Can You Carry Me?

February 8, 2026 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My writer friend posted one of those questions the other day. It asked something like, if you were invited to preach and the last text you wrote is the title of your sermon, what are you speaking about?

Just for fun, I copied the last text I had written and sent it.

“That’s fine. We should be able to get you there.”

She replied, saying those words “would preach,” but I was skeptical.

I’ve had a few wakeful nights since then and, having rolled the words around in my head a bit, have decided they just might. Preach, that is. Not that anyone wants me to do that.

I remember hearing an old timer say the words years ago: “My car isn’t running right now, so I asked my neighbor to carry me to town today.”

What an odd thing to say!

Carry me?

Why would you suggest that someone carry you? You’re just getting into their old pickup to ride a mile or two to the grocery store. I wonder.

But that’s just what it is, isn’t it? The weight of the friend rests entirely in the vehicle, being carried from the point of origin to the destination.

Carry me.

Some folks who read this will remember hearing the words. In a different lifetime, it was. A group called The Hollies sang the song.

“The road is longWith many a winding turnThat leads us to who knows where, who knows where.But I’m strong,Strong enough to carry him.He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”
(from He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother, by Bob Russell and Bobby Scott)

The title came from a slogan that Boys Town, the orphanage for boys in Omaha, Nebraska, has used for many years. The story goes that one of the older boys was lugging a younger, physically handicapped boy up a staircase when Father Flanagan suggested the load might be too much for him.

Somewhat exasperated, the young man is reputed to have retorted those exact words: “He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother.”

The words had been used before. And have been since.

But, in these troubled days we’re living through, I wonder if we’ve forgotten just what they mean. The boys knew their meaning. Implicitly.

And we should.

“And a certain man from Samaria, as he traveled, passed by and, seeing him lying there, felt compassion. He bound up his wounds, using wine and oil to clean them and, lifting him onto his mount physically, carried him to a nearby inn, caring for him there.” (Luke 10:33-34, my paraphrase)

He carried him.

Because he wasn’t heavy.

I am the son of a preacher, but not one myself. I can’t bring myself to tell others how to respond to these words. Not very preacherly, am I?

But, I have been carried myself.

I will doubtless need carrying again.

So what do we do when there is no one to carry us?

Our God will carry us when others fail us. And they have. And they will.

“I have cared for you since you were born. Yes, I carried you before you were born. I will be your God throughout your lifetime— until your hair is white with age. I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.” (Isaiah 46:3-4, NLT)

The words were written to the faithful in Israel, God’s Chosen People. But the principle applies to us as those who have been grafted into His family.

Not like those who worship idols that are only dead weight to be carried by their worshippers, our God, instead, carries us.

He carries me.

And when I stop to really consider that astonishing truth, I am convinced there is only one rational reaction.

How can I do less than carry my brother—my neighbor?

How can we do less?

“If He carried the weight of the world upon His shoulders,
I know, my brother, that He will carry you.”
(from He Will Carry You, by Scott Wesley Brown)

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
(Galatians 6:2, NIV)

Suffer the Little Children

December 25, 2025December 25, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The Christmas Eve service at our church fellowship was packed tonight. The Lovely Lady and I sat near the front—by design, and not as punishment for a late arrival. She was the pianist for tonight’s carol singing, and needed a chair a short walk from the platform in which to rest for a few moments before returning to the bench facing the big grand piano again.

I arrived just before the beginning of the service, barely in time to hear the beautiful piano duet that served as a prelude to the hour-long service. There was a young couple beside me, with a 2-year-old tyke nearby, chewing on a Belvita cookie. He has learned to break the crunchy cookie crust into pieces, licking the chocolate icing in the center first, before munching the crust between his pearly white teeth.

Again and again, he grins mischievously at me as he takes another bite.

The service is filled with young families such as theirs—and with teenagers who sing out the carols boisterously (and, even a few who stand morosely, mouths closed stubbornly)—and with old gray-hairs who have never missed a Christmas Eve service and aren’t about to start now.

We sang carols. Old ones. Familiar tunes and words. It was beautiful.

The children came to the steps at the front of the auditorium to hear a story retold by a dear friend. There were thirty or forty of them. She told the story. I cried, with no handkerchief to dry my tears. The sleeve of my tee-shirt had to suffice for that.

I think it was about that same time I became aware of it—the noise, I mean. I thought back and realized it had been there the whole time. Through the piano duet, through the carols—even through the opening prayer.

There were “kid noises” sounding constantly throughout the entire service, from start to finish. Happy noises. Words being spoken to parents and grandparents. A bit of fussing might have been thrown in here and there. But it never stopped.

For the full hour, there were children making noise.

I told the pastor yesterday I would try to listen better to his message this Christmas. He seemed grateful for my willingness to try. I’m not sure he’d be as pleased now.

I really don’t know what he spoke about. I’m sure he mentioned a King who came as a baby. He talked about why that happened. I’m pretty sure that’s right.

But I didn’t hear most of it.

I looked down the row from me, and the little boy there had graduated from Belvita cookies to raisins. One at a time, he lifted them from the little box and popped them in his mouth. He wasn’t making the noise. Not this little angel. Well, maybe just a little of it.

I want to be able to blame my faulty hearing for missing the pastor’s words. It is often problematic to hear what I want to hear when there are competing sounds in the room.

But that wasn’t it.

The pastor isn’t likely to be sympathetic.

I wanted to hear the children. Wanted to.

I found myself listening for the individual sounds, the cooing of infants, the almost-words of babies on the verge of talking, even the sound effects of toddlers playing with toys.

As the hour dragged on a little and ran over a bit, I heard the sounds change from contented to impatient, and even downright crabby.

It was lovely. Every minute of it.

I think we do our Savior a disservice when we insist, “But Little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes,” in our version of Away in a Manger.

As if.

Babies cry. They gurgle, they laugh, they whine, they jabber. Sometimes, they even scream.

They’re babies, communicating with the tools they have. And He did, too.

“Children should be seen and not heard” is not a phrase spoken a single time in the Word. Not once.

I don’t always use the King James Version when sharing scripture in my writing, but I like the words Jesus uses when He’s unhappy with His disciples’ treatment of the children who wanted to see him.

“But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.'” (Mark 10:14, KJV)

Suffer. It means to tolerate. To control your natural response. To allow something you don’t enjoy.

I didn’t hear the words the pastor spoke tonight (not most of them, anyway). But I heard every word of the message I was supposed to hear.

In the non-verbal vocalization coming from almost every point of the compass in that auditorium, I heard the voice of God speak to me.

Emmanuel—God With Us—came for every single one of those little ones. The lovely, quiet ones, listening to the lady’s voice as she told the story on the steps. The sweet, compliant ones, eating their raisins in quiet enjoyment. The vocalizers, raising their joyous tones over the sound of the pastor’s voice. And yes, the crying ones who had had enough, their patience tried beyond its not-so-large capacity.

As a baby, He came. As a tween, He stood in the temple and taught. As a young adult, He wandered the length and breadth of the land, sharing the Good News that was to be.

Teaching, healing, weeping, and ultimately, dying, He showed us how to suffer the little ones, the children, who still seek life and love from Him.

Even when we can’t stand the tone of their voices. Or the language they speak. Or the way they dress.

He who came as a tiny, perhaps even annoying, child welcomes children of every tribe and nation.

We come as little children to His feet and worship again.

Suffer the little children.

To come.

To Jesus.

It’s what Christmas is all about.

“Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas, if you stop opening presents and listen.” (attributed to a 7-year-old named Bobby)

Jesus called a little child to him and put the child among them. Then he said, “I tell you the truth, unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven. So anyone who becomes as humble as this little child is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven. And anyone who welcomes a little child like this on my behalf is welcoming me.” (Matthew 18:2-5, NLT)

Not Just Another Sunset

September 19, 2025September 20, 2025 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She left after supper. Just took her keys and walked out the door, leaving me in the dark. I usually wait for her here. But tonight, as she pulled out of the drive, I received a text from her.

I thought perhaps she was missing me already and was sending a little note with a heart emoji. You know—just because. But no. There was just one word in the text.

“Sunset?!!!”

I don’t suppose it’s any surprise to my readers that I love sunsets. Come to think of it, I’d love sunrises too, except they come too early in the morning for me to enjoy them much.

So, sunsets it is.

I got up from my easy chair and, taking a minute to get my equilibrium (I have to do that these days, you know), headed out of the dark into the twilight of a lovely, cloudy evening.

I walk about a block to the west of our home to get clear photos of the sunsets—because I know my friends really, really want to see every sunset I stop to admire. And, they don’t want to see a pic of the back door to Patty’s house.

There were lots of folks out in the not-dark. Walking, cycling, scootering (is that a word? Oh well, it is now.), it was the perfect time to be out. I really didn’t want company, though. Which was fine, because nobody but me ever stands at the edge of that field and snaps photos of an everyday occurrence like the sun going down.

Truthfully, the sunset itself wasn’t that beautiful tonight. I was a little late getting there; the clouds were too heavy over the westering sun. The few photos I snapped weren’t spectacular; just a pinky orange sky, almost hidden behind the trees.

Disappointed, I turned away from the field. Oh well, another day it would be more spectacular.

As I turned, I discovered that someone else was, indeed, standing at the edge of the field and snapping a photo of the sun!

The young lady, most likely a student at the nearby university, didn’t stay long. A couple of snaps, and she too pivoted away from the lowering light source.

“Great minds…,” I said. I’m nothing if not a great conversationalist.

She laughed, and we talked for a few seconds about the suitability of the field for our shared activity. I mentioned that I always go all the way to the edge of the alley to make sure there are no annoying power lines in the photos. She agreed that it was a necessity.

It was not a notable encounter. I couldn’t pick the young lady out of a lineup at the local jail, if it were necessary (why it would be is beyond me). We don’t know each other’s names, nor where the other resides.

But the connection we made is impossible to miss. To me, it is, anyway.

It’s a little thing, I know. Still, we old folks talk about the young adults of today as if they have no appreciation of the good things, the things that really matter. And yet, here was this young lady, no older than some of my grandchildren, standing at the edge of the same field this old man frequents and soaking in the glory of God’s creation.

And in a season when, to some of us, hope for the future seems to be an insubstantial commodity, I’m holding tightly on to whatever I can grasp between my gnarled, arthritic fingers.

She turned along the main road, and I walked across it and back toward home. But something else was tugging at the edges of my brain. Now, what was it? Oh well, it would come sooner or later.

I was back into the darkness of my house when I remembered the elusive thought. I had seen a lot of clouds in the southern sky, and they had a little orangey pink tinge to them. Maybe they were worth another look.

Back into the golden hour, I wandered, following the same steps across the busy street from the university. If I hadn’t broken into a trot, that four-wheel-drive pickup might have had to hit its brakes, and it was clear the driver had no such intention.

The sunset was still mediocre, at best. But, looking south, I gasped at the thunderheads piled high just above the horizon. Purple, orange, and indigo, they roiled in the fading light.

It’s always a surprise to me when I see the clouds that are not in the proximity of the declining sun sharing its glorious light and color. I suppose it’s because I think of clouds as dark and dense.

In truth, clouds naturally radiate the colors of the setting sun. If there is a long line of them along the horizon, with clear skies above, the overwhelming coloration travels as far as the eye can see, around the circumference of the circle of sight.

And somehow, as my mind is apt to do, the lesson of light passed by the transient clouds reminds me that we ourselves are light bearers.

The light we bear was never our own. We never produced it ourselves.

It was never ours to hold and hoard.

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, NKJV)

With a head full of these thoughts, I wandered across the street again, taking the overgrown track through the jungle behind my house and past the old barn, itself covered by a curtain of vines, all doing their best to help time and gravity bring it to the ground.

There are still sad things in this world.

It’s okay to grieve them.

But, grieving is “for a moment”. The light is eternal. And, we must share it—with our children and our children’s children—as well as with the world that is dying for those brilliant rays to pierce the darkness where they are waiting.

The Light has shined in the darkness. The darkness will never overcome it.

I’ll admit it. These were my thoughts as I went back into the darkness of my house to await the return of the Lovely Lady, who always makes its rooms brighter for me.

But, inside me, the light is blazing like noontime on a summer day. I think I’ll keep sharing it.

Even with these clouds piled high around, His beauty will shine through.

It’ll be brighter with you walking alongside.

Are you coming with?

“If I can put one touch of rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman, I shall feel that I have worked with God.”
(G.K. Chesterton)

“…that you may become blameless and harmless, children of God without fault in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world.”
(Philippians 2:15, NKJV)

Warm

December 12, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I’m sitting at my desk in the converted garage. There’s a space heater beside me blowing warm air directly at my legs and feet.

I’m not shivering. It’s a good thing.

I wouldn’t expect the reader to know it, but I don’t love the cold. I blame my father. He would be happy to accept the blame. When he was discharged from the Navy in the early 1960s, he took his red-headed wife and five youngsters to the Rio Grande Valley of Texas to make their home.

Saying, “I want to live somewhere where I can sweat twelve months of the year,” the man settled in for the foreseeable future, there in that place with two seasons—Hot and Hotter.

My resulting thin blood has never thickened, in spite of nearly fifty years in a climate with four seasons per annum.

I realized something recently. It was never taught in Sunday School, back when I was learning about King David—he with the harp, and the sling for which he took five smooth stones once upon a time.

In the book of First Kings, David is old. Well, okay, he is about the age I am now. The book’s first verse says, “King David was very old; even when they covered him with blankets, he could not get warm.” (1 King 1:1, NET)

I’m reasonably certain that, if one were to ask her, the Lovely Lady would tell them that this verse describes me to a T.

I don’t like to shiver.

It is the week in which our local university’s choirs present their Candlelight Service. I have had the pleasure of having a small part in the service for many years, all of them before this while playing my horn with the brass ensemble that you might describe as the “warm-up band.”

Now. There’s a good word!

Warm.

I like that.

Oh—where was I? Oh yes, the Candlelight Service.

This year, I am enjoying singing with one of the choirs, as part of a community group, combined with the University Chorus. I’m certain I was not selected for my great skill. More probably it was just to have a warm body sitting in the bass section.

Oh. There it is again. That word.

Warm.

It is nice, isn’t it?

We arrived, the Lovely Lady and I, for the dress rehearsal last night in the beautiful Cathedral of the Ozarks—having walked the few blocks from our home to the campus. It seemed the huge room was almost as chilly inside as the exterior temperature had been, but I took my coat off anyway.

I wished I hadn’t. Several times during the rehearsal.

When they turned the spotlights on, the young man next to me (knowing I was cold) leaned close and stage-whispered (Well? We were on a stage!) in the general direction of my ear, “Now you’ll get warm!”

Light that makes you warm. Now, there’s a thought.

I have been on stages before when the lights were so hot I soaked the shirt I was wearing. Sweat running down one’s spine is not all that much more comfortable than shivering in the cold. Not much, but some.

The spotlights didn’t make me warm. I think they may have been LEDs. I understand the reasons for using LEDs, but the old incandescent bulbs made better heaters.

But, at one point, the choir director had our group sit while the Cathedral Choir (the first-string, you know) ran through one of their pieces. I thought it might be my imagination, but it seemed that I was less cold.

Then, when they sat down later, I was certain of it. It was warmer when they were standing in front of us. Definitely warmer.

I guess the reader understands by now that I like the warmth. But, I also like it when a concept breaks through the chill and warms my brain, too. Maybe, it’s just the light going on in there that does that.

The young folks standing near us warmed us up.

It’s a time-honored concept. I’m not going to belabor the point, but we warm each other up. By our proximity.

Do you know what the wise men who were advisors to King David suggested for his problem all those centuries ago? They selected a young woman to be his nurse and to lie beside him in the bed to warm him up. And, before your mind can explore that road down toward the gutter, the text is very specific; he was not intimate with her. She simply shared her body warmth to make him less cold. (1 Kings 1:4)

We’re warmer when we are close to folks we love. Or, even just like.

It’s odd; I’ve never thought of the Christmas season as a cold time. I, who have disrespected winter again and again, both in real life and in my writing, always think of Christmas as being a warm time.

Perhaps it’s the closeness of our family at this time of year. And of our friends. And our acquaintances at church—and the coffeeshop—and the Christmas parade.

We share warmth.

With music. And love.

And Joy that shall be to all people.

I’m aware that many don’t have family to get together with. But, the concept works with people in general—getting together to share the joy of the coming of a Savior all those years ago.

Share the warmth.

I’m going to do that with close to a thousand people for each of the next three nights.

I’m already feeling warmer.

You?

“Music brings a warm glow to my vision; thawing mind and muscle from their endless wintering.” (Haruki Murakami)

“Furthermore, if two lie down together, they can keep each other warm,
but how can one person keep warm by himself?” (Ecclesiastes 4:11, NET)

You Think That’s Air You’re Breathing?

October 23, 2024 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes the comments and, perhaps, even the prayer go over my head. Sitting in church, having just sung several songs, my mind is frequently overloaded. I’m often moved by the message in the music, and someone saying words just muddies the waters a bit.

I heard what he said this time. My friend, one of our Elders, opened his Bible and said, “We’re reading from the red print today. If you have your Bibles, you may open them to John 3. We’ll start with verse 16.”

Well, that’s something new. It was to me, anyway. I don’t think I ever thought about it before. I mean, that Jesus Himself spoke those words.

John 3:16 is the first verse I ever committed to memory, decades ago. It is probably the most quoted and well-known verse in the Bible.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son…”

Red print. It’s how the publishers of Bibles let us know which words Jesus spoke directly.

I chewed on that thought as the pastor came later and spoke the words he had prepared. I know. I should listen more carefully instead of riding a different train of thought. I heard his words—I did—but the initial thought that had come to mind didn’t want to let go.

As I left the auditorium later, I mentioned it to the pastor. He laughed. Then, seeing my confused look, he explained.

As it happens, that was part of what he had researched as he prepared the sermon for Sunday. You see, there is not a consensus among Biblical scholars about whether those words should be printed in red or not.

The original Greek text, lacking punctuation, is not clear if there is a break between the words Jesus is speaking to Nicodemus in the verses before or not. It’s just as likely that John is again narrating the thoughts, as he does throughout the book.

So perhaps—not red print. Or, perhaps—yes.

I’m still riding that train of thought days later.

I know some folks are only interested in the words Jesus spoke during His time on this earth. If he didn’t say it, they don’t trust it.

Not to diminish in any way the importance of the words He spoke, but even they were reported by men. Uneducated men, for the most part, with no credentials except that they had been with the Savior.

That’s the way God’s Word has come to us. It’s the way He made His story known throughout all of time. Except when He used animals—like Balaam’s donkey in the book of Numbers.

Men of old, Peter says. (2 Peter 1:21) Prophets who heard God’s voice and faithfully rendered the words into a written record.

In my head, I hear the words of the Apostle—the one who loved to write letters and, ironically enough, a member of the group about whom he wrote the words.

“All scripture is God-breathed…” (2 Timothy 3:16, NIV)

I wonder if any readers noticed the chapter and verse where those words were written. Not that I believe in omens or signs in that sense, but it seems odd that the words answering the question about whether it matters so much that John 3:16 perhaps shouldn’t be written in red letters are also found in chapter 3 and verse 16 of their book. Perhaps, just a coincidence. Still, it’s interesting to me.

But now, with the mention of breath, my train of thought has moved to another track entirely. You’ve seen the old western movies when the train robbers move a lever near the tracks and shift the whole train to a siding—a rail that leads to nowhere, but serves only to slow or stop the entire conveyance, haven’t you?

Well, that’s not what’s happening here. This train is gathering speed as it careens along the new route.

I know about breathing! I’ve done it for nearly seventy years. It’s one of the reasons I’m here to write my tiring little essays every so often. And maybe, the reason you’re here to read this one.

And, at some periods during those years, I’ve struggled to breathe. Asthma and bronchitis steal the air right out of my lungs and I realize anew how much I enjoy breathing; and how much I need it.

Breathing is good.

But, this is different, isn’t it? God breathes out His Word—His message—to the scribes chosen for the task. And they, in turn, shared it with the world through all these generations.

What a gift to breathe in the Word of God!

And yet, these words are ours to draw in and live on, for all our days if we choose.

I said it was ironic that Paul was one to whom the Word was breathed. As I considered the subject of breathing, the words in the book of Acts came to mind. Ironic doesn’t really describe it.

“Then Saul, still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord…” (Acts 9:1, NKJV)

Oh. In that dichotomy, the breathing out of evil earlier in life and then later, breathing in of God’s Word, there is great hope.

Hope for all of us!

We breathe out our hate, our despair—our wretchedness. And, just as He did for Adam in the beginning, God breathes life—and promise—and bright hope.

Still. His breath gives us life.

I remember, decades ago, trips to the mountains covered with evergreens with my family. As we gathered on the banks of a roaring river, alive with whitecaps, my Dad stood drawing the air into his lungs—clean and unsullied with the pollution and smoke of man’s carelessness.

“Ah! That’s good!”

It was.

It is.

Good.

Breathe deep.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” (from The New Colossus, by Emma Lazarus)

“For this is how God loved the world: He gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life. God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but to save the world through him.” (John 3:16-17, NLT)

Come to the Manger

December 24, 2023December 24, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I remember hearing about a family who visited a live nativity production a few years ago. They had seen Mary and Joseph with the Baby Jesus, the shepherds had come, and the production was over. Some of the kids were going over where the animals were kept so they could pet them.

One little girl’s mom suggested that she might want to go to pet the sheep, but she had a different idea.

“No, Mom. I just want to stay at the manger for a while, okay?”

It’s a simple story; sounding perhaps a bit too contrived. But, I’m wondering why we couldn’t do that.

This morning at our church, the hymns and carols finished, a bearded man mounted the steps to the platform. He almost looked like Santa Claus himself, with his full white beard and twinkling eyes.

He wasn’t. It was simply one of our elders, preparing for prayer time. He started out with a friendly, “Merry Christmas,” to the congregation (which we responded to in kind) and then began to pray.

“Lord, what more can we say?” He had hardly started to pray when a youngster’s voice piped up from somewhere near the front.

“Happy New Year!”

Of course, a ripple of laughter ran through the entire auditorium. We were amused that the child had responded so vocally.

The thing is, others thought the phrase. We’ve been taught that the two go together. Merry Christmas is followed by a Happy New Year. In the calendar, as well as in our greetings to each other.

But, I’m wondering if we could just slow down a bit and stay at the manger awhile.

We’re always in such a hurry to get to what comes next. Through all of our lives, we find it hard to live in the moment because other things, perhaps bigger and better, are coming.

I’m guilty of it, too. I know I’ve written before at Christmastime, assuring readers that we don’t worship a mere baby in a manger, but we worship a Savior who died and rose again for us.

As if the Baby in the manger wasn’t already the Savior of the world.

You think I’m wrong?

What did the angel say to the shepherds?

“For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2: 11, KJV)

At no time in His time on earth was He any more the Savior than when He was born and laid in that manger.

Or, when He taught the teachers in the Temple. Or, when He turned the water into wine. Or, when he wept at the tomb of His friend, Lazarus. Or, when he washed His disciples’ feet. Or, when he healed the ear of the servant in the garden.

Or indeed, when He died on the cross for the sins of the world.

Our friend, Simeon, whom I referenced the last time I wrote, made it clear. He had heard, had known all his life, of the salvation of the Lord. But, as he held the Child in his arms, he saw it.

“For my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke 2: 30, NET)

He saw the baby and he saw in that moment—he held in his own arms—the salvation promised for all of human history.

I’m reminded of the story of Job in the Old Testament when he saw the power of God. Job said:

“My ears have heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and I repent in dust and ashes.” (Job 42:5-6, NIV)

In the manger, for the first time, humans could see the salvation for which provision had been made before time began.

“…the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world.” (from Revelation 13:8, KJV)

I have a hunch that when our eyes are on Him, they can’t be focused on ourselves, our plans, or our silly little time schedules.

So, I’d like to stay at the manger a little longer, if you don’t mind.

The shepherds will visit and return to their fields and the magi will bring their gifts and depart again to their countries. Here and now, the new year will come and go—the parties will go past in a dizzying flash—the demands of the world around us will go on and on.

The Savior—our Salvation, our Light—remains.

You’ve got time.

Stay awhile.

Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road,
and hear the angels sing!
(from It Came Upon The Midnight Clear, by Edmund H Sears)

Chestnuts Roasting? No Thanks!

November 28, 2023November 28, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I stand at the kitchen window, glad of the warmth inside this old house. Out there, the clear, frigid night edges inexorably into the wee hours, lit by the cold, white light of the moon, only a day past the full.

I always love these bright wintry nights observed from my warm post. I can sense the chill but stay comfortable without the aid of a coat and gloves.

Out under the old mulberry tree, itself not likely to last the winter, the dark outstretched shadows cast by the bare limbs remind me (appropriately) of old bones, gangling and spindly, across the leaf-covered ground.

And just for a moment, practical matters take my thoughts, reminding me that my grandchildren promised to help me rake those leaves later this week. We’ll enjoy the time spent doing that. We always do—teasing and laughing as we work together.

There is something bothering me—I’m not quite sure what. Yes, I know I don’t laugh quite as much as I used to. I get tired more quickly; my back aches from the repetitive motion of raking. The kids step up and carry the load I once did. It will all work out.

But, that’s not it at all. What was it?

Oh, yes! Now, my old brain catches up. In the bright moonlight, I see the two nut trees. The walnut tree, for one. The ground underneath its slim, straight shadow was covered with fallen nuts, long before the leaves fell. We’ll have to rake those up too—a nuisance, at worst.

My eyes (and thoughts) are drawn to the chestnut tree next. The large, brown leaves from its branches are spread far and wide, blown by the cold wind that brought in the last blast of arctic air. It had dropped a few nuts before that, as well.

There will be pain. I’ll have to remember to have the kids wear gloves and be extra careful as they pick up the leaves under that tree. Suddenly, the job loses its appeal, the joyful anticipation turning almost to dread.

Chestnuts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be (if you’ll pardon the pun). In my head, as I write this, I hear the smooth, sweet tones of the man they called the Velvet Fog, Mel Tormé. The lyrics tell of the unusual nuts roasting near the fireplace, and of Jack Frost doing what he is tonight—making my nose cold once again.

Funny. I never think of that beautiful song while I’m bobbling the needle-sharp nuts in the fall, or when I’m sucking the blood from my fingers while muttering nearly bad words under my breath.

Chestnuts are more than a nuisance, waiting under the leaves in ambush for me and my helpers. They seem almost like a threat, a danger to avoid at all costs.

My poor brain, seemingly in ADHD mode tonight, begins to play other words (from a different Christmas carol) almost as quickly as the mellow sounds of Mel begin to fade.

“No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground.”
(from Joy to the World, by Isaac Watts)

Mr. Watts was a little premature in his banishment of thorns from the world. But, he did have the right idea about sins. And he was absolutely right about the eventual healing from the curse under which we labor.

We have entered the season of Advent, leading to Christmas. The media and the world around us are already alive with the tumult of their sales pitches for what is becoming known as “merch”. Voraciously, they pursue our purses and bank accounts.

It will likely be an unpopular opinion, but the “merch” they peddle is what I would describe as the thorns that infest the ground of Advent.

All around us lie the leaves of the season, awaiting our attention, our joyful gathering up, accompanied by people we love. The happy anticipation of celebrating the Child, born to bring light into the world—born to bring us back to His Father.

But the thorns! There will be pain—and stress. Angry words will be spoken to salespeople. Horns will be blown and gestures made at other drivers on the busy roads.

It has ever been so. The serpent present in the Garden yet seeks to subvert our Creator’s plan, hiding lies within half-truths and good intentions. And willingly we participate in his schemes.

Perhaps this Advent season will be the one when we finally push aside the thorns, leaving them to rot in the trash pile while we revel in the reality of God’s gifts.

The joy of the season is in the Gift from Heaven. Everything else is covered in thorns, awaiting redemption from above.

The Light of the World still bathes His creation in brightness like the full moon bursting from the black sky. The bonelike shadows and reminders of lurking thorns only increase our desire for His presence.

I’m waiting. With hope and joy, I’m waiting.

While I’m waiting, I’ll keep the gloves handy.

“The people who sat in darkness
have seen a great light.
And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow,
a light has shined.”
(Matthew 4:16, NLT)

“He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.”
(Henry David Thoreau)

One more tune for you—well, two really—to separate the thorns from the joy of the season. Take a few minutes to soak in the words.
https://youtu.be/IetPAANnhzQ?si=RFv_39qNgXUhtnbu

Outside the Camp

January 18, 2022January 18, 2022 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The black monsters in the backyard had been jumpy all morning. The city crews in their noisy trucks were way too close for comfort and the mean man inside the house had already called the two dogs down for their rowdy behavior a time or two.

This was different. The yelping and barking from the black labs had increased from a nervous bark or two to a cacophony.

I stuck my head out the door to shout at them, but saw it was only my neighbor and his sweet granddaughter walking along the border of my yard, so I just spoke to the dogs this time. They ignored me. They often do.

I walked out the front door to say hi to John and his little 4-year-old companion. She immediately let go of the doll stroller she was pushing to run toward me. Her arms were already outstretched in anticipation of the hug she would receive from Mr. Paul.

“I’m sorry, Sweetie. I can’t hug you today.”

She pulled up, her face crestfallen. With disappointment in her voice, she asked her one-word question.

“Why?”

It’s a question I’ve been asking repeatedly in the last few weeks. I think I’m not the only one.

Why?

Our holiday plans were interrupted by the disease. Houseguests did their best to avoid contact with me while canceling their own interactions with the folks they had anticipated visiting for months.

I sat, as is my custom, in the upholstered chair near the front window on one of those mornings. Wanting a different angle for my view across the yard, I scooted the chair back an inch or two.

Crack!

Suddenly, I was tipping toward the window, as the back leg gave way under the old chair. I caught myself on the windowsill and yelped in surprise. Before I could recover, the non-infected residents of the house rushed out from the room they were gathered in.

Struggling to my feet, I laughed, trying to cover up my embarrassment. One of the younger onlookers wasn’t so lackadaisical in her response. My accident with the chair was just one too many in a series of disappointments she wasn’t prepared for.

“Why is everything bad happening to us?” She asked the rhetorical question almost angrily.

There it was again.

Why?

I reassured her (from a distance) that it was only a chair, an inanimate object that could be replaced easily. But it was clear the chair wasn’t the issue. Not the most important one to her, anyway.

I didn’t (and don’t) have an answer to her question. I don’t think anyone does.

I do know this: Disappointment is a recurring facet of this life. How we respond to that disappointment is essential to who we are, and perhaps as important, to who we are becoming.

In trying times, we can choose to retreat inside ourselves, allowing unhappiness and doubt to wash over and paralyze us. Or we can stand firm, perhaps even pushing onward through our adversity.

In some ways, our current quagmire reminds me of a particular class of people in Bible times. From ancient days, folks with diseases assumed to be highly contagious were separated from society. Those with the visible skin condition they called leprosy had to live apart from family and friends.

They were forced to stay outside the encampment or town, separated from everyone they knew and loved. And when they had no option but to pass close to anyone healthy, they were required to call out a word of warning. Just one word.

Unclean.

I felt kind of like a leper when the sweet little girl headed toward me the other day.

Unclean.

But I remember Jesus touched lepers.

He touched them. Not because He had to but because He wanted to.

On one occasion when He came across such a person, the man had the audacity to suggest it himself.

“If you wanted to, you could.”

Jesus did want to. And He did touch him. The unclean one. Touched by the One who had never been anything but clean.

Imagine it!

No more isolation. No more shame.

Outcast no more.

We need touch. We need hugs. We need love.

I don’t know why the bad things happen. Perhaps, I never will.

And yet, it’s okay.

Because we have a Savior who’s not afraid to touch us where we live. In all our sickness and sin, and our ugly realities, He reaches down and embraces us.

And He holds us close.

I’m going to get hugs from the little girl again. Hopefully soon.

No longer outside the camp.

Clean is good.

Suddenly, a man with leprosy approached him and knelt before him. “Lord,” the man said, “if you are willing, you can heal me and make me clean.” Jesus reached out and touched him. “I am willing,” he said. “Be healed!” And instantly the leprosy disappeared.
(Matthew 8: 2-3, NLT)

God will meet you where you are in order to take you where He wants you to go.
(Tony Evans)

A Day For A Hero

April 19, 2019April 19, 2019 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

(Today’s post is a repeat of an earlier article. I haven’t changed my mind.)

Scott was cool. Well, to this one-time band geek he was. The big offensive back was six feet tall and all muscle. He was no slouch on the football field either. I was sure he was going to be a star running back.

But, that was before.

I was there when it happened. Not that I had any part in the event.

Okay. To be honest, I didn’t even know what was going on. I just knew something bad had happened.

Scott dated a girl in the band, so occasionally he and a few of his football buddies would come to our marching practices at the stadium. They would sit in the stands and yell encouragement once in a while. We could tell they were having a good time, but most of us had no idea how good.

That all came to an end one Tuesday evening. We heard the next day about how it had shaken out.

What we hadn’t been able to tell from our disadvantaged perspective down on the playing field was that the fellows kept up their high spirits in the stands with just that–spirits. Each Tuesday evening, one of the guys would find someone to get him a carton of beer since he was underage. He would distribute the bottles to the guys before they ascended to their seats in the bleachers. Then they would spend the next couple of hours joking and cheering—and sipping.

It seems that finally somebody on the staff figured out what was happening and alerted the school administration. On that fateful Tuesday evening, the boys were unaware a trap was about to be sprung. However, just moments before the head football coach started up the steps to where they were, one of the jocks figured out something was up.

What would they do?

Scott made a quick decision. He would be the martyr—the hero.

“Quick guys! Shove your bottles under my seat. Then move away from me before they can get up here.”

They protested, but only weakly. Within seconds, the preparations were completed, and Steve was by himself in the stands, evidence galore to be found under his seat.

He was finished as a football player. Shamed and kicked off the team, he would never play offensive back again.

The other boys?

They played football that Friday night. They played football every other Friday night of football season as long as they were in school.

All because one guy had taken the brunt of their punishment. One guy had accepted responsibility for their contraband.

The school was abuzz the next day and for several after that. It wasn’t fair! They all should have been punished! Scott was the good guy here, but he was paying the price! Where was the justice?

Students protested to teachers and administration alike, but it was for naught. The rules were clear and he had broken them. Under-age drinking on school grounds—there would be no reversal of the decision.

Scott was a hero.

Or, was he?

It is Good Friday once again. Today is a day to consider heroes.

No.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

Today, we commemorate the Cool Guy who took the beer bottles for every person in the world and claimed them as His own.

Right about now, I’m guessing there are some readers who are offended.

More than a few of you are unhappy I described the Savior as a cool guy–as if many who followed Him didn’t do so because they saw Him as what we would today call cool.

Some of you who wouldn’t touch a drop of alcohol if you were dying of thirst are offended I’ve equated your sins with that filthy stuff.

Others, who regularly quaff the liquid are offended because you think I’ve equated your sins with the refreshing drink.

Even though both assumptions are wrong, I will admit I’m almost hopeful that you are offended.

I am offended.

I am offended that The Hero had to take the penalty for my wrongdoing. We’re not talking about being kicked off the team here. My wrongdoing had a slightly more weighty penalty attached.

The penalty for my sins was death.

I am offended that I so lightly regard the Heroic act—accomplished on this day nearly two thousand years ago–that I return to my beer bottles again and again.

As Peter, one of our Hero’s followers (who himself faded into the crowd to avoid punishment) later reminded us, like a pig who has been cleaned up, we return to the filth of the wallow.

Is that offensive enough for you?

Try this on then–Like a dog, I come back to eat my own vomit. Yes, also Peter’s words. (2 Peter 2:22)

Are you offended by the crudeness?

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Will you, just for a moment, think of where the real offense was–and is?

God made a perfect place for us to live and we rejected Him. Again and again, He offered ways of escape.

It was no surprise to Him, but again and again, the human race laughed in His face.

And then, in the fullness of time, at just exactly the right moment, He sent His own Son, the Hero of Heaven, to be born.

The Hero walked with us. He taught us. He loved and healed us.

And we repaid Him by shoving our beer bottles under His chair and slinking out into the night.

We were so crude as to spit on Him, and taunt Him, and beat Him.

We left Him to face the bitter end—the penalty for our evil ways.

Alone. Naked. Beaten. Bleeding.

And, in spite of the offense, and the crudeness, and the rejection, He never wavered in resolve.

He would take the offense to the grave.

Our offense.

Mine. Yours.

Scott was a nice guy. A loyal friend, even. But, never a hero.

You see, if you count the beer bottles under his chair and then count the buddies who skulked away from him, you will come up with one extra. Count them again.

You’ll see that I’m right. One extra.

One that belonged to Scott.

Scott simply got what was coming to him. He didn’t pay the price for anyone else’s wrongdoing, only his own.

Not a single one of the sins piled under that horrible, offensive cross on that Friday so many years ago belonged to the Hero who hung on it, bleeding and beaten.

They are too numerous to be counted. I know. I’ve contributed too many of my own. Perhaps you have, too.

But, the fact still remains. Not one was His own.

Not. One.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness.
(Henry Ward Beecher ~ Congregationalist clergyman ~ 1813-1887)

For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare even to die. But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
(Romans 5:7.8 ~ NASB)

Looking. Seeing

June 28, 2018June 29, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

All I wanted was a quiet place to sit and eat my burger with the Lovely Lady.

It was looking unlikely.

After a tiring day, filled with stress, heat, and hard physical labor, we stopped in for a fast-food fill-up. A burger and fries, with a coke, please. And a quiet place to sit.

It’s not too much to ask. Is it?

The little tyke had different ideas. He was not happy, that much was clear from the wailing. I wondered why his parents didn’t quiet him down. Surely, he could go play on the playground in a minute or two. Couldn’t they trade his silence for the promise of some time on the slide?

It seemed not. The noise level intensified.

It didn’t take me long to get unhappy, as well. I didn’t cry out loud. I did complain to the Lovely Lady. Out loud.

Then, I saw the boy as he ran past. Something—I couldn’t quite put my finger on what—caught my attention in the child’s face. A lady nearby was clearly interested in what was going on, as well. I assumed she might be related to the little fellow and would catch him up and calm him down.

Calm him down. . . That’s it! His eyes! The little boy was terrified of something. I said the words to the Lovely Lady, wondering what he had to be afraid of.

In a moment, the lady who had noticed his distress came carrying him up to the checkout counter and found his mother standing there. By this time, the child was so traumatized that he had no voice with which to express his emotion, only gasps of fear as he gulped air through his mouth. He was shaking, his eyes wild with alarm.

The little boy had been lost, separated from his mother! Everywhere he looked, he saw only strangers. Big, frightening adults who looked like no one he had ever seen.

As his mother gathered him into her arms, the gasping and whimpering subsided, but the trauma was still written on his face. Tears crept into my own eyes as I imagined what a horrible few minutes he had experienced.

“He was. He was terrified. You saw that,” the Lovely Lady said, smiling at me.

I sat, quieter than usual, and ate my food.

I had. I had seen him and his terror. But, it was the lady who also saw him and did something about it.

We saw him. Mostly, we had heard him, but there was—finally—a recognition that something more than a simple temper tantrum was happening.

And yet, my mind can’t move past the event.

The child will grow up. He will. The day will come when he no longer wanders, screaming, through the restaurant.

It doesn’t mean his terror will be any less.

Or ours, for that matter.

We eventually learn how to hide the fact that we need someone to hold us close. The part of us that is broken can be buried so deep we aren’t even aware of it ourselves, much less be able to express it verbally to those around us.

What if nobody sees us?

Really sees. Us.

What if nobody sees us? Really sees. Us. Share on X

A couple of nights ago, a note appeared on my phone’s screen. The lady on the other end, a former schoolmate of mine, had a message for me.

For some reason, she had been sitting and got to thinking about me and my “things”, she called them. She finished her message with a couple of thoughts.

“Everything will be good, Paul. Everything will be right.”

I haven’t told anyone I was unhappy. At no time in the last month have I wandered screaming through the local McDonalds.

It doesn’t mean I’m not broken.

She saw me.

You know there’s a difference between looking and seeing, right? They’re related, but definitely not the same.

For instance, I can look through the drawer in the kitchen, needing a spatula, but the Lovely Lady will open the same drawer minutes later and, in a second or two, see exactly what I couldn’t, picking up the spatula I was seeking all along.

I look.

She sees.

You know it’s true.

I like the phrase that made an appearance in our language—sort of a pidgin English—just over a hundred years ago, the two words that make it up seeming almost redundant.

Let’s go take a look-see.

Look-see. Important aspects, both of them, to the process.

We begin by looking. That’s where we start.

But, even if we do look, we won’t see if we aren’t aware of the necessary traits of what we’re looking for.

I wonder if we’re looking through the wrong eyes. Eyes of judgment. Eyes of selfishness. Eyes of arrogance and pride.

What if we actually looked at people to see the broken parts? What if we could look past the yelling and screaming, the cursing and criticizing, and see what really is going on?

What if we looked past the jokes and the songs and the smiles on faces to see the fear and terror that fills the hearts of people we encounter every day?

Our friends. Our family members. The bullies. The belligerents.

Could we see them through new eyes?

Would it make a difference?

Jesus saw the woman who had been caught in the act. He saw. Her.

He saw the woman at Jacob’s well, caught up in a vicious cycle of seeking love where it would not be found. And, looking through eyes colored with love, He changed her life.

Maybe I could do that. Maybe I could look through the eyes of love. The apostle, my namesake, suggested to the folks at Philippi that it was exactly what was needed.

Stop looking out of eyes that don’t see past the end of your noses. Start seeing—really seeing—others instead. And seeing, serve. (Philippians 2:4,5)

Ah. The miracle of a familiar face in a crowd of strangers! One who knows you! One who loves you, in spite of knowing you.

Look around.

See. People.

Look-see.

Change the world.

Everything will be good. Everything will be right.

“What use is care? What good is watching for that matter? People are forever watching things. They should be seeing. I see the things I look at. I am a see-er.”
(Patrick Rothfuss ~ American novelist)

The Lord looks from heaven;
He sees all the sons of men.
From the place of His dwelling He looks
On all the inhabitants of the earth;
He fashions their hearts individually;
He considers all their works.
(Psalm 33:13-15 ~ NKJV ~ New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Jesus