following Jesus

I’m Not That Man

~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

I want to be that man.

You know—the person they think I am.

I want to spend my hours and minutes considering ways to help folks around me.  I’d like to be confident that all things work for good—confident enough that stress couldn’t ever color the edges of my emotions—confident enough that I would never give in to worry and despair.

I want to be the guy who knows exactly what action a true follower of Jesus would take in any given situation.  And, I’d like to take that action.  Every time, I’d like to do that.

I’m not that man.

I’m not.

Are you disappointed in me?  I am.  

I wanted to spend these last few days, the period of time we call Holy Week, in contemplation of the cost of grace.  I thought I could perhaps offer some deep insights into the substitutionary atonement made for us on the cross during this week so many centuries ago. 

I haven’t.  I can’t.

You see, I’ve spent the entire week—every single day—in activities that resemble the sacred arts not at all.  I’ve dug up roots from the ground.  I’ve hung drywall.  I’ve spread topsoil.  I’ve carried desks to storage, and brush to the street, and a load of poison to the recycle center.

Nearly sixty thousand steps this week, over twenty thousand of them just yesterday—that’s how far I’ve walked.  There are more steps to be walked tomorrow. 

It doesn’t sound very holy, does it?

But, as I took off my socks yesterday to prepare for the shower which would wash the sweat and filth off of me, I saw a shadowy picture in my mind.  

A nearly naked Man leaned over a basin of water, wearing nothing but a towel around His waist, and he washed the dirty feet of every single man in the room.  (John 13:4)

I looked at my feet and wondered how many steps those men had taken since last their feet were washed?  How filthy would the water in that basin have been?

But the Man completed his job, dressed again, and sat down to eat His final meal with them—the only one at the table with unwashed feet.

It was but a fleeting, fuzzy vision, washed away like dirt down that drain long before I wiped the steam from my mirror.

Today, my writing friends plied the tools of their trade and committed thousands of contemplative words to their pages and hard drives.

Not me.  I walked more steps.

I am not that man.

I wonder.

Is it just as holy this week to walk on along the road He has set before us? Click To Tweet

Is it just as holy this week—just as holy—to walk on along the road He has set before us?  

Steadfastly?  

Stubbornly?  

With purpose?

The Man who suffered—the Man who died—the Man who lives again that we may live—He made us to walk, and work, and weep, and worship on this road.

He made us to walk, and work, and weep, and worship on this road. Click To Tweet

Every week.  Every day.  Every hour.  Every moment.

They’re all holy because He made them so.

I’m not that man. Really, I’m not.

But, He is.

 

The point of your life is to point to Him. Whatever you are doing, God wants to be glorified, because this whole thing is His.
(Francis Chan ~ American pastor/author)

 

Work willingly at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people.
(Colossians 3:23 ~ NLT)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2017. All Rights Reserved.

 

Listening to Linus

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It’s almost impossible for the words and thoughts to come together when the well has run dry.

The statement comes from the preacher’s mouth, weariness in his eyes.  It is a reality he knows in his heart.  He does.  He just buried his wife’s father.  There is more—for him, an avalanche of trials.  He knows.

I nod my head in agreement.  I too, have felt it.  The drought.  Pain—and sorrow—and loss—all have drained the well dry.

No joy.  No words.  No voice.

Mute.

And yet, I hear another voice in my mind tonight.  Strangely, it is the voice of a cartoon character.  

Linus, the blanket-hugging friend of Charlie Brown, has taken center stage and called for the lights.  Simply and clearly, he quotes the Christmas story from Luke 2 (verses 8-14), and walks offstage to tell Charlie Brown that’s what Christmas is all about.

Good tidings of great joy.  To all people.

I’m part of all people.  My preacher friend is too.  Probably, you are as well.  Okay, not probably.  You are.

All means all.

I’ve said it before:  There is joy in the journey.

It’s the kind of thing you say when things are going well.  The kind of thing one writes about when the heart is full.

And still, I promise that it is ever the truth, and I reiterate it even tonight.  

In the middle of the darkest night, with the path in front barely lit to see the next step, I affirm that joy accompanies us in the dark.

Even when the well seems dry, the voice mute, joy endures.

Great joy.

Even when the well seems dry, the voice mute, joy endures. Great joy. Click To Tweet

The Baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger was in for a rough ride.  For years, there wouldn’t be much joy to be found, either for Him or for all people.

It didn’t make the proclamation of the angels a lie.

Oh, there were moments of triumph.  He would teach the teachers; miracles would be performed, storms quieted.  Crippled folks would walk and blind men see.  There were brilliant moments of joy along the way to astounding darkness.

Funny.  The only way to the great joy that would be to all people was through the worst thing that could happen.

For the great joy that was set before Him, he endured even the shame of the cursed crucifixion. (Hebrews 12:2)

We follow Him.  It’s what we claim, isn’t it?

Great joy lies on that road—the road of following.  Sadness, too.  Perhaps even, a good bit of disappointment.  

Mostly though, joy.

And, in the end—all joy.  

Great joy.

Still, we follow.

 

 

Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.
(John 7:38 ~ NIV)

 

Sure on this shining night
Of star made shadows round,
Kindness must watch for me
This side the ground.
The late year lies down the north.
All is healed, all is health.
High summer holds the earth.
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night I weep for wonder wand’ring far
alone
Of shadows on the stars.
(Sure on this Shining Night ~ James Agee ~ American novelist/poet ~ 1909-1955)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved. 

Wanderlust

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’ll admit it.  I was a little jealous as the old sandy-haired fellow said the words.  Just a little.

“Both she and I have a little of the gypsy in us, you know.”

I nodded my head thoughtfully, as if I did know, but I didn’t.  

I still don’t.

airstream-1359135_640Explaining why he was standing at my sales counter attempting to interest me in several pieces of musical equipment, the fellow had described selling the family’s home and moving into a very nice travel trailer—a rolling palace, really—with all the luxuries of home, but none of the responsibilities of being a homeowner.

I was.  I listened to him speak, and I was becoming more jealous by the minute.  

There are days when the shackles of responsibility become heavy and irksome.  The hardship and realities of life are brought into sharp focus.  When that happens, the picture isn’t pleasant to consider.

It was one of those days.

The grass was greener on the other side of the counter.  Too soon, the sandy-haired man walked out of my front door, taking the verdant vision with him.  Behind him, he left the drab, gray reality.

The freedom he had described beckoned from the world outside.  In my world, the cares and promises left to be fulfilled only mocked me.

Don’t I have a right to be happy, too?

The words had no sooner formed in my consciousness than I recoiled from them.  There are two times in my memory when I have heard those words from the mouths of men for whom I had great love and respect.  

On both occasions, the question was prelude to the most selfish act either man would ever perform.  Many who loved them are still paying the price.

When I demand my right to happiness, I declare that I am the most important human being I know.

I’m not.

My sandy-haired friend declared his desire to be footloose and fancy-free.  It’s a familiar phrase.  I wonder if we really know what it means.

Footloose, of course, means there is nothing restricting our feet from going where we want them to take us.  The popular movie by that name from a few decades ago used the word as a clever play on words to include freedom from the restrictions of religion and freedom to dance.  No chains, no hobbles, no heavy ball to inhibit movement.  Footloose.

Fancy-free is a little more complicated.  The word fancy was once used to describe love.  The statement, I fancy him, coming from a young girl declared her love for her heartthrob. Thus, fancy-free became the description of one who had no love in his or her heart, giving them the freedom to act as they wished.  Free of encumbrances, free of the emotional bonds that bind one to another.  Fancy-free.

I am not footloose.  

The leg irons clamped around my ankles, I placed there myself.  Willingly and with forethought, I clicked them closed, joyfully choosing a life of service rather than one of irresponsibility.  Nothing has changed to alter that choice.

The shackles stay.

The love in my heart, on the other hand, was not put there by me.  I have been reminded a thousand times in recent years that God’s love is lent to us, not to be hoarded for selfish reasons, nor even to be cast away when we grow weary of walking with Him, but to be shared again and again.  And again.

God's love is lent, not to be hoarded, nor cast away, but to be shared again and again. Click To Tweet

Every hour of every day, His love is ours as long as we share it freely.

I am definitely not fancy-free.

The love stays, as well.

Footloose and fancy-free?  Hardly.

Funny.  That carefree life I was jealous of only moments ago—that vagabond journey empty of all responsibility—turns out to be neither carefree nor devoid of troubles.  Many who choose it wish before much time has passed that they had never walked away from the life they had.

Still, there is a bit of the gypsy in me as well.  I’m sure of it.

The journey of the spirit is not bound by our physical location, nor does it depend on leaving behind those we love and care for.

We who follow Christ are still looking for that city that Abraham wandered in search of—that city built by God Himself.  Others who came after him sought also for a place of refuge, the place of rest promised to those who seek after God.  (Hebrews 11)

In faith, we walk the same road, nomads on a pilgrimage to a better place.

We walk it together.  With joy-filled hearts—and often tear-filled eyes—we follow our God.

Together, we follow.

The road goes ever, ever on.

Until, one day. . .

 

 

 

It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door.  You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.
(from Lord of the Rings ~ J.R.R. Tolkien)

 

But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.
(Hebrews 11:16 ~ NLT)

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.