Sidewalks to Nowhere

May 16, 2017May 16, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Well, that’s it. We’ll head down to City Hall and pay our fine now. After that, we’re done. The new owner can move in tomorrow.

I grinned at the builder’s words, thinking he meant that fees still needed to be paid—for inspections or permits, possibly. Then, looking into his serious eyes and noticing his chin shaking back and forth, I realized he was serious.

A fine? Why would you have to pay a fine after building this beautiful new house?

With a wry chuckle, the man with the sun-bleached blonde hair explained.

Our little town, a forward-looking village of sixteen thousand residents, has a requirement in the building code which is intended to make all of the roadways friendly to pedestrians. Every new home built must include a sidewalk across the front, the specifications of which may be found in the city code, and the cost of which may be passed on to the new homeowner.

It’s a good idea. I like it. Except . . .

Well? What’s the problem?

Why wouldn’t the man just have the forms prepared and lay a sidewalk at the same time the big truck backed up to dump the liquid concrete for the driveway? Another hour or two; it would have taken no more.

I stood there on the side of the little cul-de-sac, looking around the neighborhood, and I laughed out loud.

It is an old neighborhood. The little craftsman bungalow just finished next door is almost certain to be the last house ever built on the street. The last one.

Not one of the other houses has a sidewalk in front of it. They never will.

There is no need. In this neighborhood, folks walk across lawns to the house next door, or three doors over, leaning over fences to talk with anyone sitting on a patio, or in their garden, or trimming the shrubbery.

If they’re going farther, they cross the pavement at long angles, perhaps even walking down the middle of the street. Nobody will run them down. The turnaround is just a few feet up ahead; why would anyone be going that fast?

He’s going to pay a fine of two thousand five hundred dollars.

Rules are rules.

One complies or they pay the price.

I don’t understand. A segment of sidewalk must be laid in a neighborhood which will never have other segments of sidewalk to join it.

By itself, a sidewalk to nowhere will lie unused. It will still require care. Weeds will eventually grow in the expansion cracks filled with dirt that no schoolchild returning home will ever kick out. If the homeowner doesn’t run a trimmer religiously along both edges, the lawn will inevitably cover it.

In the end, it will lie, cracked and useless, for all the world to laugh at the folly which required its construction in the first place.

The builder will pay the fine.

We don’t believe in sidewalks to nowhere. We wouldn’t think of making useless rules that are ultimately costly and purposeless.

No one I know would ever make someone pay the price for not complying with the book of rules.

Or, would we?

Adamant, that’s what the city inspector will be. Unmovable. Unyielding.

Set in stone. It’s what adamant means. Like a diamond, harder than anything around it.

Adamant. Too often, it’s what we are.

Unmovable. Unyielding. Too often it's what we are. Share on X

It’s why we still build sidewalks to nowhere.

The Stone we should be building on, the one the other builders and their inspectors rejected? (Matthew 21:42)

Turns out, He’s made of love—flexible, movable love.

Love that bends over backward to reach out to its neighbors. In ways the rule makers and enforcers can’t possibly understand, love reaches every time.

Every time.

And, He wants us to be the same.

It’s the law we live under, the law of love. (Romans 13:8)

It’s time to stop building sidewalks to nowhere. Even the old builder knows that.

Love reaches.

Every time.

Sometimes it pays the price first.

Love reaches. Every time. Sometimes it pays the price first. Share on X

“Yes,” said Jesus, “what sorrow also awaits you experts in religious law! For you crush people with unbearable religious demands, and you never lift a finger to ease the burden.”
(Luke 11:46 ~ NLT)

He’s a real nowhere man,
sitting in his nowhere land;
Making all his nowhere plans
For nobody.
(Nowhere Man~ McCartney/Lennon ~ British singer/songwriters)

Parenthesis Closed

February 7, 2017February 7, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

Three of these things belong together.
Three of these things are kind of the same.

From childhood, we learn it. Things that are similar belong together. Even educational television programs teach the concept. Things that do their own thing don’t belong.

From our youth, we have followed the theory.

Somehow, we misunderstood the idea. With disastrous results, we misunderstood, thinking it could mean people, when it only meant things.

A subset.

That was the word he used. Subset.

It was the night of the Super Bowl. I don’t live for sports, but it seemed to be the thing to do, so I watched the game. Exciting action. Really.

I didn’t watch the halftime of the game. I had work that needed to be done before I went to bed that night. I said as much. But, I also made the mistake of posting a comment that seemed to denigrate the halftime entertainment. It was intended to be a comment about the hype leading up to the act, but several took it as criticism of the entertainer herself. And, as could be expected, there were a few folk who echoed the inferred slight.

Then one friend, who held a different viewpoint, entered the conversation. Not understanding, nor agreeing with, the direction the comments had taken, he suggested that I and my other friends were an interesting subset of our society.

We’re still friends. He didn’t mean it to be an insult and said so, apologizing. I believe him. He is my friend.

And yet, I’m concerned.

A subset?

Really?

What if he’s right?

The big thing in our culture right now is to find your tribe. Writers. Artists. Musicians. Professionals. Gamers.

Like the folks in the television bar, Cheers, we want to be where everybody knows our name.

So we really are subsets. We gather in groups where we have things in common. We don’t waste time on those who don’t fit the pattern.

Oh, I know the gurus insisting we need a tribe add the thought that we need diversity, but what they mean is we’ll accept diversity in non-essential aspects. Just as long as folks pass the litmus tests for the really important things we stand for.

Tribes. Subsets.

I remember learning a concept when I was very young. It was one of the most effective principles in winning any game.

Centuries old, the phrase was known before the time of Christ.

Divide et impera. Divide and rule. Commonly, we quote it as Divide and conquer.

The concept assumes the invading enemy, the power that intends to rule, will divide those it has come to war against.

In our day, we who claim to be followers of Christ, have made it our duty—yes, our duty—to do the deed for the enemy ourselves.

Subsets. Closed.

Liberal believers write oceans of words condemning the evangelical church to hell for abandoning the poor and downtrodden. Conservative believers publish scathing papers trashing anyone who could consider homosexuals as part of the Body, and denying the possibility of salvation to anyone who would support abortion.

Tribes. Locked in battle.

I have asked the question before, thinking about a different situation, but I ask it again now: Does God cry?

Do you suppose this would be enough to bring tears to His eyes? Is He weeping over us today, as His Son did over Jerusalem? (Luke 19:41)

I’m no mathematician. I don’t understand sets and subsets.

This I do know: God never closed the equation.

If X = (Recipient of God’s grace), then X = (Anyone

Let anyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who desires drink freely from the water of life. (Revel ation 22:17b)

It may be bad mathematics, but it is seriously good grace.

It may be bad mathematics, but it is seriously good grace. Share on X

Every tribe. Every nation. Every language. Every people group. (Revelation 7:9)

All of these things belong together…

What a gathering!

It’s time to break out of our subsets.

Who’s going over the wall with me?

I am in them and You are in me. May they experience such perfect unity that the world will know that You sent me and that You love them as much as You love me.
(John 17:23 ~ NLT)

In real life, I assure, there is no such thing as algebra.
(Fran Lebowitz ~ American author/public speaker)

God Eavesdrops

August 11, 2016August 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I wonder sometimes if God listens in more to our normal conversations than He does to our prayers.

You too?

It happened tonight.

Twenty minutes prior, as the Lovely Lady and I worked together on a late-night project at the music store, I had—albeit, unknowingly—laid down the challenge. We were discussing a transaction which had taken place earlier in the day.

I told her about a minor mix-up in the terms of a trade I was making and then mentioned to her that I had compensated the customer with some free merchandise.

She looked at me, a little surprised. We are in our traditional summer slowdown—the calm before the storm, you might say—and the finances are a little tighter than usual. We don’t normally give away a lot of products during such times.

I explained that I felt the customer had been offered something he hadn’t received, so I wanted to make up for it. My next words are the ones I probably should have kept to myself.

“I’m not going to let circumstances determine who I am. “

I admit it; I was tired, and possibly not thinking at my best. That said, I never expected anyone was listening besides the two of us.

She went home, leaving me to toil on a different project, one which has been on my to-do list for weeks, maybe even months. I had already spent a fair amount of time replacing the head on the banjo during the afternoon. New strings had followed the head, along with a good bit of set-up.

The old banjo, one my father-in-law had sold way back in the nineteen-seventies, was once again playing as it did when it was new. All that remained was for me to replace the resonator, the round, wooden back-piece, on the instrument and I would be done.

A missing nut for one of the mounting studs was searched for (at length) and finally located before I completed the job. Then, picking the banjo up from the cradle upon which it rested, I strummed the strings a time or two.

Proudly, I should have said, I strummed the strings. Man! I’m good!

That’s funny. I heard a little vibration. That wouldn’t do.

I realized the resonator was shifting its position when I handled it, but I knew what to do about that. I simply needed to tighten up the four nuts that held it in place. So, one after the other, I tightened them up.

Until I got to the last one. That one, I went overboard on, tightening too much and twisted the mounting loose. The mounting is inside the resonator.

I would have to remove it completely, and make a repair. Then, I would have to put the instrument together again.

Again!

It was the proverbial straw and I snapped. I had had all I could take.

I wonder if this was the moment God had been waiting for. Perhaps, not. Regardless, it wasn’t pretty.

I shouted the words to the ceiling. Shouted them!

What gives you the right? Leave me alone!

The words had no sooner left my tongue than I clapped my hands—both of them—over my mouth.

What am I saying?

I could hardly believe the words came from me. Worse than that, I remembered my statement to the Lovely Lady, just moments before.

It had been a promise—a covenant if you will.

Circumstances will never change who I am.

And yet, all it took was one tiny Phillips-head screw to make me go back on my word.

I accused God!

I—proud and boastful—opened my mouth and questioned His authority, implying that He not only caused my misery, but He was overstepping the boundaries of His authority.

From somewhere in my head, I hear the voice of another man saying something similar. Job, as he sits in his misery, utters the exact sentiments. God is oppressing me. Without cause. (Job 10:3)

Worse, I told Him to leave me alone.

And somehow, again, there is the voice of Job speaking the same words, only to repent later. (Job 10:20-21)

I tell you, it is not a proud and boastful man who writes these words tonight. I trust it will not be a proud and boastful man who places that instrument in the hands of the lady when she calls for it in the next day or two.

Job knew enough to repent. I do so, as well.

I, too often, speak of things as if I have grasped the truth, only to realize that I merely know the truth in my head, but have not taken hold of it in my heart.

Whatever I am becoming inside is because of His presence.

When I boast of my resolve, He shows me how long that will last.

When I believe I have become something, He uses life’s tests to show me clearly what I would be without Him.

Did God break the banjo?

No. I make mistakes all the time. All the time. He just uses my mistakes to teach the lessons I need to learn.

I failed a test tonight. Standing there by myself in front of my workbench, I failed.

Circumstances do change who I am inside. I don’t want them to, but they do anyway.

Still, I repent.

There will be other days—other tests.

I wonder sometimes if I’m the only one who has these failures along the way. I really hope not.

My words in the moment notwithstanding, I am not estranged from my God. I have not abandoned my pursuit of Him, nor He His of me.

But, I did speak the words. I did think the thoughts.

And yet, the God who listens still calls.

Mercy still beckons.

I will follow.

Again.

Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts.
Point out anything in me that offends you,
and lead me along the path of everlasting life.
(Psalm 139:23-24 ~ NLT)

We fall down, we get up.
We fall down, we get up.
We fall down, we get up.
And the saints Are just the sinners
Who fall down and get up.
(from We Fall Down ~ Kyle Matthews ~ American singer/songwriter)

Iron Sharpened

June 6, 2016June 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was only one letter that had fallen. One of fourteen—surely it wouldn’t be missed much.

I fished the defective aluminum “M” out of the hedge beneath my music store’s sign over four months ago.

It was cold then. I hate the cold.

So, I took the letter inside and laid it down on a table in the back storage area. I would reattach it on a warmer day.

Four months, it lay there. I told myself I was waiting for a warm day. Possibly, I was actually waiting for someone to miss it. I waited in vain.

No one ever did. After one hundred and twenty some-odd days, not one single customer had mentioned the missing letter.

I climbed the ladder yesterday—on a warm day—and glued the metal letter back into place. You would have laughed to see me clinging to that shaky ladder as I re-attached the errant letter.

I’m not sure what to think about the episode.

Were the people who do business with me, some of them for almost forty years, worried that I might be offended if they brought it to my attention?

Were they afraid I’d be embarrassed? Did they think I would become defensive and make excuses for my defective sign?

I’m baffled.

You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?

A letter missing from his sign? He’s worried about whether people care if his letter is missing?

Well?

I’ve had hundreds, perhaps more than a thousand customers come through my door in the last four months. Surely one would have thought it important enough.

Okay, I’ll level with you. I haven’t lost any sleep over the issue. It was just a letter from a sign.

Still, I am struggling a little with the concept. The concern is so subtle, so niggling, that it’s almost not worth mentioning.

Then again, it really is.

If we care about someone, why wouldn’t we mention that something is missing from their sign—or their car—or their relationship—maybe, even their spiritual life?

Have we so easily forgotten what friendship requires of us?

We live in a day when judge not is the mantra of the masses. In some ways, it’s understandable. We have made it our business for too long to point out every difference, every dispute, every dogma we hold dear, to total strangers.

That’s not what I’m talking about. The argument about our responsibility to correct the sins of the world will continue long after we’re gone.

But somehow, it’s easier for us to shout about the glaring sins of the wide world than it is for us to actually act upon, and change, something we have power over within our sphere of influence

I want to know if we can still help our neighbors realize they have a problem which needs attention. I am suggesting that we should also make certain they understand an offer of aid accompanies our observation of their lack.

When the Apostle Paul wrote in one of his letters that his readers should not only look to their own affairs, but to the affairs of others, he wasn’t only suggesting they point out areas of deficiency; he was clearly instructing them to help correct the problem. (Philippians 2:3-4)

It’s what community does.

We do it because that much, and more, has already been done for us. (Philippians 2:5-8)

In the early days of our nation, evidence of this way of thought abounded. A farmer needing to get a roof on his barn, but caught in the responsibilities of planting his fields, might see a caravan of men and women on horseback coming to help put the roof on.

Expecting no pay but that of continued communion, and under no burden but that of shared need, they gave freely of themselves and their talents. It wouldn’t be very long until one of them would likely need to be the recipient of such attention. The original farmer was almost certain to be in the bunch who showed up the next time.

He wasn’t offended because his lack had been pointed out, but he was grateful it had been noticed and remedied. He would happily repay the generosity.

The truth of our faith is this: We are not in this walk alone. We serve and are served. (Galatians 6:2)

I wonder. If the world around us could see that side of our faith, and not only the list of regulations we’ve drawn up, is it possible they would understand more clearly what grace is about?

How will they know love unless we demonstrate it in our relationships with each other?

In the same way iron sharpens iron, we help each other to be better followers of our Savior. (Proverbs 27:17)

The sign outside my music store is how I show the world what goes on inside the building.

When the message is incomplete, those who pass by may get the wrong idea of what is being offered.

It’s not all that different in the rest of our lives, either.

The next time you see I have something missing, I’d appreciate a heads-up about it.

If you can help with the solution, all the better Your bucket truck may be a little better than my shaky ladder..

I’ll see if I can pay more attention to what you need, too.

Perhaps, we can stay sharp together.

The next best thing to being wise oneself is to live in a circle of those who are.
(C.S.Lewis ~ English educator/theologian/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ NIV)

What Comes Out

May 27, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The painting is beautiful, isn’t it?

Whether you’re an art lover or not, the scene evokes emotions—sometimes peaceful, often of awe, and at times, even of wonder.

The artist, clearly a master at his craft, has captured the reflected light on the surface of the water, as well as the powerful motion of the breaking waves; in fact, every detail lends itself to an unassailable sense of the grandeur of the sea.

The beautiful oil painting resides in our den, near the fireplace. Seldom do I enter the room without at least a glance of appreciation. Often, I turn on the little track lights that wash it from above with an ambient light, magnifying the effect of the cloud-covered sun as it lowers to the far horizon.

Then, backing away from the wall upon which it hangs, I simply stand and take in the view, reveling in the glory that is creation and thanking the One who placed us here in His world.

Once in awhile, though—only once in awhile—as I stand there, I find myself considering the ugliness of the human heart while I also contemplate the amazing beauty which emanates from the same heart.

It seems a strange thing to do, does it not, to think about ugly things while looking at great beauty?

Perhaps, you’ll let me tell you a story. No, it’s not the made up kind of story; it’s completely true, as far as I can tell.

I warn you though; it is not a happy tale.

Our hero, or villain—whichever—enters the story in about 1918, toward the end of World War I. The Count had made his way by rail from Des Moines, Iowa down to Kansas City, Missouri, but found himself short of funds to get home again. Stranded and without cash, he worked his way north to the little town of Excelsior Springs, a locale that suited his personality and lifestyle just perfectly.

In his late twenties, he was a sophisticated and debonair artist, lately emigrated from Hungary, and the young ladies in this tourist town of healing springs nearly fell at his feet.

Their fathers? Not so much.

The artist boasted of his expertise and training at the finest art schools in Paris and Italy, and the little projects he turned out for the locals gave testimony of considerable talent.

When it became clear the teenage daughter of the local banker had been seeing entirely too much of the arrogant young dandy, her wealthy father fabricated a plan. Knowing that the Count desired to go home, he made a deal with him.

The bank would pay him twelve-hundred dollars to paint two large murals in their building downtown. In return, he promised to leave town and go home. The artist honored his word, finishing the stunning murals and boarding the next train north, leaving a tearful banker’s daughter behind, along with a number of other disappointed young ladies.

For twenty years, the Count lived in different places, always wandering, always leaving behind his conquests, the young ladies, whom he had wooed and won with his foreign accent and his cocky self-confidence.

He kept finding his way back to his home in Iowa with money earned from paintings he was able to sell to well-to-do folks along the way. He never stuck to any position, and never showed the slightest remorse about the lives he left ruined behind him.

Do you get the idea that this man was not a model of moral purity and goodness?

It got worse.

In the late 1930s he finally found one young lady, half his age, with whom he decided he could tie the knot. Her parents, disliking him intensely, demanded that she break off the relationship. Instead, she and the Count eloped and escaped south to Texas.

Four years later, she was dead. She could stand neither her marriage to him, nor her life, so she ended both by hanging herself.

The police report said that she was still alive when her husband found her, but he didn’t take her down, instead going to the neighbors to ask for help. When they got there, the only thing they could do was to assist in taking down her lifeless body.

Her family came and took the body back to Iowa, refusing to allow the Count to attend her funeral (he had no money with which to travel anyway).

Only months had passed when the Count, traveling under an assumed name, made his way in the twilight of evening to the cemetery where his wife was buried. Standing over her grave, he took a bottle from his pocket and putting it to his mouth, swallowed the entire contents.

His dead body was draped over her grave when they found him in the morning. Carbolic acid does its grisly work efficiently.

They buried him in an unmarked pauper’s grave.

There are some who would call this a romantic tale. Today, they might even make a movie about his life. But, from this distant perspective, one can only assume he was riddled with the guilt of his past and couldn’t face the darkness of continuing life like that.

Romantic? Hardly.

So, I stand sometimes and gaze at the amazing painting on my wall, completed by the Count himself in 1926, and I consider the dichotomy.

Evil lives in the heart of man.

Great beauty dwells there also.

Both make their way out, without fail, into the light of day. (Luke 6:45)

I’m reminded of the old story, oft repeated, about an old Native American man who was talking to the young braves of his tribe, encouraging them to exercise self-discipline in their own lives.

He told about two dogs that were always fighting inside of him, one evil and one good. One of the young men asked the question that was on each brave’s mind:

“Which one will win, old man?”

The wise old man sat silent for a moment before answering, as if recalling a lifetime of the inner battle. When he spoke, it was almost as if he spoke to himself.

“The one I feed; that one will win.”

There is more to be said—much more.

Words about grace, and new life, and beauty from ashes. I could write for hours and not even begin to deplete the store of wisdom.

I’ll pass.

You certainly don’t need another sermon from the likes of me.

The two dogs live inside of me, too.

A religious life is a struggle, and not a hymn.
(Madame De Stael ~ French author ~ 1766-1817)

Therefore, do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its desires.
(Romans 6:12 ~ NET)

Telling Stories

May 11, 2016May 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The storyteller sits, spinning his yarns into fabric.

That’s what they call it, isn’t it? A fabrication?

I listen anyway. Still, as the story goes on, I begin to see the ravelings poking through here and there. His tale may have started with a few facts, but somehow it doesn’t all fit in a continuous pattern.

I want to reach for the edge of his fabric and pull at one of those loose ends. I just know that, like the cartoon character with a loose thread on his sweater which gets caught in a passing car, the story will unravel and the naked truth will come out.

I have done that more than once before. I’m learning (finally) to leave the loose threads alone and let the story spin out.

Some things are more important than being right.

Do you know how hard that is for me to say?

I grew up in a home where being right was paramount. Lies were set straight and wrong attitudes corrected immediately.

It’s what you do for your children. We call it teaching, and it is the responsibility of every parent.

But, the faults of others who were not part of our family were also pointed out to us constantly. My parents didn’t want to miss the opportunity to help us make good decisions.

Examples are helpful when teaching children, so folks we knew became our cautionary examples, their faults often looming larger than life in our little eyes. Their good traits could never balance their bad ones.

Black. White.

Heads. Tails.

What should have been lessons meant to help us examine our own steps and language became cause for comparison.

Comparisons stink.

I’m not the first to say it. I won’t be the last. The real problem lies in the fact that I kind of like the odor.

Comparisons where I come out ahead make me feel good about myself—for awhile. I begin to believe that God, perhaps, loves me better. I’m one of His favorite sons because of my concern with doing things right and in order.

Surely, it’s true.

It is not.

Grace pays no attention to the design of the filthy rags it washes. It takes no notice of the tag ends hanging from the corners.

The storyteller with his lying ways is no worse—nor better—off than the listener who sits nearby and tends the kernel of pride in his soul, growing quickly into a full-grown bush of snobbery.

I know how hard the fall is when pride takes its inevitable tumble, and it is inevitable.

Sinners sin. We sin, not all in the same way, but we sin.

It has taken many years for me to understand that grace, for all its astounding power, doesn’t remove sin, but the penalty for sinning. Justification is the work of grace.

We who have been justified—through grace—are called to be sanctified. All that means is we are called to become holy, or set apart, as He is.

We have to take a walk. It’s something we do with others. Not surprisingly, we don’t all start the walk with the same baggage.

There are folks with sexual sins, addicts, liars, thieves, gluttons, drunks—the list is not short. He doesn’t require that we clean up before we become part of His family. What happens after that though, is different. (1 Corinthians 6:9-10)

This walking we do is a progressive thing. The people we walk with may not be at the same place in the process as we are.

May not isn’t the right way to put it. They will not be at the same place.

We walk with them anyway. There’s a reason for that:

We still need each other. Travelers on their own rarely reach their destinations without meeting calamities along the road. It is our lot in life to depend on help through the tough places.

I have refused—refused—to lend aid to folks in the past. Somehow I thought I might get dirty in the process. I could have nothing to do with people who sinned in that way.

Do you hear what I’m saying?

I’m not alone, am I? We are a prideful and hypocritical lot, aren’t we?

We who have been forgiven freely, refuse to believe that God could forgive that.

That! How could He? How would He?

He could. He has.

Those stinking comparisons. Still, their stench fills the air around me, like the grotesque odor of bone burning under the dentist’s drill.

But, a lifetime of making comparisons has paralyzed me. I want to walk with others, but my paralysis stops me.

And then, I remember the Great Physician, to whom the man, bed-ridden with paralysis, was brought on that day a couple thousand years ago. The Healer said only two things to him. It’s all that was necessary. (Mark 2:1-12)

Your sins are forgiven.

Get out of that bed and walk.

Even today, the paralysis of a lifetime of thought patterns is banished with those words!

Freedom! At last.

At last.

I’m walking.

There’s still room on the road beside me.

May it never be otherwise.

A brother offended is harder to win than a strong city,
And contentions are like the bars of a castle.
(Proverbs 18:19 ~ NKJV)

Odyous of olde been comparisonis, And of comparisonis engendyrd is haterede.
(John Lydgate ~ English monk/poet ~ 1370-1451)

Meet and Greet

May 4, 2016May 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

We have met the enemy.

“We have met the enemy and they are ours.”

The famous phrase, spoken by Commodore Perry during the War of 1812, was planted in our nation’s consciousness. It was over two hundred years ago, yet the words are still remembered.

Some have turned the words around to change the meaning. We may talk about that a little later.

The naval battle followed one a few months before in which the foe had won decisively, reminding the upstart United States Navy of the storied might of the British fleet. Sailing into the Battle of Lake Erie, victory was anything but certain for Perry’s fleet.

History relates the United States Navy tried their skill and courage against the best the British had to offer, capturing every vessel and man brought against them.

The message seems a little over the top.

We own them. Every one of them.

They are ours.

Commodore Perry knew who his enemy was. He prepared to meet them in battle, placing his ships in just the right position, ordering his men to be at their stations and ready to do their tasks.

I’m not Commodore Perry.

Twice today—that’s right, twice—I’ve thought I had an enemy in my sights. Once, I even opened fire.

Earlier today, an unfamiliar fellow entered the music store and picked a fight with me. Well, that’s not completely true.

He said something with which I disagreed.

The man had the gall to denigrate my favorite brand of guitar strings.

Imagine!

I’ve been putting strings on guitars for over thirty-five years. I’ve sold strings to nearly-famous musicians. I’ve tuned instruments for children barely big enough to hold a guitar on their laps.

He called them over-rated.

I bristled, then shot back.

The enemy! Right here on my premises. Who could blame me?

Turns out—I could blame me. It was only a momentary lapse and I was back-pedaling, suggesting that there might be circumstances I didn’t know about.

He’s not an enemy. He might even turn out to be an ally, someone I’ll need to have my back someday. You never know.

When he left the store, we were friends—almost. But, never enemies.

So, he doesn’t like my favorite strings. So what? At least now I might have another opportunity to convince him.

The way things started out, I never would have had that chance. Never.

Again, late tonight, I nearly opened fire. This time it was on the young man who pulled his motorcycle into the driveway of the vacant house behind mine.

He yelled at my black monsters. Told them to shut up. I get to do that. No one else does.

I went out to yell back—and possibly call the police about the interloper. Instead, I reached my hand over the fence to shake his as I introduced myself to my new neighbor.

Not my enemy. My neighbor.

If you follow my writings, you know my thoughts on neighbors. They’re the ones the Teacher said I have to love. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a requirement.

I sit here in the quiet of these early morning moments—battles done—and contemplate my failures. Oh, not just the two above. I didn’t fare so badly with them. I’m thinking now about a lifetime of engagements.

Engagements with enemies, that is.

Commodore Perry had nothing on me. I’ve fought innumerable battles and conquered countless foes.

He took captives; I took none. It was total annihilation for my enemies. All blasted to Kingdom Come.

Does that offend you? Kingdom Come? It does me too. Now.

Still, it’s what I thought I was doing. Bringing the kingdom of God on earth. Destroying enemies.

Perhaps it’s time to talk about the twisting of the brave Commodore’s message, as I promised earlier.

A popular comic strip in the sixties and seventies, Pogo was written and illustrated by Walt Kelly. On Earth Day in 1970, the little lovable o’possum (the only one of that variety I ever saw) suggested the modification of the victory memorandum.

We have met the enemy and he is us.

It has always been thought of as another way of saying we’re our own worst enemies. In truth, that’s almost certainly what Mr. Kelly intended. He’s not far wrong in many ways.

But, I’d like to suggest a different reading.

I’ve found when I attack people, there is little difference in who we are at the core. When we strip humans down to the basics, clearing away all the facades and all the defenses, we are the same underneath.

It is true in battles over politics, in relational difficulties within families, in cultural differences.

God created mankind in His image.

More than that, He sent His Son to die for mankind—all of it—each person.

If Jesus died for that person I’m doing battle with, could he or she possibly be an enemy?

I am my enemy. My enemy is me.

Not enemies at all.

Still.

Thousands of years after the question was first asked, I still want to know what religious hypocrites everywhere have always wanted to know:

Who is my neighbor? (Luke 10:25-37)

Well, I don’t really want the answer to that question; I just want to get clarification so I can know who my enemy is. I don’t want to know who to love; I want to know who to attack.

I want to love my neighbor and despise my enemy. The problem is, there is only the former.

His love demands it. (Matthew 5:43-48)

Demands it.

The delightful quiet of the late-night is ruined as the voices around me shout in my ears. In this small room by myself, I hear the battle cries.

The political situation in our country demands enemies. You’ve heard the anger, the hatred, the sheer terror that our side will be overrun and destroyed. Liberals, conservatives, moderates—all have named names and gone into attack mode.

The enemy is on our shores, ready to attack. The enemy is closing the doors, denying shelter. The enemy is stingy. The enemy is giving away too much.

All about us the battle rages. It always has.

Grace calls us to higher things. Mercy demands open hands and hearts.

We don’t fight against any human enemy in our battle for our Captain. Not one person. (Ephesians 6:12)

I wonder if it’s time to reach our hands across a few more fences.

Our Creator saw enemies and made us His sons and daughters.

It’s time.

We have met the enemy.

He is us.

Us.

She looked upon Gimli, who sat glowering and sad, and she smiled. And the Dwarf, hearing the names given in his own ancient tongue, looked up and met her eyes; and it seemed to him that he looked suddenly into the heart of an enemy and saw there love and understanding. Wonder came into his face, and then he smiled in answer.
(Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ British writer/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:7-9 ~ NIV)

You? A Genius?

March 31, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t laugh. I’m sure I didn’t. Still, I must have looked a little incredulously at him, because he repeated the word.

Genius.

A genius. Really?

The fellow in front of me, a rather normal looking fellow sixty-some years of age had just let me in on a secret he hadn’t told many people. When he was younger, he informed me quietly, his school counselor had administered an IQ test.

His voice got even quieter, almost a whisper, as he nodded sagely. “It was right up there at genius level.”

We didn’t speak about that again in our conversation. I was happy to leave the subject alone. As we talked though, I observed some things that continue to give me pause tonight.

He told me he didn’t read books—in fact, he hates reading. I also noted his lack of grammatical accuracy as we spoke together. It is not something I normally take note of, such inaccuracies being the rule rather than the exception for many people I talk with.

Still, I expected more—of a genius.

Well, you would—wouldn’t you?

The gift (or curse) of genius brings with it the weight of responsibility. It is true of all gifts. Not to say that they must be repaid, but that there is a respect due the gift itself—the respect of using it well and to its fullest capability.

I’m not a genius. I think no one would attempt to foist that improbability off as truth. I have muddled through life with my average intelligence. I’m rather proud of it.

But, even as the words appear on the page, I have a sinking feeling they may come around to trip me (and perhaps you) up. Let’s see if we can still avoid that, shall we?

The genius who refuses to play the part of one—that’s who we’re speaking of here, isn’t it? Perhaps, we can just cast our judgments about him and be done with it.

He’s been given so much, so very much, and yet he goes about his average life, working his average job, doing the same things any of us average folk do. Doesn’t he know he owes the world more?

Oh, I can’t do this!

You knew I couldn’t.

This isn’t about my genius friend who won’t play the part of a genius. It’s about me. It might even be about you.

I hear the words of the Teacher, as he spoke of those who had been given magnificent gifts and understanding of how to use those gifts. To whom much has been given, much will be required. And, those who have received an even greater portion will be asked for that much more. (Luke 12:48)

Somehow, I get the idea He wasn’t talking about financial wealth. I’m not even sure He was speaking of physical abilities.

The extraordinary splendor of knowing and walking with God is a gift of astounding value. The gift of God’s grace is unsurpassed in human history in it’s importance to mankind.

He gives us this gift to hold ourselves. In our bodies made from dirt, which will return to dirt, He stores all of eternity. All of it.

The responsibility that accompanies the giving of this extraordinary, astounding gift is just as extraordinary and astounding as is the gift itself.

And yet, we disregard the gift—disregard it as if it were as ordinary as a Sunday morning. And, in disregarding the gift, we disregard the Giver.

In spite of our disregard, and only because of our Creator’s unfailing mercy, we yet retain the gift. His faithfulness toward us is immeasurable. (Lamentations 3:22)

And I—I have the arrogance to point a finger at the man who was given nothing more than a minor upgrade in intellect. The lack of scale here is ludicrous. There can be no comparison. None at all.

What an astonishing gift we’ve been given!

Perhaps, it’s time we lived up to it.

Time to toss off this bushel basket.

It’s time for us to shine!

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those timid spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.
(from a speech by Theodore Roosevelt ~ 26th U.S. President ~ 1858-1919)

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.
(2 Corinthians 4:7 ~ NIV)

Restless Heart

March 22, 2016March 22, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It wasn’t what woke me, but my guilty conscience certainly was what kept me awake until the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon on that recent morning.

What woke me was the dogs barking in the backyard. It’s not all that unusual. They are dogs, after all. Normally, it’s just a squirrel in the sweet gum tree, right above their heads.

Squirrels are such undisciplined creatures. They run up and down the trees, simply to tempt fate it seems . Then, when they have the treasure they sought, a nut or the stalk of some plant, they carry it in a rush up the trunk of the tree. Right in front of the snapping jaws of death they scurry, chattering as they go.

The dogs, creatures of habit, want nothing more than to have order in their world. No animal is safe within their reach, simply because that is one of their rules. Nothing walks where they walk. There is a penalty for doing so.

The penalty is death. They have meted out the penalty numerous times. Moles, birds, o’possums, even a squirrel or two have met the end of their undisciplined ways at the jaws of the law-keepers.

Hmmm. Like the squirrels, I seem to have wandered a bit. I meant to tell you that the dogs were not barking at a squirrel on that early morning, but had bigger law-breakers to attend to.

The neighbors up the street a block or so were the reason for the ruckus. He, sitting in his roughly-idling truck, and she, standing in her bathrobe outside the front door, were shouting at each other. Again.

I stood at the kitchen window and remembered that time, a few months ago, when the police were at that front door because of a complaint. And still, at all hours of the night or day—mostly night—the noisy disturbances are likely to erupt.

On this particular morning, I, standing at the kitchen window, listened for a few moments, fuming. The nerve! Don’t they know people—No, strike that!—law-abiding people are trying to sleep?

I was angry. Then, I realized I was proud. Yes, proud.

I would never do that. Never. I know better than to shout at the Lovely Lady. I certainly wouldn’t do it in public. And, you can bet it wouldn’t be at four-thirty in the morning!

Mentally, I went down the list of things they do I would never do. It was significant. I was proud.

As the truck finally backed out of the driveway and roared up the road, laying rubber for a fair distance, I spun on my bare heel and headed back upstairs—to sleep, I supposed.

Not that morning. Sleep had fled.

I lay there beside the slumbering Lovely Lady and I crumbled.

Pharisee! Hypocrite!

In the dark right before dawn, the words were whispered into the blackness, but they sounded as if someone had shouted them throughout the entire house. I looked at the face of the sleeping woman beside me, but if she heard, she didn’t let on.

Do you know what I learned, in the darkness of my thoughts that early morning?

Nothing new.

That’s right. Nothing I hadn’t already known.

I heard the Teacher say, “The second is like unto the first. Love your neighbor as you do yourself.” (Matthew 22:39) I’ve heard the words a thousand times, or more.

I’ve used them in my writing so many times, I can’t remember all of them.

Here’s the other thing I didn’t learn that I already knew, that morning: If you’re a dog, you think you’re better than the squirrels.

Perhaps, I should rephrase that. When you work hard to follow the rules, you begin to look down on those who don’t.

It’s really hard to remember that you love someone when your mouth is full of the words I told you so.

It’s hard to pray—really pray—for a person if you think you’re superior to them.

Do you realize how difficult it is to lie still and be quiet in a bed when the disaster that is your soul is revealed to you? If the pre-dawn night was dark, how was it that I saw the filth of my heart so clearly?

The evil servant who forgot how great was the debt that had been forgiven him, grabbing the man who owed him a mere pittance by the throat while demanding payment couldn’t have known more torment. (Matthew 18:21-35)

Ah, but even as I made my promise to be a different person, I remembered.

I recalled that it would never come—could never come—from me. If I try to be good—if I try to do right—I run right back to the trash I vowed to never dig up again.

It is all because of grace. All of it that matters.

I can’t do this. No one can.

And, that’s the whole point. If I can claim to be good, I have a right to look down on others who walk this path with me.

I’m not good.

Grace changes that. For any who come.

Funny. When I remembered what I am—what I am and who He is—I thought about my neighbors again. The anger was gone. Almost instinctively, I found myself praying for them and thinking of ways to show them the love of Jesus.

They are my neighbors, after all.

And finally, sleep came.

It’s true: The heart is restless until it rests in Him.

It’s time for rest.

I can no longer condemn or hate a brother for whom I pray, no matter how much trouble he causes me.
(Dietrich Bonhoeffer ~ German theologian ~ 1906-1945)

You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love. For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” If you bite and devour each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other.
(Galatians 5:13-15 ~ NIV)

Grace and the Wolf

February 12, 2016February 12, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My morning at the music store was all planned out.

I always come in an hour ahead of time to get an early start. Product to be sent to customers has to be pulled and moved to the shipping room. Emails must be checked and answered. Repaired items needing to be picked up are checked again and moved to the proper section.

When the doors are unlocked, the objects to be worked with are no longer inanimate, but human. Somehow, planning goes out the window. Phone calls are answered, problems addressed, and merchandise is sold.

Still, I hadn’t counted on the Peter and the Wolf kids. Mom wondered if I would mind too very much giving them a demonstration of the musical instruments they had heard in the orchestral composition by Mr. Prokofiev.

She had a set of picture cards, but the children wanted to see the real instruments if they could, please. That is, if you don’t mind.

I didn’t mind. I’m a good guy who loves helping children.

The first card showed a bassoon. We dragged one out of the back room and assembled it, taking care to show the two tykes the double reed which gives the instrument its distinctive tone. The little girl was surprised to see that the strange instrument was much taller than she.

The next card showed an image of an oboe, so an oboe came out of its case and the smaller pieces were shoved together to make an instrument a little smaller than a clarinet. Again, the double reed made an appearance.

As each instrument came into view, the character in the musical story was named. The bassoon had been the low, naggy sound of a fussing grandfather, the oboe—Peter’s quacky duck.

One by one, we located the characters the children had met in the recording. The pretty silver flute was the little bird, and the clarinet, long, black, and sinister, was the cat that stalked the bird. The drums, such as we could find—I’m sorry ma’am; we don’t sell many timpani—were the hunters, come to help Peter in his time of need.

Of course, we had to find as many of the stringed instruments as we could, making do without a double bass viol. Peter was represented in the musical tale by the entire violin family, regardless of size.

But, we forgot one, didn’t we? Oh yes! The French horn. What shall we say about the horn?

I’m a horn player. It was a proud moment. Surely the children would be impressed.

I’ve played it nearly all my life.

The little girl, friendly and twinkly for most of the tour of instruments, stared at me, her mouth open and eyes wide. Disbelief was written all over her face.

You’re the wolf?

Why, yes. No!

Wait a minute! I’m not the wolf! I just play the instrument that represents him in the symphony. I’m not really the wolf.

The children are gone. That was hours ago.

I’m still a little shaken.

Am I the wolf?

Am I?

Thoughts swirl in my head. The horn is forgotten for the time being, but other things are not. Memories of acts committed, never to be undone, are mixed with the cacophony of voices that have filled my ears.

All have sinned—there is not one righteous person—whoever breaks one law is guilty of breaking all—those who live like this will not see God. (Romans 3:23, Ecclesiastes 7:20, James 2:10, Galatians 5:19-21)

There are times—perhaps only for a moment, but often for days—when the memories of what I have been and done haunt my waking hours. They even stretch my waking hours, leaving me restless in my bed, denying sleep.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always. Share on X

Do the voices not speak truthfully, then? Am I not a sinful man?

They do. I am.

I was the wolf. Was.

And, just like the wolf in Peter’s tale, I deserved death but found instead life.

While I was still doing damage to Him, grace was offered. To an enemy, He offered comfort and safety. (Romans 5:8)

Grace is stronger than the wolf.

I am not who I was.

I’ll play my horn again in the morning. I know I’ll smile as I remember my little friend, mouth agape and eyes opened wide.

No, my dear. I am not the wolf.

Not anymore.

Grace is stronger.

Such were some of you; but you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6:11 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid.
(Katharine Hepburn ~ American actress ~ 1907-2003)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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