Worthy of the Calling

August 30, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I made the mistake of replying to a friend’s post today, believing I was helping her feel better about her state of mind regarding the upcoming election. Before I knew it, I was defending my position to someone I don’t know. I would say a total stranger, but she is a follower of Christ. That means she’s family.

I didn’t get angry. She didn’t get angry. We both made two or three replies, parting on amicable terms. I’ll pray for her. She’ll pray for me. Blessings.

Still, I’m not pleased with myself. Tonight, I can’t help wondering why we, the Family of God, are wasting our time arguing/discussing/disputing about things as unimportant as who is to be the next president of our country. Or, whether our Governor has the right to make us wear a mask.

Unimportant?

Yes. Unimportant.

I know someone will say it. So, I’ll say it first:

“But, we’re in a battle for the soul of our country!”

I don’t disagree. But, if we’re in a battle for our country’s soul, why aren’t we fighting with weapons that have a chance to win the soul?

Why aren’t we in our closets praying? Why aren’t we at the prisons and jails visiting? Why aren’t we in the neighbor’s back yard working side by side with them? Why aren’t we on the main roads and back roads, compelling them to come share our table?

Where are the cups of cool water? The literal ones for the heat and the figurative ones that slake the thirst with Living Water.

I promise you, we won’t win the soul of our country by shouting at every person foolish enough to expose their opposing viewpoint. It won’t be won by posting nasty, hateful memes that demean and belittle folks with whom we disagree. It won’t be won by shouting about our rights and repeating our claims day after day.

Someone suggested earlier today that we should stop doing these things because the people we were demeaning and clashing with might be fellow believers. I think the bigger concern is, what if they’re not?

What if they’re not?

What if the very people we are fighting here are the ones we have been called to love? (They are.)

What if the very people we are calling names and demeaning are the ones we’re supposed to be telling of God’s grace and mercy? (They are.)

They are!

How is this who we have become?

How do we dare to throw the love of Christ back in His face and defy Him to do anything about it?

The Apostle Paul, in prison for the very cause we claim, begged us to walk in a manner that is worthy of our calling. Begged us.

It’s time for us to start. Doing that.

That walking worthy thing.

Today. This week. This year.

Now.

You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. (Matthew 5:14, NIV)

Crossing the Torrent

August 28, 2020August 28, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.

I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.

I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited its inevitable surge above flood level.

And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.

No, really. Music.

Away, I’m bound away,
Across the wide Missouri.

I suppose it’s no coincidence the words to the old folk tune Shenandoah are coming from the speakers on my desk right now. No, I didn’t select the song; it just came up in the playlist the streaming music service delivers while I sit at my computer.

When I say no coincidence, I mean I probably needed a nudge in the right direction.

I can take a hint; I’ll head that way momentarily.

Many times, I’ve compared our existence here to a journey — a life-long expedition to see what is around the next bend and over the next hill.

We are strangers in a strange land, headed for a different home.

They do not belong to this world any more than I do. (John 17:16, NLT)

Having said that, I also realize I have stopped here beside the rushing waters and taken shelter a little ways above the river’s edge in a place of safety.

I’ve stopped here for too long.

Much too long.

Too long, staring at the intimidating water. Too long, wondering when the awful flood will recede. Too long, waiting for rescue.

The road goes on up the mountain on the other side of this cataract of white water. I can see it from here if I have the strength of will to tear my eyes away from the terrifying flood and lift them to the hills.

The painting you see above hangs in my home. It is one of my favorites. Although not necessarily from the brush of the most skillful of artists, the picture tells the story amazingly well.

The violent torrent roars and tumbles down the mountain rift with horrible menace. Nothing in its path could withstand for long the overwhelming power it wields. And yet, mere feet above the white water, on a rickety and cobbled-together wooden bridge, seemingly unconcerned and unfazed, a man stands resting.

The Lovely Lady and I jokingly refer to the piece of art as our Simon & Garfunkel painting, a none-too-clever reference to the duo’s song, Bridge Over Troubled Water.

A century old, the painting depicts nineteenth-century life in the Canadian Yukon Territory. The best word I can think of to describe living in that rugged wilderness? Hard.

Hard, and yet (dare I say it?) triumphant.

Here, amid the most unfriendly environment man could imagine, a bridge spans the cataract of water. In safety, where there was no safety, anyone can traverse the dangerous valley.

Someone had to build that bridge. Over the troubled water.

Over it.

While the river rushed and roared below them.

And still, I stand beside the flood and consider. It’s likely, you know, that if a bridge can be built over this river, there will be another one needing to be built up ahead, and another one, and another.

Rivers don’t run in a straight line, either. I might even have to build another bridge over this very same cascade, further on where it runs even wilder and more furiously.

Funny. As I stand here thinking, I seem to hear the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me.

“We’ll cross that river when we get to it.”

She is right. She always was.

But right now, I’m at this river.

Today, the rushing water directly ahead needs a bridge over it.

I have no choice but to follow the road ahead. And, it leads up the hill across this particular river. This wild, untameable flood.

It’s time to get building. It’s a good thing I know a Carpenter who is only too happy to teach the craft to any who ask.

After all, He built the greatest bridge of all time. Out of wood and nails.

Away, I’m bound away…

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
(Psalm 121: 1,2 ~ ESV)

A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath. (Anthony Liccione)

Keep Both Hands on the Handlebars

August 21, 2020August 24, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The university campus looks different this school year. A lot different. Face masks with social distancing are the rule of the day. Outside classes. Meals in the quad. Tents under the trees and a stage thrown up in the large grassy area.

A lot of work has gone into the preparations for the resumption of school in this time of uncertainty. All are hoping the unseen enemy may be held at bay by the weapons and schemes being utilized.

Time will tell.

On a recent afternoon, I walked up to collect the Lovely Lady, who works there. It’s not a long walk. I don’t wear any protective gear—no helmet, no gloves, no goggles—since it’s not usually a dangerous walk.

I may have to reconsider now.

On that recent afternoon, I strode onto campus from the crosswalk at the four-way stop, assuming I had navigated the only iffy spot and would be home-free until I had her safely by my side. I glanced at the pavement ahead of me.

The westward border of the university grounds shares its walking right-of-way with the city’s fitness trail, so I’m never surprised if I meet a cyclist, speed-walker, or jogger there.

Still, the sight that met my eyes that day was a little perplexing. Nevertheless, I continued on my way, straight toward the individual coming at me. It was a college-aged young lady, out for an afternoon ride on her bicycle.

She was prepared. She had even donned a helmet, an accoutrement notably absent from the wardrobe of most college riders I see daily. She was also wearing a face mask properly, over both the mouth and nose, fastened behind her head.

She had another necessary tool with her, one I never go out on my own bike without. The cell phone is invaluable to me, giving me a map, should I need one. More than that, it links me with the Lovely Lady at home via the GPS function which will let her know where to send the EMTs, should I fall into a ditch or ravine.

But, that’s where the preparation thing unraveled. The young lady was pedaling down the trail toward me at a fairly high rate of speed, with no hands on the handlebars of her bicycle! Not one!

I was further astonished to see that she was holding her smartphone in front of her body, both thumbs moving a mile a minute as she tapped out a text.

No hands and no eyes!

I’m not lying when I tell you I don’t think she ever saw me. It is possible she was aware of my presence, but I’m certain she would never have recognized me should the need to identify a body arisen. And, that was appearing more likely by the second.

I moved off of the right side of the trail to give her a wide berth. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh out loud or to yell at her. I did neither and, of course, since I’m still here to relate the story, she sped right on past, with no necessity to identify a body afterward.

I have some thoughts about the event. Why certainly, I’d be delighted to share them!

Preparation without execution is meaningless.

Or, as the Preacher would have said, vanity. Useless and void.

All the training completed ahead of time and any amount of protective equipment donned is without purpose, if there is no follow-through. If we don’t keep our eye on the goal—if our attention is drawn away—failure is nearly assured.

In this battle we (society) and the university are in right now, the enemy is invisible. Oh, the enemy’s consequences are clear, but if they are visible to us, it’s too late.

Somehow, the young lady has reminded me of important lessons I believed were learned in my younger days. It is certain that, if I ever really learned them, I have forgotten them again.

Everywhere we turn these days, we see the result of spiritual battles. Across the world, we see them. Sometimes, just across our tables, we see them. Results.

Disastrous results.

Hate. Apathy. Despair. Racism. Violence.

I forget, again and again, that my enemy has never been a human being. Never.

The Apostle who loved to write letters was so very clear on that point, reminding the believers at Ephesus exactly who their enemy was—the unseen and terrifying power at work all around them.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world rulers of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavens. (Ephesians 6:12, NET)

If the one we’ve called enemy has a beating heart, blood running through their veins, and is breathing air, we have identified the wrong suspect.

It doesn’t matter what the person’s position is, what organization he or she represents, and what heinous (or pedestrian) transgressions they stand accused of in our judgment.

If we claim to be followers of Christ and hate them, we lie.

We lie.

All our lives, we have prepared. We have studied; we have discussed. We have tried on the protective gear, turning it this way and that, getting comfortable in it.

For this reason, take up the full armor of God so that you may be able to stand your ground on the evil day, and having done everything, to stand. (Ephesians 6:13, NET)

Why is it, when we have all the preparation down—all the defensive and offensive tools—why is it we take our hands off the handlebars and text our Moms?

It’s not only the college kids and us, either.

The sons of Ephraim were ready with their bows. But they turned away in the day of fighting. (Psalm 78:9, NLV)

Fighting men, they were. Well trained. Well equipped. But, in the day when they were put to the test, they turned tail and ran. Or maybe, they just lost focus. Perhaps, it didn’t seem so important anymore.

I know many in both groups. Many are paralyzed by fear. I know some in this group who are turning tail and running. Just when the preparation they’ve done would be the most help, they’ve decided they want no part of the battle.

And then, there are those who have lost interest. Apathy (or is it despair?) has them in its grip and they have turned their attention elsewhere. On the day of battle, they’ve got better things to do.

I don’t want to be in either of those groups.

There is no reason for us to live in fear. God is with us. Always.

If we turn away, the battle is lost.

So, why does it feel like we’re boxing with shadows?

Perhaps, it’s because we are. Only, like that old Pink Panther cartoon I viewed recently, the shadows are fighting back.

Ah, but do you know what defeats shadows? Every time? Of course, you do.

The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5, NIV)

No shadow can lay a glove on us when we walk in the Light.

Prepare.

Execute.

Stand.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1, KJV)

If you don’t know where you are going, you’ll end up someplace else. (Yogi Berra ~ Athlete, Coach, Philosopher)

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

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

You can’t believe everything you read

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

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

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

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

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

What about the fortune cookies?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truth is essential

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truth doesn’t always hide in plain sight

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is truth?

Confusion reigns right now

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

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

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

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

Nothing has changed

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

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

Basics? Where can we find those?

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, here’s what I’m going to be doing

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

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

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

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

For the next month. And then some.

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

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

Excuse Me, Your Gentleness is Showing

July 2, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I sent my friend a birthday greeting recently. It wasn’t anything special, just two sentences on a popular social media site. Still, he was kind enough to return a note of thanks, with a little something added.

I wasn’t sure I wanted the little something.

You see, some words are light and carefree. There is no expectation and little need to consider further action. Words like, “Thanks for thinking about me.” Or, “I had a great day, thanks!”

Unfortunately, he didn’t choose light and carefree.

These words were compelling. They not only made a statement; they left the reader—me—with an expectation of fulfillment.

These words had weight. Really. It was weight that I felt.

I still feel it today.

After his thanks, my friend added this,

“You have a gift of gentleness, and I am grateful for it. Thank you for being a great example to many men!”

I want to be happy—or proud—or even embarrassed.

What I am, is conflicted. And, challenged.

I don’t know if I can live up to my friend’s vision. The man I see every day in the mirror isn’t gentle. He’s not a great example to others. He isn’t even a so-so example to others.

Perhaps I should tell him he has me all wrong. Maybe my children could tell him. The Lovely Lady could give him a hint or two (could she ever!). The customer care supervisor at the phone company—the one I called a couple of weeks ago—could really give him an ear full.

Why, even the dogs in the backyard might (if they could talk) set him straight. I know the female, who’s been digging holes where I just planted grass seed last week, would disabuse him of any illusions that might linger.

Gentleness? Me?

Hardly!

image by Rudy & Peter Skitterians on Pixabay

But the words have weight. Gravitas, even. Serious weight.

My friend meant them. He has observed me living life among others and he has reason to believe there is gentleness in how I comport myself.

I suppose now I will need to make it so. After all, the apostle—my namesake—left instructions that all of us should make it our lifelong practice.

Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. (Philippians 4:5, NIV)

Wait. How did that second sentence get in there? This is between me and the people I meet every day. I’ll do my best to show gentleness. I’ll attempt to make it evident to them. That’s all.

Why does it matter that the Lord is near? Why can’t I just do my part and they do theirs?

I suppose part of the answer to that question lies with my responses up above. I have known all my days that I should treat others with gentle hands, and voice, and heart. And yet, on my own, I cannot fulfill my responsibility.

I blow up. I respond with sarcasm. I rip into them.

Oh, most of the time, I can feign gentleness. I can talk a good game, and act the part. But when I stand in front of the mirror at the end of the day and look into the face I see there, I know.

I know.

But God is near. He is. Jesus Himself said it would always be true.

You can see it for yourself. I am always going to be with you, wherever you go, however long you live, until time is no more. (Matthew 28:20, my paraphrase)

He is there to remind. To prick my spirit. To give strength.

There’s a reason gentleness and self-control are gifts of the Spirit. I’m expected to put them into practice in His presence. Again and again, until they are as much a part of my daily routine as breathing and eating.

And yet somehow society has come, over the eons, to believe that aggressiveness and demonstrations of power are signs of strength—of character.

Don’t believe me? Look around you today. Who are our idols, our heroes? Are they kind and caring? Or, are they argumentative and combative?

In all our media—in conversations overheard on the public transport—in public messages from pastors and politicians, activists and artists—all around us, we see little self-control and certainly few gentle spirits. And, we seem to revel in the lack of such things.

We—the ones who claim to be close to God—appear to have no interest in gentleness. None.

Recently, on a social media site I frequent, a Christian friend posted a picture of a man with a brightly dyed beard, wearing a woman’s swimsuit, walking along what appeared to be a fashion runway.

The question posed with the photo was, “Can someone tell me what this is?”

The vitriol and hate spattered the page below the photo. I didn’t know all of the folks who replied. I’m making an assumption when I say they probably all claim to be followers of Jesus Christ.

May I tell you one thing of which I’m certain? Positive, even.

God doesn’t hate the person in that photo. He doesn’t.

That person—and every other person who has ever drawn breath on this spinning ball of dirt—is so precious to our God that His Son gave up His body and breath for them.

Every one of them. Us.

We will never look in the eyes of a human who isn’t loved by God.

And yet we claim the right to treat these, whom our God loves beyond all reason, hatefully and without mercy.

While He is near, we do it.

A few years ago, a popular song suggested that God is watching us, a not unlikely concept, but the next phrase claimed His oversight was from a distance. And, sometimes it can feel like that.

But, feelings aren’t facts. It turns out God is watching us. While He walks beside us. While His Spirit lives in us.

How we treat folks around us matters. To Him, it matters. It matters to them.

And, in the end, it will matter to us. More than we know, I think.

It is. It’s high time I become what people believe me to be. Or, at least make a start.

The red-headed lady who raised me always told me I should be a gentleman. She wasn’t wrong. She rarely was.

A gentle man.

God is near.

Be kind to each other. It is better to commit faults with gentleness than to work miracles with unkindness. (Mother Teresa of Calcutta)

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. (Galatians 5:22-23, NIV)

Not Just Another Still Life

April 10, 2020April 10, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We call this Holy Week. The reasons are clear; I won’t argue against it. Still, it hasn’t felt all that set apart.

I wrote earlier today that the edges of these days have felt much the same as the middles. The Lovely Lady asked me the date a while ago and I had no answer for her.

It’s hard to observe Maundy Thursday when you don’t remember if Tuesday or Wednesday preceded it.

And yet, the calendar said it was Maundy Thursday. The day many followers of Jesus remember His servant heart as He washed the feet of His disciples. They read the scripture over again and perhaps even celebrated His Last Supper with wine and bread.

Me? I looked at a painting on my wall. That’s it up above. A still life, they call it.

As if.

I shared the painting with a few online friends today, along with a poem about still life paintings a poet friend had pointed out a day or two ago. I thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, the painting won’t keep still. Not in my mind, anyway.

I first saw this particular piece of art hanging on the wall of an old saint. I’ve written of her before. Miss Peggy was a faithful servant of her God all the days of her life. But, this story isn’t about her, although she did leave the painting to me after her passing.

The artist is also a friend, another faithful servant of God. Sam is a native of China, having come to this country in the 1980s as a student. There were other reasons for him to leave his native land, but I’d just get the details wrong if I told it, since it’s not my story.

Besides, this story isn’t really about him either.

In a way, it’s about me, stuck here in still life. You know, the life prescribed for me by the medical experts of the day, along with the political powers, who are endeavoring to fight an invisible enemy by dividing and conquering.

Still life. Perhaps, the story is about a reader or two, as well. You’ll know if it is.

Most artists choose their subjects based on aesthetics. Do the colors coordinate; do they clash just enough to draw the eye? Are the objects balanced in their placement? Do the items demonstrate the ability of the artist to capture light and shadow, or texture?

This painting ticks those boxes. It appeals to the eye. It even causes me to admire the talent of the artist.

But, I know Sam. He’s not interested in my praise. Or, yours.

This still life is meant to capture the heart of the observer, to squeeze the soul, and to cause us to walk away with a new vision of who we are.

The bowl is not for food, but for water. A basin, intended to wash away the dust and grime of the world. Perhaps, something like the basin our Savior used as He washed the feet of those who would use those same feet to walk away from Him that very night. (John 13:5)

The kettle and teacup represent comfort and calm. From a culture that views tea as much more than a drink to start the day, but as a celebration of life, the pouring out of this precious liquid quiets the turbulent spirit and brings peace.

Like cups of cold water that meet much more than a physical need, we share the necessities of spiritual comfort with our fellow travelers. (Matthew 10:42)

The meaning of the medicine bottle, along with the mortar and pestle, is clear. Healing comes as we minister and are ministered to. Using the tools at hand, gifts from our Great Healer, we help to heal the hurts and ease the pain of this world.

The crying prophet is assured that there is medicine enough, and there is a Physician, but wonders why they haven’t been applied. (Jeremiah 8:22)

It’s still a good question today.

Washing. Comfort. Healing. How well we know the necessity of all three in this time of sickness and separation.

As I write, Good Friday is upon us. It is the day when we remember the incredible sacrifice made for us. A sacrifice made to heal our great sickness.

His torment was the result of our rebellion; our deeds caused Him to be crushed. His pain was to heal our hurt; His wounds have made us whole. (Isaiah 53.5 ~ my paraphrase)

Perhaps, especially on this day, our contemplation in this still life we’ve become part of could be a place to begin. Before we walk away, will our hearts be captured, our souls squeezed, and that new vision be ours?

It is, after all, not just another still life.

“Comfort, comfort my people,”
Says your God.
(Isaiah 40:1 ~ NET)

For weeks now I have been meditating on still lifes,
The tumble of plums and pears, the overturned goblets
And the sundry bouquets of flowers, the skulls and flutes.
I have grown bored with their quaintness and simplicity
And, well, their stillness, which lacks the narrative power
Of Christ’s agony in the garden or the sublime
Force of Turner’s slave ship, and alp or a starry night.
I tire of the repetitions of subject matter,
The endless spill of quinces, grapes, and pomegranates—
Though, child of time that I am, caught up in the thunder
And motion of history, I sometimes find comfort
In the calm seductions of pitcher and vase, shadow
And light, the modest raptures of the ordinary.
(Morri Creech ~ American poet)

Do You Know I’m Doing the Best I Can?

March 16, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

No, but hum a few bars and I’ll catch up with you.

We never know when illumination will come, do we?

I find it’s often in the moments when I myself am not going to be presented in the best light.

It happened in the Chinese restaurant a night or two ago. Well, in the restroom of the Chinese restaurant, to be more precise.

In the present climate, with so-called social distancing being the order of the day, one might wonder why the Lovely Lady and I would wander out to eat with friends at all, but at least I had the presence of mind to wash my hands before I returned to the table.

I even remembered to sing the Happy Birthday song in my head while I did it. But it seems that may be where I went wrong.

I was doing fine until I got to the phrase, “Happy birthday, dear .” And then the wheels started to come off.

I couldn’t think of who I wanted to sing to. My hands stopped moving. Still, no name at all came to mind. In the absence of inspiration, the singing just trailed off. In my head, I mean.

I looked at the man in the mirror for help, but he just had a confused look on his face.

Finally, getting back on track, I washed my hands for a while longer and headed back out to join my dinner partners. Yes, I’m pretty sure I washed for at least twenty seconds. At least, I think I did. I hope I did.

Now, if you’re wondering how I’ve gotten along with washing my hands up till now without getting stuck, I’ll tell you. I’ve thought about this a good bit in the time since the unfortunate incident. Really, I have.

I never tried to sing the words before.

I just hummed.

You don’t have to remember the words when you hum. At all. You just have to know the melody.

You’ve heard the old joke, haven’t you?

Why do hummingbirds hum?
They don’t know the words.

I said it was an old joke; I didn’t say it was a funny one.

Back to the subject at hand, I’m thinking the singing and handwashing thing was a failure. Perhaps I’m not as intelligent as I’d like to believe.

I can’t even sing and wash my hands at the same time.

But, then I remember. This is where the illumination comes into play.

I can hum and wash my hands at the same time. I know I can. I’ve done it before. Successfully.

I’ll do that the next few times.

So, how is that illumination? Here is what I learned:

Frequently, the best we can do is not the best we’ll ever do.

That’s a good thing. But we don’t let it stop us from doing the best we can manage today.

Don’t let the embarrassment of yesterday keep you from stepping up again tomorrow.

A lady of my acquaintance told me about being asked to pray at a meeting the other day. She doesn’t pray in public — says her tongue won’t move the right way and the words come out wrong.

She did it anyway. When she was done, she said amen and the meeting went ahead. I’d call that a success. She’s not sure.

Now she wonders if she should sit in a less conspicuous place next time.

I think she should sit where she’ll be called on again. And again.

Sooner or later, if you keep trying to sing the song, you get the words right.

Joseph, he of the multi-colored coat, started out carrying food and water to his brothers in the field, moving to being a trustee in a prison, before becoming a ruler in Egypt and savior-of-sorts to his people.

My namesake, the Apostle, attempted to serve God by throwing His followers into jail. Paul eventually got it right, becoming one of the first missionaries in the early Church and the most prolific writer of the New Testament.

Thomas Edison had thousands of failures before getting a light bulb that would function. Albert Einstein failed his college entrance exam. Walt Disney was fired from his newspaper job because he lacked imagination and had no good ideas.

They all kept doing the best they could — and they got better.

I’m going to keep humming (and working up the suds). Someday the words will come. My hands will stay germ-free in the meantime.

I’m sure I heard a fellow come out of a restroom the other day singing the words, “And many more.”

I wanted to shake hands with him and congratulate him on finishing the task, but I didn’t.

The day is coming when I’ll be that good, too.

You just wait and see.

Hope means to keep living amid desperation and to keep humming in the darkness.
(Henri Nouwen ~ Dutch Catholic theologian ~ 1932–1996)

Draw near to God and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and make your hearts pure, you double-minded.
(James 4:8 ~ NET)

Shade and Shadow

November 1, 2019November 1, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 8 Comments

He’s gone. Dead. Passed away.

Gone.

Just yesterday, it seems, the call came. They found him in his recliner, laid back, as if asleep. I can’t count the times I came into the living room to find him like that. It was his place to rest; it was his place to think; it was his place to commune with God.

How would he have gone any other way?

The old man (I use the term with the greatest of respect) has been on my mind a lot lately. Independent, stubborn—in a loving kind of way, and determined to follow his God into eternity, he refused to be taken care of. A thousand and a half miles from any of his children, he lived on his own terms.

The shadow he cast over the lives of his family may never fade. Perhaps, in time, we may notice it less. Now in our sixties, all of his children will attest to the influence he wielded, frequently purposefully, but mostly without that intent at all.

Parents are like that, if we let them be. I was happy to stay in the shade of this man; grateful for the protection from the heat of the long summer days.

And, shade there was. He offered guidance—when asked, and correction—sometimes without being asked. Over the years, he and I developed the kind of relationship that was comfortable enough to endure the inevitable disputes. He corrected me; I corrected him. Neither of us actually complied with the correction, we simply moved on, leaving the disagreements behind.

I have come to realize that the shade had thinned in the last few years.

Mere weeks ago, my siblings and I sat at the table in my dining room, drinking coffee and talking about our lives and about life in general. I gazed out the front window at the old maple tree near the street and commented on its imminent demise.

The old tree is nearing seventy years old, the only one remaining of the original five planted by my late father-in-law. Like the other four, it will come down soon. There are few full limbs left, the scraggly arms jutting out from the huge trunk offering just the barest growth of leaves now. The limbs that have been removed have left hollows, places for water to stand and further rot the heart of the tree. Now, when it rains, the water that enters the open heart fifty or so feet above the ground drains out a knothole only a couple of feet up on the trunk.

Even now, in its last stages, the old tree casts a long shadow. It may do so for several more years. Not much shade to be found, but the shadow of the skeletal old trunk stretches for many feet more than its actual height.

As I gazed at the tree and pointed out its defects to my siblings, my mind jumped to my father, not knowing his body was even then lying in the recliner, his soul having begun his journey into eternity.

As I write, my thoughts—like a movie camera—dissolve from the old maple tree to the words of David’s First Psalm.

Like a tree planted by water flowing down to the sea, is the righteous man; his delight, in the Law of the Lord. Day and night, his mind is taken up with the meditation of what God desires. The leaves of that tree shall not shrivel up, will never lose their green coloration and fall to the ground. Fruit shall he bear in the right season, and he will have success in all his labors. (Psalm 1: 2,3 ~ my paraphrase)

Reality hits, and through tears, I realize the shade is gone. I will not again call him seeking wisdom, will never hear his voice quoting his favorite scripture reminding me of God’s thoughts towards me and His promise of blessing.

The shade is gone.

Ah, but the shadow is not.

Perhaps there will never be a time in my life when I don’t feel that shadow, the reminder of what we knew for years. The shadow stretches long from the past, and yet, reaches far into the future.

Shade is good when one needs protection and comfort. But, it takes the sunlight to grow to the full measure of who our Creator wants us to be. And shadows to remind us once in awhile of how we got here and where we’re headed.

I can’t tell you he was perfect. No man has ever been, save one. This one was definitely human. There are stories which will never be told and, then again, some that may never stop being told giving proof of that.

Still, he leaned back in that easy chair day after day, and considered the words of the Lord, letting them seep thoroughly into his very being.

Roots, sunk deep.

I’m thinking there will be shade trees again in eternity. What beauty and grandeur those stately groves must display in that blessed home!

I know there’s a river that runs there.

Shade.

By the river.

The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade, you do not expect to sit.
(Nelson Henderson ~ Canadian farmer)

But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night. And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
(Psalm 1:2-3 ~ KJV)

When Is It Too Late to Make a Comeback?

September 25, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Would you like to open a music store again?”

I asked the (mostly) rhetorical question of the Lovely Lady the other day as we drove past the building where we had operated such a store for many years. I didn’t expect a positive answer.

I got one anyway.

“Yes, in a lot of ways, I wish we could.”

Though driving down a busy street, my eyes were instantly glued to her face, attempting to read the real story there. Wistfulness, I thought. Perhaps even reminiscence of our youth and once vivid dreams for the future.

We both laughed. It won’t happen and we know it. There were valid reasons for closing the little store a few years ago and they haven’t changed. Still, it seems we often sense a yearning for days past.

No, we won’t own a music store again. That doesn’t mean we’re finished. We’re not ready to sit down and begin the long (or short) wait for God.

But I am realizing this important thing: We all, young or old, have a need to be of use to folks around us. It’s a desire built deep into the human spirit.

We need to be needed.

I talked with him tonight, the old preacher. Many years, he’s spent on this planet—most of them in one pulpit or another, teaching the Word of God.

Nearly two years ago, he said goodbye to his last permanent congregation. His family breathed a sigh of relief, thinking with him that the time had come for him to rest and enjoy life. But, that’s just it; he doesn’t enjoy life if he’s not preaching.

And, as we spoke on the phone tonight, he let me know he would be standing in the pulpit again starting next month.

“It’s not permanent,” he hastened to explain, as if what I thought mattered. “I’m just filling in for a few weeks.”

For some reason, hearing his words, I thought about the flowers. I know, it makes no sense, but it is the way my brain works.

You’ve seen them before—the surprise lilies. They go by other names, these oddities of nature. Resurrection lilies. Magic lilies. And yes, naked ladies.

It is August in Arkansas, so the surprise lilies are standing proudly in yards and fields all around me. There is a row of them in my front yard, even. They’re not so much of a surprise, after all. I knew right where to look for them.

In the spring, after the dreary, cold days of winter, all of the bulbs seemed to explode with greenery and color. The daffodils, the crocuses, and the irises too—all of them were working to outdo each other with colors and showy blossoms. All of them, that is, except the surprise lilies.

The only thing that pops up in the spring from the bulbs these lovelies keep hidden underground is greenery. Lots of broad, green leaves. They are beautiful in their own right, but not all that awe-inspiring. Still, I know by now to be patient. I protect the growth, allowing it to cover the ground, doing its work.

Making promises for the future.

And then, just like that—about the same time as the daffodils and the irises, the green leaves turn brown and die. Gone. Finished. Rotting into the ground. Or, so it seems.

Months pass. Nothing. Grass covers over the place where the bulbs cower under the dirt. Nothing to see here, folks. Move on.

But, the end of July comes. The hot sun beats down. The grass grows crunchy underfoot. And suddenly, in the last full month of the summer, the plants erupt from the ground.

There is not a leaf to be seen. A beautiful, thin stalk with multiple buds atop it grows within a couple of days to two feet tall. The buds cannot open fast enough into their brilliant pink blossoms.

They are glorious! Perhaps more so because of their delayed appearance. Every year, I wonder if this will be the year they fail. Every year, during the last week of July, they keep their promises made in the springtime.

People are not flowers. I know that. But, again and again, I see folks defying the odds—age, handicaps, illnesses—to keep the promises of youth.

It is a mistake for us to look at circumstances and count anyone, including ourselves, out of the game.

There are no has-beens. Every one of us who is still breathing is still becoming.

The disciple who spoke so often of love said it well, I think:

Loved ones, we are already children of God, but it is not clear yet what we will become. When we are with Christ, then it will be clear as crystal, and we will be just like Him. (1 John 3:2 ~ my paraphrase)

I may be covered up with dirt and hiding right now, but just wait! The glorious part is still to come. It won’t be because of my own abilities and cobbled-together plans, but because of the Creator and His master plan.

Do you think you’re finished? Does it look like no one needs you? Don’t count yourself out!

Did I tell you the preacher is eighty-nine years old? He says he’s got another thirty years in him. I’m not quite sure he’s joking.

Perhaps, we could all take a lesson from the old preacher’s favorite scripture as we anticipate the next step in our becoming:

‘For I know what I have planned for you,’ says the Lord. ‘I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future filled with hope.’
(Jeremiah 29:11, NET)

No, we can’t go back to the past again. But what comes next promises to be spectacular.

Spectacular.

And, maybe a little bit surprising.

______________________________

I’d like to think the best of me
Is still hiding up my sleeve.
(from No Such Thing ~ John Mayer ~ 2001)

So the Lord blessed Job in the second half of his life even more than in the beginning.
(Job 42:12a, NLT)

______________________________

The World Changers are Living Just Next Door to Me

September 12, 2019September 12, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

There are evenings when the Lovely Lady and I retreat to our den, huddled or sprawled—whichever—in our comfortable corners, and chew bubble gum. Well, it’s not real bubble gum; that stuff wreaks havoc on the dental work at our time of life.

The bubble gum we chew is of a more enigmatic character. Mental bubble gum, I like to call it. Time-wasting programs on the television; game shows or travelogues, sometimes a murder mystery.

Why the term bubble gum? The similarity must be evident to even the most unconcerned of observers; something to occupy the facilities, but not to overtax their abilities. No actual tasting and swallowing (and certainly, no nutrition), simply a repetition of motion and result, until finally, there is no desire left for the tasteless pap.

On this evening, however, I sat up and listened. Virtually speaking, we had traveled with the host of a certain travelogue to the islands of Scotland. Being of Scots-Irish descent, I thought perhaps I might learn something of interest. And, strangely enough, I did.

You may have heard the story before, of the struggles of a Scotsman named Calum MacLeod, living out his life on the island of Raasay, just to the east of the more well-known Isle of Skye. A crofter (one who makes a living off the land, usually as a tenant farmer) and a lighthouse keeper by trade, he and his neighbors saw the government build good roads on the more populous southern end of the island while they still had to walk the final two miles to their homes and farms from the northern end of the road.

In the mid-1960s, at the age of 56, Calum decided one day that, in the absence of help from the government, he would remedy the inequity himself. For most of the next 10 years, he single-handedly built a road for the last mile and three-quarters to the settlement where he and his wife, among others, lived and farmed.

With no better tools than his pick, shovel, and wheelbarrow, and aided by the knowledge gained from an engineering manual he purchased, Calum (when he wasn’t working at his other jobs) dug, and carried, and laid a roadway that could be traveled by car to an area hitherto inaccessible to most vehicles.

Today, Calum’s Road stands, a testimony to one man’s desire to have a positive impact on his world. A mile and three-quarters of single-lane roadway leading to a place where, when it was completed, only he and his wife still lived.

A world changer, I call old Calum. Claims of empty conquest aside, his indomitable resolve and plodding triumph will etch his name indelibly into the list of those who leave this world better than they found it.

Recently, I read an article written by a friend about another world changer, Percy Spencer. You too can read about Mr. Spencer here: 5 Lessons from a World-Changer.

It’s a story about a man who had a chocolate bar melt in his pocket. Now he’s a world changer. Strange, that.

The thing is, Mr. Spencer’s reaction to the melted chocolate bar was to develop a device now present in most homes in our country, and indeed, many around the world. Yesterday’s coffee—the eye-opening potion I drink from my mug while I wait for a fresh pot to brew each morning—is steaming hot in seconds because of the microwave oven. My lunch of last night’s leftovers is a snap to prepare inside this electronic box. No muss, no fuss. Set the time, wait a few seconds, and eat the hot food.

World changer. He is that. Because of a melted chocolate bar, and his response to it. Read the article.

World changer. It’s a strange term.

We both love and hate world changers.

They are our heroes and our villains, our ideal and our reproach. They are always people who do big things in a big way that transform the pattern of life on this planet.

Or, are they?

We have been programmed in our day and age to accept the fact that some humans—a very small number of us—are world changers, stars if you will, while most are only extras, wandering the movie set in search of our opportunity to get an autograph or a selfie with one of these celebrities.

The programming is a lie.

I would suggest that I know no one who is not a world changer. Every one of the people I see as I walk downtown, through the park, around the university, and on the country roads is a world changer in their own right. And yes, all the people of Walmart are world changers.

I am a world changer.

You are, too.

I hope it makes you feel good. It did me—for a few seconds.

The reality is that none of us lives in a vacuum, a sterile environment where others are unaffected by our actions and our words. We change the world around us by reacting and responding, by speaking and acting, by turning away or by our involvement.

Every single word. Every single action. Potential world changing events.

Dramatic, isn’t it? I don’t intend it to be. Over the top, I mean.

But, if you will stop and think, all of history is an amalgamation of the results of words and actions, most of which the author thought insignificant as they were initiated, but some of which were premeditated to bring about the desired result.

Regardless of the intent, the world is constantly being changed by insignificant (and significant) choices, leading to action and to communication.

Oh. Now, I don’t feel so good.

I’m remembering some of the horrible words I’ve said. And, some of the despicable deeds I have committed.

What if those are the world changing footprints I am going to leave behind? What if they—or even, just one of them—become the thing for which I will be remembered?

Or worse, what if those vile actions and words convince just one person to abandon his or her search for God’s truth for their life? And that person convinces just one. And that person…

This being a world changer isn’t at all what I had hoped it would be! What a burden!

I wonder though.

He—the One we claim to follow—promised a light burden and an easy harness (Matthew 11:28-30). Perhaps, I make the task more difficult than it really is.

Are we not all then, world changers?

We are! Of this, there can be no doubt.

The reality is we are changed to bring change.

We reflect what has shined into us. The Light of the World cannot be overcome by the darkness. And, He has shined into our hearts, we who come to Him in faith.

Light, we are.

And salt.

World changers.

Using whatever tools He has placed in our hands, and whatever words He has put into our mouths, we are called to change forever the flavor and the beauty of the world through which we walk.

It’s okay to feel good about it.

Even if we’re only pushing a wheelbarrow filled with tools.

They will serve. To build roads.

To change the world.

We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why. Not until the future eats the present, anyway. We know when it’s too late.
(Stephen King)

You are the salt of the earth. But what good is salt if it has lost its flavor? Can you make it salty again? It will be thrown out and trampled underfoot as worthless. You are the light of the world—like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and then puts it under a basket. Instead, a lamp is placed on a stand, where it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father.
(Matthew 5:13-16, NLT)

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Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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