The white page before me is terrifying.

The drive to write is a fierce fire that burns, but it cannot banish the fear of failure. Failure and I–we go back quite a way. I am not anxious to renew the acquaintance.

Still, every time I sit down to write, the blank page mocks and teases.

You have nothing to say! The empty page is nicer than anything you can come up with!

Some nights I listen to the mockery and walk away. It only makes the next time that much harder.

Tonight, I sat and looked at the blank space once more. This time, the realization hit me with power and urgency.

The empty page is a picture of life. More to the point, today, it is especially salient as we stand on the verge of a new year.

The story is already written for the year we’ve just lived. It is now a completed book of history. Oh, edits will be made. The intellectuals and politicians will debate the wording for many of the events, and what results will be something completely different than the actual occurrence, but it won’t change the fact that the book is closed and ended.
_____________________

Listen!

I hear the fireworks outside my office walls as I type.

The moment has come. The old year is dead and gone. Scribbled pages, strike-throughs, erasures, and footnotes–all of that is complete. There will be a time to look back and decipher it later.

It is time now to step onto the new, clean page.

Blank, like the page you’re reading here was moments ago, it may terrify us. The fear of failure, of loss, of pain may keep us frozen, but it’s a sure bet that the page will be marked up very soon anyway.

Life moves on, whether we will or no.

What will you write? What will I write?

Will the message be coherent? Will the lines run true? Will the communication be plain?

“These are the times that try men’s souls.” Thomas Paine, that great American patriot, was speaking of the terrifying early days of the Revolutionary War. He was speaking of military resolve, of political concerns.

No matter. The words ring true for us.

What we do next will show our mettle. What we say today will prove who we are at our very core. What we face right now, this minute, is a test of our faith and our resolve.

The test begins now.

Pencils ready?

Write!

 
“When I am afraid, I will put my trust in You.”
(Psalm 56:3 ~ NASB)

“…Knowing what must be done does away with fear.”
(Rosa Parks ~ American civil-rights activist ~ 1913-2005)

 
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

Exhausted.  Physically worn out.

In a minute, I’ll turn off the coffee pot and the lights.  As I check the door though, I see the lights of the candles in the windows next door and my mind wanders.

Candlelight…

Earlier on this long Eve of Christmas day, we sat in a dimly lit church auditorium.  It’s not a beautiful sanctuary, just an old Quonset hut gymnasium finished out to seat a couple hundred people, but it’s warm.

Comfortably we sat, and then stood to sing as the familiar carols began.

It was no accident that he picked our building to wander into.  That homeless man could not have known who would be there; he could not have predicted his reception.  But in he walked.

There are no accidents.

We stood and sang.  He trudged right up the middle aisle.  You know, usually folks in his condition take a seat near the back, awaiting the chance to ask for help quietly.  This fellow?  Right up front.

No.  This was no accident.

The man set his plastic Walmart sack on the communion table.  In Remembrance of Me, the words cut into the wood declare to the onlookers.  Somehow, I think that’s no accident either.

There are not many items in our church building that we would call sacred.  It’s just not how we worship.  Altars, fonts, icons–those are not really part of our experience.  We believe that true worship is from our hearts, disregarding the physical trappings, almost to a fault.  The Communion table though–that’s the Lord’s table.  If not sacred, it is at least worthy of respect.

Dirty Walmart bags don’t scream out respect.

Sinking to his knees, the unhappy fellow bent himself down to the bare concrete floor and began to speak quietly.  I couldn’t hear the words and I still don’t know what he prayed, but soon, others would kneel beside him and pray as well.  They were still ministering to him as the rest of us left, nearly forty-five minutes later.

A young friend has already written of the event earlier, giving a profound illumination to the incident and its connection to that first Christmas and the arrival of another Stranger.  I could add nothing more to that conversation.  Nothing at all.

Still, I need to say the words.

It was no accident that the man set his dirty Walmart bag on our Communion table.

I wonder.  How many of us who were there left unchanged tonight?

I’ve written on numerous occasions of homeless folks and our responsibility to them.  Their stories always pull at my heart, and I’ve attempted to communicate that same sense to you in my writing.

Tonight though, on the eve of our observance of the birth of Christ, a dirty man set his dirty sack right down in the middle of my worship.

Right down in the middle of it. 

But, as I stare over at the candles in the house’s windows, I begin to understand.

You see, it was no accident that the Baby was born to an unmarried young lady and laid in a feeding trough.  It was no accident that His companions throughout His life on earth were outcasts, and drunks, and the poor.

It was no accident that this Holy, perfect God-man was hung on a cursed, profane tree.

His intent was to show us that what we define as profane is what He calls sacred.  For all of His time here, He made clear as well, that what the religious folk of that day called sacred was actually profane.

The Baby in the barn calls us to care about the sacred instead of focusing on the profane.

He calls us to speak grace instead of declaring law.  He calls us to give mercy instead of dispensing justice.

He calls us to let the dirty Walmart bag sit atop the Lord’s Table.

In some ways, the bag is more sacred anyway.  It is if it allows a seeker to find once more the Baby who came to be Savior.

Sacred.

The Savior came to offer grace.  More than that, He came to change who we are.

I know.  He’s still changing me.

And that’s no accident either.

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.”
(Isaiah 9:2 ~ NIV)

“Anything that happens to you, good or bad, must pass through His fingers first.  There are no accidents with God.”
(Tony Evans ~ American pastor/author)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

“Do you know who I am?”

The words came angrily out of my mouth.  The young cop in front of me looked in my face and recognition lit up his eyes.  His mouth though–his mouth remained closed as he shook his head no.

I turned to his superior, another of the officers standing in front of my place of business, all of them having startled me from my desk moments before.  I had heard the sound of someone climbing over the chain link fence and, rushing out into the darkness, had the terrifying ordeal of being faced with a blinding light in my face and the certainty that behind that flashlight, the young officer’s pistol was aimed straight at me.

As I stood in the parking lot moments later, shaking with fright and anger, I recognized the young officer.  He had been at my front door only weeks before.  His mute denial of knowing me only made me more angry.

Facing his superior officer, I pointed my finger at the young man furiously.

“He knows me!  He was here just a couple of weeks ago!  There’s no excuse for this!”

He knew who I was.
__________

“Do you know who I am?”

The man in front of me looked vaguely familiar, but it would take me a minute.  A grin broke across his face as he punched his female companion playfully.

“I told you he wouldn’t remember me,” he said jovially.  “It’s been too long.”

My eyes followed his hand as he poked her on the shoulder again.  I noticed the forefinger was misshapen, as if it had been cut off and reattached at some time in the distant past.

“Sure, I know you, Luke!  How could I forget selling you that banjo?”

It had been twenty-five years ago, but the memory of that mangled finger had stayed with me.  It had caused him considerable pain as he tried to relearn a skill he thought had been lost forever.  All it took was a look at the injured digit to bring back the name.

He looked at me in shock.  His friend did as well.  They couldn’t believe I remembered him.

I knew who he was.

We all want to be important enough to be remembered.  I wanted the policeman to remember who I was so he wouldn’t pull his gun on me in my own backyard.

My customer wanted me to remember that man from the past who had needed a boost in self-confidence and the fact that he had persevered through the pain. 
__________

It’s Christmas week–the week we set aside to consider a God who became a baby and was born. 

For us. 

In a barn.

I can’t help but think that the symbolism–of that birthplace and the only people who came to visit the birthplace–was entirely by design.  The Lamb of God, who would be a sacrifice…no…The Sacrifice, was born in a sheep pen, to be surrounded hours later by, of all people, shepherds. 

Shepherds.

Not priests.  Not military men.  Not kings.

Shepherds.

“Do you know who I am?”

The King of all Creation left His throne to be forgotten by men.  He would be a common man.  Like us.

The answer to the question is a resounding no.  In the words of the famous song, “We didn’t know who you was.”

We didn’t know.

Two thousand years have passed since that humble birth.  The baby became a boy and then a man.  A man who would die. 

I think I know who He is now.

And yet.  I stand in the dark and I ask the question.  Shameful, dirty, and still filled with evil thoughts, I ask the question.

“Do you know who I am?”

The arrogance with which I addressed the policeman is gone.  The hopefulness of recognition from long ago is not a factor; it could only make matters worse.  I simply don’t understand how anyone who knows me intimately could love me this completely.

But there it is.  He knows me. 

Yet He came.  And died.

He knows who I am.

Still today, we recall the Baby, laid in a feeder trough, in a stall, in a barn, in a little back-water town so long ago.  And the question comes down through all the ages.

“Do you know who I AM?”

Now, do we know?

“Sweet little Jesus Boy
They made You be born in a manguh.
Sweet little Holy Chile
We didn’t know who You wus.

Didn’t know you came to same us Lawd
To take our sins away.
Our eyes wus bline;
We couldn’t see.
We didn’t know who You wus.”
(Sweet Little Jesus Boy, 1932 ~ Robert MacGimsey ~ American composer ~ 1878-1979)

“He was in the world and the world was made through Him, and the world did not know Him.  He came to His own and those who were His own did not receive Him.  But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become Children of God, even to those who believe in His name.”
(John 1: 10-12 ~ NASB)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

Bells!

I can’t get them out of my head.  The last time I wrote, it was about bells.  Mr. Longfellow heard them.  I thought I was listening too.

Joy to all people.  All is well.

Lesson learned.  Can we move on now?
__________

My young friend blew in from the dreary, damp world yesterday.  I asked her cheerfully how her day was going.  The anguished look in her eyes was enough to let me know I had touched a sore spot with those few words.

“Oh.  Please don’t ask me to answer that question.”

She always smiles.  Not that day.  It was as if the door was slammed shut on her feelings.  I have learned to leave those doors alone.

I apologized and helped her find what she needed.  As she headed for the exit, briefly, a window opened up to her emotions and she mentioned how hard Christmas will be this year with her mom gone.  Tears glistened in her eyes as she turned to go out the door.  Mine too.

The bells hanging on the door knob jangled rudely as the door shut behind her.

Bells!  What is it with the bells?

Addison came with her mom today.  Her mom washes our windows once a month to make sure we can see out and customers can see in.  Four years ago, we became good friends, Addison and I.  She came every time her mom did and we visited.  A lot.  She brought me flowers.  I gave her candy.

But, little girls grow up and go to school.

“I’m too busy to come most times now.  You’ll just have to get used to seeing me once in awhile.  Okay?”

Today, while her mom washed windows, Addison and I talked.  Well, Addison talked.  I listened.  After awhile, she asked her mom to unlock the car so she could get something to show me.

I wondered what it could be.  You already know what it was.

Yep.  A bell.

A single little brass bell to hang on her Christmas tree.  She shook it proudly.  Again and again.

And again.

I like Addison.  I was glad when she left with her bell.

I wonder.  Did I really learn the lesson of the bells?

What was I missing?

Ah well.  It would come to me.  Or not.

I sat in my easy chair tonight and dozed off by the fire.  Warm and comfortable, nothing would bother me in my cozy den.

My sleep was filled with the sound of–yeah, you knew it was coming–bells.  While I slept, the antiques program the Lovely Lady was watching on the television had ended and a holiday concert by a bell choir began.

I slept as long as I could and finally brought myself to wakefulness, grumpy and almost angry.  Stupid bells!

Stupid bells!

I reached for the remote, but something stopped me.

The music was beautiful.

Bell choirs are amazing cooperative efforts in which no one takes a front seat and every single ringer is absolutely essential to the process.  From the tiniest of tinkly high notes, all the way down to the huge bass bell, nearly two feet across at the throat of the brass dome, each one plays its part.

At exactly the right time, the different bells sound, manipulated by different people, both male and female.  Entrances have to be perfect; cutoffs, precise.  No one carries the entire melody; no individual person is relegated to the rhythm part.  Every single bell counts.

I overcame my grumpiness and frustration to listen to the astounding music.  Beautiful songs.

Old familiar carols.

Bells.  Playing old familiar carols.  Who knew?

You’re humming the song aren’t you?  (“I heard the bells on Christmas day, their old familiar carols play…”).

I listened to the breathtaking music and my uneasiness grew again.  Something was wrong.  Unfinished business.  No, that wasn’t it.  You know how it is when you know you’re missing something, but you can’t quite put your finger on it?

And then I saw her.  Playing the bells. There!

No. Not on the television.  In my mind.

My Mom.  She loved the bells.  She wasn’t all that good at them; coming in on the wrong beat here; letting the tone ring in the air too long there.  No matter.  She loved playing with the bell choir.  I can see her now, sitting with the bells on the table in front of her, watching the music and the director like a hawk ready to attack, counting the beats.  She is desperately hoping that she comes in at the right place, but laughing at herself when she doesn’t.

Beautiful bells.

The tears come again as I write.  I listened tonight to that bell choir and wiped the tears then too.

Mom doesn’t play the bells anymore.  She doesn’t remember who I am.  She doesn’t know who my father, her husband of sixty years, is.  She is lost in the fog of dementia and, as I have been (and was earlier tonight), is angry.  Angry and lost.

I miss my Mom.
__________

And still the bells ring–of peace on earth and good will to man.  Their tones pure and clear, they ring out.  Oblivious to our moods, our battles, our disasters, they ring out.  Parents die or are lost to us.  Children grow up and away from us.  Still, the bells ring their message.

Peace on earth.  Good will to man.

Joy.

I thought I had learned the lesson.

Perhaps this is why Christmas comes around again every year.  Lessons are forgotten.  Situations change.  Old habits are taken up again.

We need to be reminded.

A Savior came to earth.  To save us.  To teach us.  To change our hearts.

Is there still sadness?  Death?  Poverty?  War?  The answer is still yes.

But the day is coming. . .

I’ll wait.  And while I wait?

I’ll keep listening to the bells, Mr. Longfellow.

 

 

“He will swallow up death forever!  The Sovereign Lord will wipe away all tears.”
(Isaiah 25:8a ~ NLT)

 

“The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.”
(from The Eve of Christmas ~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson ~ English poet ~ 1809-1892)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.

Nearly Christmas.  All is well.

That’s what I’m supposed to write, isn’t it?

Am I the only one who isn’t happy?

It’s hard to write when one is gloomy.  My mood matches the weather lately.  Cloud-bound and gray.

The world around me is angry.  Races are pitted against each other.  The wealthy and the poor are caught up in a war of the classes.  Friends battle with friends and brothers are angry with their brothers.

What’s not to be sad about?

I wonder.  Would it be okay for me to just  share a poem tonight?  The writer of these words had reason to be sad.  He had reason to be angry.

His wife had died from burns she received when her clothing caught fire.  In putting out the fire, he himself had been burned badly.

The next Christmas, he wrote this:  “How inexpressibly sad are all holidays.”

The year after, at Christmas, he penned these words, “‘A Merry Christmas,’ say the children, but that is no more for me.”

War raged in the countryside and his son was seriously injured in battle.  The next Christmas, he was silent.

Silent.

Ah!  But the next Christmas–the next Christmas, these timeless verses came.  And, with them–hope.

And, peace.

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
     And wild and sweet
     The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
     Had rolled along
     The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
     A voice, a chime,
     A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
     “For hate is strong,
     And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;
“God is not dead; nor doth He sleep!
     The Wrong shall fail,   
     The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!”

He wrote the words exactly one hundred fifty years ago this Christmas.  One hundred fifty years ago.  Death and war, pain and hatred, were the language of the day.  The intellect of the poet said exactly what mine echoes today.

What’s the use?  Nothing changes.

But the heart–no, the very soul–of the believer knows.  It knows that the Child who was born on that first Christmas day brought with Him a message of Hope and Peace.  And Joy.

Joy that shall be to all people.  All people.

I think I’ll listen to the bells.

All is well.

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.  And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
(Luke 2: 10,11,13,14 ~ KJV)

Christmas Bells by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2014. All Rights Reserved.