that its Creator will care for it.

I don't need to know. I need to trust. And walk. Share on X

I don’t need to know. I just need to trust.

And walk.

And walking, I remember that my Father cares for me more than He does for that elusive bird in the bush.

He told me that—the One I’m following. (Luke 12:7)

And, that’s all I need to know.

For now.

I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing.
(from The Republic ~ Plato)

Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
How unsearchable his judgments,
and his paths beyond tracing out!
(Romans 11:33 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Good Medicine

January 15, 2018January 15, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Stand there and take your medicine!

The red-headed lady who raised me wasn’t done with the scolding yet, but she could no longer make herself heard over the blubbering. The words had an effect, if only for a moment, as the little towhead tried to work out in his head what kind of horrible-tasting medicine she was going to force down his throat.

The moment passed. It was only another of her sayings, a mini-parable describing the situation.

I’ll admit it: I’ve always been something of a crybaby. Perhaps it was because crying seemed to deflect scolding—or punishment. My brother and I once thought we had figured a way to make our dad’s spankings less severe. We would begin to cry early in the process and amplify the noise with every swat.

It didn’t work.

Still, discipline always—from my earliest days—brought out the whine-factor. And, since I earned—seriously, I worked tirelessly for them—so many sessions with the belt or paddle, I learned how to mope and cry better than most.

It’s a life-skill which has served me well. Perhaps, not served me well, but it has been trotted out with some frequency over the years.

I would tell you I haven’t had a whipping for many years, but it wouldn’t be true. Oh, no one has hit me with a paddle or strap, but discipline has come even so.

While we draw breath, lessons are learned the hard way. For some of us anyway, it’s the only way we remember the principles.

While we draw breath, lessons are learned the hard way. Share on X

The Preacher suggested that God disciplines the ones He loves, just as a father does for the child he delights in, the boy or girl he is teaching to become a mature adult. (Proverbs 3:11-12)

But, what if—what if—the events we imagine to be discipline are nothing more than stops on the way to maturity? Could it be the things I’ve been moaning and whining about are simply bridges to be crossed, milestones to be left behind as the finish line draws ever nearer?

A young man—somewhat wiser than I—sat across the table from me in the restaurant the other day and made a surprising statement.

This past year has been quite a successful one for you, hasn’t it?

I looked at his face quickly to see if he was joking. He wasn’t—the sincerity in his voice mirrored in his features.

I picked up my glass of water to draw from the protruding straw. I wasn’t thirsty; it was just a delaying tactic.

This could take a minute.

It didn’t.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say it had been one of the worst years of my life. But, in that tiny interlude in which I stopped to think, the truth dawned.

Another epiphany. Well? It is still the season, is it not? Why should not the time when we consider the coming of The Light be a time in which we become aware of other beacons of truth we have missed along the way?

In the time it took to take that drink, my mind ran through the year just past.

Every step—every stumbling, plodding step—has brought me a little closer to being the person He wants me to be.

It hasn’t been pleasant. In fact, there’s still a bitter taste in my mouth as I look back.

But, it’s been good medicine. Medicine which has had its intended result.

The young man isn’t wrong.

Call it discipline; call it a growth spurt. We never choose those, but they are necessary for life to continue.

I remember the horrible taste of cod liver oil in my mouth. I still recall the sting of Merthiolate in an open cut.

I lived through them and thrived.

I stood and took my medicine.

We still need to grow more. God has plans for how to make that happen. He knows the plans. They are for our good and not to hurt us. (Jeremiah 29:11)

Good things.

Stand there and take your medicine.

Though the doctors treated him, let his blood, and gave him medications to drink, he nevertheless recovered.
(from “War and Peace” ~ Leo Tolstoy ~ Russian author ~ 1828-1910)

Dear friend, I hope all is well with you and that you are as healthy in body as you are strong in spirit.
(3 John 1:2 ~ 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.

Tell me the Story

January 9, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

In moments when I least expect it, clarity arrives.

I sat, with others around me, in a service the other day and noticed the lady at the keyboard. I know her. She was my neighbor for upwards of fifteen years. I have heard her sing. I have heard her play.

All I expected was to enjoy the music—possibly to reflect on some lyrics. It would be nice.

Nice isn’t what happened.

I hope you won’t mind. I think we call it epiphany. With a small “e”.

An arrival. A light, small but bright, blazed as my friend sang the old familiar hymn. I have never thought of it before. Never.

Tell me the story of Jesus,
Write on my heart every word.
Tell me the story most precious,
Sweetest that ever was heard.

I can’t tell you how many times I have sung the words. But, in her simple gift of song, the words shone with a clarity I’ve not known any other time.

The writer of the letter written to the Hebrews describes it as the fulfillment of a promise made long before. In your hearts, He will place His commandments, and on your minds they will be written indelibly. (Hebrews 10:16-17)

Is a little of that light shining through yet? Maybe, it’s just me.

Every word. Written on my heart.

Every word. Written on my heart. Share on X

I am moved. Overwhelmed, even. But, the light shines on past the initial reaction and I start to wonder.

Is it just for me that He has written on my heart and in my mind?

You indulged me when I wanted to call it an epiphany. Will you indulge me a bit further?

I know the heart mentioned in the Book isn’t the physical, beating organ, but it is the center of our very being—the existence of which we cannot function without. If the physical heart circulates the life blood our brain and entire body must have for life, surely the symbolic heart we describe must circulate the very essence of who we are.

If we follow Christ, He is the essence of our being. Circulating through our veins.

So, I ask again: Is it only for my benefit that He lives within my being?

It is for my benefit. To that, there can be no argument. But, what of those around me? Those who have sin—and loss—and, in the end, death—written on their hearts?

He has put eternity in our hearts! How could we keep that quiet?

The Apostle—my namesake—lays out the process. How shall they call on Him unless they believe? How will they believe unless they hear? How could they possibly hear if we don’t tell them? (Romans 10:14)

He is the foundation, the Rock at the center of our existence! How could we hide it?

How could we not tell the story? How could we not ourselves write the words which have been written in our heart? Or, speak them? Or, sing them?

Every word, every action declares who (and whose) we are.

Well, well. An epiphany in the season of Epiphany. A small light as we acknowledge the Light of the World.

The Word who was born in a stable, in reality came to be inked on our hearts. And, He invites us to share His story by sharing our own.

The Word. Written on our hearts.

To be written on the hearts of others.

Time to tell the story.

Again.

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.
(Maya Angelou ~ American Poet ~ 1928-2014)

If I told you my story
You would hear Hope that wouldn’t let go.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Love that never gave up.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Life, but it wasn’t mine.

If I should speak, then let it be
Of the grace that is greater than all my sin,
Of when justice was served and where mercy wins,
Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in.
Oh, to tell you my story is to tell of Him.

If I told you my story
You would hear Victory over the enemy.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Freedom that was won for me.
And, if I told you my story
You would hear Life overcome the grave.

If I should speak, then let it be
Of the grace that is greater than all my sin,
Of when justice was served and where mercy wins,
Of the kindness of Jesus that draws me in.
Oh to tell you my story is to tell of Him.
(Music Publishing LLC, Open Hands Music (SESAC) (All rights on behalf of itself and Open Hands Music adm. by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC)
Writers: Mike Weaver / Jason Ingram

Climb It

December 22, 2017December 22, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Is that it? I expected more.

There have been any number of nights over the last couple of weeks when I’ve sat and wondered. Surely, I missed something.

I have written every Christmas season for the last few years about the Candlelight Service at the local university. I’ve been privileged to play my horn in the brass prelude for the beautiful service several decades now.

A few years ago, I said the evening never fails to overwhelm, to lay my heart open before the Creator of the universe. I never expected less.

I think it was less this year.

Oh, it wasn’t the fault of any of the performers or of the conductor. The performances were wonderful. Skillful even. Well-prepared and talented, there was no fault to be found with any of the participants.

Still, the big moment never came. Three nights, I did my part and returned to my seat to listen to the end.

It was nice. Christmas-y.

But, there were no tears. No ecstasy. No wow! moments.

I did notice that, without it being planned, the first song—and the last—from the stage each night were the same song. It wasn’t all that wonderful—just odd.

Go Tell It On The Mountain.

Our brass group played it to start the evening—a nice catchy version of the old spiritual. It was fun.

The main choir sang a version of the song to finish their stage performance, upbeat and catchy as well. It was fun.

I wasn’t moved by either version. Not this year.

I’ve spent the year trudging along. Manual labor and too many steps—every day.

Somehow, after all the aching muscles and sore feet, I was looking forward to the euphoria of being carried away. Kind of like a Calgon moment, if you know what I mean.

I did have the same thought in my head as I left each night. I wondered if there was a reason the music on stage started and ended with the instructions to go and tell it on some mountain.

I’ve said it at Christmas before: There are no accidents.

Sometimes, I have to have things pounded into my thick skull. I’m not the brightest crayon in the box, you know.

I packed up my horn the last night of the program and headed out into the cold to walk the few blocks home. I was disappointed.

Nothing. There were no visions, no spine-tingling solos, no ancient conductors who reminded me of the original Conductor. Just a catchy version of an old spiritual. A kid’s song, if you will.

It got worse. I walked home in the cold and had the defining thought for the whole affair. I even had Siri write a note for me on my phone as I walked.

To tell it on the mountain, one has to first climb the mountain.

Well. There’s a bit of encouragement. I’m getting old. I’m already tired. And, now I’ve got to climb another mountain. And, probably another one after that.

Hmmm. Does it seem as if I’m complaining? It does, doesn’t it? Perhaps, I am.

I’ve thought about this for awhile and I want a chance to defend myself. I want to excuse my churlishness, my complaining.

Haven’t I done enough?

Somehow though, I’m remembering that He climbed a mountain or two in His time on earth. Walking absolutely everywhere He went, He carried the good news, the gospel, to all who needed to hear—and experience—it for themselves.

He climbed the mountain in Samaria to sit by Jacob’s well and give living water to the woman there. (John 4:4-26)

He sat on the mount and pronounced blessings to those who would listen to and heed His words. From that mountain, He gave them, in essence, the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. (Matthew 5-7)

He went one day with a few of his followers to the top of another mountain and somehow met with a couple of men from history. (Mark 9:2-8)

And then, there was that day He plodded, bloodied and beaten, to the top of the hill where He would die for the sins of the whole world. (John 19:17-18)

This was a mountain He had been climbing since before the beginning of time. From the foundation of the earth, He was ordained to climb to the top of that hill and be raised high above it.

It is the mountain He was born to climb.

This Baby we celebrate, with all our pageants and all our concerts—all our lights and all our decorations, was born to climb that mountain and declare good news. To all people.

I suppose I might be able to climb another hill or two.

I don’t know how beautiful my feet are, but the prophet Isaiah suggested they would be by the time the task is completed.

To tell it on the mountain, one has to first climb the mountain.

To tell it on the mountain, one has to first climb the mountain. Share on X

He did. The Baby, born in a stable. The Man, carrying living water. The Lamb, taking away the sins of the world.

He did.

Time for me to start climbing again.

You coming with?

How beautiful on the mountains
are the feet of the messenger who brings good news,
the good news of peace and salvation,
the news that the God of Israel reigns!
(Isaiah 52:7 ~ 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.)

Down in a lowly stable
the humble Christ was born,
and God sent us salvation
that blessed Christmas morn.

Go, tell it on the mountain,
over the hills and everywhere;
go, tell it on the mountain
that Jesus Christ is born.
(Go Tell It On The Mountain ~ American spiritual ~ adapted by John W Work ~ Educator and historian)

Please Don’t Dog Ear The Pages

December 19, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

“Oh, yeah. Tell him I’d like to have a new copy of Watership Down. I can’t read the one I have now.”

My son, kind man that he is, wants to buy his father a gift for Christmas, even though I’ve said many times that I need nothing. The Lovely Lady knows better and sends him ideas by text—secretly, she thinks.

We were riding toward home this evening, after a trip to a neighboring town, and my brain jumped to the thought. As I usually do, I spoke without considering the consequences.

Well, I guess they will not be, strictly speaking, consequences. However, the Lovely Lady now has a new aberration to consider in her husband’s character, thanks to my premature announcement. (I’m not sure it’s well-advised to give her too many of these points of oddness to think about at one time.)

She probably didn’t expect me to see the eye-roll that preceded her next question. I suppose I didn’t really see it as much as I felt it.

What’s wrong with the copy on the bookshelf? It looks perfectly legible to me.

She knew the answer. She just wanted to hear it from me.

I fell in love with the story many years ago, back when I was young and full of dreams. I still enjoy reading through it, now that I’m old and full of dreams. The only problem is, I gave away my old, worn paperback copy back a ways.

I thought I wouldn’t need it anymore.

We had been in a favorite book shop one afternoon, looking for bargains, when I saw it. No, I saw IT.

IT was a beautiful hardback, with the dust jacket intact—paper, covered with clear plastic—and crisp, clean pages. The price, written inside the back cover in pencil was exorbitant, ten times what I would normally pay for a good hardback—fifty times what I’d pay for a decent paperback.

We couldn’t afford it.

We bought it anyway.

We walked out of the little book store with a near-mint First American Edition of the book. I would never need to thumb through that old, tattered paperback again. Never.

The truth of the matter is, I’ve never read the beautiful hardback. Never.

I never will. The book’s value is in its rarity, its exclusivity, its pristine condition.

The thing is, when I read, I live. I eat. Chocolate and grease stains attest to the fact. I drink coffee or juice—suitable evidence can be provided.

I carry my books out to the bench in the back yard and, if interrupted rigorously enough, lay them down to scratch the ears of my dogs or play a game of fetch with them.

I’ve always been told books are your friends, meaning I should handle them with kid gloves, but I don’t treat my friends that way. I live life with them.

I leave my mark on them and they leave their mark on me.

Not so with this hardback. It may be the worst fifty dollars I ever spent. I can’t read it, nor can I sell it. You don’t sell your friends (unless your name is Judas).

She understands me, the Lovely Lady. She just likes to make sure I know that, once in a while.

I think she sent a message to our son as we rode. I don’t know for sure. My mind was far away. Even farther away than Watership Down.

Have you ever wondered? Many do. I can’t understand how one wouldn’t.

Why did the Savior of the world have to come like this? Why a baby, born in a stable? Why did smelly shepherds have to come, and weird foreigners have to follow a strange star?

Why did He live, wandering the land of His birth, homeless and un-celebrated?

Why did He die a criminal’s death, hanging in shame on a crude cross of wood?

I would have had Him come as a triumphant conqueror, dressed in white and ruling from His palace, far above the smells and cries and demands of the filthy, backward people who walked the roads and worked in the marketplace.

I would have had. . .

Oh.

He came to be a friend to sinners, didn’t He?

Like any friend, He would leave His mark on us.

And, we would leave our mark on Him.

He would leave His mark on us and we would leave our mark on Him. Share on X

No pristine first edition, He. Our very own volume, well-worn and dog-eared, to learn from firsthand.

The Word became flesh. Living with us. (John 1:14)

His life an open book, one might say.

Maybe it’s time to read the book again.

I hope no one will mind if I dog ear a page or two.

I wonder as I wander, out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die
For poor ornery people like you and like I;
I wonder as I wander, out under the sky.
(I Wonder As I Wander ~ John Jacob Niles ~ © 1945 by G. Schirmer, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.)

What He Said

December 6, 2017December 6, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Well? What is it? Desert, or Babylon?

The preacher sat across from me, nursing the same cup of coffee he had purchased over an hour before. I suppose one might forget the cup in front of him if the conversation was interesting enough.

Still, he wanted an answer to his question. I didn’t have one. Not then.

I think I do now. Maybe I should let him know. Oh, let him wait. Our next coffee morning is sure to find us sparring a bit—verbally, I mean—and we’ll discuss it again.

I had mentioned that it was a little hard to pick up my old writing habits in a new place, somewhat unfamiliar to me, and then I referenced the Psalm which wonders how it would be possible to sing the Lord’s song in a strange place. The people of Judah had been taken into captivity in Babylon and, being asked to sing their familiar praise songs there by the river in that foreign place, declined, breaking down and weeping instead. (Psalm 137:1-4)

I have been feeling sorry for myself for a few months. I think perhaps my nobody-loves-me-everybody-hates-me-I’m-going-to-go-to-the-garden-and-eat-worms lament was getting tiresome, so the preacher decided to shut me up about it.

Well? What if you’re really in the wilderness on your way to the Promised Land instead of in captivity in Babylon?

We bantered about it for a few minutes more and I left—headed back to Babylon—or the desert—whichever.

And yet, like a Labrador puppy with a new toy (or, more likely, an old stick), my mind kept worrying at the question.

Babylon?

Desert?

Oh, what was the difference? Neither was desirable. I didn’t want to be in either place.

No. Wait.

Babylon was a place of punishment—a place to go and either die or repent.

The desert, on the other hand, was simply a part of the journey to a country dreamed of for centuries. A reward, if you will.

Funny. They complained in both circumstances.

Me, too.

Why is that? Why do we complain about the process when we know—absolutely know—what’s coming is glorious?

I understand the unhappy folks in Babylon. They have nothing to look forward to, only dimming memories to hold in their hearts. It would be nearly impossible to sing their joyous tunes there.

I’m not being punished.

I’ve known, for many years now, I will never arrive at my goal here in this world. Well, I say “I’ve known”, but I guess I never really believed it. At least, I don’t live like I believe it.

It’s easy to become complacent, isn’t it? To begin to be satisfied with less. Less than what we’ve envisioned. Less than what has been promised us.

Less.

Because, less is easier.

And the angel of the Lord told young Mary she would have a child and He would be the Son of the Most High—a King who would rule forever. (Luke 1:30-33)

And Mary said, I’ll take that. What you said, I’ll take that. (Luke 1:38)

The angel didn’t explain about the stable. He didn’t describe the terrifying flight to a foreign country to save the young boy’s life. Nothing at all was said about the boy wandering off to the temple.

I didn’t read anything about that horrible, horrible day when the Roman soldiers would torture and kill him right before her eyes.

Gabriel, that bright messenger, never told her that would happen. Not a whisper.

But, she had a promise. And, she accepted the promise.

Funny. I also don’t remember ever reading anything about Mary wanting out of the deal. Ever.

She simply tucked the memories and confirmation away in her heart and she kept up her part of the bargain. Through the pain and the heart-numbing sorrow, she did her part.

Somehow, I think I may have the wrong things tucked away in my heart. Somewhere along the way, I’ve forgotten the original deal.

This isn’t the place the story is going to finish.

This isn't the place the story is going to finish. Share on X

Just as the story of Mary’s Baby never ended on that horrible hill, ours won’t be done until our Creator says it is.

Every step—every one—brings us closer to the place of joy and peace He’s promised.

And, along the way, we enjoy His provision. In the midst of desolation and hardship, He feeds our spirits and sustains us.

The deal stands.

I’ll keep walking.

Milk and honey are still up ahead.

Through the desert.

I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams…
(from The Little Prince ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ~ 1900-1944)

The Israelites called the food manna. It was white like coriander seed, and it tasted like honey wafers.
(Exodus 16:31 ~ 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.)

Changing Keys

November 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

She’s my favorite pianist, by far. For forty years, I’ve been listening to her play.

I sat in my easy chair watching television yesterday as she practiced the songs she would play for the Sunday morning worship service. The longer I sat there, the more annoying the racket became.

I muted the television.

What? You thought I meant the piano was the unwanted racket? I did say she was my favorite pianist. Without the intrusive noise of the TV, I just sat and enjoyed the music.

Many times, as I have listened with my eyes closed, the music stops and she begins to play other notes—notes not in the melody of the current song. It is almost always between verses of a song and sometimes, it can become a little tedious. Again and again, she goes through the progression, trying different notes here—substituting a new chord there.

Why doesn’t she just go on to the next verse? What does she suppose she’s accomplishing?

But, I hold my tongue and bide my time. I’m sure it will happen in a moment or two. Just give her time to work it out. . .

There it is. She goes back and repeats the last phrase she had completed, along with a few notes—and a chord or two—between it and the first line of the next verse. The result is always a little surprising.

She has modulated to a different key. She’s simply changing keys, nothing more.

If all you did was listen to that part of the practice session, you might not be impressed at all. She stumbles sometimes while finding the right chord to go between the former key and the new one. Don’t tell anyone, but she might have to practice it a few times before she gets it in her head and plays it right consistently.

But, if you’re in the congregation the next morning? All you’ll know is the music is lighter— loftier—with more impact and piqued interest.

The change is worth the effort. It’s worth the trouble.

I’m changing keys, too. But, I should tell you—they’re a different kind of key.

The keys I’m referring to now are the ones in my pocket, on my key ring. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve replaced half of them with shiny new ones.

Thing is, I like the worn, slightly bent ones a little better. Maybe, a lot better.

The worn keys don’t have sharp edges. They slide into the locks they’re paired with smoothly and comfortably. No fumbling. No jiggling. No complaining under my breath.

But, the doors I used to open aren’t in use anymore—at least, not for me. Someone else will soon unlock those doors early in the morning, and later, turn the keys in the locks as they leave that evening.

I’m practicing with the new keys now. Fumbling in the dark for the right one, I feel for the lock, wishing for old comfortable doors to open in front of me.

Then again, as I consider my condition, the realization begins to dawn.

I don’t want to go back.

As I’ve walked through this world, with the companions God has generously provided for the road, there has never been a reward in going backward. Further up and Further in is where He leads.

He gives new keys to open new doors, because He wants me to trust Him and walk through them.

Whatever lies on the other side, if He gave the key, the lock will be worth opening.

Whatever lies on the other side, if He gave the key, the lock will be worth opening. Share on X

New doors. Leading to new adventures. The old doors no longer open for me, their keys passing to others who need to trust as I once did.

I still trust Him.

Time to change keys.

Better and brighter things lie ahead. (Jeremiah 29:11)

He promised.

A very little key will open a very heavy door.
(Hunted Down ~ Charles Dickens ~ English writer ~ 1812-1870)

I’m pressing on the upward way.
New heights I’m gaining every day.
Still praying as I onward bound;
Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.
(Higher Ground ~ Johnson Oatman Jr. ~ American hymn writer ~ 1856-1922)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Author: Paul Phillips