Esse Quam What?

August 3, 2018August 3, 2018 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m not sure they’re right.

I’m not sure they’re wrong, either. They could be.

But they could be right, too.

I made a mistake the other day—one I thought I could rectify with minimal effort. I wrote a cute little note about my recent experience with the Internal Revenue Service and posted it on social media.

I was trying to be funny. It was a little funny. A little. And, come to think of it, more than a little snarky.

In the post, I suggested that the IRS folks I had dealt with by telephone that day weren’t very good with numbers. Just a little sarcastic tweak at the huge bureaucracy’s nose.

The problem is, I don’t like to be seen as snarky. I don’t want to be thought of as not nice. So, I added a few words. Just a few. To make myself look better.

. . .I don’t get to keep the large sum they sent me this week. I’m okay with that.

They did the job. The words, I mean. Making myself look better.

The check was for a huge amount. To my mind, anyway. The fellow on the phone, who took nearly an hour to decide, told me it was mine to keep. Well, mine and the Lovely Lady’s.

Only, I knew it wasn’t.

The next day, armed with documentation, I called them again and, taking another hour out of my life, convinced the kind lady that the money wasn’t mine.

She told me where to mail the check.

My friends think I have integrity.

As I said, they could be right. I think they may not be.

I want them to be. Right, that is.

Can we talk about integrity? Again?

I’ve written about it before. If you’ve read those articles, you may remember I used the example of a piece of cloth, woven neatly and with good thread. In my mind, it’s the very definition of integrity.

The cloth is stronger than the sum of the threads. But, I’m not. Stronger, I mean.

In the back of my mind, I know the cost of keeping money that doesn’t belong to me. Oh, I don’t mean the guilty feelings that come inevitably. And, they will come.

What I mean is, I’ve seen what the IRS does when it realizes it made a mistake. The penalties. The interest charges. The seizing of the entire bank account until their agents are satisfied.

And, again in the back of my mind, I wonder; did I send the money back because I don’t want to pay that penalty? Was I afraid I’d get caught? That’s not integrity.

It’s not.

Integrity is about doing the right thing. Because it’s the right thing.

Period.

Integrity is about doing the right thing. Because it's the right thing. Period. Click To Tweet

It’s the whole cloth holding together, because every thread is in its place, doing what it does. Strong. Steadfast.

I like to read. A lot. I learn from reading. Good things. Bad things. And, at my age, I keep wondering when I’ll have learned all the new things I can glean from other writers.

Obviously, not yet.

The other day, as I read a historical novel, the description of a phrase inscribed above the entrance to some imaginary palace caught my attention. Arrested my attention. Made me read it again. And, yet again.

You’ll understand when you read it for yourself.

Esse quam videri

See what I mean?

Oh, sorry. Latin may not have been the right language in which to introduce the concept. Let me make a literal translation (from a Latin dictionary; not from my feeble brain) for you.

To be as seen.

It’s often expressed as to be, rather than to seem. That’s okay, but I like the literal, word-for-word, translation better. We in the computer age have a similar phrase, expressed in equally unintelligible language.

WYSIWYG

What you see is what you get. It works with computers. Not so much with humans.

It should.

Why does God have to look on the inside, while man is fooled by outside appearances? (1 Samuel 16:7)

Why aren’t they the same thing?

Facades, masks, clever disguises—we manage to look the part, one way or another. Even we who claim to follow Jesus have our deceptions in place.

Alive and beautiful on the outside. But, what if there’s death and decay on the inside?

The world is not wrong when it labels us hypocrites. The word simply means, actors. Someone who pretends for his/her livelihood. I don’t know many in the world who are not that themselves, but it should be different for us.

It should.

Mr. Lewis may be accurate when he says that integrity is doing the right thing even when no one is watching, but there’s more to it than that. A lot more.

Integrity is about telling the truth even when it costs. It’s about being generous even when one is impoverished. It’s about controlling my tongue when all around folks are sharing the latest gossip. It’s about not drinking the milk from the carton even when the Lovely Lady isn’t looking.

It’s about all those things. But, those things aren’t integrity.

Integrity isn’t about doing. It’s about being.

Integrity isn't about doing. It's about being. Click To Tweet

Because what is in the heart is what will always—eventually—bubble up to the surface. The thing that is at the bottom of who I am, my very foundation, is the thing I will do and become.

A word of caution. If I believe myself to be a man of integrity and proclaim it to be so, you should assume there is some filthy secret hidden in that foundation that will become known soon. I’ve seen it too many times. You have too.

The apostle who loved to write letters, my namesake—who, by the way, had reason to understand the principle personally—suggested that when we believe we are standing firmly on both feet, we should be careful not to get hurt in the fall. (1 Corinthians 10:12)

I want to be a man of integrity. Want to be.

I’m not that man. Too often, my integrity is guaranteed only by the odds that someone is watching, or that someone will eventually uncover my offense.

But, I want to be that man.

Someday, I will be him.

No mask. No facade. No disguise.

Esse quam videri

To be as seen.

And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.
(Philippians 1:6 ~ 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.

The image is one thing, and the human being is another. It’s very hard to live up to an image, put it that way.
(Elvis Presley ~ American singer/entertainer ~ 1935-1977)

Undressing in Public

September 1, 2017September 1, 2020 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 5 Comments

My pocket was vibrating. We were most of the way through Eternal Father, Strong to Save when the distraction began. Ignoring the momentary buzzing, I bumbled my way through the end of the piece.

I don’t use my phone during orchestra rehearsal. Usually, I don’t. But you know—my house could have been burning or an intercontinental ballistic missile might have been heading our way— so, as soon as our conductor turned her attention to the violins, helping them to find the pitch which they seemed to have lost during the last piece, I checked my messages.

One was a reminder that I had promised to go to coffee with another member of the orchestra at nine o’clock, right after we finished the rehearsal. The other was from another friend, inviting me to join him and a third friend at ten o’clock at a different coffee shop.

It was cutting it close (and there was a danger of caffeine overdose), but I snuck my phone onto the music stand and surreptitiously sent a return message saying I would try to be there.

I hope no one will squeal on me to the director.

Friends in this world are hard to come by. Friends who will take the time to invite a grumpy old guy such as I to coffee are even harder to find.

Time spent among such friends is never wasted. Never.

I met with my red-headed tuba-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more.

Then I met with the preacher and his/my guitar-playing friend and we laughed, and commiserated, and laughed some more.

All in all, the two encounters were probably the most important two hours I spent in the whole day. They were completely uneventful. By that I mean there were no important decisions made, no actions taken, not even any subjects of any great significance discussed.

Did I say they were completely uneventful? That’s not quite accurate. There were two things that happened, which have had me thinking for two days. The first occurred near the end of my time with my friend from the orchestra.

An acquaintance, who knew both of us, wandered by on his way out of the restaurant and took a moment to stop and talk with us. As we wondered aloud how he was doing, he began to unbutton his shirt.

“Let me show you something.”

My friend and I exchanged quizzical glances. I can’t speak for my friend, but people don’t normally undress in public while I’m talking with them.

We needn’t have worried.

He just wanted to show us the scar.

The scar from his open-heart surgery a few months ago went from just below his ribs up to the top of his chest. He told us (in colorful terms) about his previous symptoms and the surgery, as well as its aftermath. It was good that we had finished our coffee and buns already.

I only mention the event because the other thing that happened was very much like it.

I arrived at the second venue for coffee consumption just a few minutes after the agreed-upon time and grabbed my third cup of coffee in the morning before sitting down with my two friends.

Within minutes, the guitar player was unbuttoning his shirt. Seriously.

“Let me show you something.”

His scar was horizontal, not vertical. Just below his collarbone, the three-inch incision was not completely healed and it looked tender.

The pacemaker/defibrillator has only been in his body for a short time, but he joked and dismissed it as lightly as if it were of no consequence at all. We knew better but didn’t dwell on it.

Two men, within a quarter-hour of each other, had unbuttoned their shirts to show me something I would never have seen otherwise.

What a curious thing!

It was almost as if there was a message I needed not to miss.

There was.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

How many people do I see in a day? Ten? Fifty? A thousand? I suppose it depends on the day and the places to which I go.

Still, if inside of fifteen minutes, two men had shown me their scars, how many do you suppose I pass every day—every single day—who have scars they don’t show me?

How many people are walking around hiding scars? Scars too ugly, too fresh, too painful to reveal to anyone.

You know we’re not talking about physical scars, right? Well, maybe some of them.

Some physical scars work their way right down into the soul of the person wearing them.

Scars put there by hatred.

Scars dealt out by people who were supposed to show love instead.

Scars carved into their body by their own hand.

And yet, those scars are, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said, only the tip of the iceberg.

We carry, in our bodies and souls, scars innumerable. Scars we wouldn’t dare to show to anyone.

Not to anyone.

There is not one human being who is unscathed. Not one. We all have scars.

Words said. Pain remembered. War. Old age.

Every part of our lives has its anguish. Scars come from all types of injuries.

And, we walk around with the scars hidden from sight. Walking wounded, many of them yet unhealed. Oozing, scabby things—they threaten to drain the life from us.

Tears come as I contemplate it. So much pain. So much hopelessness. All concealed and festering.

Some of it is mine. Perhaps, yours as well.

Our Savior came to bind up the broken hearts. (Isaiah 61:1)

More than that, He came to heal the scars and take away the pain. Because of His scars, healing is ours. (Isaiah 53:5)

There are some who take those words to mean physical healing. I won’t argue His power to do that. It seems clear though, that the words are intended to give us an unequivocal promise of healing for our souls.

Our scars need no longer be hidden! We need conceal our pain and our shame no more.

Thomas—the one we ridicule as the doubter—asked Him to unbutton His shirt and show him. Right in front of a houseful of His followers.

The scars of a common criminal—revealed for everyone in the room to see. The stripes upon His back, laid on by the Roman soldier. The holes in his wrists and feet, torn open by spikes hammered through (not gently).

All uncovered without embarrassment.

For us, His flesh was laid open.

My heart breaks as I consider all who walk in shame and fear—fear of the exposure of their scars and fear of carrying them to their graves.

I wonder. Maybe it’s time to show our scars to each other.

Maybe it's time to show our scars to each other. Click To Tweet

Maybe it’s time to tell the Good News, to do a little binding up of wounded hearts ourselves.

Maybe, it’s time to undress.

In public.

Let me show you something.

It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
(Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy ~ American philanthropist ~ 1890-1995)

He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.
(Psalm 147:3 ~ NIV ~ Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® All rights reserved.)

Tools of the Trade

April 24, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He had watched the sun come up from his vantage point on the western bank of the rolling river, the Mighty Mississippi, while listening to the dulcet tones of the old trumpet player.

With tears still in his eyes, he turned away to wander back into Jackson Square, just as the city of New Orleans was waking. The restaurants were busy, the coffee shops crowded, but he hadn’t come to eat.

For two hours or more, he wandered the streets, finding exactly what he was seeking. He had forced himself out of bed while it was still dark just so he could listen to the street musicians.

And listen, he did.

No slouch of a guitar player himself, he was anxious to sample the varied fare this aged city had to offer. There was no disappointment in the search.

At first.

From street corners and even in the alleys, the city is full of people with their talents on display. Many do it for the love of their craft, others simply to have enough to fill their stomachs.

The seeker stopped for a few moments at one corner to listen to the two women playing classical music, a departure from the normal street fare in this city of jazz and blues. Speaking for a moment with another man standing nearby, he learned that both were music professors in nearby universities.

He even dropped a dollar or two in the open violin case and moved on. Most of the musicians he listened to were not as well educated, but he avers that all were just as talented.

Except one.

The street-worn fellow had a good quality guitar sitting on his lap. The ancient Guild six-string might have seen better days, but it was a fine instrument.

Still, he never played a single chord.

Our friend wondered why this was so and walked a bit nearer to the bench the aging man was occupying. It did seem to him that the fellow was old, but he really is not sure. Living on the streets will age a person long before his time. He might have been as young as thirty or as old as sixty. It was hard to tell.

As he drew near, though, the tourist saw the problem. While there should have been six, the old acoustic guitar had only three metal strings stretched out along the length of the fingerboard. Even those were old and corroded.

The other street musicians had played for whatever money the passersby would toss in their hats or cases, but this fellow had a different tack.

“Say, could you give me the money to buy a set of strings?”

Our friend almost fell for the scam. After all, what was five or six dollars? Give the old guy enough to buy a set of strings so he could earn a living–how could that go wrong?

Then he had an idea.

“I saw a music store up the block a ways. How about you and I go and we’ll get a set put on your guitar? I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

The old guy wasn’t amused. That was the last thing he wanted.

“No. I’ll just take the money for the strings.”

The tourist talked with him for just a minute more. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the money would be used for. There was never to be a new set of strings on the guitar. It would never play a song on that street corner–ever.

The fellow with the guitar knew how to make money with his guitar, he just couldn’t play it.

The superbly crafted instrument, with the potential for making sweet music lifting the spirit to the heavens, or bringing tears to the eyes of hardened men who listened, was nothing but a prop for an act. If it had strings on it, he couldn’t make a dime with it.

He wasn’t a musician at all, just a man with a scam—a fraud—to be perpetrated on any unsuspecting tourist who came by.

Our friend moved on, disappointed.

I listen to the story and my mind wanders.

I remember the fellow to whom I gave a ride one day, not long ago. I drove him twenty miles out of my way and handed him all the cash I had in my pocket. He told me he would use it to purchase a bus ticket to make it home to his wife and kids, who were hundreds of miles away.

Two days later, as he wandered past my music store, it was a shock to realize that I had been played.

Then there was that other fellow I loaned money to, just until he got paid from his new job. The job was a lie. So was the payback.

The stories, just like the street musician with his guitar, are merely the tools of the trade, designed to achieve a purpose, but never to become reality.

Just as quickly, my mind shifts gears again, and I wonder how many folks I have conned, in much the same way—people who have poured resources into my life, with the promise that changes would be made, never to see or hear a result.

How am I any different from the old fellow down in the French Quarter, with his beautiful guitar which never will make music?

Still, I show up time after time, with habits which need to be broken, sins which need to be repented of, steps which never seem to be taken.

And, no music is ever heard.

How about it? Got a few broken strings yourself?

Have there been promises made of changes to come, with nary a hint of actual rehabilitation? Do you come and sit on the same street corner every day, or perhaps every week, with the same broken strings; always with the promise to show up with a playable instrument the next time?

I’m guessing that if we look deep inside, we’ll all find the broken promises, the scams, the assurances which we don’t seem to ever quite fulfill. Like the man on the street corner, we have figured out how to make the system work for us, always thinking that we’ll make it right–someday.

Personally, I’m wondering if it’s about time for a new set of strings to be taken down from the wall.

There will be a good bit of grime to be cleaned away before they can be installed, but the basic instrument was made well. I’m confident that when the job is done, there will be some excellent music heard.

It’s just the process of cleaning and stretching, then cutting and tuning that I’m not real sure of.

It all sounds a bit painful.

Ah well, I know the Maker of the music, the Master Luthier.

I’m thinking the final result will be worth it all.

His work never fails to produce gorgeous music. Maybe it’s time to put my hat down on the street.

Why don’t you come too?

We might make some great music together!

Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter,
Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;
Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness,
Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.
(from Rescue The Perishing ~ Fannie Crosby ~ American hymn writer ~ 1820-1915)

During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.
(George Orwell ~ English novelist ~ 1903-1950)

Misdemeanors

May 14, 2015May 14, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She carried thousands of them. And by thousands, I mean more than twenty.

That big old suitcase of a purse had everything in it. Kleenex, on the off-chance a bloody nose should need immediate attention (hey–it had been known to happen) or even for the occasional tear that might dare to escape from the corner of a little boy’s eye. Band-aids for scraped knees–a virtual certainty–and pricked fingers. Scissors, nail clippers, maps, Bible, suntan lotion (no sunscreen back then), pens, pencils, notepad. . .Well, you get the idea.

The object she carried by the thousands though (or more than twenty–whichever), was a round silver thing with ridges around the circumference. That red-headed lady who raised me carried plenty of quarters for any eventuality.

Lunch money? Get a couple of quarters. Sunday School offering? Pull out a quarter. A stop at the gas station for a few gallons of gas? Four of them would put four gallons in the tank, enough to get around town for another week.

Mom carried quarters. The gargantuan purse’s weight without them? I have no idea. It would have felt feather-light to her if it had ever happened. It never did.

I knew better than to dig through Mom’s purse on my own. If a dig through was called for, she did it herself. I never took a quarter from Mom’s purse. Never.

Did I also mention she kept thousands of quarters on her dresser in her bedroom? No? She did. I think they were the reinforcements for the purse, should it ever feel lighter than normal.

Is it pretty clear where this is headed? Well, let me get right to the point.

I am a thief.

Was.

Am.

Again and again–I cringe as I write the words–and again, I crept into my parent’s bedroom at times when I was sure their attention was on other things–preparing dinner, hanging laundry on the line, changing the oil in the car–and I slipped a quarter into my pocket. A quarter bought a coke in those days. Or, even a play on the pinball machine in the convenience store. Important stuff.

Never more than one at a time did I steal. I convinced myself that it was not as bad as taking two. Or four. Or ten.

No mention was ever made of the missing money. None. But, the red-headed woman knew. She knew.

It was fifty years ago. And still I know myself to be a thief.

Was.

Am.

In the present day, I would never steal from anyone knowingly. Folks leave items at my business–nice things–and I find ways to contact them. I realize a customer has been overcharged and I make sure they get their money back. To a fault, I ensure unhappy folks are compensated. I never want to cheat or steal from a single person again.

I’m not sure how we manage to convince ourselves, but we can certainly fool ourselves, can’t we? I’m not a thief anymore! With Tolkien’s Faramir, I can say, “Not if I found it on the highway would I take it!”

Was.

Yeah.

Am.

You see, stealing is about recognizing who the proper owner of anything is and not taking that thing for ourselves.

Anything.

This is not the time for me to make a list of the things I have stolen just in the last 24 hours. The reader will probably find enough to make his or her own list. It may or may not be longer than mine.

The man limped out of the rain and into my store this morning. I had work to do and was already behind schedule. He needed to talk about important things. Needed to. I grudgingly gave him five minutes of my time and sent him on his way with my variation of go in peace; be warm and be fed.

Recently, I wrote boldly of knowing that nothing I have is my own. The opportunity to serve was not my own. The time was not my own. I am a thief.

Was.

Am.

My Creator has, in His bag, thousands of such opportunities. How many have I sneaked in and stolen, to waste on myself? How many minutes, one at a time, have I slipped into my own pocket?

Let me be clear. I am not legalistically suggesting we cannot have leisure time. It is clear we were created in such a way that rest and recreation is a prerequisite for physical and spiritual health.

The minutes and opportunities I am suggesting have been stolen and squandered do not, by any stretch of the imagination, fit into the category of leisure time.

I knew when I hurried the man out the door, I had not fulfilled my responsibility to him. I knew, and I sent him away. I am a thief.

Was.

Am.

Ah! But, grace. . .

Was.

“Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.'”
Luke 23: 42, 43 ~ NIV)

“Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.”
(J.K.Rowling ~ British novelist)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

honesty

Esse Quam What?

Undressing in Public

Tools of the Trade

Misdemeanors