Offerings

December 6, 2016December 6, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

The young voices sing in tight harmony, the air surrounding us almost trembling with astonishment at the beauty of their song. We in the pews are in agreement with the atmosphere; to a person it seems, holding our breaths, not wanting to miss a note or a chord.

The carol began as a common Christmas song—with familiar words and melody—but it has become much more than that. The young artists, led by that genius with a stick in his hand, started with the simple familiar tune and turned it into a symphony, a masterpiece of beautiful music and brilliant poetry.

Quietly, scarcely louder than a whisper, the voices draw us upward until, with more volume than seems possible from those young throats and greater skill than seems imaginable from musicians so inexperienced, we are overcome with wonder and with awe.

We who sit in the hard seats and listen have been carried far beyond the restraints of our time and circumstances. For a moment which seemed an eternity, our spirits soared with the melodies and harmonies that have drawn us into the very presence of the King of Christmas.

It has always been so for me. This music has power—power to soothe the spirit—power to move the soul—power to draw the heart from its deepest, darkest hiding place and lay it open before the Creator of all the Universe.

I know it is not the same for all. My life has been full of music from the day I was born, until now in my waning years. Many have had different experiences and have also lived joyfully. I freely admit it.

Still—music moves me.

Can I go a step further and tell you what else moves me?

Just as much as the music.

It may come as a shock to the reader. It did to me.

You see, I sit in the beautiful cathedral and am moved to tears by nothing more than sound in the air—that and the Spirit of God—and somehow, it feels natural and right.

But just this week, in my place of business, I was also moved to tears. . .

The old man had been in before. He had The Look. You know, that look in his eyes—almost empty, but a little wild, a little confused, and perhaps even, dangerous. He shuffled in, shoulders slumped, a defeated shell of a man, without hope.

He is homeless, or nearly so. Drifting from one relative to another, living under the stars when the weather permits, he calls no place home, but any place he lies down his bedroom.

He had a guitar to sell. I’ve told his story before. Well, not his, but the same basic story anyway. No money, no food, the urge to find funds has led him to my door. The guitar would feed him for a few days anyway.

Or, so he thought.

I didn’t want his guitar.

It is damaged and worn now. It was not much better when it was new. If I had bought it, the guitar-shaped-object would have found a semi-permanent home in my back room, a room which is already packed full by too many cheap, broken guitar-shaped-objects.

I didn’t want the guitar. I told him so.

The wild eyes turned angry for a few seconds, and I worried that things might get ugly. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and looking dejected, turned to go.

I wasn’t done, though. I know, after years of sleepless nights and remorse-filled days, that it was not my place to turn him away without help. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple of bills which I laid on the counter for him. Immediately, the angry eyes were back and he waved away my offer disgustedly.

He didn’t want my hand-out. He wanted to sell his guitar.

Quickly, I explained my dilemma. Motioning with my arms at the guitars leaning against the back wall and the cases stacked in the aisles, I told him that I can’t—just can’t—acquire another guitar to repair. Without disparaging his instrument, I made it clear. I simply don’t need his guitar.

Again, I held out the money and begged—yes—I begged him to take it. I suggested he could still sell the guitar to someone else who needs it. For a moment, his demeanor brightened, as he saw a way to get more than he expected when he first came through my door.

Then another idea came to him.

“I’ll accept your gift. But, I’m not going to sell this guitar.” The old guy proudly gestured with the instrument. “I know this guy who’s staying down by the tracks. He says he plays, but he doesn’t have a guitar to use. I’ll give this one to him.”

He reached a gnarled hand across the counter, first to take the gift I offered, and then again to grip mine in that ancient symbol of equality and respect, a handshake.

I looked into his eyes.

That’s funny.

They were as clear as a bell. No anger. No confusion. No defeat.

Did I say they were clear? I meant to say that they were clear except for the tears that welled up in the corners of each one. As he let go of the firm grip he had on my hand, there were tears in my own eyes, as well.

He headed for the door. I’m pretty sure he was taller than when he came in. At least, his head was held up and the slump he had when he arrived was gone.

As he stepped outside, I heard his voice, “God bless you, friend.”

I can’t explain it, but I felt chills. Something like I felt when I listened to those young folks singing last night.

Something like it.

The apostle said that when we walk in love, our God smells a sweet aroma, as He did when His Son came for us.

When we walk in love, our God smells a sweet aroma Share on X

This Christmas, as I worship in the beauty and opulence of the cathedral, with its stained glass windows and high ceilings, and all of it trimmed in oak, I’m going to remember that somewhere, out there in the cold and dirty world, a man plays a guitar.

The music inside might be prettier and more skilled.

I don’t know.

Somehow, I think the Savior of the world—the One who came as a baby on that first Christmas—I think He might consider the sound of that guitar playing down by the railroad tracks just a little sweeter.

Just a little.

A sweet aroma.

A song will outlive all sermons in the memory.
(Henry Giles ~ American minister/author ~ 1809-1882)

And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.
(Ephesians 5:2 ~ ESV)

All Together Now

June 13, 2016June 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

She carried the old guitar in, asking if I wanted to buy it.

It’s not an unusual question. It seems I answer that one every day.

They don’t carry in instruments like this one every day, though. The beautiful, vintage guitar grabbed my attention from the moment it came out of the case.

I was pretty sure I did want to buy the pretty thing, but first, I had to hold it in my hands, making sure the initial visual impression would be borne out by the actual playing experience.

Dad had the right idea when he taught me, many years ago, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Good looks are nice, but the item has to live up to its promises.

Tuning the old strings, I ran the pickup selector switch through all the positions.

In the number 1 position, the neck pickup was full and bass-y. That was exactly what I was expecting.

Then I switched to number 2, and the center pickup dropped out a lot of the bass, but was really strong in the mid-range sounds. Again, no surprises.

Number 3, producing a signal from the pickup nearest the bridge, was very different, with all treble tonalities and almost no sustain. You might even have called it twangy. Exactly the sound a bridge pickup should emit.

Everything worked! But I wasn’t ready to make an offer yet.

I flipped the selector switch to the last position, this one marked ALL.

The change was profound!

All the tonal qualities from each pickup were combined into one signal. The edgy tone of the bridge pickup, the mid-range punch of the center pickup, and the full-throated growl of the neck pickup, all joined their voices to fill the air with captivating sound.

I glanced over at the old woman, seated nearby on a stool, and she was grinning from ear to ear.

“I think the price just went up,” she teased.

Without reservation, the answer to the original question was yes!

Yes, I certainly wanted to buy the guitar, so we struck the deal.

It was hanging on the wall of the music store as I wrote this, awaiting the little bit of tender, loving care that would bring it back to top condition once again.

My mind goes back again to that moment. Oh, it was heaven to hear!

I looked at the name stamped on the headstock of the guitar and thought, how appropriate.

The company that built the fine old instrument was the Harmony Guitar Company.

The lesson I am learning–have been learning for many years–is contained in that brand name. Wrapped up in one word.

I love harmony.

Orchestras, choirs, barbershop quartets, rock groups, or church congregations—it doesn’t matter. All are transformed from a ragtag bunch of individual musicians into one cohesive musical instrument, simply by blending their voices and talents together.

And, whether we are listening, or performing, it is an exquisite joy to experience that blending—that cooperation—with others.

I do love to listen to soloists. But, for the most part, they don’t—ever—sing without harmony. Only if they sing a capella, without accompaniment, do they truly sing a solo.

I don’t think I would ever want to attend an entire concert of a capella solo music. I say that with some assurance. A fair amount.

Our ears naturally want to hear harmonies, if only in the quiet chords of a guitar, or the moving undertones of a string bass.

It is indeed our experience in all of life, and not just in the sphere of music.

We each have a distinctive voice.

Some of us are all grumbly, bassy resonance.

Others are the almost nondescript mid-range, providing the in-between parts in the grand scale of life.

The high voices cut through the mix, edgy and clear.

We need to hear every one of these voices. There is value in each one, and they will each have a time to shine alone.

But, when they join together in harmony, finding the right notes to complement the tonality of all the other voices?

Ah, heaven won’t be much better than that, will it?

Harmony between individuals is, indeed, a great and beautiful gift from our Creator. But, we don’t always want to find the right notes.

Too often, we desire to sing the lead part when we are better suited to a supporting part. We argue and demand our due, creating discord and clashing with our fellow musicians.

I have been the cause of such disunity. I’ve heard the dissonant tones, and watched people cover their ears and walk away in disgust.

Harmony demands the cooperation of everyone in the group. It requires the constant attention to pitch and balance by each participant.

Somehow as a human race (and recent events only serve to put an exclamation point on it) we’re not all that good at holding harmony.

There have been, indeed, periods of spectacular effort and results.

And yet, individual voices always demand, eventually, to be heard above the chorus. The result is always disastrous.

It always will be, when voices won’t follow the direction of the Master Conductor. Harmony is elusive, even non-existent, without Him.

Harmony is elusive, even non-existent, without the Master Conductor. Share on X

How will it ever be any different, if we who claim to follow His lead fight and bicker to prove whose voice should be heard?

How will those who deny His very existence ever see any evidence of who He is? How could they recognize how essential His direction is in the life of those who would join the chorus?

I’m trying to listen for the other voices these days.

I don’t always have to hear my own voice louder than the others in the choir. It has taken me many years to begin to grasp this lesson.

I haven’t mastered it yet.

Still, I’m loving the beautiful harmonies I’m starting to hear. It’s sounding better to my ear all the time.

I’m wondering if life is just practice for the day when we’re all a part of heaven’s choir.

I’ve missed too many rehearsals already.

How about you?

How wonderful and pleasant it is
    when brothers live together in harmony!
For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil
    that was poured over Aaron’s head,
    that ran down his beard
    and onto the border of his robe.
Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon
    that falls on the mountains of Zion.
And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing,
    even life everlasting.
(Psalm 131 ~ NLT)

In the end we shall have had enough of cynicism, skepticism, and humbug, and we shall want to live more musically.
(Vincent van Gogh~Dutch artist~1853-1890)

And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.
(Colossians 3:14~ESV)

Connected

March 18, 2016March 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was puzzled. It’s not a state of mind with which I’m unfamiliar, but I had thought I was on solid ground.

Once again today, I found myself at my work bench with a guitar before me. As with the state of mind, it’s not a rare situation. I spend several hours each week at that post in the course of my work.

Usually, I know what I’m doing. Without consulting any manuals, or making any telephone calls to experts, I am confident in my ability to complete the task before me. I don’t usually take jobs I think I might not be able to finish.

The young lady had been a little vague when she dropped off the high-quality guitar a few weeks ago. Still, I thought I understood the problem and even had a pretty good idea of what I would do to make it right for her.

“The pickup system just doesn’t have any sound. I know there’s supposed to be a battery somewhere; maybe that’s the problem. You’ll figure it out, won’t you?”

I was sure I would. Until today.

I stood, strings dangling off one end of the guitar cradle, and wires hanging off the other. In the middle the beastly guitar, ordinarily a thing of beauty, lay taunting me.

The battery was fine. I had checked the electronic pre-amp, the brains of the pickup system, and found it to be functioning as it should, as well. That left just one thing, I thought. There must be a broken wire going to the pickup itself.

This should be easy. I was sure of myself. So sure was I that I took a coffee break. No hurry—I’ll wrap this up in a few minutes.

The red-headed lady who raised me had an apt saying for this circumstance (she had one for nearly every situation): Ha! Famous last words!

I might even have heard her chuckle as I stood there befuddled an hour later.

Four. There were four pickups, not just one. I just couldn’t understand it. If there were four pickups, a single broken wire wouldn’t affect all of them. I could see clearly that each pickup had its own wire going to it.

I stood there like a condemned man. I knew what was coming next. In the same way a man driving in circles in a strange neighborhood knows he will eventually have to stop and do the unthinkable—ask for directions—I knew.

I called the service department at the guitar’s manufacturer. The lady who answered the phone was perky. I didn’t want perky. The man she transferred the call to in electronics was also perky. I talked with him anyway.

Telling him my problem, he explained the proprietary design of the pickup system. I think if you look it up, the definition for proprietary is: You need to call our help desk to understand it.

The perky fellow used a hundred words to explain the system. I heard one.

Series.

Do you remember the old Christmas tree lights? The ones that worked fine until one light burned out? With one failed bulb, the entire string of lights went dark. Series.

In a series circuit, the power flows through each component in the series to the next one. If there is a break, or fault, in any one of the components, none of them will work.

There are four pickups on this guitar. If one fails, the other three would certainly be adequate to get the necessary sound to the amplifier and thus, to the audience. But, they aren’t allowed to do their part if any one of them fails.

Madness.

You know there is more to this than a simple lesson in guitar repair, do you not?

Did you know that electrical circuits are also called branches? The reason is obvious. They branch from the main power source and depend on it for electricity.

I look at the word branch and can’t help but hear the words of the Teacher, in one of the most serious conversations He ever had with His followers, telling them He was the source of all power and making it clear they must maintain a direct relationship with Him. (John 15:4)

I want to tell you He declared that He was the Main Breaker Box and they were the circuits.

Actually, He used the agricultural milieu they were accustomed to to explain, assuming the role of the trunk of the plant for Himself and assigning the part of the branches which fed directly from that trunk to His followers.

I’m sure He wouldn’t mind the adaptation to the reality in our day and age.

I wonder. Are we plugged directly and permanently into the Power Source? Directly into the Source? Or have we just dragged our extension cord over to plug in into one of the branch circuits, along with dozens of others?

Many in our day follow a man. They follow a sect—or a denomination—or even a certain doctrine. I’m not sure these are bad things. We’re just not intended to come to God through any of those things. Any of them.

He didn’t wire us into His grid in series.

Are you plugged in? Directly, plugged in? If your pastor, or mentor, or teacher messes up, will you be devastated and left directionless?

If we depend on men for our strength, it is a guarantee—an absolute guarantee—we will be left confused and wandering in the dark.

I’ll repair the broken wire to that one pickup tomorrow. The system will function again—for awhile. And, the guitar will end up on someone’s workbench again—mine or another shop’s.

Madness.

Time to find the Source.

Get plugged in.

“Oh dear,” said Jill, coming another step closer. “I suppose I must go and look for another stream then.”
“There is no other stream,” said the Lion.
(from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English educator ~ 1898-1963)

For there is one God and one mediator between God and mankind, the man Christ Jesus,
(1 Timothy 2:5 ~ NIV)

New Things

February 29, 2016November 2, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Open your eyes. I am going to do a new thing.

The voice in my head was as clear as if someone in the room had spoken. The only problem was no one else was there. The Lovely Lady had already left for her morning of work at the library.

I was by myself. There was not a soul in the house besides me.

I’m not a dreams and visions type person. I’ve always believed that God gives us wisdom and intelligence to follow the path laid out before us. As we make educated decisions, His Spirit guides us. Gently.

I never wanted to hear a voice in my ear as I awake in the morning. Well, except for the Lovely Lady’s telling me there are doughnuts to go with the coffee. . .

I would understand it if I had just been reading that specific chapter in the Bible right before retiring. Isaiah 43 is a powerful chapter, with reminders of who our God is, and what He intends to do. I’ve read the passage several times since that morning.

But, I hadn’t read it in ages. I don’t think it was put in my head by anything I had heard or read with a similar message.

The words just hung in the air.

A new thing? Really?

I don’t like new things all that much.

My shoes, I like comfortable and broken in. I’m using the same cash register at my music store I was using in the 1990s. It’s not that it’s a great piece of machinery, but I understand how to make it work, and that’s enough.

I like to eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with fried tuna patties every Thursday evening. Don’t ask me out to eat on Thursday. Comfort food night is almost like going to church. If I have my mac and cheese, I can almost believe everything is right with the world.

I don’t really care for new places, or new experiences, or new flavors.

I bought a bicycle the other day. It sat for two weeks before I even threw a leg over the saddle. Another two weeks later, I actually wheeled it out of the front door.

On Saturday, I put air in the tires and did something I had never done. I locked my shoes into the clip-less pedals and took a turn around the parking lot out front. I wasn’t happy to see a couple of big, burly fellows sitting on the roof across the street, working on the sign hanging there. I certainly didn’t want to look foolish to them.

But then, I got started pedaling and it seemed to go well. At first.

I actually thought the words as I rounded the lot for the first time.

See! I am doing a new thing!

Not for long did I keep that foolish thought in my head. You see, I quickly discovered that I knew nothing about changing the gears on this particular setup. It was right about that time I realized I would have to unlock my shoes from the pedals soon, too. Without falling over.

Bicycles have only two tires, you know. They don’t balance when they’re not moving forward. This one would come to a stop very soon, and I couldn’t remember which foot I had decided it would be best to put down first. I started to unclip the right foot, just as I slowed to a near stop. It was right about then I remembered I had decided I should unclip the left foot first.

It was also right about then the seat tube decided to slide down about six inches. Whump!

Did I tell you I was worried about looking foolish?

I looked foolish.

I hate it when I look foolish. Hate it.

And perhaps, we have actually uncovered why I dislike new things so much. Unfamiliar territory is territory where I make mistakes. I don’t appear intelligent and wise. I don’t impress.

I am embarrassed. Frequently.

I want it to stop. I am approaching sixty years old, an age at which I believe it is my right to retain my dignity at all times.

I shouldn’t be expected to learn new skills, to venture out on untried bridges, to balance on two micro-thin rubber tires while remembering which foot is which and which shifter changes what gear.

But tonight, I’m wondering—I who have declared in my brashest voice that I am a follower of the Son of God—I’m wondering what it means to really follow Him.

Is it enough that I have followed Him for these few years, the decades of youth and middle-age?

Is that enough?

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there? What then? Share on X

What if He says to me, Better things are waiting—out there—across the bridge?

Would I take the chance—the adventure—and strike out to a new and unknown field?

I’ve never been over there.

What if there are strange people?

Is the bridge safe?

Will I have plenty to eat, a warm place to stay, a comfy bed in which to sleep when I reach the end of each day?

On the best day fishing Peter and his partners had ever had—the best day—the Teacher told them He had better things for them to accomplish. (Luke 5:9-11)

They abandoned their boats and nets—and fantastic catch—on the shore and followed.

They followed.

A new thing.

Maybe it was only learning to ride a different bicycle for me. Perhaps, that will be the end of the matter.

Perhaps not.

Probably not.

I wonder. Could I cross the bridge, abandoning the comfortable, familiar place I’m in? I want to believe that I could.

I might look ridiculous—foolish even.

Would you laugh?

Or, would you cross it with me?

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at.

Companions on the road are nothing to sneer at. Share on X

I don’t know where we’re going yet.

He does.

It will be enough.

Do not remember the former things,
Nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I will do a new thing,
Now it shall spring forth;
Shall you not know it?
I will even make a road in the wilderness
And rivers in the desert.
(Isaiah 43:18, 19 ~ NKJV)

“Doubtless,” said the Prince. “This signifies that Aslan will be our good lord, whether he means us to live or die. And all’s one, for that. Now, by my counsel, we shall . . . all shake hands one with another, as true friends that may shortly be parted. And then, let us descend into the City and take the adventure that is sent us.”
(From The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ British novelist ~ 1898-1963)

Lost and Found

January 8, 2016January 8, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

He left the wallet. Just walked away from it.

The set of strings he needed for his guitar paid for, he inserted his debit card back into the slot. Folding the cloth-covered wallet closed, he walked to the back of the music store, carrying it still in his hand.

I didn’t notice the stray item until long after he had walked on down the road. Even then, I knew it was his.

How do you do that? Walk away from your wallet, I mean.

He took his little guitar. Strapped it over his shoulder carefully before opening the front door to the shop. Carefully.

The guitar is worth, perhaps, forty dollars.

He took the guitar, but left the wallet.

I looked in the wallet. There was no cash—not that I expected any. There were, however, several items I would not like to lose myself.

The debit card was there, for starters. How do you function without that? Perhaps the absence of cash in the wallet meant there was an ample supply of the same in his pocket. It seems though, that he would have used cash for a small purchase such as he had made earlier, if he had it.

No. The debit card was his connection to cash. He left that with the wallet.

There was a drivers license. How would he answer the nice policeman, when he said the words driver’s license and registration, please? How would he cash a check? It’s likely he’d need to, since the debit card was you-know-where.

There was a lot more. I didn’t sift through it all. The only reason I looked at all was to find a way to contact the man. I found nothing of the sort.

I did see one more thing though—an item, well two items, really—both more important that any of the others I found.

I found a photo of the man’s grandson. Then, one of his son. Treasure! Good-looking young men, both of them. How do you leave those behind?

Over two weeks ago, he left the wallet. Two weeks, and not one phone call. He never asked. Never.

Not even today, when he came back into the store to buy more strings.

I looked at him and smiled, knowing he’d mention the missing wallet soon. It had to be weighing on him heavily. Perhaps, he even felt guilty about neglecting to come back and retrieve the item. Surely, he’d mention it presently.

He never did.

I couldn’t stand it. I handed him the wallet, smiling expectantly.

He grinned sheepishly and said, “Oh, there it is. I wondered if I’d have to contact the bank soon.”

When his wife arrived to pick him up later, he didn’t even mention the wallet to her.

I’m confused. And, a little disappointed. Well? I wanted him to shake my hand vigorously and exclaim in a loud voice about the little cloth single-fold wallet and its contents.

It’s what I would have done.

Oh. There it is.

It’s not the epitome of relief—not the pinnacle of joy—is it?

I have more to say tonight, much more.

I want to talk about treasures we leave behind, purposely and accidentally.

I want to speak of our search for false treasure, while genuine treasure is staring us in the face.

I wish I could awaken the desire in each reader to seek that which has been lost for so long.

Still. The Teacher thought it enough to simply tell the stories of losing—and finding—that which had been lost. He was sure His listeners would understand His meaning. (Luke 15)

The red-headed lady who raised me always asked the same question when I was looking for something I had lost.

Where did you last see it?

It seems we lose many things over the course of a lifetime—love, joy, passion, purpose. Maybe, it’s time we began to seek them again.

I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that at the end of our search, whatever it is we seek, He’ll be waiting. After all, He’s the One who promised if we ask we’ll receive, if we seek we’ll find, and if we knock doors will be opened. (Luke 11:9-10)

Start where you last saw it. It’s sure to be close by.

Oh. A little enthusiasm when we find what was lost would be nice, too.

There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something.
(J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English educator/writer/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it?And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.
(Luke 15:8-10 ~ NIV)

From the Inside Out

January 4, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Of all the gifts, I’m thinking that I’m most thankful for the blank page of the moment just ahead, awaiting our first step into it, our first words coloring the empty space. Here is where the past and the future meet. This is the place where we set the memories, about which we’ll reminisce in years to come, into the history books of our minds.

Those words are especially apropos as we have just begun a new year. I have shared them before. But, as I consider that many will take those steps thoughtlessly and foolishly, I am almost tempted to repent of saying the words.

They were written as words of reassurance, drawing a picture of delight as the reader stands poised to make memories worth recording and celebrating far into the future.

I can’t help but realize they are no less true for those who step into the future with bitterness and rancor, writing their impending history with the uncaring destruction of bridges which can never again be traversed.

Then again, as I write (and think) tonight, I am reminded that it has ever been so. What is in the heart of men will make its way, however slow and inexorably, to the surface. Selfishness in the heart begets selfishness in words and in actions. Pettiness produces a like result.

The Teacher Himself said it clearly: Out of the contents of your heart, you will communicate. (Luke 6:45)

Later, one who had walked with Jesus repeated it when he suggested that a spring of salt water could not produce fresh water. (James 3:12)

We make our own choices about the history which will fill the empty page of the future when it is no longer the future.

I will not repent of the words. I’ll not wallow in despair.

Here is what I know:

The grace which has been extended to us is able to reach to the depths of our hearts. We have only to grasp hold of it and allow its work of renewal and refreshing to be completed.

No, we can’t go back and undo the past. The failures of those days still lie behind. But, they no longer have to be ahead of us, too.

The previous page is covered with yesterday’s actions and words, whether kind and constructive, or harsh and devastating. Ahead, still lies the future, clean as the artists canvas.

Our choice…More of the same, or a new direction.

Each moment, each action will determine the history which will one day be retold.

Choose well.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–I took the one less traveled by…
(from The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost ~ American poet ~ 1874-1963)

Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future…
(from Fly Like An Eagle by the Steve Miller Band ~ ca. 1976)

Raunchy

November 19, 2015November 19, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I was in a quandary. The nice young lady had asked me if I would play my horn with the pit orchestra for a musical at the local university. Flattered, and hopeful I would be able to cover the part, I agreed.

I would regret my decision very soon thereafter.

My personal preparation for the production (which ran for four nights) would involve many hours—painful hours—of practice. I’m an old man who has coasted for many years, playing easy, pretty things—the kind of music that makes folks sigh and exclaim that the French horn is their favorite instrument.

This wasn’t that kind of music. I wasn’t able to cover the part without the personal wood-shedding of the pieces over and over.

I wish that had been the hardest part of preparing for the production. It wasn’t. The hardest part had nothing to do with the music, or the time involved, or even the people who would participate with me.

It’s a raunchy story.

Raunchy.

The story of a demented man who wanders the countryside pretending to be a knight. It’s the story of people who steal what they want from fellow travelers. The demented knight is robbed and beaten, and he dies.

He dies.

All of that wasn’t a problem for me.

What was a problem was that one of the main characters, a serving lady in the inn, is also a prostitute. I didn’t like that she has a filthy mouth. I didn’t like that the songs seem to make light of the sinful state of the folks who populate the stage play.

I almost called the nice young lady and told her I couldn’t be involved in her production. You see, I’m not a raunchy person. I don’t want to be identified with that type of stuff.

I’m not raunchy. Right?

I didn’t call the nice young lady. Instead, I listened to a recording of the play one last time before making a decision. I sat through the fight in the inn’s courtyard as the knight sought to protect the serving lady’s honor, a laughable attempt at a vain undertaking, I thought. It was especially futile, given that the first man he did battle with had already paid the cash price the woman demanded for her services.

Moments later in the track, the crude musical explanation of who she knew herself to be left me nodding my head in agreement. She was crude, the crudeness almost overshadowing the shock of her being raped at one point during the story.

No. I just couldn’t do this. I couldn’t be a part of this thing. I would call the nice young lady in the morning and back out as gracefully as I could.

But the recording was still playing.

The mad knight would not be swayed. The lady, his dream of womanhood, could be none other than his sweet Dulcinea, even though she insisted she was neither pure nor sweet.

I never expected to cry.

It’s not a religious story. It’s a raunchy tale of twisted humanity.

And redemption.

Really. Redemption.

An impossible dream.

The prostitute becomes the lady the deluded knight envisioned.

How is that possible?

I cried every night of the production. Every night. As I played my horn, tears ran down my cheeks.

The story of mankind is a raunchy tale of twisted humanity. You may read the whole story in the Bible. Don’t say you haven’t been warned though.

The pages are populated by adulterers, prostitutes, murderers, liars, cheats, and thieves—to say nothing of insane kings and philandering judges.

Yes. The Holy Bible. The same Book that says, whatever is true, honest, just, pure, holy, these are the things to contemplate. (Philippians 4:8)

Here’s the thing: The raunchy tale of twisted humanity is also the story of a Holy God who looked at what was and saw what would be. A God who would take the flawed and filthy and make it pure and whole.

Redemption.

And, raunchy becomes righteous.

Somehow, we don’t want to talk about the dirty stuff. We avoid the filth—as if we’ve never been filthy ourselves. I sometimes wonder if it makes us feel better to think about how perfect we are, comparing ourselves with others who haven’t experienced His Grace. Or, perhaps it simply reminds us of hard truths and sad experiences we’d rather not remember.

But, this I know: Without the depravity—without the raunchiness, there would never have been the redemption. Without sin—no grace.

We do Him a disservice when we sweep the story under the rug, as if it never happened. We lie when we lead people to believe that we are any better than the rest of the raunchy world.

We discount the value of the astounding gift given us when we avoid the stigma of our past lives, as if it had never happened.

What a gift to a people who deserved nothing better than to wallow in their own filth!

Raunchy?

Once I was. Not any more.

Redeemed.

Redeemed.

“Once, just once, would you look at me as I really am?”
“I see beauty, purity. Dulcinea.”
(from Man of La Mancha ~ Dale Wasserman ~ American playwright ~ 1914-2008)

. . .just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless.
(Ephesians 5:25-27 ~ NIV)

Keep Walking

November 13, 2015November 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Yesterday was Windsday. I know, I know—that’s not how it’s spelled, but it is what happened yesterday.

My late father-in-law would have shoved the door open, leaves floating around his white hair, and announced that it was a bit air-ish out. He would have been right, too.

Throughout the whole day, the wind blew at least fifteen miles an hour, sometimes with sustained winds of over thirty. There were even a number of gusts blowing at almost fifty miles an hour.

Trash cans flew over, canvas signs flapped noisily, and the black walnuts falling on the tin roof made a racket like a kid throwing rocks at a stop-sign.

The black monsters in the back yard eventually got so tired of disengaging themselves from the debris and struggling to stay upright that they spent most of the day inside their doghouse.

I wasn’t as bright as the dogs. Needing to conduct business with one of my instrument technicians, I headed out into the blowing night after work. Flying in the same direction as the wind in my pickup truck, I hardly noticed it at all. It would be an uneventful evening ride.

That was before.

Before I turned the other direction to head for home. Before I felt the buffeting wind lifting the body of my truck.

Before I began to see things.

In the wind. I saw things in the wind. Coming right at me.

It is fall in the Ozarks and the leaves are barely clinging to the branches as it is. The blustery wind needed to do little persuading to convince the trembling foliage to turn loose. The problem is, I was driving into that gusting blast.

It wasn’t only leaves that attacked me. Plastic shopping bags of all sizes danced on the wind, spinning and diving madly. In front of me and beside me, they tore past, along with other unidentifiable objects.

It was, to say the least, disconcerting. I didn’t know whether to brake the truck and creep into the wind, or dodge the debris, swerving right and left, hoping against hope that there wasn’t something solid about to crash through my windshield.

I wasn’t the only one. The scariest moment on the twenty-five-mile drive home came on a busy four-lane highway, as all of us motorists scooted for our destinations at sixty or seventy miles an hour.

In the lane beside and just ahead of me, the car suddenly swerved toward the shoulder. Looking at the road right in front of where he had been, I saw a huge mound of some sort of reflective material. Relieved that he hadn’t hit it, I continued on.

Suddenly, I realized the mound was moving quickly into my lane, shoved over in his wake. Worried about the cars in the lane beside me and riding my bumper, I held my ground, heading straight for the object as I steeled myself for an impact.

Swish! The air-filled mass of flexible plastic sucked under my truck and blew up and over the cars following me.

Only a huge plastic bag blowing on the wind! Nothing more.

Say the word. Say the word and I’ll come.

The man nicknamed The Rock was speaking to his Teacher. Impetuous and not a little blustery himself, he was sure it would be safe.

The Teacher waved a hand. Come on, then.

You know the story. Peter walked on the water. Until he noticed something. No, it wasn’t the water. He was fine with that.

Walk on water? Pssssssh! Easy stuff!

No. He saw something else. It was there when he set out. It had been there when he blurted out his challenge to the Teacher to let him walk with Him. But, now it worried him.

The wind was blowing. Hard.

What if the Teacher hadn’t figured on that when He called him? What if the wind made him lose his balance? What if he got salt water in his eyes and couldn’t see where he was going?

What if?

The wind outside has stopped blowing. The weather system moved on to the east during the dark hours last night. It was sunny and warm by this afternoon.

Not so in my soul.

Inside there a storm was brewing. Events and conversations this morning stirred up the storm to an intense blast within a small amount of time. A hurricane of epic proportions.

It’s not my imagination. The storm is real.

I’m seeing things in the wind—Coming right at me.

Do I stop going the way I’m headed? Swerve off on a tangent? Go back?

You know what I’m going through, don’t you? You’ve been here, too. I suspect every one of us has been in the storm.

So—what of the options? Do we stop? Should we go a different direction? Maybe it’s time to just turn around.

No. None of those are any good.

The place we need to get to—Home—is out there, ahead of us.

I’ve thought of that old story I learned in Sunday School years ago a lot. Do you realize that the guys back there in the boat were in the storm, too? The wind was blowing stuff at them just as hard as at Peter.

They just weren’t out there with Jesus. They were still in the storm—still on their own.

Who was safer?

I think I’ll keep walking. Against the wind.

You, too?

WIND
Voiceless it cries,
Wingless flutters,
Toothless bites,
Mouthless mutters.
(J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English poet/author ~ 1892-1973)

“Goodbye,” said Eeyore. “Mind you don’t get blown away, little Piglet. You’d be missed. People would say, ‘Where’s little Piglet been blown to?’—really wanting to know.”
(from The House at Pooh Corner ~ A.A. Milne ~ English author ~ 1882-1956)

“Come,” he said.Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”
(Matthew 14:29-31 ~ NIV)

Can You See Jesus?

September 18, 2015September 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

Someday your heart will be asking, What will He do with me?

I grew up singing those words, the closing of a song entitled, What Will You Do With Jesus? I hadn’t thought about the song for a few decades.

A Catholic priest brought it to mind again today. I wish I could remember his name. I saw his words in print for a few seconds. The words are burned into my brain; his name, unfortunately, is not.

When you look at the refugees, can you see Jesus?

The news and social media have been full of the stories for the last few weeks. Refugees from the ethnic and religious purging in Syria have been displaced into surrounding Middle Eastern countries, a process which began almost four years ago. Now, they are pouring into Europe by the hundreds of thousands. There seems to be no end in sight for the crisis.

Over the last few days, I have seen many individuals claiming that it is our national responsibility to take in a large number of these refugees. The argument is that as Christians, we must do our part.

What would Jesus do?

I won’t argue with them. Time will tell what is to be done there.

I have bigger problems.

Or possibly, smaller ones.

I don’t want to talk about the millions of refugees. I don’t want to discuss the millions of babies being slaughtered by abortion. I don’t want to argue about which ethnic or civil group’s lives matter.

You think me cold? Insensitive?

I’m not.

It’s important to tackle the larger issues facing us as a nation—as a world—as people of faith. The problem is that, too often, our participation in that discussion is a cop-out.

You see, for most of us it’s just that—a discussion.

We talk. We get angry. We get self-righteous.

But, we never get dirty. Our hands never once touch the people who need a human touch. All we want to do is to make our point and win the debate.

And, when the government agencies have done their part, when the monies designated to give relief are delivered, when the temporary housing has been fabricated, we will breath a sign of relief and, with one last self-righteous toss of our heads, we’ll turn again to our clean, sterile lives.

We talk a good game, don’t we?

After all, that’s what the Teacher commended His good servants for, wasn’t it?

I was naked, and you gave money to UNICEF. I was sick and you checked to see where Doctors Without Borders were docking next. I was in prison and you signed petitions to the government for my release.

What? You don’t like my paraphrase?

Millions of refugees in the Middle East? Easy-peasy!

African-American brothers and sisters seeking justice in urban areas? You have my full support!

I read the words I have written and realize it seems as if I think we should abandon our concern for a world in need. I don’t.

I don’t!

But, what I know—know beyond any argument—is that we have been given tasks which require our hands to get dirty. When we finish the task we’ve been assigned, we will stink.

We don’t get to stand, like some politician who has just blinded the opposition with his brilliant rhetoric, clasping our hands above our heads in victory.

We get to stand, dejected in the rain as the ambulance pulls away, because the drug addict we tried to help just overdosed and lost her battle with the demons inside—and outside—her.

We get to sit on the edge of our elderly neighbor’s front porch, sweaty and exhausted, and look over the neatly trimmed landscape we’ve just finished mowing. After we had already done our own lawn.

We get to spend our Sunday afternoon with that young lady who has a black eye, finding a shelter for her and helping to fill out police reports.

We get to stand with an arm around the drunk man in the emergency room waiting area as, down the hall, his wife fights for her life after a failed suicide attempt.

The opportunities will never end. The people who need our touch—our touch, not our words—will stretch out from here to the end of our lives.

Because every single one of them looks like Jesus to us. Every single one of them.

The priest had the right idea.

And the Teacher said, “If you’ve done it to the least of these, you’ve done it to me.

The words still echo in my head. Forty years since I last sang them, and certainly with a different perspective, they still echo.

What will you do with Jesus?

Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing? When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’
(Matthew 25:37-40 ~ NLT)

Jesus is standing in Pilate’s hall,
Friendless, forsaken, betrayed by all;
Hearken! what meaneth the sudden call?
What will you do with Jesus?

What will you do with Jesus?
Neutral you cannot be;
Someday your heart will be asking,
“What will He do with me?”
(A B Simpson ~ Canadian theologian ~ 1843-1919)

The First Step

June 15, 2015June 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I don’t believe that dreams are prophecies.

Well, now that I’ve ostracized a good number of folks, let me qualify the statement. When I say dreams, I mean the normal sort. You know–the ones we have when we lie down to sleep at night. The ones made more vivid by that extra round of extra spicy Buffalo wings you had at dinner. Or, the scary movie which was splashed across the television screen as you sat and dozed in your easy chair.

It doesn’t mean dreams aren’t meaningful. They often are. When we sleep, our minds go where they will, no longer guided and controlled by our discipline and resolve. Things we already know about ourselves, but aren’t willing to think or talk about when awake, somehow can be revealed as images in our sleep.

I usually can’t remember what I dream about.

Usually. But, not last night.

Even before I was completely asleep, in the wee hours of this morning, I lay in bed and saw myself standing on the edge. No, not the edge of a cliff, although I have seen that image in my head before, both in real life and in dreams.

The edge I stood upon was that of a circular hole in the floor beneath me. The hole was large enough for a body to fit through comfortably. Funny thing, I could look down the hole and see that it was lined with a white pipe, almost like PVC.

I could only see about ten feet down the pipe and then it curved out of sight. Even in my half-awake state, I could feel my heart racing. In my dream, I backed away from the pipe. Then, drawn by some irresistible urge, I eased forward step by terrified step to peer downward once more.

I really dislike heights. Heights without handrails, that is. Give me a good grip on a handrail and I’ll look down from the highest cliff or the highest tower you could imagine. There was no handrail here.

It was just a hole. A hole that led somewhere–I couldn’t tell you where.

I knew it was a dream. I knew it. You know how your mind works. It seems real, but you know it can’t be. And besides, you’re lying in bed with the fan blowing on you.

It’s only a dream. Jump! What could happen?

No. Wait! What’s down around that curve? You have no idea what’s down there!

What if there’s no more to it than what you can see and it drops you into a bottomless pit (I hear those are real common in dreams)? You’ll fall screaming forever. All because you jumped into a hole you knew nothing about.

I considered the issues. Really.

In my dream.

I wondered–Is this the only way I’ll ever really make the transition from restless dreams to deep sleep? I have to trust myself to this tube that goes who-knows-where without any more information. If you think about it, we do it every night.

Mr. Tolkien talks about roads that sweep you off your feet to foreign lands. Sleep can do that too. Really.

Perhaps the mystery slide is representative of a major decision which I need to make. Life goals stand ready to be grasped, if only I’ll trust myself to the unknown depths. I’ll never get there if I don’t take the plunge.

Decision time. What will I do?

I take one last downward look and–I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go downstairs to get a drink. When I return ten minutes later, the slide is no longer to be found and I sleep.

Ah, wonderful sleep.

After attending church this morning, I came home to help the Lovely Lady prepare our traditional Sunday Dinner. The feast for family and friends has come to be a high point of our week. Food, discussions–escalating to disputes and then diminishing back to agreeable differences, jokes, and lovely memory-making are the stuff these times are made of.

There is a shadow over my memory of today’s feast.

As I helped prepare the table, my brother sent me a text. I wasn’t ready to read it yet.

“He doesn’t feel like she has a lot of time left.”

He is my Dad. She is my Mom.

Tears came to my eyes without warning. Even as I write these words, they come again.

Through my tears, I see that hole from my dream again.

I’m beginning to grasp it now.

You’ve seen them before, haven’t you? Extreme water slides. Thrill seekers flock to them every summer. The drop in altitude is what they love–that quick plunge, setting them free from gravity for just a fraction of a moment, long enough to wonder if they’ll ever stop in time to avoid disaster.

They know they will. It’s been safety tested. Why, they even climbed the tower right beside the tube, exclaiming all the while about where each twist and turn will take place. Pointing to the plastic pipe right beside them soaring up into the sky above, they know just where it starts and where it will end.

They know. And they’re happy to take the plunge.

Because they know.

The red-headed lady who raised me has been climbing for a good many years now. She’s had lots of company along the way, but there is just One who has always been there. Always.

The day is coming. Soon, it seems. No one can know for sure.

I can just see Him standing there smiling, asking her if she’s ready. I don’t know if she’ll be frightened, like I was in my dream. But, I do know her answer will be in the affirmative.

She’s ready.

He’ll wrap His strong arms close around her and they’ll take the first step together. She’s never done this before.

But, He has.

And, He knows.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
(1 Timothy 1:7 ~ KJV)

I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
Jesus died for my sins to atone
In the darkness I see he’ll be waiting for me
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone…
(I Won’t Have To Cross Jordan Alone ~ Thomas Ramsey ~ American songwriter)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Jesus