The World Changers are Living Just Next Door to Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World changer. It’s a strange term.

We both love and hate world changers.

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

Or, are they?

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

The programming is a lie.

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

I am a world changer.

You are, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Now, I don’t feel so good.

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

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

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

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

I wonder though.

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

Are we not all then, world changers?

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

The reality is we are changed to bring change.

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

Light, we are.

And salt.

World changers.

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

It’s okay to feel good about it.

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

They will serve. To build roads.

To change the world.

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

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

Summer is Passing

August 7, 2017August 7, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Church was full this morning. Everyone sat a little closer together. Everyone sang a little louder. There were more hugs, and more laughter afterward.

It all makes me a little sad.

That didn’t come out right. Maybe, I should explain.

The church is full because the teachers and professors are returning from their summer travels, their mission trips, their expeditions to expand horizons in their own minds so they can do the same for their students.

Hmmm. I seem to be making it worse instead of better.

I want to be very clear. I like the teachers and professors. I really do. It’s just that if they’re coming back, the students can’t be far behind.

Oh. That’s no better either, is it?

I love the students coming back, too. Really, I do. They fill the place with life and joy—optimism, even.

Let me give this one more shot, okay?

Their return (both teachers and students) means summer is almost over. Even the weather this week belies the calendar. Temperate days and cool nights have descended and rain has come back.

Oh, I know the summer weather will return with a vengeance. It always does in late August and September.

But, the thought is planted in my head and I can’t shake it. Summer is passing; already it’s nearly past.

And somehow, I feel like Alice’s White Rabbit clutching a pocket watch and muttering, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late.”

I never did find out exactly what the nervous hare was worried about being tardy for, but still, I can’t help thinking I haven’t accomplished everything I should have.

I mentioned it to the Lovely Lady a few days ago and she reminded me of all we’ve done this summer. I listened to her list and I had to smile. We covered some ground—we did. But, I wanted to do more.

I suppose it will always be that way. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, as Mr. Browning explained so well. But, I fall short so often.

I wanted to do more—and better.

I think of all the time wasted believing it couldn’t be done. You know—it. Whatever the new thing in front of me was.

I’ve never done this before. What if I mess it up?

I stood underneath the new ceiling fan with my son-in-law this afternoon and I had to laugh. He was bemoaning the fact that he has no confidence in working with electrical wiring. If he did, he would have a fan hanging from his ceiling as quickly as you could say downdraft.

I did. I laughed.

Man, electricity is easy! That over there—that’s what frightens me silly.

I jabbed a finger at the kitchen floor I am currently trying to cover with vinyl tile.

I’m not exaggerating, nor am I bragging. We purchased the materials for the job weeks ago. I stood for hours staring at the bare sub-floor before I could bring myself to even open the first box of tile.

Hanging the ceiling fan took half an hour. Less.

Yeah, but that stuff won’t kill you. The electricity could.

I laugh at his logic. He is right.

I like being in control. I enjoy doing things which make me look good to the folks around me. The problem is God doesn’t always give me assignments with which I’m comfortable.

When I want to stand in front of folks and speak of things with which I’m familiar, He tells me to climb under the house and repair the plumbing.

When I would rather repair a guitar with buzzing strings, He assigns me to pray with the man who’s just lost his wife of sixty years.

We waste a lot of time wishing He’d give us something else to do. I know I do.

I spend my breath—the breath He put in my lungs—attempting to convince Him I could be so much more use to Him doing the same things I’ve always done.

Moses said, What if they don’t listen to me? And God replied, Who do you think determines if people listen? Or see? Or speak? I will give you the tools! Just go! (Exodus 4:10-13)

Here we are again at the small end of the year. The hours of daylight are getting shorter.

And still, I stand and argue my case.

How much time I’ve wasted.

Is there still time? Yes. With Sam Gamgee’s old dad, I’ve said it many times—where there’s life, there’s hope.

It’s just time to quit stalling.

Or, as we used to say in those ball games we played in empty fields at the end of days full of activity:

Get a move on! The light’s going!

With the thought that summer might be running out comes a renewed urgency. Not much time now. Falling leaves are just around the corner. Hot cocoa and all things pumpkin flavored.

To everything, there is a season.

I want to use the breath He gave me for the purposes He intended it for. Today.

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What’s that in your hand?

It’s time to use it. You might want to get a move on.

The light’s going.

We are not as strong as we think we are.
We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.
And, with these our hells and our heavens
So few inches apart,
We must be awfully small
And not as strong as we think we are.
(Rich Mullins ~ American singer/songwriter ~ 1955-1997)

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.
(Ecclesiastes 9:10 ~ KJV)

Sometimes, I Like Surprises

August 4, 2017August 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The Lovely Lady saw it first. She usually does.

Look! A surprise lily!

By and large, it is not the season in our part of the country for brilliant blossoms on plants, the bountiful spring rains having mostly deserted us in this sweltering summertime heat. The ground is parched and crunchy—the latter being the sound the vegetation makes underfoot when one takes a shortcut through the yard.

But, sure enough, right near the driveway, where once there was a flower garden, the bare stem towers above the crunchy grass, gorgeous purple blooms standing proudly on top.

It is properly called a lycoris. We just call them surprise lilies, when we don’t call them naked ladies, the latter a description, not of anything risqué, but of the way the stem shoots up from the ground bare of any leaves whatsoever.

Every year they surprise me, although I can’t think why. Well, perhaps a reason or two will occur to me in time, but by now you’d think I’d simply mark my calendar. Late July and early August—like clockwork, you might say—the various-colored trumpets poke their heads out. Every year.

I would have told you it couldn’t happen this year.

Besides the dried up vegetation from the heat of the last few weeks and the lack of precipitation, which should have been enough to discourage their appearance, I did my part to guarantee this particular stand of lilies would never surprise me or anyone else, ever again.

I said they grew from the spot where once a garden grew. Twenty years ago the flower garden held a prominent place in that yard. It was tended by my father-in-law, who kept the encroaching weeds and volunteer trees— pin oaks, maples, and sweetgum, to name a sampling—from taking root where the roses and lilies resided.

Over the intervening years, the garden had become a tangled mess of weeds, vines, and trees, so we mowed them down. Not only that, the volunteer trees were lopped off at ground level to make it possible to keep them under control for the foreseeable future.

The flower garden was erased from the face of the earth. Literally. We thought.

To further ensure that the sneaky lilies never popped up unexpectedly again, although that wasn’t my express motivation, this past spring I spent hours with a mattock chopping out roots and stumps. The ground around was pulverized—torn up like a war zone.

No surprise lilies this year!

Boy, was I in for a surprise!

The exclamation was no sooner out of the Lovely Lady’s mouth than I headed over to see this miracle for myself. True, no more than a solitary array of blooms was visible, but I’ll wager tomorrow there will be three.

Out of the parched ground, covered in crunchy grass and weeds, the beauty from the hand of the Creator stands, proudly exclaiming its victory.

Victory over me. Well, victory over my doubt, anyway.

When all is dark and hopeless, light creeps in and taps us on the shoulder.

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Surprise!

I’m remembering a road trip many years ago through the Gila National Forest in New Mexico. With the Lovely Lady and our youngsters, we had taken the scenic route after visiting Carlsbad Caverns on our trip west. I had hoped to be off of the winding two-lane road before dark, but we had lollygagged along for too many miles, as we admired and exclaimed about the beauty of creation.

With foreboding thoughts, I watched the hot summer sun dip toward the western horizon. We’d never reach the interstate highway before dark. Never.

Sure enough. We dipped into a valley as the sun dropped down on the western edge of the mountains. Dark.

Then, we started up the other side of the valley. I had no hope of seeing the sun again. Still, there it was—shining brightly—until we dropped down into another valley.

Each time we topped the next incline, the sun was there as if it had been in view all along. Broad daylight.

Every time we started down into another valley, it disappeared completely from view. Darkness surrounded us, just like night time.

Finally, we came onto a sort of plateau, up on top. In daylight, we saw the marking for the interstate highway up ahead. In daylight—still—we turned onto the four-lane and drove off into the sunset.

It was a surprise every time the sun appeared again, a pleasant one. I had been convinced we were staying in the dark for the rest of the curvy, two-lane road. Every time, I was convinced. I was wrong.

I like surprises. That kind of surprise, anyway.

But, here’s the thing. In very much the same way as I know the lilies in the front yard will pop up at the same time next year, I knew the sun was still there. I knew it.

Why was it such a surprise when the light shone on us again?

We let our dread overshadow the hope, the reality we know to be true.

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Time and again, we descend into the darkness, believing we’ll never rise above it, ever again.

Can I make you a promise? It’s not me standing behind the promise, but the Creator of all that is.

We who once lived in darkness are assured that the light—His light—will shine upon us. (Isaiah 9:2) It is a certainty.

He is our sun as well as our protection from danger and is giving us every good thing constantly. (Psalm 84:11)

Why so surprised?

It’s almost as if we’ve come to expect darkness and gloom.

But, in the darkest night, with the storm raging, His light guides and He gives peace. Still.

With a word, He calms the storms. Still.

He who was before time began hasn’t lost any of His power. He still holds all of creation together. (Colossians 1:17)

Right down to those surprise lilies.

Right down to surprising us with light—precisely when we need it.

I like surprises.

You?

Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord, who rises
With healing in His wings:
When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
to cheer it after rain.
(William Cowper ~ English poet ~ 1731-1800)

Living in the Light

August 2, 2017August 2, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

The ghosts in the old house have been disturbed and are keeping me awake.

No, not like the ghosts of movie fame—nor even poltergeists or apparitions in chains. I mean those people who once were part of my life, but who only live here now in my memory.

Sometimes I wonder if I have awakened them, causing them, in turn, to interrupt my own sleep. It’s only a thought, of course, not borne out by facts.

Still. Here I am—awake.

I wrote of old light fixtures being made new to shine brightly the last time I shared my thoughts here. Since then, something’s been niggling at the edges of my mind. And, it’s not just the ghosts—although they have a good deal to do with it, truth be told.

I sat at a table in a restaurant with my children tonight, both adults, long since. Showing them photos of the light fixtures we are putting back up in the house their grandparents lived in for most of their lives, I expected my offspring to exclaim about their memories of the fixtures.

They didn’t. Not at all.

I couldn’t have told you that was on the ceiling in that house, Dad.

The other one nodded his head.

Never saw it.

How is that possible?

Many hours of their childhood were spent in that house. They played. They worked. They ate. Surely, in all that time, those light fixtures were powered up and the light shone from them. Surely.

I know it was so. On any number of occasions, as we pulled into the drive to visit, the light blazed out from the windows, welcoming us in from the dark.

How could they not have noticed the fixtures?

As I consider the issue, a light begins to glimmer in my own brain. In a moment, the notion is blazing as brightly as any of those ceiling lights ever did.

You see, on the first few occasions the light switch is turned on, if a fixture is particularly attractive, folks might notice and, perhaps, even be overwhelmed with the beauty. But, after the process is repeated day after day, night after night—for weeks, months, years even—we forget about the light fixture on the ceiling and simply live in the light.

We simply live in the light.

We don’t see the implement anymore.

We see only what is produced. The thing necessary for life—light—fills the house. Absolutely fills it.

And, that’s as should be.

It is true in more than just our physical, everyday needs. The light we require for our faith life is very much the same in the way it works.

We are, indeed called to shine. But, the purpose is that the watching world will see (and praise), not us, but the God who shines through us. (Matthew 5:16)

John—the one also called the Baptist, said it succinctly: He must increase and I must decrease. (John 3:30)

In the old house we’re taking the light fixtures which have kept the shadows at bay for the generation past, and are doing what is necessary to keep the shadows away for the generations in the future.

The same is true for the spirit life of our families and fellowships. Saints of old, faithful in walking with the Savior, have lit the way for successive generations. We can do no less than take up the same light and share it into the future.

Light from the past, shining into the future.

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We’ll leave the light on for you.

It’s not an original thought, and others before us have actually made the promise and kept it. To do the same will take a lifetime of faithfulness from us.

A lifetime.

It’s time we were started.

Flip the light switch!

Live in the light.

Lighthouses don’t fire cannons to call attention to their shining—they just shine.
(Dwight L Moody ~ American evangelist ~ 1837-1899)

And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light. The nations will walk in its light, and the kings of the world will enter the city in all their glory.
(Revelation 21:23-24 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

Of Advent—and Spit

December 5, 2016December 5, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Oh, that’s just gross! Why do you guys have to do that on the floor?

It was about this time of year, a few years past.

My little brass group had just finished practicing and were quickly moving our chairs and stands off the stage. The choir had a rehearsal scheduled right after us and we wanted to be out of their way. The young man speaking was one of several moving equipment back into the space we were vacating.

I looked at the floor, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Quizzically, I looked at the young man.

He gestured in a wide circle, indicating spots of liquid standing in close proximity to where the chairs had been moments ago.

“This—this—spit! What is it with brass players?”

He shuddered once for effect and turned away without waiting for an answer. The instrumentalists around me who had heard the exchange laughed, a condescending dismissal of the young vocalist’s squeamishness.

Yes. I want to talk about spit.

It’s a conversation I’ve been waiting to have for many years.

No one has ever wanted to discuss the matter with me. I wonder why that is.

Perhaps, I should begin by explaining the liquid which is left on the stage when wind players complete their performances or rehearsals. The liquid is not spit.

That’s right. Not spit.

It’s merely condensation. It’s what occurs when you blow warm, moist air into a cold metal tube. Almost exactly what happens when you enter a cold automobile on a winter’s evening. The windows fog up. Do you call that moisture on the windshield spit? Of course not.

So. The irate young man was wrong. Only condensation—not spit.

But still, I would like to talk about spit.

On a day in the music store not long ago, a mother stood with her brood of children, awaiting her turn at the checkout. She looked down at the oldest of the four urchins and noticed a black mark on his cheek.

Without hesitation, she licked her thumb and rubbed his skin. The black mark didn’t disappear, but it was less noticeable than before.

The same couldn’t be said for the young man’s indignation.

“Did you just put spit on my face?” He sputtered in his frustration. “Why would you do that?”

The mother’s attempt at an explanation was only met with more disgust, and the young man stalked out to the parking lot to await his family in solitude. He turned his face to glare back at the group as he exited. The black mark was still there—smudged, but very much in evidence.

My mind goes back again.

I remember hearing the story when I was a child, not much older than that indignant young man. You may find it in the book of John in the Bible. (John 9)

The blind man stood, as he always had, waiting for something. Something. But, he didn’t know what it was he awaited.

He had always been blind. From the day he had arrived, squalling and screaming, light had never passed from his eyes to his brain. Never.

He didn’t ask for anything. He just waited.

The Teacher let His followers argue the existential questions for a moment or two. Why? Who? How?

They were the wrong questions.

Jesus had been sent to bring light to the world. Here was His big opportunity.

Time to impress with big words and ostentatious prayers. He would wave His hands in the air and—Wait! What is He doing?

He spit in the dirt.

Spit. In the dirt.

Then He mixed up some mud and, hands filled with the gross mixture, stood and slathered the slimy stuff on the blind man’s unseeing eyes.

“Did you just spit in my eyes?”

The words aren’t recorded, but one wonders. Did the man hear the Teacher spit on the ground? His ears, acutely trained to be his guide since he had no eyes, must have heard. They must have detected the sound of dirt being mixed with the spit, and then recognized the rustle of robes, as the Master stood again.

Did he back away, putting his hand up to keep the ghastly stuff off of him?

No. He stood, listening to the Man speak, giving His instructions. He went, still blind, and washed the mud from his eyes.

What an astounding result!

Light, pure and clear, streamed through the once useless orbs. Familiar voices spoke to him and, for the first time in his life, he put faces with the voices.

He saw his home! And his family!

Light shone in darkness—just not in the way anyone would ever have anticipated.

Spit. What a gross thing!

Why would Jesus have used spit, of all things?

I have no answer.

I do know this. We who believe are even now in the time of year we call Advent.

Waiting.

Waiting for the Salvation of God to appear.

Just a warning. It won’t be pretty.

Or sanitary.

Not even a little sanitary.

A baby will be born in a barn, among the filth and stench. Dirty shepherds will come, not clean and freshly bathed, but straight from the dust and filth of caring for their livestock. Stinking and crusted with grime.

The end of the story won’t be any more sanitary. Bloody and sweat-covered, nailed to a cross of wood, He will die.

It won’t be pretty. It won’t be romantic. It won’t smell good, with aromatic candles fluttering in the breeze.

The little boy in my store didn’t understand that his mom wanted only for him to be clean. All he saw was the spit.

I wonder. We’re waiting.

With the blind man, we’re waiting—for light.

It might not be as pretty as we’d like. Perhaps not as dramatic, either.

A baby who is born in a barn can’t be all that powerful, can He?

His light comes softly, and in unexpected ways.

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I think I’ll stand here and wait.

You?

We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

…but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong, and the base things of the world and the despised God has chosen,the things that are not, so that He may nullify the things that are, so that no man may boast before God. But by His doing you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, and righteousness and sanctification, and redemption, so that, just as it is written, “Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord.”
(1 Corinthians 1:27-31 ~ NASB)

Away From the Light

July 25, 2016July 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The choral professor sat on the stool in the music store, one afternoon decades ago, choosing his words with care.

“I teach on a campus filled with light. Where is the darkness into which I’m to shine?”

I didn’t know the answer. I did know one thing:

I didn’t like where the conversation was headed.

I like the light. It’s where I’m most comfortable. I can rest easy; cares and worries don’t touch me there.

Dark is dismal. It’s frightening. There are unknown creatures in the dark—terrors I can feel, but cannot see.

And yet, the dark is where we’re called to minister.

The music professor didn’t stop with asking the question. I was sure he wouldn’t.

He packed up his family and found a dark place in which to shine his light many miles away from the comfort and clarity of his former life. Instead of the city of light at which he had served, he was forced to shine his lonely light on the pathway in a place where almost no one carried any light at all.

It has been many years since the conversation. The professor has long since passed over into that place where light is ever shining.

Can you imagine how brightly his light shined in that dark place? Think how dramatic the distinction must have been! A match lit in pitch-black darkness can seem almost blinding.

His words still haunt my thoughts.

No great quest is ever played out in the light of day. Darkness—that’s where fierce battles are waged.

The blackest holes imaginable are the delivery rooms for the most brilliant of all victories.

And yet, we don’t begin our journey from those black pits. No. From homes blazing in light and meeting places shining with the brilliance of the sun at its apex, we must set out.

With conscious forethought we turn our backs on the light places and stride into the darkness, carrying only the light we’ve been given.

It’s a frightening journey—no part more terrifying than the first step we take.

And yet, the path through the darkness is of utmost importance.

Our destination has never been on this side of the darkness, but always on the other. We are bound for a better place, but there is ground to be covered before we arrive there.

The inhabitants of this dark world will never know the meaning of God’s light if not for us in their presence. Those who stumble through the darkness will never see light if we never walk beside them.

We are the lamps set on the lamp stand, not under the basket. (Matthew 5:15)

We are the stars that shine in the universe. (Philippians 2:15)

We know that darkness and evil are the hallmarks of existence in a fallen world. Yet somehow, our spirits quell at the prospect of leaving these places of light our Creator has privileged us to experience.

In a sense, you might say light is dangerous. We humans are gluttons, never satisfied with what we need, but demanding what we want.

We would stay in the light, soaking it all up ourselves for a lifetime, if we could. Indeed, some of us never set foot outside our fortresses of illumination.

The day will come—it will—when all is light. Until that day, we shine as His lights in the blackness of an ever-darkening world.

If we don’t, who will?

Backs to the light, we carry the light into a world that cries out without any clue of what it needs. In desperation—and darkness—they seek first one way, then another, for that which we hold in our hands.

It’s not our light. There is enough of it to illuminate the pathway ahead, but it shines to draw those around us.

To Him. The light draws them to Him.

A borrowed light. And yet, it shines through us.

We, who have been brought into the light of day, are sent back into the darkest, deepest night.

Dare the quest!

Take the leap!

By far, more is lost in basking comfortably in the sanctuary of light and warmth than by venturing forth into the dark unknown.

The world around us is getting darker. We can see it happening.

The light will be the brighter for it.

It’s time to turn our backs to the light.

It’s time for us to journey toward the light.

And, yet for all the leaving from and journeying toward, we walk in the light.

Still.

…if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.
(1 John 1:7 ~ NASB)

Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would have never come, had I known the danger of light and joy.
(The Fellowship of the Ring ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist ~ 1892-1973)

So carry your candle, run to the darkness
Seek out the helpless, confused and torn
Hold out your candle for all to see it
Take your candle, and go light your world.
Take your candle, and go light your world.
(Go Light Your World ~ Chris Rice ~ American singer/songwriter)

He Still Hangs the Moon

July 22, 2016July 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The cares of this life are thieves. They rob from us while we watch, eyes trained on their every move.

I wish I could tell you I am too much a veteran of their schemes to be taken in anymore. At this time of life one would imagine experience has taught me its lessons, and all danger of being victimized is past.

One would be wrong.

For some time now, I have allowed those rascally cares to run amok in my soul, robbing me blind.

Really. Blind.

It is what they crave. The little creations of our tiny imaginations and self-centered natures are themselves blind to the reality of joy that fills our lives as humans made in the image of a loving God.

And, you know what they say.

Well, the red-headed lady who raised me said it all the time anyway, so I assume it must be true:

Misery loves company.

If the little monsters can’t see joy and truth, they are determined to steal the ability from anyone foolish enough to afford them shelter and sustenance.

And so, with my permission, they have been at work again in my own soul.

At times when they work their craft, the darkness is profound. The black of this night is, I think, made all the more encompassing by my willing participation in the malfeasance.

An evening or two ago, as light shone brightly—too brightly for me—in my house, I crept to my office to let the thieves practice. While the Lovely Lady and our guests worked and laughed and played happy music, I sat alone in the dark and pulled the misery over me like a blanket.

After the lights were finally extinguished at the house and all were asleep in their beds I left my office and, blindly walking hand in hand with the little unseeing pickpockets, headed toward home.

Three words. Really. Just three.

I know folks who hear a voice that speaks whole volumes. Entire poems. Sometimes, they carry on conversations with the voice.

Me? I get three words.

Lift your head.

I know. It seems a bit inadequate, doesn’t it? It’s kind of like saying chin up to a guy heading to the gas chamber.

Lift your head.

Then I noticed it. All around me, in what is normally a pitch black yard, the air fairly glowed with light. Long shadows were cast by the tree branches above me.

I lifted my head.

The brilliant and huge full moon hung almost directly above, washing the night time world in its reflected light. It was astoundingly beautiful.

He still hangs the moon. Every night.

He still wakes the sun every morning and sends it on its daily rounds.

I’ll admit it. The notion isn’t all that scientific, nor is it an accurate description of what actually takes place.

Still, it is His power that keeps all of creation doing what it was designed for. (Colossians 1: 6-17)

The realization struck me as powerfully as those beams of light had just seconds before.

His plan is still in place. I’m part of that plan.

His plan is still in place. I'm part of that plan. Share on X

I’m part of that plan!

Every one of us is.

I looked back down to check on my cares, but all the little felons had disappeared. They can’t stand to be in the company of light. Just as in nature, the darkness of doubt and despair flees at the coming of light.

I’m not naive. Darkness will come again. It always does.

Cares will crowd around to steal again. They always do.

But the truth is, light will come again as well.

It always does.

He still hangs the moon.

And, not just for me.

Lift your head.

But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
my glory, the One who lifts my head high.
(Psalm 3:3 ~ NIV)

‘Now, lord,’ said Gandalf, ‘look out upon your land! Breathe the free air again!’

. . .Suddenly through a rent in the clouds behind them a shaft of sun stabbed down. The falling showers gleamed like silver, and far away the river glittered like a shimmering glass.

‘It is not so dark here,’ said Théoden.
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~ English novelist/poet ~ 1892-1973)

The Magical Sky Fairy

January 25, 2016January 25, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 7 Comments

Thinking that some magical sky fairy will take care of your problems is a problem in itself.

The words appeared in my Twitter feed today in response to a recent article I posted there. I have seen them before, or at least similar words.

The young lady who wrote them doesn’t believe in God. She is not alone in her unbelief.

I want to strike back. Ugly words come in response to her mocking ones. I can’t help it. They rise without permission—a natural reaction from a human standpoint.

Immediately, I realize I will never say them. It is not who I am—or, more to the point—not the person He is making me. But, I want to examine her motivation, to wonder publicly why someone who claims there is no God would be so vigilant to mock those who believe in Him. Perhaps, I should write about that.

But I wonder. I wonder.

What if this is not about her? Do I really believe in some sky fairy? Is that what God is to me?

Click your heels together three times and repeat the words, there’s no place like home.

Is that all this is? Is it all humbug? Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!

My mind races as I review the evidence. I want desperately to be able to speak intelligent and convincing words. I know I’m supposed to be ready to give an answer—to explain the hope I have deep inside.(1 Peter 3:15)

But then, I remember that I can’t convince anyone; it’s not my job. I will give the answer. That is my job.

The convincing? That’s way above my pay grade. (John 16:8)

So? Is it real? Do I live as if it is?

A few weeks ago, I came back from my childhood home with treasures. They are items which have little value to any other human being on this planet, but which are priceless to me. My memories are tied up in many of them.

Last Sunday, three generations of my family gathered, as we do each week, to sit around the dining room table and make new memories. I thought perhaps it was time to inject an old one into the conversation.

As I prepared the table earlier, I cleaned and filled a glass and aluminum container with little white granules. Then I set the old salt shaker down in the center of the table to await the arrival of our guests.

Five generations. Five generations of my family have used that salt shaker now. I flavored mashed potatoes and vegetables from that shaker at my grandmother’s table when I was not even as old as my youngest grandchild is now.

Five generations. Lovely folk I have personally interacted with. Members of each of those generations have asked their questions and made their decisions to follow the same God. I’m sure there were others before them. I trust there will be more to follow.

Wanting to save a photo of the shaker on the table, I set it out the other day. As I snapped the shutter, I noticed the reflection on the table’s surface.

I can’t help it. My brain just works that way. The mental picture was more real to me than the actual photo.

Salt. Light.

The Teacher made it clear that His followers were exactly that. Salt. And light. Salt to help preserve the world. Light to show them the way. (Matthew 5:13-16)

We must keep our lives fresh and relevant. We can’t hide the light that shines from within us, or fade into the background.

Funny. The instructions I remember better right now have to do with the words we say. Let speech be flavored with grace, as though seasoned with salt. (Colossians 4:6)

The other instructions have to do with how we act. In the middle of a world bent on evil and twisted living, we need to shine like stars beaming out of the blackness of the universe. (Philippians 2:15)

It’s real. The God I follow is not fake, not made up. Of that, I am convinced.

I’ve asked the questions. Again. And again. I’ve asked the questions and had them answered. Like those before me and those who are coming after me, I believe because I’ve seen the evidence in walking, talking witnesses. Folks who are salt and light.

I will follow in their footsteps, because others are following in mine.

And others are watching from a distance.

They are watching. And mocking.

And perhaps, asking their own questions.

I hope it’s not too much to ask if they can be preserved long enough to see the light shining in their own darkness.

I want to be salt. And light.

You?

Conduct yourselves with wisdom toward outsiders, making the most of the opportunity.Let your speech always be with grace, as though seasoned with salt, so that you will know how you should respond to each person.
(Colossians 4:5-6 ~ NASB)

Grace must find expression in life, otherwise it is not grace.
(Karl Barth ~ Swiss theologian ~ 1886-1968)

Beauty and Chaos

January 19, 2016January 19, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

He’s doing an art project.

An art project.

Only two months ago, his little boy died.

Today, he’s working at making something beautiful.

I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around this one. I have a few questions.

Does God feel sadness? How is it that He keeps giving us beautiful things, long after we, made in His image, have hurt and destroyed others, also made in His image?

Long after we killed His only Son.

Why would He continue to bring us each new gorgeous dawn—each new colorful Spring—He who upholds all with the power of His hands? (Colossians 1:16-17)

Does He feel sadness?

His Son did, as He walked on the earth. I’ve told you before of one of my favorite verses in the Bible. I’ve committed it to memory. Even now, I can remember it word for word.

Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

Along with His followers, He felt intense sadness. He had no fear of lessening His influence on them by allowing them to see His tears. There was no embarrassment in showing His emotional state.

Yet, He was the embodiment of His Heavenly Father. The exact image. (Colossians 1:15-16)

God feels sorrow.

He feels sorrow, yet He continues to astound us with beauty.

Me? I mope when I’m sad. I sit in my chair and sigh pitifully. I gripe and I grouse, lashing out at those around me.

Work on an art project when I’m down? Produce things of beauty when I hurt? Hardly.

He does.

The young artist/father I visited with in my business today does, too. He, in the midst of the storm, turns to creativity to bring beauty out of his chaos. Then, when the art project fizzles, he makes music.

From the ashes of catastrophe, he draws out beauty.

It doesn’t mean the pain of loss isn’t ever-present—a shadow lurking on the fringes. He just refuses to wallow in it, to let it have the reins of his existence.

The sun didn’t show its face today in the sky. The gray day worked its way into my spirit in much the same way the cold crept into my bones But in my store, the brilliant illumination couldn’t be cloaked.

Light overcomes darkness. Always.

Always.

Maybe it’s time for us to give the dark times to a God who still makes beauty from darkness.

Give your dark times to a God who still makes beauty from darkness. Share on X

I’m thinking brighter days are ahead.

Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness.
(Martin Luther King Jr. ~ American pastor/civil rights activist ~ 1929-1968)

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
(Genesis 1:2-4 ~ KJV)

Shadows

December 23, 2015December 23, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Winter Solstice.

Here, in the northern hemisphere, it is the shortest day in the year. Throughout the winter, because of the earth’s tilt on its axis, the sun is not visible in the sky overhead for as long each day. Shorter days equals colder weather. Theoretically.

On this shortest of the short days in this year, the wind is blowing a gale out of the south. Rain, says the weatherman. Tornadoes, others whisper ominously. Listening, some will be afraid. I shrug my shoulders. What may come, may come.

Or, it may not.

In my experience, mostly they don’t come. Worry won’t change the odds, either way.

Funny. It’s not the big things, the disasters, that cause me the most problems.

Shadows. I worry about shadows.

I remember watching the shadows as a skinny little urchin under the heat of the South Texas sun. Early in the morning, we rushed to beat the daylight to the fishing hole, trusty Zebco rod and reels slung over our shoulders. We hoped to be fishing before our shadows could be cast across the feeding place of the perch we sought. No doubt it was childish imagination, but we were positive the shadow would spook the fish, guaranteeing a morning devoid of the victorious shouts echoing along the banks: I got one!

Then again, in the evening as we ambled toward home down the long avenue, our shadows would stretch for yards, as the sun dropped down to the western horizon. Shadows meant the day was over. That could only lead to one thing. We were never ready to go to bed. Never.

Ah, but in the middle of those wonderful, carefree days? No shadow was cast by the sun at all. High above us, the brilliant yellow sun was all light. We moved, unencumbered with the dark appendage following or leading.

In the middle of such a day, who would worry about the coming night? It (and its shadows) were endless hours away.

But the skinny urchin is an old man now, living many miles north of that childhood home. In winter, the shadows are long during all of the daylight hours. All of them.

Just last weekend, as I lazed in the sunlight, I glanced over at my backyard companions. It was midday, yet the shadows cast by my canine buddies lying nearby stretched toward the north, looking for all the world like the going-home-shadow of the westering sun on the backs of those boys, all those years ago.

Somehow though, the shadows I dread in winter aren’t only those springing from the southern-fleeing sun. There are other shadows, not explained by scientists or weather maps, that gather thick as the year ebbs.

Imagined or not, the shadows creep, as the nights grow longer, deep into the soul. Whispering at first, they warn of impending loss and sorrow. Soon the shadows are all we see; their threatening voices fill our hearing with raspy, wailing torment.

Why is it, do you suppose, the Church fathers chose December, the month of shadows, for the celebration of the coming of brilliant Light to all the world? It is not likely that we celebrate the event at the time of year it actually happened. And, it really doesn’t alter the reality of the marvelous story.

Still, I wonder—why this month?

Oh, but what a contrast! Night and Day!

The shepherds felt the contrast. We’ve heard it so many times, we don’t really think about it. In the dead of the night, every shadow fled from the field in which they lay. (Luke 2: 8-12)

The glory of the Lord shone round about them?

Sounds like the shadows were nowhere to be found. As with the South Texas midday sun, the light blazed. Absolutely blazed.

Uh. They were afraid. Really afraid. I think that’s what sore afraid means. Maybe even really, really afraid.

And the angels told them they had nothing to fear. Nothing. This kind of thing—this blazing light at midnight—was about to be the norm. The Baby, the one they would find lying in a manger, had come to bring light. To all people, He would bring the noonday sun into their midnight darkness.

To all people

The light has shined in the darkness. It will never be truly dark again. (John 1:5)

And the shadows? Well, they’re just—just—shadows. No substance, only threats. With the coming of Light, they slip away, as if they never really were there.

Light trumps darkness every time.

Even in the short, gloomy days of winter. Maybe, especially then.

Worship Christ, the newborn King.

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.
(2 Corinthians 4:6 ~ NIV)

She bore to men a Savior, when half-spent was the night.
(from Lo How a Rose, E’er Blooming ~ German carol ~ ca. 15th Century)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

light

The World Changers are Living Just Next Door to Me

Summer is Passing

Sometimes, I Like Surprises

Living in the Light

Of Advent—and Spit

Away From the Light

He Still Hangs the Moon

The Magical Sky Fairy

Beauty and Chaos

Shadows