Standing Out

December 18, 2018December 18, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was, I want to believe, a profound moment of joy in the season of the same.

I want to believe that. But, I’m the guy who looks on events and thinks he sees the truth when what’s really happening in the secret places is entirely the opposite. I look at the image in the mirror and see a mature sixty-something man who is comfortable in his skin, but all it takes is two seconds of looking into the depths of my heart and the nerdy, twitchy fifteen-year-old is staring at me again through the wild eyes of terror.

Still, it must have been a profound moment. It must have been.

We’ll see. Others will judge.

Sunday morning. This confident, mature man had played the instrumental prelude with the Lovely Lady and then taken his place on the stage to sing with the worship team. It was the second run-through, having already gone through it all in the early service that morning. There was no need to stay in the sanctuary for a sermon he’d already listened to, so out into the foyer he went after the last song of the set.

Oh, yes! I had really enjoyed the group who sang during the offertory during the first service, so I headed back in for another quick listen. Standing at the back entrance, as the ushers quietly made their way through the crowd, I was not disappointed the second time, either.

The modern setting of Longfellow’s I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day was very well done. The singers and instrumentalists were practiced and competent. Very nice.

There was a movement to my left and in front of me a few rows. I glanced over, watching the young man rise to his feet. Surrounded by folks sitting comfortably, he stood up straight and, moved by the music and the text, raised his hands and his face to the ceiling and he worshipped.

As the folks on stage sang of peace on earth, the teen-aged boy stood in the crowd all alone. As the rest of the people present sat watching and listening, he participated.

What a brave young man. I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t agree. He was oblivious of the people around him; he wasn’t standing for them. Still, I never would have had the courage. For all of my inability to fit in in other ways as a teenager, I never had what it took to stand up while they sat down. I was the nerdy, twitchy fifteen-year-old staring at you through the wild eyes of terror, remember?

I always just melted into the crowd. Always.

Perhaps, I’m making more of the event than I should. And yet, I know I was moved. Tears filled my eyes as the young man worshipped the Prince of Peace.

Peace on Earth.

Oh. I forgot to include one detail. It seems important to me, too.

I watched the boy standing alone, arms spread wide and wiped the tears. Then, I noticed one more person in the crowd, a couple of rows behind the boy. He is a friend of mine, the father of children of his own. I’m sure it was just my imagination, but I may have seen his son tugging at his shirt tail in embarrassment as he too stood to his feet.

He didn’t raise his arms, nor did he look to the ceiling. He just stood respectfully. That was all.

Then, when the song was over, the two fellows simply sat down.

I haven’t asked my friend why he stood. I may not ask him. It’s probably none of my business. But then, that never stopped me before.

Sometimes, we stand simply to let someone know they’re not alone. And, when one has had the courage to stand out, it’s no small thing to know someone has your back.

After all, Moses had Aaron. Aaron even helped Moses hold his tired arms up on one occasion when time needed to stand still.

Elijah had Elisha to carry his coat. David had Jonathan to plead with Saul for him. Paul had Silas to sing with him in jail.

I think I could carry the harmony—if I could get up the courage to go to jail with someone.

In my mind’s eye, I see those two fellows standing in church the other morning and a thought comes to me: It is a profound act of worship to support those who stand by themselves in faithfulness.

Paul, the apostle formerly known as Saul, said it this way: Love others—genuinely love them. Take delight in honoring each other. (Romans 12:10)

Sometimes, it’s important to be the one who stands with the guy who stands out in a crowd.

Sometimes, it's important to be the one who stands with the guy who stands out in a crowd. Click To Tweet

And sometimes, it’s just as important to be the one who sits with the guy who’s sitting down when the rest of the crowd is standing.

That is so because we are called to stand with others who aren’t all that faithful, too. We’re even called to walk on the road with those who take advantage of us and mistreat us, as well. (Matthew 5:38-48)

Enemies, we call them. He called them, simply, neighbors. We will stand, and sit, and walk with them if we are to follow Him at all.

The One we call Prince of Peace was accused of being a friend of sinners. He was both.

Peace on earth comes when we love others enough to stand up with them. Or sit down with them.

And the bells are ringing.

Peace on Earth.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
(from Christmas Bells ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~ American Poet ~ 1807-1882)

Oh Jesus, friend of sinners
Open our eyes to the world at the end of our pointing fingers
Let our hearts be led by mercy
Help us reach with open hearts and open doors
Oh Jesus, friend of sinners, break our hearts for what breaks yours
(from Jesus, Friend of Sinners ~ Mark Hall/Matthew West ~ Jesus, Friend of Sinners lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Essential Music Publishing, Capitol Christian Music Group)

How Close is Close?

September 5, 2018September 5, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

We were tired. And, almost grumpy. Almost.

It’s not a recipe for joy, that mix of airport spaces and flight delays. The Lovely Lady and I, having spent a few days breathing the clear Vermont air into our lungs and the essence of God’s astounding creation into our hearts, were waiting for a flight home.

On that day, things weren’t going as well as the ones previous.

Our ride home never arrived. We missed our connection in Chicago. Perhaps, I should say connections—plural. Both the original one and the rescheduled one.

While we waited, folks came in for other flights. With several of the outgoing flights being delayed, the small airport’s waiting area was beginning to fill up.

A group of young people from Africa were among those awaiting a late departure time to Washington, D.C. They had spent several weeks in a cultural exchange program and were headed for one last event before scattering to their individual countries.

I had nothing better to do, so I watched the group (and assorted individuals) with interest and amusement. The Lovely Lady, sitting next to me, had planned better than I (or so she told me), so the book she was reading kept her attention.

Before long, one young man from Uganda took a seat across from us, followed by a young woman, who took the empty space right next to me. They talked a little, then turned their attention to the cell phones in their hands, much as you would expect of any teenager in our own country today.

The row of seats we occupied, three divided plastic surfaces connected by a metal structure underneath, had no arm supports to separate them, but with an adult in each seat, it was easy to see there was no room for anyone else. Three. No more.

Except, on this day, there was. Sort of.

A few moments after the first young lady took her seat next to me, another walked up and, pushing her friend’s knee to get her moving the other direction, proceeded to sit between her and me.

To avoid being sat upon, I quickly slid toward the Lovely Lady—she, still engrossed in her historical novel. Tucking my shoulder behind hers, my sitting-down parts spanning the space between the seats, it wasn’t that uncomfortable. (I may have a little extra padding there, anyway. Possibly.) I think she may not have been aware of the reason for my chumminess, but she snuggled her arm against mine anyway and we sat that way until it was time to leave.

The girl on the other side of me sat almost as close. Almost. I think you could have slid an index card between us, but only just. She seemed as unaware of the proximity as the Lovely Lady. She didn’t snuggle any. Really, she didn’t.

But, can we talk about personal space for a minute or two? Now’s as good a time as any.

I know folks who are obsessed, really—obsessed, by their desire/need to maintain distance between themselves and the masses.

Others seem to have a clear delineation in their minds of how close is too close.

Some of them would have come right out and told the interloper of her encroachment, asking her to move elsewhere.

I know several who would have stood up and gone to lean against the wall.

I might have agreed with that group. Once.

I’m not so sure now.

Does it seem strange to you that there was joy in squeezing over to make room for that young soul?

Do you think it even more unlikely, as we made changes to our travel plans later, giving up our adjacent seats near the front of one airplane, to be separated (an aisle and a row apart) and crammed between two strangers on another flight, that it seemed good to have a chance to sit calmly and to be kind, while being bumped and shaken and, ultimately, having a seatmate’s vodka and soda poured over my shoe?

It seems strange to me.

But perhaps, it’s supposed to seem strange.

Maybe, following the One who gave up unlimited personal space to walk in a strange place—to be crowded and touched, mauled and shoved by dirty, stinking people who were oblivious and uncaring of who He was and why He came—maybe, it should feel a little strange. A little other-worldly, even.

He invited His weary friends to come away and rest, and they thought it was a good idea.

Personal space, at last!

Then the crowds found them. “Send them home!” the friends sputtered.

Their space disappeared. Completely. Utterly. Instantly. But He, seeing the people instead of the frustration, welcomed them into His space. (Mark 6:31-34)

His personal space.

Strange.

Come close, He says. And, I’ll come close to you. (James 4:8)

David the songwriter asked to live with God in His house. No. David asked to live in God’s house with His protecting arms around him. (Psalm 61:4)

Is that close enough?

What’s that you say about personal space?

I wish I could leave it there. Really, I do. God gave up His personal space for us. How wonderful.

There’s more.

I want to direct your attention to a few words an enigmatic Old Testament fellow named Jabez said to God some centuries ago. He’s the one who asked God to enlarge his territory. And, God did it.

Somehow, I don’t think the lesson for us in this age is how to get more stuff. Or more land. Or more power.

I don’t.

What if He simply wants us to fit one more person in our heart? Just one.

Or, maybe a hundred. Or, only fourteen. Whatever.

More, anyway.

The Teacher, when tested, made clear what was important: Love God with every bit of territory in your hearts. And, after it has stretched to contain that love, reach out and draw the world into that love. (Matthew 22:37-39)

The place we live with our God is the space we share with our world.

The place we live with our God is the space we share with our world. Click To Tweet

More than that—the love we experience in our God is the same love with which we must love.

Our neighbors.

Our fellow travelers.

Our world.

Let your love—your gentleness—be in evidence to all. God is near. (Philippians 4:5)

As His space grows inside us, our personal space outside may shrink. And, that’s good.

Strange.

But, good.

God’s mercy and grace give me hope—for myself, and for our world.
(Billy Graham ~ American evangelist ~ 1918-2018)

Heaven’s eyes, Heaven’s eyes.
What I need while I’m down here
Down in the dirt and the hurt of earth.
Heaven’s eyes, Heaven’s Eyes.
Father, I need Heaven’s eyes.
(Heaven’s Eyes ~ Nancy Jesser-Halsey ~ © 2001 ~ Used by permission)

Listen to the entire song here:

A Provocation

May 18, 2018May 21, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I’m not sure how to say this. Some of you will be mad. Or at least disappointed in me.

Well? I know you will.

You’ve read the poems since you were young; you sang the songs. You even watched Mary Poppins hold one on her finger as she sang A Spoonful of Sugar.

You love them. I know you do.

Well, it can’t be helped. I’m going to have to tell you.

I don’t really like robins.

I’ve tried. Really, I have.

The thing is, there’s nothing special about them. Oh sure, they have that orangey-red chest. They even give a little hope in the late winter that spring will soon be here. But, other than that, what’s so extraordinary about the storied birds?

What’s that? You think they’re the early bird that gets the worm? They’re always pictured as that. But, that’s strike one against them, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t do early mornings. I just don’t.

But, on the off chance that I am awakened at four or four-thirty some morning, you can be sure one will be chirping outside my window to beat the band. Try going back to sleep with that racket outside.

And, that’s another thing! They don’t even really have a song. Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! Plus, it gets worse when humans are around. They fuss and raise a ruckus, claiming territory they don’t really even want, simply to ensure quiet for their nest.

Give me the cardinals any day. What a beautiful and varied song they have! Their nests are in bushes and thickets no human would want to approach anyway, so they never fuss—at me, at least.

Then there are the wrens—or the finches—or even the white-throated sparrow that sings in the top of the sweet gum tree.

But those robins—they’re everywhere. Bob, bob, bobbin’ across the lawn, scratching for the worms, early or late. Trying to build nests where they absolutely cannot fit—under my eave, for instance. And, then after the wind blows the grass and paper away for the tenth time, they try again—in exactly the same spot.

There’s no love lost on my part for the fabled worm-catchers.

Well. That’s not completely true. Not anymore.

Our neighbor let a pair of the silly things build a nest near the top of the post on her front porch. I looked at the structure and told her it wouldn’t last through the first storm. Frank Lloyd Wright, they’re not.

I was wrong. Several storms later, the nest is still there. The female laid her eggs—four of them if Wikipedia is to be believed. She sat on her eggs. She hatched her little ones.

I would stop over to talk with my neighbor, being careful not to startle the fussy mama. No loud noises; no quick movements.

Shhhhh.

I would have told you I still didn’t care for robins. An event the other day put the lie to that belief.

My desk looks out a window toward the neighbor’s porch, so I have watched the comings and goings on that nest for several weeks. The other morning, my attention was on my computer screen when a strange movement caught my eye.

The mother robin was flying rapidly away from the nest, but there was still a bird standing over the nest. A big bird.

A hawk had discovered the babies! Without thinking, I shouted loudly and jumped up, racing out the door behind me to stop the mayhem on the porch. Evidently, the predator heard either my shout or the door and was already winging away from the nest with something—we can guess what—in his beak.

Oh well. It was just baby robins. Who cares?

Well, besides the obvious One who cares about every one of them that falls to the ground. (Matthew 10:29)

This old man cared, evidently. I sat back down at my desk, watching the frantic mother robin flying to the nest, sticking her head down inside, and then winging to the redbud tree nearby, before repeating the pattern over and over, and the tears came.

I don’t even like robins. But, I cried. Over baby robins.

I’ve thought a lot about that over the last couple of days, attempting to square the dichotomy.

I think I’m beginning to understand it a little better. I even have a word to explain how this happened.

Engagement.

Engagement involves investment. In this case, simply an investment of attention. Which led to a personal stake in the wellbeing of the little birds and the happiness of their parents.

Engagement costs.

I stood in a friend’s hallway the other day after I had helped him with a household problem, and he told me how sorry he had been about my friend I lost a few weeks ago.

He must have been a really close friend. Had you known him a long time?

It would be simpler to explain if it had been a long time. When a longtime friend passes, you expect to be emotionally devastated. Grief like that doesn’t come with short-term, social media friendships.

Or, does it?

Four months. It seems a lifetime ago, but it was only four or five months ago that another friend, a poet in New Zealand, suggested to Jeff and to me that we needed to know each other.

He was also a writer, much better at it than I, but we both treasured what words can accomplish when arranged carefully, lovingly, and set in place with a bit of grace.

I never got to meet Jeff in the flesh, but I knew him. He knew me. Out of the grace we both have known in our lives, a bond of love grew.

Now, he’s gone and there’s a hole in my world.

Engagement costs.

Oh, but it pays, too.

It is oh-so-easy for us to get caught up in the grief of loss, the feeling that the world will never again be right, and believe that disengagement is a better way to live life.

Many do. Many I know refuse to be hurt. The only way to keep from being hurt is to refuse to engage—to flee from love.

In such a vacuum, life is empty. When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy.

When there is never any pain, there can never be any joy. Click To Tweet

I said my friend and I knew what words are capable of when used in the right way. Many others know it, too.

Our words, written (and said) at the right time, and offered from loving hearts, provoke.

That’s right. They provoke. They incite. They motivate. They move.

It’s why I write. When I am tempted to disengage—to lessen the pain and the frustration—I remember the words written to the Hebrews in the New Testament, reminding them to keep spending their lives with others, because in engagement we may provoke to love. In engagement, we provoke each other to good works.

There are no age-related waivers given, no limited-education exceptions written. And sometimes, our companions along the way are like those robins. Annoying. Loud and repetitive. Not nearly as intelligent as we are. Stubborn.

Engage anyway.

Provoke anyway.

Revel in the result. Sadness, mixed with joy. Love, combined with goodness.

But, I didn’t finish the story about the robin, did I?

My sorrow has turned to joy again, as I have observed, out my office window, the robins feeding their two surviving chicks the last couple of days. I assumed all was lost, but it was a lie. Even as I write this, the male is on the ground outside with food in his mouth and the babies have their necks stretched out, yellow beaks agape, waiting to be fed.

All is not so dark as it seems.

It rarely is.

For the darkness shall turn to dawning
And the dawning to noonday bright.
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
The kingdom of love and light.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H. Ernest Nichol)

And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.
(Hebrews 10:24-25 ~ KJV)

Finding the Vegetable Trees

April 25, 2018April 26, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Just head down there. The vegetable trees are all over that way.”

The Lovely Lady and I were on a mission to find a sapling or two to plant in the yard today, so we stopped by the local garden center. We thought we might find a couple of shade trees, but we especially wanted an apple tree to replace the ancient one which is not going to last much longer.

We weren’t really expecting to buy a vegetable tree.

Wandering through the sales area, we had passed a young lady sitting at a desk in the corner, but we knew the saplings were out back, so we continued outside.

The salesman met us on the sidewalk. All of three or four years old, he carried a thin metal rod about three feet long in his right hand which he swung this way and that as he talked.

“How can I help you?”

The Lovely Lady and I looked at each other, smiling, and then turning back his way, she told him we wanted to look at an apple tree. His response about the location of the vegetable trees made our day.

We headed in the general direction he had pointed with the rod. He followed closely, talking the whole time. We didn’t quite understand all he said, but we knew we’d find trees up that way.

“Well, like I said, this is where all the vegetable trees are. You folks look all you want. Bring anything you pick out back inside.”

He started away but abruptly turned back.

“Oh, here.” The boy handed me the dandelion stalk he had just pulled. “It’s a flower. If you blow on it, the white stuff goes all over the place. I guess some people call it a weed, really.”

He turned again to leave as a man walked up, wondering aloud if we needed help. Smiling broadly, I told the boy’s dad we had already been helped and wanted to wander around the vegetable trees for awhile and look around. Dad grimaced at the phrase and then grinned, taking us to the trees we needed to look at.

What a delightful experience!

What an extraordinary young man!

Okay. He needs to work on the details a little bit. But, he understood we needed help. He looked around and didn’t see anyone except himself to do the job. So, he did the job.

It was almost as if he understood what the letter-writing Apostle had said a couple thousand years ago: Don’t only do things for yourselves, but help others, as well. (Philippians 2:4)

In my mind, I hear the voice of God asking a barefooted Moses, “What’s that you’re holding in your hand, son?” (Exodus 4:2)

The boy showed us the way with the equipment he had been given.

If only we could all do as well.

If only.

There’s not time to be certain we know all the right answers. We never will.

There's not time to be certain we know all the right answers. We never will. Click To Tweet

There’s not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We’ll stumble over the words. Every time.

There's not time to get our presentation down word perfect. We'll stumble over the words. Every time. Click To Tweet

When He said to be ready to give an answer, He didn’t mean to wait until we were comfortable and skilled. (1 Peter 3:15)

And sometimes, when we don’t know what else to say, we might just hand them a flower and help to spread His love and beauty.

After all, our primary purpose in being here is to give glory to our Creator. (Isaiah 43:7)

The whole earth is filled—absolutely jam-packed—with His glory.

I think I might hand out a dandelion or two, as we walk through it together.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll find that vegetable tree along the road.

You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.
(Franklin P Jones ~ American humorist)

Praise his glorious name forever!
Let the whole earth be filled with his glory.
Amen and amen!
(Psalm 72:19 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Justification

January 25, 2018January 25, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I am offended.

The note was polite, but to the point. The writer needed to express something that had been in her mind for awhile. To be fair, the words weren’t I am offended, but it seems offensive to me. There is little difference.

Something I have done—language I have used in my business for years—was offensive. I selected the language. I placed it in a prominent place in my advertising.

I offended.

I don’t know the person. Someone else in the church she attends has made numerous purchases from my company over the last few years. The writer of the note is not even my customer.

And yet, I read the words on my screen and my spirits sank. What would I say? How would I respond?

Do you know how easy it is to believe one has been attacked?

Is it not a simple thing to take offense at the one who has taken offense?

My mind, as it does, piled up the words with which to defend myself. I know how to use the English language. I am accomplished in the skill of bickering.

I want the chance to justify myself.

Why is that my first reaction? Is it true for everyone? When we sense that we have been admonished, do we all want to deflect the blame?

I wanted to look better than I did in that moment.

I knew I could come out on top. I knew it.

Sleep hardly came that night. I would present my argument to the imaginary jury I had collected in my head, letting loose with the big guns and obliterating the enemy. I win!

But, a quiet voice from deeper inside asked a one-word question. Just one.

Enemy?

With a mental shrug, I’d decide to think about it tomorrow, only to find myself, moments later, facing the imaginary jury once more.

Time after time I built up my defense against the enemy, only to face that one-word question again. And, again.

Enemy?

But he, seeking to justify himself, replied, “Who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:29)

Neighbor. That’s the word I wanted. Not enemy.

Neighbor.

And the second is like the first: Love your neighbor as you love yourself. (Mark 12:30-31) Jesus said it was the second most important commandment, essentially part of the first. The lawyer who wanted to justify himself (in Luke’s passage) knew it by heart.

I do, too. Yet, every time I am confronted with my own shortcomings, my reaction is the lawyer’s. Every time.

I want to justify myself. I want to make myself look better. And, more often than not, that is accomplished by making someone else look smaller.

Seeking to justify ourselves, we reply.

Seeking to justify ourselves, we reply. Click To Tweet

We use words like snowflake, over-sensitive, entitled, and coddled.

Or, we use words like arrogant, insensitive, and bully.

Either way, the result is the same. We tear down our neighbors to build up ourselves.

Words were the cause of my offense. My next words would either increase the offense, possibly making me feel justified, or they would begin the healing process.

What to do?

Over forty years ago, a wise man wrote, in his beautiful script, in the front of a new Bible he and his wife were giving to their youngest son. He knew his son well, having spent nearly twenty years in close proximity to him.

The words, still quite legible today, were exactly what the argumentative, impatient youth needed. I can attest that he was more annoyed than overjoyed to read them the first one hundred times or so he saw them written there.

The Preacher said the words, thousands of years before. Their truth has not faded one iota.

A gentle answer turns aside wrath, but argumentative words only stir up more anger. (Proverbs 15:1)

I haven’t always lived by the exhortation. In truth, I haven’t lived by it even a majority of the time.

I’m learning. Finally.

Still—I want to know.

Why do we add offense to offense over and over?

Why is it so difficult for us to bind wounds instead of making them bleed more?

Why is it so hard for us to recognize our neighbors, instead, identifying them as enemies, almost without fail?

Why is it so hard for us to recognize our neighbors? Click To Tweet

In a world filled with hate and vitriol, we—all who follow Christ—are called to bind up, and carry, and treat, with the same love we have for our God and Savior, all who walk the same ground we do.

It’s not optional.

It’s not.

I’m justified. By Him. I don’t do that myself at all; it’s what He does. (Ephesians 2:8)

How I respond to others is how I show them what’s really in my heart—in my very soul.

Gentle words.

Peace.

Be at War with your Vices, at Peace with your Neighbours, and let every New-Year find you a better Man.
(from Poor Richard’s Almanac ~ Benjamin Franklin ~ 1706-1790)

Do everything without complaining and arguing, so that no one can criticize you. Live clean, innocent lives as children of God, shining like bright lights in a world full of crooked and perverse people.
(Philippians 2:14,15 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Calloused

October 27, 2017October 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

My hands hurt. Most of the time, these days, they hurt.

I’m not complaining, really I’m not. Well, maybe just a little. And, I certainly don’t think it’s my fault. But then, if I stop to think a moment, it could be.

A quick search of Google shows that I need to have soft hands for them to be considered beautiful. Or, is that just women? I really can’t tell, but I’m pretty sure gnarled and scarred hands aren’t all that attractive, regardless of which gender they belong to.

I’ve never worried much about the appearance of my hands, but recently I’m a little more aware of it. Having worked with my hands all my life (and talked with them, too), the osteoarthritis now settling in my joints is beginning to mar the symmetry of my once-straight fingers.

Other things are conspiring to make them less physically attractive, as well.

In just the last week, I’ve pinched them with pliers (twice), cut them with a saw blade, with the sharp edge of an air conditioner duct, and the corner of a file. While I was at it, I smashed a knuckle using a power sander, and sliced the tip of my thumb with a utility knife (just tonight). I even have a jammed thumb on one hand, although I have no recollection of how that one happened.

The mind wanders—as it does—and I recall my last day of working for an electrician in another life, decades ago. I was leaving that job to return to the music business full-time, and the electrician I worked with mentioned he’d be calling Johnson & Johnson to warn them they might need to make some adjustments to their business plan. The puzzled look on my face led to his tongue-in-cheek explanation.

Since you won’t be working for us anymore, we won’t be purchasing all those bandages. They’re likely to face bankruptcy soon, I’d think.

When I work with my hands, I bleed. It’s a given. And yet, I keep working with my hands. Blood washes off. Cuts and scrapes heal.

Even now, as I sit and write, my hands hurt again. I rub them gently, feeling a few new callouses ,and again my mind wanders—further back, this time.

I was in my twenties. With young children, money was scarce, but we took the trip to South Texas anyway. Babies need to see their grandparents, and vice versa.

The car didn’t make it all the way to my childhood home in the Rio Grande Valley. Well, it did, but we could only drive 30 miles per hour the last sixty miles of the trip.

I spent my vacation under the hood of that old car. By the time it was running right again, my callouses had callouses, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have described it.

One afternoon after the problem was sorted out, my dad introduced me to a friend of his. As I shook his hand, he looked down at mine, then back up at me and smiled.

It’s nice to meet a young man these days who knows how to work with his hands.

Callouses. On callouses. I was embarrassed. And proud—if you understand how that could be true as well.

Lend me a hand.
Get your grubby hands off!
I’ve got to hand it to you.
He knows this town like the back of his hand.
We’re just living hand to mouth these days.
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
Give your hand in marriage.
My right-hand man.

These are only a small sampling of the phrases in our language in which the word hand plays a major part. Hands are important to us.

They are important to our God, as well.

His Word is full of hands.

Hands that took the fruit and put it to the mouth—original sin. (Genesis 3:6)

Hands that blessed a young man who was wearing animal skin on his own hands, to deceive—the father of the Children of Israel. (Genesis 27)

Hands that stretched over the sea, parting the waters—a journey begun to freedom. (Exodus 14:21,22)

Hands that built a tabernacle—a place for God to dwell among men. (Exodus 25:8)

Hands that played a harp to calm the soul—and later, to compose psalms of worship which endure until this day—a sacrifice of praise. (1 Samuel 16:23)

A hand that wrote on a wall—a warning to God’s enemies. (Daniel 5:5)

Hands that were stretched wide in love. Hands through which spikes were driven—the blessing of God’s saving grace to all mankind. (Isaiah 53:5)

There are more.

Thousands of them. Hands. Doing good.

And yes, thousands doing evil.

I’ve heard the words of God to Moses innumerable times. (Exodus 4:2)

What do you have in your hands?

I’ve always thought the important thing was the answer to that question. Moses had a staff. I have other things. But, here’s the deal.

God doesn’t need my things.

He needs my hands.

My hands.

To be willing to be open. For Him.

Or, holding on. For Him.

My beaten up, scarred, stiff, sore hands.

With our hands, yours and mine, He will touch the world—perhaps one person at a time—perhaps thousands.

On second thought, I’m certain that hands don’t have to be soft to be beautiful.

Hands don't have to be soft to be beautiful. Click To Tweet

Hearts. Hearts have to be soft.

The hands—cracked, calloused, gnarled, and stiff—are beautiful simply because they serve. Wiping away a child’s tears, touching the cheek of a newborn baby or a nervous bride, stroking the hair of a frightened mate, reaching out in love to serve.

And sometimes, they hurt. His did, too.

His did, too.

Oh, be careful little hands what you do,
For the Father up above is looking down in love.
Oh, be careful little hands what you do.
(from Oh Be Careful ~ American children’s song ~ Anonymous)

Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
And confirm for us the work of our hands;
Yes, confirm the work of our hands.
(Psalm 90:17 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

What if my Best Isn’t?

September 22, 2017September 22, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Don’t you know that’s a youth song? You sang it like an old hymn!

The silver-haired lady didn’t actually shake her finger in my face, but I had a vision of it being waggled there.

I almost laughed. It was an old hymn. To me, it was. Why—right there on the page, beside the author’s name, it told when he wrote it. 1902.

Really. 1902

It was an old song. For old people.

Then I read the words again. And again.

Give of your best to the master.
Give of the strength of your youth.

I apologized to the dear saint. The next time I led it, with the Lovely Lady accompanying me, we sang the song with a tad more pep, and just a little more vigor.

I learned a lesson that day. It’s profound. You’ll want to save this.

Old people were young once.

Most of them still remember it. Some, vividly.

I know young Timothy’s instructor didn’t mean for me to take it this way, but I can’t help but think it.

Let no man despise your youth. (1 Timothy 4:12)

It is disrespectful to the aging and elderly for us to disregard the experiences they had as young folks. The things that shaped the adults they would become haven’t diminished in importance in all the ensuing years.

It is a youth song. Written in 1902.

I dare not speed on past without revisiting the words our old friend, my namesake, had to say to his youthful protegé, though.

Don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. (1 Timothy 4:12)

I wonder how many times a day I hear—or read—disparaging words directed at the younger generation. The generalizations are rampant, the vitriol nearly universal.

All coming from old folks. Okay, aging folks. People who once were young themselves. People who can’t stand to have the days of their own youth ridiculed.

I’ve done it myself.

These kids today. . .

I repent.

A young friend sent me an invitation a few weeks ago. The local university, as it has for a number of years, was sponsoring an evening dedicated to promoting writing and the arts in a faith-based environment.

I glanced at the two guests who were on the schedule. A comic-book illustrator and a spoken-word artist.

Lightweights! This is what passes for writing and art? Pass.

I repent. Did I say that already? It doesn’t matter. I may do so again.

The Lovely Lady encouraged me to go. Friends were going to be there. There was ice cream.

I went. Don’t tell the friends, but the ice cream is what tipped the scales (no pun intended).

May I tell you what happened?

Surrounded by young folks who could be my grandchildren, I saw respect. They were attentive. They were appreciative.

My eyes were opened. Well, when they weren’t filled with tears, they were opened. The tears were a surprise.

I detest spoken-word poetry. All angst and anger and foul language, it falls somewhere on a scale with rap music, without the music.

I thought.

The young man, in his jeans and untucked shirt, skull-cap pulled over his head tightly, looked for all the world like a street punk to this old man’s eyes.

I sat back, arms folded across my chest, and dared him to move me.

I dared him.

He moved me.

No. That’s not right.

The Spirit moved me.

It was all I could do, when the young poet, arms windmilling above his head and waggling in front of his face and hanging down at his side, spoke the names of Jesus—it was all I could do—not to jump up and shout like a Pentecostal in a Holy Ghost revival.

And, I’ve never been to a Pentecostal Holy Ghost revival.

I looked down and I was sitting on my hands with my legs to keep them still, the tears streaming down my face.

There is a power that comes, not from experience, nor from age, nor from practice, but from the Word. From the mouths of babes, through the writings of old men, by the witness of all who are His, He speaks.

From mouths of babes, writings of old men, & witness of all His own, He speaks. Click To Tweet

Disregarding our differences, ignoring our preferences, and brushing aside our objections, He will be heard.

Disregarding differences, ignoring preferences, brushing aside objections, He will be heard. Click To Tweet

I wonder if it’s time for us to realize that our Creator uses—He always has—the methods He thinks best to ensure an audience for His words.

I wonder if it’s time for us—young and old—to close our mouths about those methods we don’t especially like.

I haven’t always given of my best for Him. Sadly, I may have left it a bit late to give of the best of my youth.

I’m grateful that all the young folks aren’t waiting around until their golden years to work on it seriously.

Still, I have begun to look at youth a little differently. I wrote recently about that great cloud of witnesses the writer of the book of Hebrews in the New Testament describes. I realized that these men and women are my peers.

Really. Moses, Abraham, Rahab, Sarah, and all the others—all of them, my peers. Yours, too.

We’ll join them one day, to live without any time limit there.

If we’re to live forever, and I believe we will, we’ve only lived a minuscule percentage of all the days we have ahead of us.

I’m still young.

There’s still time.

I’ll give it my best.

I invite you to watch the video linked below. Powerful words—from the heart of the poet and directly from God’s Word.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’d first begun.
(from Amazing Grace ~ English clergyman ~ 1725-1807)

Treasure in the Dumpster

July 4, 2017July 4, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I usually punch the snooze button on my alarm once—maybe twice. Okay. Three times.

Not today.

The noises outside my second-story window had been going for awhile. You know how sounds creep into your slumber, disturbing your dreams, especially in the moments just before the alarm begins to sound.

As I reached for the alarm button, a clatter from the dumpster reached my ear.

I got up.

I stood at my upstairs bedroom window and watched the shirtless man for some time. The dumpster had been almost full—or so I had thought.

He had stirred through the entire container, moving the larger items from the top to the bottom and around the sides. By the time I was aware of his presence, he was standing on the bottom of the dumpster, just like Moses in the middle of the Red Sea, with the mountains of debris piled up on either side.

Items (my trash!) he wanted to keep were carefully balanced around the edges of the steel container.

I decided I wouldn’t interfere with the man’s treasure hunt. I hadn’t wanted the items. Why should I keep him from taking whatever he thought he could use or profit from?

Treasures from trash.

The concept hasn’t left my head all day.

Trash. Treasures.

It’s nothing new. We don’t even have to say the entire maxim and most will finish the thought. One man’s trash. . .

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

The underlying premise is that one is no better than the other.

I have no intention of demeaning the homeless man foraging in my dumpster. He is doing what he knows to do to provide for himself.

Additionally, I have no desire to point a finger at any person, comparing them to others for the reader to make a judgment of character.

It’s just that I know something of dumpster diving.

I don’t know quite how to put it. Well, yes, I do. It won’t make some people happy.

The truth is like that.

I know two things about looking for treasures in the trash bin:

1. Even if useful items may sometimes be found in the trash, most of the time, there’s nothing but trash to be found.

2. If one digs for treasures in the trash long enough, eventually that person begins to forget that it’s trash they’re digging through.

It will most likely become evident soon—if it hasn’t already occurred to the reader—that I’m not really that concerned with dumpsters and the practice of digging through the ubiquitous receptacles.

There are some who spend their lives dredging through the garbage. Their lives and hearts are filled with the stench.

And still, they dive in.

A friend, many years ago, regaled me with the story of his sister-in-law and her experience at the local casino.

The first time—the very first time—she entered the casino, against her better judgment and at the urging of her friends, she won a large sum of money while gambling.

Willingly, eagerly, she returned to the gaudy, glitzy place again and again, certain she would find treasure once more at its tables. She never did. Even if she had, the losses could never have been surpassed by her gains.

There was never treasure to be found there—never more than false promises and empty hopes.

Still trash.

As to the second point, I can’t help but think of the Tolkien character of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings. He had lived in the dark and stinking places of the world for so long that when he, starving and weak, was offered the delicate cake of the elves’ lembas, he choked on it and called it ashes.

Ashes.

As I write this, in the wee hours of the night, the sun will be rising soon on another Independence Day in the United States. I’m saddened by what I see in the hearts of many in our country, even in my little town, and I have to wonder, what do we have to celebrate this July 4th?

We, and I include most folks I know—Christians and otherwise, liberals and conservatives, politically active and indifferent—seem to revel in the trash pile. We delight in all that is negative and hateful, dredging it up again and again, in whatever form we find it in the garbage container, only to throw it in the faces of our used-to-be friends and acquaintances.

It almost seems we believe this is how we were meant to live.

It wasn’t.

It isn’t.

In our interactions with others, we must—absolutely must—rise above the garbage and restore community. If we don’t, our country is lost, I fear.

And yet, there is an even more essential element to this conversation.

The Teacher, imploring His followers to set their affections on more important things, warned against the garbage.

Where the source of your treasure is located, your heart by nature will turn to. (Matthew 6:21)

If we do things the way we’ve always done them, the result will always be the same.

Every time.

Soon after that astounding Day of Pentecost, the disciples Peter and John were going to the temple to worship. A lame man sat there, in the place he had sat every day for as long as he could remember. It was all he knew, this detestable begging for his living. And yet, as the two men passed him, he looked at them, expecting nothing more than a few pennies to extend his unhappy misery an hour or two more.

Peter looked at him and said, “It’s time you stopped dumpster diving.”

Well, that’s not really what he said. What he told the lame man was that they had no money. I assume the disappointed man would have turned his eyes toward the next party approaching. Well? He wasn’t going to get what he needed here. Why shouldn’t he?

We have no silver, nor do we have any gold. Here’s the thing: What we do have, we’re going to give to you. Get up. Walk with us into the temple to worship. (Acts 3:6)

You know, there’s no treasure in any dumpster worth more than what God offers every single one of us.

His Grace and mercy will lift us out of whatever garbage receptacle we’ve been digging through to find our worth.

His love reaches down right where we’re searching, whether ankle deep or neck deep in refuse.

He sets us in higher places.

He sets us in higher places. Click To Tweet

Higher.

It’s time to stop hoarding trash that looks like treasure to us.

It’s time to begin storing away the real thing.

In a place it will be safe.

In a place where we’ll be safe.

It’s time.

I lived through the garbage. I might as well dine on caviar.
(Beverly Sills ~ American opera singer ~ 1929-2007)

Why spend your money on food that does not give you strength?
Why pay for food that does you no good?
Listen to me, and you will eat what is good.
You will enjoy the finest food.

“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord.
    “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.
For just as the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so my ways are higher than your ways
    and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.
(Isaiah 55:2, 8-9 ~ NLT)

On the Mezzanine

February 14, 2017February 14, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I remember that mezzanine.

Tears do that, you know. Remind you.

And they fall, unbidden. We don’t want them to; they just come.

So, with the salty liquid running down my cheeks I remember that day, now over thirty-five years ago.

Visiting my folks in my childhood home, I agreed to ride along with my old friend as he made his sales rounds one summer afternoon.

We stopped by a produce warehouse, a corrugated metal structure where they prepared vegetables for shipment to various marketplaces. The building my friend entered was the onion operation. Right outside the metal building—by the truckloads—the dirty yellowish bulbs had been hauled from the fields and were dumped onto the conveyor lines that would carry them though the process.

The process would change them dramatically. On that summer afternoon long ago, it would change me, too.

From a filthy orb with roots hanging off one end and stem jutting out of the other, to a beautiful shiny sphere just waiting to be sliced, battered, and deep fried—turning out the most delicious tasting snack you could ask for—the transformation was radical.

But, you ask, what about the mezzanine? Where are the tears?

I’m getting there. Soon, there would more than enough tears to last a man a lifetime.

I hung back in the factory while my friend talked with his contact there. In just a moment though, he was beckoning with his hand for me to follow him on into the plant. He explained that he needed to check the stock levels for the products he provided to the company.

As I prepared to follow him up a steel staircase, he gave me a hint—just a hint—about what was to come.

You’ll want to stay close. Don’t worry, I won’t walk away from you.

Stay close? Why would I need him near? I snickered. As if I needed someone to hold my hand climbing up some stairs.

As if.

That was before the tears.

The stairs led to a mezzanine made of steel beams covered by a steel grate that served as a floor surface.

Right. Above. The. Production. Line.

Let it sink in for a moment. We walked above the line where the onions were washed. Where the roots were sliced off. Where the stems were removed. The round veggies banged and battered each other as they collided all along the conveyor.

Think about the strongest onion you ever sliced into and multiply it a few thousand times.

I couldn’t see a thing. It was a good thing my friend stayed near. It was as if I had been struck blind in seconds. The terror was nearly instantaneous. There is no other word to describe what I felt.

Shaking, I held onto his shoulder all the way across the mezzanine and back down the stairs.

Did you know the chemical in onions that makes you cry is the very same component that lends the edgy flavor which livens up so many dishes?

This seems a strange thing to write about on a day when we talk about love, doesn’t it?

Be my valentine.

Roses and chocolates.

Diamonds and gold.

Love is more than the fluff.

Not less. More.

Spicy and playful. Stinking and bitter.

Laughing. Crying.

To get through it, we have to stay close.

Love is more than the fluff. To get through it, we have to stay close Click To Tweet

Standing on the mezzanine of life, we stay close to the ones we love.

And, they are there.

He promised that, too—the One who gave His lifeblood to show us the way.

I’ll be with you always. Even though the world around you disintegrates, I’ll be there. (Matthew 28:20)

He’s a Promise-keeper.

You’ll want to stay close. He won’t walk away.

He won’t.

Life is like an onion; you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.
(Carl Sandburg ~ American writer/poet ~ 1878-1967)

Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.
Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you.
I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.
(Isaiah 41:10 ~ NLT)

Parenthesis Closed

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

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

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

From our youth, we have followed the theory.

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

A subset.

That was the word he used. Subset.

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

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

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

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

And yet, I’m concerned.

A subset?

Really?

What if he’s right?

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

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

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

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

Tribes. Subsets.

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

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

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

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

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

Subsets. Closed.

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

Tribes. Locked in battle.

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

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

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

This I do know: God never closed the equation.

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

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

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

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

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

All of these things belong together…

What a gathering!

It’s time to break out of our subsets.

Who’s going over the wall with me?

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

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

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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