salvation

People Change

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The tears flow more easily these days.  I can’t explain it.  It’s not as if there’s any good reason—a daughter’s wedding for instance, or a totaled vintage sports car.

I apologized for embarrassing the Lovely Lady at the concert the other night.  She just smiled and suggested that it doesn’t bother her at all.  I’m going to take her at her word.

The concert?  Oh, it was just a performance of the choir from the local university—an encore of their annual spring break tour material for the folks in our little town.  

I used to detest choral music.  I thought I was supposed to hate it.  I grew up in the sixties and seventies, an era of rock and roll, and disco, with a little Take Me Home, Country Roads mixed in.  

We didn’t listen to choral music.

choir-408422_640But, people change.

The other night, I sat and listened to the young voices raised in harmony and let the tears roll down my cheeks without bothering to wipe them dry.  

What beauty!  What astounding beauty!

I was especially overwhelmed by one particular song—no, not the song—the singers.  Two young ladies sang a duet, really solos which blended with each other seamlessly.  The piece was written for two sopranos, and was quite high.  The young ladies were up to the task and the result was spectacular—a performance to listen to again and again.  

But—and this is odd—I remember reading that one of the sopranos had been an alto singer when she entered the university’s vocal program.  A low alto.  And here she was singing a gorgeous duet way up in the high range of the female voice.  

What happened?

People change.

I sat at the dinner table with a few folks the other day.  The portions of dessert which were served had been generous.  The Lovely Lady noticed one of our guests was struggling to finish his too-large serving and mentioned that she wouldn’t be insulted if he couldn’t finish.

“We don’t require people at our table to clean their plates,” I added lightly.

My adult son jerked his face toward me in surprise.  

“That’s not how I remember it used to be,” he said in a voice filled with mock-hurt.

I immediately saw scenes of battles-of-the-wills—little boy refusing his mashed potatoes—Dad insisting he eat at least a no-thank-you helping of the vile things—and I cringed inwardly.  He was only half-serious now, and yet the images are inked indelibly on my brain.  His too, I suppose.

Hanging my head a little, I replied.  “I hope I’m always growing and doing things better than I used to.”

He laughed.  “I’m not horribly scarred from the experience, you know.”

We laughed together.  Still, the truth remains—at least I hope it does.

People change.

It is not always the case.  An old friend and I stood today, talking about an acquaintance who passed away recently.  My friend remembered the fellow as a teenager—headstrong, angry, and resistant to improvement.

As we talked, suddenly both of us fell quiet, thinking about the same thing.

“It’s funny,” my friend said.  “He was just like that until the day he died.”

It’s not really that funny.  Some people don’t change.  

I think that’s just plain sad.

Lest you think I’m talking about us pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, and earning our own salvation, let me assure you, I’m not.  That’s not the point at all.  

Our redemption and adoption into the Family of God are guaranteed by one thing and one thing only—the grace of a loving God who Himself became the sacrifice necessary to satisfy the requirement of holiness and justice.  

We are saved by grace, through faith in Jesus.  Period.  (Ephesians 2:8)

We don’t stay there without moving, though.  Our journey through life continues on.  We are presented with choices at every twist and turn.

We grow.  We walk and we learn.  We become, it is to be hoped, more like our Savior as we journey on.  Prompted by the Spirit, we leave our old rags behind, and are dressed in His clothes.

People change.

The girl who thought she was limited to the low range of the female voice submitted herself to her mentor’s instruction and now sings with a range most of us can’t imagine.  It’s a good thing,  a very good thing.

The old man who once demanded perfection of his children and would not open up his ears to different melodies and harmonies than those with which he was comfortable is finally learning a more gentle manner and a wider repertoire.

More changes will come.  At least, it is to be hoped more changes are in the future.

What a shame for a man to die in his obstinance.  How does the gentleness of our Savior not compel us to become gentle?  How does His love not move us to be loving?

People change.  And, they should.

Perhaps, even that sentence should be modified.  It won’t take much to change its meaning.  Two punctuation marks. 

People, change!

 

Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.
(Fyodor Dostoyevsky ~ Russian novelist ~ 1821-1881)

 

And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.
(2 Corinthians 3:18 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Offensive

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

But, that was before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would they do?

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

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

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

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

The other boys?

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

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

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

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

Scott was a hero.

Or, was he?
                              

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

No.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am offended.

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

The penalty for my sins was death.

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

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

Is that offensive enough for you?

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

Are you offended by the crudeness?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alone.  Naked.  Beaten. Bleeding.

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

He would take the offense to the grave.

Our offense.

Mine.  Yours.
                              

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

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

You’ll see that I’m right.  One extra.

One that belonged to Scott.

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

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

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

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

Not.  One.

It is a day to consider The Hero.

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Birds Have Nests

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

All I need is a place to lay my head—and my old Martin guitar.

I’ve known of folk like him all my life. Granted, not all of them choose the life they live, as he has.  The man speaking is dressed in clothes he obviously purchased from the Goodwill store.  He probably even slept in them last night—in his car, it would appear.

He has no family to speak of.  No children.  No wife.  There is no one who depends on him—except himself.  He doesn’t want it any other way.  He is satisfied with the way things are going.

I stood and thought one day recently, as I said goodbye once again to my footloose friend.  What would make a man want to live like that?

I still have no answer.

Most of us want nests—homes to which we can retreat—safe places for our children and spouses.  We want warmth and comfort, along with protection and safety.  In our homes, we feel all these things.

Mothers-to-be—most of them—feel the nesting instinct.  They want to clean and paint, and sometimes to add on a nursery.  (Just ask any father-to-be.)  Our Creator made them so, building the nesting instinct into their psyche.

In nesting, we find our first fulfillment as a parent.  There will be many more satisfying moments in the years to come, but before they arrive, we first have the need to ensure our offspring will be safe.  We want them to have the best chance to arrive in one piece to the age at which we can push them out—of the nest—to fly on their own.  It is what we are made for.

And still, the question nags at me: Why would someone choose to live without a nest—a home?

As I contemplate the question, a scene wavers on the edge of my consciousness.  I push it away.  It is not what I want to consider.

The scene will not be ignored.  Against my better judgment, in my mind’s eye, I let it play out.

A crowd of people is moving through a dry and dusty landscape.  There is a lake nearby, and it is clear that many of the men are carrying their belongings, everything they own, on their backs.  One of them doesn’t belong in the scene at all.

A well-dressed man—obviously a learned fellow—he is addressing the leader of the group.  He makes the claim, with much bravado, but not much conviction, that he will follow the Teacher wherever He goes.

The Teacher replies, telling the religious man that, unlike the foxes (who have dens) and the birds (who have their nests), he had no place even to lay His head.  (Matthew 8:18-20)

I don’t know if the man followed Him or not. but I wonder—I can’t help it—I wonder why there is no place for the Teacher to call home.  

How did the Baby—whose mother wrapped Him gently and laid Him in a manger, whose earthly father taught him in the arts of carpentry, whose parents were so concerned about Him wandering off into the temple at the age of twelve—how did He turn into a man who had no place to sleep?

How is it that this Son of God is homeless?

The answer hits me like an avalanche and knocks me down, breathless.

He chose this!  

Do you suppose He could not have had the finest palace if He had desired it?  Do you think a life of ease was beyond His power?

There was nothing—no power on earth—that could have denied Him any comfort He wanted.

And, just as quickly as that, I have my answer.  He chose.  He chose to leave the comfort of His home and its protection so He could bring mankind to a place of protection and rest!

His invitation to the people of His day was that they come to Him, as chicks run to the mother hen and shelter under her wings, safe in the nest.  (Luke 13:34)  

They would not.  It didn’t stop Him.

Do you see the picture?  He left the nest to bring us to the nest!  

It was always about gathering us to safety—always that we might be protected.

Even as He died in our place, the assurance was of a nest being prepared.  If I go and prepare a place, I will bring you to safety there. (John 14:3)

He wandered, homeless, so we wouldn’t have to.

Why would we make any other choice?  Why would we still wander, homeless?

stork-931864_1280It is safe in the nest.

I could use that reassurance today.  Maybe you could too.

Time for rest.

Nestle down and abide.

Under His wings.

 

 

Under His wings, under His wings,
Who from His love can sever?
Under His wings my soul shall abide,
Safely abide forever.
(William Cushing ~American pastor/poet ~ 1823-1902)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Raunchy

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

I would regret my decision very soon thereafter.

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

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

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

It’s a raunchy story.

Raunchy.

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

He dies.

All of that wasn’t a problem for me.

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

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

I’m not raunchy.  Right?

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

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

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

But the recording was still playing.  

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

I never expected to cry.

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

And redemption.

Really.  Redemption.

An impossible dream.

The prostitute becomes the lady the deluded knight envisioned.  

How is that possible?

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

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

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

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

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

Redemption. 

And, raunchy becomes righteous.

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

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

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

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

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

Raunchy?

Once I was.  Not any more.

Redeemed.

Redeemed.

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved. 

No Goodbyes

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m about done here.  Gave my notice this week.”

My jazz-playing friend slipped the momentous news in between the discussion of his guitar amplifier’s deficiencies and a question about some sheet music.

I almost missed it.

“Let me check on that title and we’ll get it printed for…  Wait!  What?”

Ten years I’ve known the man.  Ten years ago, he was temporarily relocated here with dozens of folks when Hurricane Katrina hit his little city in southern Louisiana.  After a few months, most of the others went back home to New Orleans.  He decided to stay.

Now, Atlanta calls.  People like jazz there.  Enough to pay a living wage to the musicians who love playing it. 

He is leaving.  By the end of the month.  For good.

I didn’t take the news well.  He wants me to be happy for him.  I am. 

It’s me I’m sad for.

I hate goodbye.

Funny.  I knew his stay here was temporary from the start.  We were always going to say goodbye. 

Someday.

Just not today. Or this week.  Or even this month.

It’s easy to get carried away by the weight of a word.  This one just has so much packed into it. 

Goodbye.

Goodbye is what we say when fathers and brothers (and not a few mothers and soldiersgoodbyesisters) go off to war, many never to return.  Goodbye is what we breathe as we watch the over-packed car pull out of the driveway with our child on his or her way to college.  Goodbye is what we sob when the casket is closed on the face of someone we loved more than anyone else in this world.

Goodbye.

As a child, I once thought if I didn’t actually say the word goodbye, the separation wouldn’t happen.  Voila!  Problem solved!

Except, it didn’t work. 

I missed the departure of my grandparents one Fall day when I tested my theory.  Knowing it was the morning they would pull out dragging their gleaming, space-age Airstream trailer behind the old 1965 Pontiac Catalina, I simply went out to the field and hid.

Funny.  Goodbye happens whether we say the word, or not.  They were gone, and I missed it.  I missed them.

Goodbye happens.  We’re only here temporarily.  Every one of us.  One day, I’ll say my final goodbye, too. 

That’s odd. 

Final goodbye.  The last one.  For all of eternity.

If, like me, you believe there is more–and I’m sure there is–you’ll understand the impact of that statement.

Not one more goodbye.  Not one.

All tears wiped away.  No more death.  No mourning, no crying, no pain.

But, not every person we know will be there.  Unlike the pap being fed to this world by the deceiver, there is no hope that anyone could ever experience it without the grace our Savior purchased as He died for us.  The free gift is offered, but it must be accepted.

I sometimes wonder if we’ll miss those who have chosen to follow a different path, rejecting the grace of a God who hates goodbyes just as much as we do.  Perhaps those will be the tears–the last ones shed–He will wipe away from our eyes.

What a day!  What a reunion.  And what a multitude of hellos.

My friend is still leaving this month.  I am still sad.

I hate goodbye.

 

 

 

…but if you have been – if you’ve been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you – you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing is ever going to happen again.
(from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

 

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ ESV)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.

 

Got an extra 3 minutes?  You could do worse than to spend them listening to Selah’s version of God Be With You.  Beautiful song with powerful imagery!