Redeeming the Time

image by Gerd Altmann on Pixabay

“We get more time!”

My friend smiled joyfully as she said the words.  Her mom, who has cancer, had surgery last week and is healing nicely.

But, I wonder. . .

I’ve experienced the same thing in recent years.  The Lovely Lady’s brother received his original diagnosis four years before the disease took him.  At several points throughout that journey, we realized anew that we had more time, albeit limited, with him.

It changed our relationship; making us more purposeful.  We valued the times around the table—the visits on the backyard deck.  We knew our days together were numbered.

We made the most of them.  We invested in them.

Does that make sense?

The Apostle, my namesake, used the term (at least in the version in which I learned it):  Redeeming the time.

In the book of Colossians (chapter 4, verse 5), he uses it with respect to unbelievers and sharing the Good News with them.  But, in Ephesians (chapter 5, verses 16 and 17), he’s clearly talking about our relationships with those of the faith.

Either way, we’re to invest our hours and days wisely.  It’s nothing like the spending time we refer to so often in our culture.  Redeeming means buying back; reclaiming every minute.

But, here’s what I wonder:

Why do we wait until we have a pretty clear picture of the time frame?  Until we can almost see the limit of our days on earth with those we love?

Our days were numbered from the moment of our conception.

“You saw me before I was born.
    Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
    before a single day had passed.”
(Psalm 139:16, NLT)

He knows how long we have.  He always has. 

And He wants us to redeem every minute.  For Him, and for those He’s blessed us to walk this journey with.

He knows our days without the need for a surgeon’s prognosis—without the calculation of life expectancy from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—without our wide-eyed expectations.

He knows.  And, He wants us to invest ourselves into every bit of it.

I remember a song that was popular in my youth—an awful song (at least they were awful lyrics).  But, there was a grain of truth in it.

The lyrics said, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”  The author of those lyrics intended them to mean that we love them physically—carnally.

Still, my mind has always traveled by its own strange paths.

And, I’m absolutely certain we’re intended to love the one we’re with.  With the love that God put in our hearts, we are to invest ourselves every day into others He brings into our lives.  In spiritual ways, and in practical ways.

Fill your days with manifestations of love for those around you.  Words are good.  Actions are better.  Gifts are optional.

Don’t wait.

Today needs redemption already.

“We get more time.”

 

“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.”
(Walt Whitman)

 

“See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise,  redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
     Therefore do not be unwise, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”
(Ephesians 5:15-17, NKJV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Is Anyone Coming to Help?

image by Clement Percheron on Pexels

Last week was a good week.  For me, it was, anyway.

Without boring the reader to death, let’s just say things went my way.  Tasks were completed without undue stress.  A lovely midweek visit with family, ending with a beautiful fire on the deck (and brats, followed by s’mores!), was one of the high points.

We even made a significant financial decision, the result of which is a shiny, new-to-us vehicle sitting in the drive in front of our house.  I think I’m more excited to get rid of the old car than to have a new one to drive.

We’re making plans for Thanksgiving this week.  It’s always a lovely time, shared with family and friends.  The food is nice, but the company is even nicer.

A good week.

So why can’t I get those folks out of my thoughts?  They had been stuck in the parking lot overnight.  And, I just left them there.

What did you say?

What folks?

Oh.  You can’t read my mind, can you?  You weren’t there.

I’ll try to do better.

On the last day of that good week, the Lovely Lady and I drove through the parking lot of our local grocery store.  It was time to stock up on food for the holiday.  It looked like everyone else had the same idea.  But, something was amiss there.

I saw the old car, thirty years old if it was a day, sitting low and close to the pavement.  Flat tire.  Too bad for them.

But, as we passed on our way to an empty space, I noticed people sitting in the vehicle.  A lady, about middle age, sat behind the wheel.  There was a girl, and a young man in the car, too.

I sent the Lovely Lady on into the store, telling her I’d catch up to her. Stating the obvious, I spoke as I approached the open window on the driver’s side.

“Flat tire?”

The reply came.  “Two, actually.”

Sure enough, both back tires were flat.  The lady had a cell phone in her hand, so I asked if someone was coming to help.  She shook her head, with a discouraged look in her eyes.

“No.  There’s no one to help.  We’ve been here since last night.”

No, there was no spare, either.  I stood for a moment, perplexed.  Then, I bought myself some time.

“I’m going to talk with my wife.  I’ll be back.”

The Lovely Lady had no answers.  I didn’t expect her to.  I just needed time to think. Not that it would do any good on that day.

I decided to call the local tire shop, just down the road.

It was Saturday afternoon.  12:58.  The shop closed at 1:00.  The boss had sent his techs home and couldn’t offer any help.

“But, it’s really nice of you to try to help,” the boss said before hanging up.

I called another shop.  They couldn’t do anything for her, either.

“But, it’s really nice of you to try to help,” the voice on the phone muttered before hanging up.

I don’t want to try to help.  Can you understand that?

The grocery shopping was nearly finished by this time, so I got the Lovely Lady checked out and headed back to the car.  Sending her on to load the bags in the car, I headed over to the old junker.

I apologized that I hadn’t been successful in finding help.  Reaching into my wallet, I pulled out all the bills I had there and shoved them into her hand.  It was not in any sense a significant amount of money, but it was all I had.

“I hope you can find someone who can help you get home.”

The discouraged look didn’t leave her eyes.

“This is our home.  We live in the car.”

Tears come again as I write. I’m not even sure why I’m writing about it.

At home, the tears came on that afternoon too, as I took the packages of food to stow away in the cupboard.  The Lovely Lady was rearranging potatoes and onions on the utility room shelves and probably didn’t see them, but I wiped them away quickly anyway.

The car is their home!  A home with two flat tires.

I look around the home in which we live.  It’s not luxurious—not new—not all that spacious.

But, it’s not sitting in the grocery store parking lot with two flat tires.

I want to feel good.  I wish I could say (with the tire shop folks), “At least I tried.”

The Lovely Lady lovingly reminds me frequently that I can’t fix everything for everyone.  But, she knows me and realizes how it hurts to only try and not succeed.

But, trying is how we make our way—sometimes painfully and with difficulty—to succeeding.  We should keep trying.

And, as folks gather in the living and dining room of this blessed home later this week, I want to remember that old Crown Vic on flat tires and its occupants, as well as all the reasons I have to be thankful personally.

It’s the day when we gather to give thanks.

I trust in the midst of our celebration, there’s just one more thing we’ll remember to do.

Give, thanks.

.

“And do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for God is pleased with such sacrifices.”
(Hebrews 13:16, NET)

“You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.”
(John Bunyan)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Puzzled

image by Paul Phillips

It had been a full day.  Most of them are, but when the grandchildren visit, there’s always more conversation (and louder), more activity, and more eating.

I like the eating part.  And all the others.

Dinner was over.  One child was stretched out in my easy chair, so I sat on the loveseat next to his mother—my daughter.

She was working the ubiquitous jigsaw puzzle.  Nearly always, one is lying in a thousand pieces (more or less) on the coffee table.

She worked on the puzzle; I watched the football game with the kid in the chair, and we talked.  We talk all the time.  About the weather.  About their pets.  About the house on the mountainside.  About the grandkids.

This evening the conversation turned to more serious matters.  Not life-and-death ones.  Just deeper than the weather—or puppies.

Funny.  We talked about talking to people—listening to people.

Did you know if you listen to people, they’ll talk to you?

I mean, talk—communicate.  All it takes is a heart to hear what folks are saying and to show empathy.

I’m still not great at that.

But, then I don’t do puzzles either, do I?  Somehow, I think they’re related—puzzles and people skills.  And puzzles aren’t my thing.

Still, once in a while, as I sit there on the loveseat, a piece seems to leap out at me from the jumble on the table.  And, picking it up, I can place it effortlessly into a spot just waiting for that particular piece.

Only once in a while.

But, people. . .

I’ve told the story before, but it bears repeating here.  I repeat it in my mind often.  Partly because the memory is of my father, but mostly because I need to remember.

I had owned the music store for only a year or two when the phone on the wall rang one afternoon.  My dad was calling from his home in the Central Valley in California.  He just wanted to talk.  So we talked.

And then, as we were about to say goodbye and hang up, he asked if he could pray with me.  Well, he was a preacher.  That was what preachers did.

This prayer would change my life.

“. . .and Lord I ask that you’ll bless Paul in his ministry there in the music store. . .”

Did I say the prayer would change my life?  What I meant is one phrase of the prayer would change my life.

I remember nothing else he prayed about before we said our goodbyes.

I was in shock.

Ministry?  What was he thinking?  This wasn’t my ministry!  It was my vocation, my business; how I earned a living.

The light of the epiphany was blinding.

“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men.
(Colossians 3:23, NKJV)

It wasn’t long after that phone call that the stool appeared.  Right in front of the counter where customers checked out.

It wasn’t just a stool.

It was an invitation.

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many people accepted that invitation over the thirty-some years we operated the music store.  Some just wanted to talk about their musical instrument.  But, many just wanted to talk about life.  About relationships.  About death and loss.

Yes.  All of life is ministry.  Work—leisure.  Daytime—nighttime.  At home—miles down the highway.  All of it.  Everywhere.  All of it ministry for God.

Unless we choose not to follow the words of our Teacher and Savior.

Love God with everything you’ve got.  Love people with everything you’ve got.

Even when both seem like puzzle pieces that won’t go into place.

We don’t do them one at a time, either.  Even if you’ve been led to believe that by folks who claim to love God but refuse to love people.

If our love for God doesn’t lead naturally to love for the folks around us and across the world, we’re missing the boat altogether.

The puzzle is beginning, just beginning, to make sense; the pieces to go into place.  I still have a few pieces (well, more than a few) that I can’t yet make sense of.

I’ll keep trying.

I think I’ll sit down on that loveseat for a few more minutes this morning, too.  I may be able to fit a piece or two into the big picture.

I wonder if the Lovely Lady will notice.

But then, I’m not doing it for her, am I?

 

“Loving God, loving each other,
And the story never ends.”
(from Loving God, Loving Each Other, by Alejandro Martinez, David Thomas, Ivan Martin)

“Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love.” (1 John 4:7-8, ESV)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

Soft Things

image by Ron Lach on Pexels

It’s been a week of one hard day followed by another. When the body blows just keep coming day after day, it’s easy to forget the soft things. Things like compassion. And mercy. Hope.

There haven’t been many soft things this week.

There’s a fellow I’ve known for nearly sixty-five years lying on a hospital bed in the local ICU tonight, and it seems that his struggle is just about over. When I took him to the hospital a week ago, I hoped he’d stay a couple of days and then go back home to his little canine friend. He’d chew his nasty snuff and remind everybody around him that he loves them.

That would be a soft thing. Something to hold in your arms and squeeze gently.

But, life is full of hard things. Things that don’t want to be hugged. Things that don’t have rounded edges to keep from hurting you.

I stood by his bed earlier this evening and talked as I touched his shoulder. I talked about fishing holes and dirt-clod fights. About midnight bicycle rides and digging holes to China.

I don’t know if he heard me, but I did. And, I remembered that life is full of soft things, too.

Sometimes, it’s difficult to see around the hard things and take in all the soft ones.

The repetitive hissing of the ventilator worms its way into the brain and pushes out the good memories. The insistent dinging of the vitals monitor draws the eyes away from the face of one I love to stare at the cold, hard data of a life nearly spent.

I drag my eyes and mind away from the hard things in the room and look back into his face. He has been one of the soft things for all of my life.

A movement in the doorway of the room draws my eyes away from his tired face. Another hard thing. The nurse. At least, it was a nurse who was a hard thing earlier in the day, as we asked questions and she answered matter-of-factly and with finality. Facts. Reports. Cold truth. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t intend to be hard.

Life is hard.

And soft.

The blond-haired nurse moved into the room, coming around the man’s bed to stand beside me. He is her patient. But it was to me she spoke.

“How are you doing?”

I stood for a second, surprised by the softness.

And, I answered, “I’m okay.”

My tears belied the words.

She softly spoke the truth.  “No, you’re not.”

I’ve never been hugged by a nurse in the ICU before. It’s not part of their job description.

Softness. In a hard place.

More tears fell.

And then, as they stopped, we talked about the hard things. But, the soft stayed.

Tomorrow, I’ll stand by his bed again. In a hard world, I’ll look for the soft things.

They’ll be somewhere close—just waiting to be found.

I’m sure of it.

Soft things all around.

 

As a nurse, we have the opportunity to heal the heart, mind, soul, and body of our patients, their families, and ourselves. They may forget your name, but they will never forget how you made them feel.
(attributed to Maya Angelou)

Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:5-7, NIV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Christmas Begins Again

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I sat in that church sanctuary again last Sunday evening.  You know—the one I had never been to before.  I never expected to go there again.  But the Lovely Lady needed to make a return visit.  I needed to be with her.

What I didn’t know was that I also needed to be with that group of people.  It wasn’t just the choir this time.  The sanctuary was filled with bodies.  Old ones.  Young adult ones.  Little children’s bodies.

These weren’t my people.  I worship in a building filled with chairs instead of pews, where a church calendar is barely acknowledged (I remember Christmas Sundays when the pastor carried on with his expository series in Romans, just as if it were any other Sunday), and where the impact of items in the sanctuary is more functional than symbolic.

The service was all symbolism.  All of it.  Even the music.  There was a lot of that.  The Lovely Lady played her flute with the choir.  Her brother played the pipe organ.  There were guitars and drums.  And an accordion.  Along with the piano, they all combined to draw us into worship.

Did I say these weren’t my people? 

They were. They are.

How have we decided we are not related?  When did we begin to determine our relationships by differences in style?  In doctrinal differences?  In musical preferences?

I sat in that sanctuary, a stranger surrounded by family members long estranged.

And we worshipped together.

Together.

If Jesus does not bring us together, pushing aside our differences, are we truly following Him?

If love and kinship in Him do not still draw us to each other, how will we ever worship together in eternity, in that great gathering around His throne?

“Oh come let us adore Him.
Worship Christ the Lord.”

Adore.

Do we?

Will we?

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Falling Leaves and Ice Cream Trucks

The weatherman called for rain with today’s cold front, but the only rain I see is the leaves falling by the thousands in the wind. I don’t expect to be posting many more beautiful autumn tree photos. The trees bereft of their joyful adornment are not subjects for exclamations of admiration. This is the start of the time of year that usually makes me sad.

My daughter’s father-in-law died this week. I’m sad for the huge loss to Tom’s family, knowing how much they’ll miss him. His passing will leave a huge hole in their lives.

But, as I consider these things that ordinarily would make me gloomy and depressed, I realized I’m surprisingly upbeat today. The cycle of life plays out in exactly the way our Creator made it to; summer gives way to autumn and then to winter. It happens in our lives much as it does in nature.

It’s still too early to speak of spring.

We sat with our daughter and her sweetie last night, along with our grandchildren, and we talked about the man who will never joke with them again—will never share his stash of goodies purchased from the neighborhood ice cream truck with them again—will never cheer on the kids from the game’s sidelines again.

There was sadness. Great sadness.

And then, we laughed as we thought about his dad jokes, and about him stopping the ice cream truck like a kid.

There are good things here. Really good things.

I’m weeping for the sad things.

I’m rejoicing for the good ones.

Our hope will not disappoint.

It won’t.

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

No Strangers Here

 

I’m sitting in a church sanctuary, waiting for the Lovely Lady to finish a rehearsal. It’s a place of worship we’ve never been in, but somehow, we’re not feeling out of place.

The beautiful redhead is perched, with perfect posture, at the Steinway on the stage, taking instructions from a choir director she had never met before fifteen minutes ago. The folks in the choir loft are singing as she plays, while the director waves his hand in the air. She doesn’t know any of the singers, either.

It’s baffling. As if they have known her for years, they sing in tune—and in time—with the music that comes from her hands. Beautiful music, from both choir and piano—from strangers amalgamating their abilities and knowledge to achieve a goal.

Music, in circumstances that would cause us to anticipate chaos.

I have seen this more times than I can remember. Complete strangers, from all walks of life, come together with a common bond. A love of music, combined with an intimate understanding of the rules for making it—what we call theory—is all it takes.

I’ve played in orchestras, in quintets, in brass choirs, and in community bands. I’ve sung in church choirs, in small ensembles, and in mass choirs.

In each situation, we read the notes on the page, we hear the voices and instruments around us, and we follow our conductor.

No one asks about how much money we make. What our political beliefs are. What our cultural background is.

Together, we just make the music. Beautiful music.

I’ll admit it. I’m confused. No, not about the music. I’m confused about other situations in this world we live in.

There, the music is not so beautiful. Not beautiful at all.

And yet, the solution seems so obvious.

It does.

Maybe, we need another rehearsal or two.

A little practice at home wouldn’t hurt, either.

 

There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus.
(Galations 3:28, NLT)

So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.
(John 13: 34-35, NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

The Time for Anger is Past

image by Adam Kontor at Pexels

How is it that the fear
Banished in the morning light
Claws at my heart now,
Cowering in the new thrown night?

Hyperbole is what that is.  Poetic license, taken by one given to flights of imagination.  It’s expected when one writes in verse and rhyme.

Still, it’s not so far off the mark, some nights.

I am by nature a night person, haunting the empty rooms and darkened recesses of this old mid-century habitation long after any other denizens of the neighborhood, save the four-footed variety, have given in to the siren call of slumber.  And when, as is my lot at times, my chronic breathing problems surface, even the hours when I’ve retreated to my bed are spent turning this way and that, coughing and yet, attempting to suppress the overwhelming urge to do that very thing.

As one might expect, eventually the mind turns to unhappy and dark subjects or, more specifically, situations for which I’ve found, in my normal haunting hours, no solution or cure.

Unfinished business is a weight on my mind, a burden if you will, that bends the spirit until I’m afraid the breaking point is near.  And, clawing fear with unanswered questions is often given leave to ride, untethered, through the dark hours.

Tonight I received an unexpected note from one I love. His message closed with these words that give me hope the reign of one particular fear is near an end:

“I think my time for anger is finally over.”

The last time I wrote about the man was right after he died.  Two years ago, almost.  One would have thought the turmoil, the tumult, had died with him.  One would have been wrong.

Just because a character has fallen out of the story, it’s not a given that closure is accomplished.  Much the opposite, this falling-out part often seems to increase the impact of the mental conflict, to magnify those unpleasant memories that never seem to behave themselves or to become comfortable scenes from the past.

I loved the man—more than I have loved most other folks on this spinning ball of dirt and water.  But, that said, he was the most stubborn human being I’ve ever known.  Well, maybe not more stubborn than the red-headed lady he was married to.

And yet, he could also be the most maddening person I knew.  That red-headed lady said it once (that I remember).

“That man!  He makes me so mad!”

I was twelve and had never heard her say a negative word about my father before.  I was certain the divorce papers would be served soon.

Of course, they never were. He cared for her until the day she died, even though she had not known who he was for a couple of years before her passing.  He was like that.

He kept his promises.  It was one of the things about him that was so maddening. Yes, maddening.  Keeping promises.

In his last years, there was one particular person he made promises to.  She made promises, too—never intending to keep them.  He intended to keep his and did until the day he died, at great cost to himself and his family.

But, no.

This is not an exposé.  It’s not.

I intended to do that one day.  I would write a tell-all story, exposing his shortcomings and character failings to the world.  Bare my soul, vomiting out my frustration and angst.

It will never happen.

Remember the story of Noah in the Bible?  That righteous man, Noah, a fierce follower of God, who complied willingly with God’s plan for the survival of mankind and the animal kingdom by building an ark and taking his family into it, saving them from the flood?

There is another story about the man, found in chapter 9 of Genesis, verses 18 through 28.  After the flood, Noah, being more of a farmer than a boatbuilder, grew a crop of grapes, subsequently making wine from the bounty. Sampling the liquid, he became drunk.  In his inebriated state, he took off his clothes and laid, in his drunken stupor, naked in his tent.

Wait.  Drunk and naked?  The most righteous man in the world? That doesn’t seem right, does it?

His son, Ham, didn’t think so either.  Finding his father in that state, he called his brothers, Shem and Japheth, to come and look, so anxious was he to expose Dad’s shortcoming.

They chose not to participate.

Taking their father’s cloak between the two of them, they walked backward.  So they could preserve their father’s dignity, they purposefully refused to look at him naked.  They covered his nakedness.

It’s different today.

A popular writer in our day, Anne Lamott, famously suggests you own everything that happened to you.  She encourages—no, insists—that we should tell everything, regardless of the harm to others.  I’m certain she means well.

But I’m with Shem and Japheth.  I choose not to participate.  To expose the private sin and shortcomings of one I love is to disrespect who he was throughout his life.

He was a man who loved his God intensely.  Fiercely, even.  And, because of that, he was a man who loved the people around him in the same way.  As a pastor, he made it his mission to be where he was needed.  He listened.  He comforted.  He wept.  He rejoiced.

When he was no longer the pastor of a church, he became pastor to the folks at the local breakfast cafe, the grocery store, even the bank.  Again and again, he made friends of strangers, praying as easily as he talked, encouraging more than he exhorted, leaving the world behind him better for having walked here.

He loved his family with that same fierce love.  Every one of his children walked away from some aspect of the principles, the faith, he had brought us up in, yet his love for us never waned.  With each of us, he prayed.  To the end of his days, he prayed.  And he sang.  And he quoted scripture—and poetry.

In the back of my mind, even as I write this, I hear the voice.  “But, what about that episode? What about the time he did this?  Tell them about the day…”

Why do we hold on so long to resentment?  To anger?

What possible end can we hope to achieve by holding them tightly?  Like some monstrous, yet precious, treasures, we grasp them with a death-grip only age-worn and life-weary hands can manage.

The closer we hold them, the more they hurt us.  The longer we embrace them, the harder it becomes to let them go.

Many eventually loose that anger in outbursts of ugly accusation and personal venom. The outburst can be a catharsis; no one could argue that.  But, catharsis achieved and outburst exhausted, all that is left in view is a smaller human being, accompanied by his/her scorched and ruined memories of one whom they loved and were loved by.

Many will disagree with my viewpoint.  The age in which we live thrives on canceling reputations and flaming memories.  Somehow we believe we are bigger for diminishing the reputations of those whose voices are silent now and who can no longer answer back.

It can only diminish us.

The one I love is right.  The time for anger is over.  If it’s not, the time for fear and resentfulness never will be.  Ever.

And somehow, the One I always end up talking to in the dark, He who is the Light that has defeated the darkness and will one day banish it forever, reminds me that my anger and resentment is one of the burdens He asked me to give to Him.

Many I know are carrying that same burden—have carried it for most of the years of their life.

Why would we willingly keep bending under that heavy load?  Pain and unhappiness are the only possible return we’ll realize from the labor.

He promises rest.  And hope.

The time for anger is over.

Ahh.  Sweet freedom!

 

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.
(Matthew 11:28, NLT)

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.
(Martin Luther King Jr.)

The light shines in the darkness,
    and the darkness can never extinguish it.
(John 1:5, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

I Don’t Think That’s What “Two or Three Gathered Together” Means

Lessons on crossing bridges the correct way

personal image

 

I wonder if I could just put it down to folks being in a hurry. It’s not my intent to malign anyone’s reputation here. Still, there seemed to be neither a surplus of intelligence nor the absence of poor judgment in either of the adversaries.

We had just eaten a delicious lunch in the little dining room on the upper floor of the old mill overlooking the scenic river. It was a working mill, so we took a few moments to study the huge waterwheel and the sluice through which the wide river was routed to provide the power to turn it.

In the late summer, one in which there has been a fair amount of rain, the valley through which the river runs could only be described as verdant, with huge oaks and maples towering over the banks. Wanting a photo of the place for our friends visiting from my hometown to remember it by, we decided to risk a little stroll across the wooden deck of the old steel truss bridge to acquire one.

The bridge was built in 1907 when all the traffic over it would have been horse-drawn wagons and buggies. The signs leading to it clearly designate it as a one-lane bridge, limiting the speed across it to five miles per hour. No one could claim they didn’t see the signs.

So, as we wandered across, hugging the edge of the deck to be sure no one would need to slow down to three miles per hour for us, we were surprised to hear, and then see, two cars whip up onto the bridge — one from each end. They obviously saw each other.

They weren’t going five miles per hour. With eyes on the car approaching from the other way, they both raced even faster to get to the center first, braking hard at the last possible moment. An abbreviated game of chicken, with both drivers — thankfully — giving in before any damage was done, either to them or to the watching pedestrians.

There they sat. We heard no yelling. I can’t say there were any rude gestures. From my perspective, each just sat, foot on brake pedal, waiting for the other driver to give up the right-of-way and back down the way they had come.

We laughed. Well? How could one not see the humor in the situation? The ages-old rite of claiming territory, of banging heads (visualize a couple of male bighorn sheep if you need a mental image), of being the king-of-the-mountain (yes, just as childish as that) was being played out in front of us.

Somehow, I’m not laughing now

 Over time, I’ve considered the foolishness of the two drivers, and I’m convinced we’re seeing the same event playing out over and over in everyday life.

We call the situation an impasse. It means just what it sounds like. The negative prefix, “im”, linked to the positive word, “pass”. A place where no one can make any progress.

Each is blocking the other’s way. No one will move forward. No one.

Where two or three are gathered

I hear the words whispered. In my mind, I hear them.

It’s a phrase in common usage by those of us who follow Jesus. He said the words Himself, promising to be in our midst.

Perhaps, there’s more to it than that. There were two people on that bridge. It just didn’t seem a likely place for Him to make Himself known. Not likely at all.

Soon after that episode, our little group got back into our vehicle and made our way to another bridge. Our friends were at my mercy on that day, and I wanted them to look at bridges (have I told you how much I love the beautiful old structures?).

personal image

This bridge is another one-lane passage over the same river, but much longer and very different in design. Still, like its cousin we had left just moments before, it requires a certain amount of cooperation for folks to cross it.

As we stopped by the river’s banks to view the bridge and grab a quick photograph or two, I couldn’t help but remember an event that had transpired there only a few years ago.

There are signs as one approaches the bridge warning of the single lane and the need to approach with caution. There are also signs which indicate a weight limit. Ten tons, they say. If one is driving a car or pickup truck, there is no need to heed the signs.

On that occasion in 2018, two chartered tour buses, operated by drivers who certainly would have had to pass an advanced test to operate a commercial vehicle, crossed the bridge going the same direction.

A charter bus weighs between twenty and thirty tons. Two of them crossing, one right after the other, far exceeded the safe limitations of the bridge. The photos folks took of the illegal crossing showed the old suspension bridge, normally in a convex shape, bowing severely into a concave curve under the buses’ weight.

Damage was done. The bridge had to be repaired before even a compact car could cross it again.

But you might say, the drivers agreed on their actions, both going in the same direction and not impeding each other’s progress. And yet, an impasse again occurred. The bridge was shut down to make amends for their wrong actions.

The whispering in my head has gained in volume.

Whenever two or three are gathered…agreeing, it will be done.

Is that what the statement the Teacher made is intended to convey?

If we who follow him agree on something that is clearly wrong, is He then obligated to honor our desires?

Somehow, I think we’ve still got this wrong

Even though there were also two drivers on this second bridge, I am unsure that the One we follow will show Himself here either.

Again, I tell you the truth, if two of you on earth agree about whatever you ask, my Father in heaven will do it for you. For where two or three are assembled in my name, I am there among them. 
 (Matthew 18:19–20, NET)

There is another bridge

It’s an ancient bridge, built from wood and nails — and grace.

I wonder. Do I, who have crossed over that bridge by the Builder’s own invitation, dare to create an impasse, turning back others for whom He died?

Do I claim, while gathered in His name with others, the right to ask for things — things we lust after — selfish requests — that He never promised to us?

Do I treat that ancient bridge as my possession — a thing to be used and held, but not to be shared freely with all who are drawn to it?

How many? 

How many have I driven away with my ugliness, my greed, my pride?

When will we — all of us who have already crossed that bridge — acknowledge the debt we have to the Builder, a debt He calls us to fulfill by going into the highways and byways to take away the arguments the folks wandering and struggling there have?

Imagine.

Imagine what could happen if we do that together

If two or three of us, gathered in His name, agree that the bridge is His and not ours—If we agree together that we will no longer create impasses, and no longer will claim the exclusive use for our self-centered purposes, do you suppose we can trust Him to show up?

I’d like to give that a try.

I wonder if there are one or two more who will join me?

He’ll be there. With us. He will.

 

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold guiltless anyone who takes his name in vain.
(Exodus 20:7, NET)

Unity without verity is no better than conspiracy.
(John Trapp ~ English educator/pastor/writer ~ 1601–1669)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.

How to Make an Arrowhead

 

Sometimes a stone is not just a stone

The troubled young man reached out his hand as I prepared to leave. We had been speaking of serious matters. I expected nothing from him, but here he was, obviously with something to offer.

I took the small object and turned it over.

“An arrowhead?” I mumbled, confused.

I thought he might have found an ancient keepsake out on the hillside, but wasn’t sure why he was giving it to me.

“I made it myself,” the man said proudly. “For you.”

We spoke of the work it had taken to produce this gift for a few moments. Then I thanked him and tucked the flinty object into my pocket as I headed for home. I regretted the decision to tuck it away there more than once as it dug into my leg when I moved my foot to the brake and the accelerator.

We all make poor decisions. I removed the arrowhead immediately upon arriving home. Still, it’s been a bothersome object nearly constantly since that day.

You see, I could easily pull it out of my pocket. It’s not so easy to get it out of my brain.

Am I the only one who has this sort of problem?

That arrowhead has been jabbing and pricking at my subconscious for weeks now. Every time I see it or the man again, something tugs at my thoughts. I’ve been trying to puzzle it out. I’m still not sure I’ve quite grasped it.

Perhaps, just a start here will help to firm up the shadow of the reality I know is lurking close by, just waiting to be seen in clear view.

Somehow, I find myself jumbling thoughts of stones, lots of them, banging against each other, together with reminders of bad choices and a lack of direction. I even find myself thinking about old Goliath and that stone that hit him in the middle of his forehead.

Odd, isn’t it?

Puzzles are like that — all confusing shapes and nearly-recognizable images — until one takes the time to sort the pieces out, sliding a little bit of sky here, squeezing some leafy trees in over there, and maybe even completing the border before ever considering the rest of it.

Perhaps we should start with the border

Border pieces. The ones that go around the scene, holding it together.

Pieces that can’t go anywhere other than at the top or bottom, far left and far right; all of them framing the rest of the picture.

Border pieces —let’s see…

What I know is this: in nature, rocks bang against other rocks, sometimes creating chips and edges, but most often smoothing each other. Over time, a bunch of rocks, randomly rubbing against others of their kind, become generally smooth and rounded.

Pleasant and rather benign, these stones are.

If they’ve been immersed in a creek or river, the process is faster and more efficient. I see them frequently when the Lovely Lady and I trek down to the river banks to look at the old bridges we love. There, on bars and little peninsulas, I’ll bend over and pick up stone after stone, spinning them back over the top of the water. After skipping along multiple times (if I’m lucky) they’ll drop back into the river’s flow, down to the rocky bottom to continue their polishing and grinding a while longer.

But, they can be used for more serious purposes, too. I’m fairly sure the stones I pick up by the river, to skip along the water’s surface, are not any different than the five smooth stones little David picked up by the brook’s edge back

there in Israel. (1 Samuel 17:40, NIV)

Goliath didn’t find that first stone so benign. It was delivered with purpose.

Who knows? I may have actually skipped one of those four David didn’t need across the Illinois River. It’s possible.

The border pieces are coming together

And this, the idea of physical stones that grind away at each other, polishing and smoothing, is the analogy leading to the spiritual truth of the outside pieces to our puzzle.

As followers of Christ, we live in community, as our God intended. But, contrary to what many seem to believe today, it wasn’t only for our emotional comfort that He gave us to each other.

It’s true. Smooth edges, gleaming — with hardly a chip to be seen anywhere —they’re comfortable. And, generally useful.

It even helps to fulfill the directive found in the book of Hebrews.

And let us take thought of how to spur one another on to love and good works… (Hebrews 10:24, NET)

The real reason we need to be together is so we can help our family do good, not just feel good.

We smooth off the rough places that keep us from loving others.

We help each other become useful to our God for His purposes.

Finally, the jumbled pieces begin to make some sense

As I think about these edge pieces, the frame around this puzzle, the other pieces begin to come into focus for me.

I realize that the stone I’m holding in my hand, this arrowhead, is very different than those described above, even though they are all shaped by stone-on-stone contact. The thought hits me hard. Really hard.

We are not all the same.

Oh, before our God, we are equal. His Word is clear regarding that.

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female — for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3:28, NET)

His grace and mercy are extended equally to all who come to Him through Jesus. We all are on the same level before Him.

That said, the apostle (my namesake) had more to say about our individual responsibilities. To God and to each other.

In a memorable passage to the folks at Corinth (1 Corinthians 12), Paul spoke of how the body works. Naming off the body parts, he describes the big and the small, the pretty parts and the ones we cover up. It’s a long passage, but it can be summed up with one verse.

Even so the body is not made up of one part but of many. (1 Corinthians 12:14, NIV)

Not all of the stones have the same purpose.

And yet, all need to be shaped.

The Native American culture has many symbols. Not surprisingly, the arrowhead carries strong symbolism to them. It speaks of direction. Of alertness and purpose. To carry out that symbolism, the stone is shaped for a specific function.

Unlike the stones in the river, the arrowhead is treated roughly, with edges being broken off, and flakes chipped away from across the face. There is a specific process, which requires expertise and experience. And a good bit of common sense.

I’m not sure the young man who made my arrowhead has arrived at that point yet. I’ll treasure it because he made it for me, but the good quality ones belie the process, their smooth sides and straight edges almost leading one to think the process is not violent at all.

“Flint arrowhead artifact (Granville, Ohio, USA) 2” by James St. John, lic. under CC BY 2.0

It is, though. The flint knapper — the process is called knapping — must know the quality of stone he’s working with and must be able to see the spot at which the flakes will split off evenly. Tapping with his shaping stone at exactly the right place, he is rewarded by a single tiny chip popping loose.

Again and again, he breaks the stone, with the goal of having a complete and perfect tool for his purposes when the breaking is ended.

Broken, made beautiful.

I said earlier the realization that we are not all the same hit me hard. Here’s why:

We’re not all arrowheads.

Some of us are skipping rocks. Or, stacking rocks. Or even Goliath-stopping rocks. And, that’s good. Our Creator knew we’d all be needed. And used.

There’s more:

We’re not all flint knappers.

And, this is a difficult thing for many of us to accept. You see, one wouldn’t know we’re not all experts at shaping stones by scanning our social media feeds.

No one would know it by reading our replies to online articles or even our everyday communication with each other in the coffee shops and watering holes.

Often, it’s not evident in our homes, with spouses and children, in-laws and guests.

We know what’s wrong with people and we’re on a mission to fix them. 

Give us a little information, let us read a Bible passage and check a commentary, and we think we should shout from the rooftops the solution for every other human being’s problems.

Except one. Our own.

Before we can shape, we have to be shaped.

Before we can teach, we must be taught.

Before we can love, we must learn what it is to be loved.

More delicate stones have been shattered by the stones around them than can ever be counted. Simply because we thought having a tool in our hand gave us the right to wield it.

I look behind me and see the carnage.

I did that. With my hammer of stone and my unbridled zeal, I did that.

Broken stones. Everywhere.

My fingers cease their movement on the keys, frozen in place, as my sight is dimmed with tears of regret. I don’t like the way this puzzle is going together at all.

What terrifying power we have at our command! And, how casually we employ it against each other. 

Our Creator has placed us carefully — surrounding us with family and friends, along with neighbors and acquaintances — for His purposes, not ours.

I wonder when we will begin to serve His purposes. Will we ever look at each other with new eyes, seeing the potential instead of the problem?

 Just stones. Shaping other stones. Stones that, like us, live and breathe — and serve.

Because we are following The Living Stone. (1 Peter 2:4–5)

Maybe today, we’ll start.

 

Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly. We all stumble in many ways. Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check. (James 3:1, NIV)

We would tend these glades of flowering stone, not quarry them. With cautious skill, tap by tap — a small chip of rock and no more, perhaps, in a whole anxious day — so would we work… (Gimli the Dwarf, in The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien)

To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. (Anonymous, sometimes attributed to Mark Twain)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2020. All Rights Reserved.