I’m Not That! Whatever He Said, I’m Not!

October 1, 2023 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The mind is a funny thing.

One minute you’re sitting calmly, living in the present, enjoying God’s blessings, and the next, you’re thirty years in the past. Not only remembering conversations, but feeling the same emotions you felt in the moment—all those years ago!

Many of my friends know that, with the help of my kids and grandkids, we built an outside deck in the last few months. It’s a lovely space, leaving scope for the imagination, as Anne Shirley would have said. (You folks who read about Anne with an “e” as a child will remember.)

We built the deck from reclaimed lumber, having torn down a much larger deck at a neighbor’s house (at her request, of course!) and salvaged the still-usable boards.

The labor was free. Well, except for a few meals, prepared by the Lovely Lady and eaten around our old dining table, it was free. And, now that I consider, even those worked out to my advantage. What a joy, to achieve a shared goal with one’s extended family!

It is, as I mentioned, a lovely space.

A sister-in-law gave us wicker furniture which she no longer used. Our sweet neighbor snuck in a couple of pillows while we were at church one morning. Our generous-hearted son and his lovely wife even donated a beautiful fire pit, which we’ve enjoyed together several times.

I’ve spent many hours there lately, my mind and heart full, considering our Father’s blessings as I look out to the old barn behind us, past the overgrown fence, with its honeysuckle and poison-ivy vines intertwined.

And yes, just like the intermingling of beauty and danger those vines remind me of, my mind has often gone to the darker places as I’ve meditated on the bright, lovely ones.

Such was the case when, on this day, the whole process came to a screeching halt as the words of the old man came to my mind.

We were leaning against the bed of his old beat-up truck in the parking lot in front of my music store. I had just pointed out my latest purchase, a twelve-year-old Chevy conversion van. It was the perfect vehicle for my growing family. The paint was a little faded and it had lots of miles on the odometer, but I was so proud of it.

I might have laid it on a little thick. The shag carpet could have gone to my head. Or, was it the dark maroon crushed-velvet upholstery that was to blame?

I really don’t remember, but it could have sounded a little boastful. A little.

Soon, he had heard enough.

“You’re nothing but a plutocrat, Paul!” The old man was blunt and opinionated, yet I was surprised. I never expected to be the target of his sarcasm.

And truthfully, I didn’t know exactly what a plutocrat was, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment. Besides, I was sure I wasn’t that!

Whatever it was, I wasn’t that!

I told him so, lamely. He laughed and drove out of the parking lot. I was offended.

I know what a plutocrat is now. Funny thing; I’m still offended.

A plutocrat is a person whose power is derived from their wealth. The title is most often used to describe politicians, people who achieve status and authority because they are rich.

I’m not.

Rich. Or powerful.

How is it that those words, spoken in jest, reach out over the decades to rile me up again?

Perhaps, there was a grain of truth in the accusation. We were standing next to his old beater of a pickup truck, while I extolled the advantages of my plush, customized van.

I may have been proud of my purchase. He may have taken it as an indirect slight. A putdown, even.

Those of us who are not politicians have a different type of power. Don’t tell me we don’t.

We use our advantages, however slight, to pull ahead of our peers. We look down on them from our privileged position, all the while knowing that the next wind that blows may leave them in that elevated place and us standing beside the beater.

How easy it is to forget, as we sit on our lovely deck looking down on the passersby, that nothing we have is ours to keep. Nothing.

Job knew it. He, having lost all he had amassed over a lifetime, told his friends that he had come into this world naked and that he would depart into eternity in the same condition.

It’s not mine!

This deck is not mine. The house beside the deck is not mine. The clothes I wear are not mine. The property, the cars, the art, the musical instruments? Not mine.

None of it.

How could I ever achieve any real power using borrowed wealth?

Pride is a falsehood. It will ultimately lead to desolation.

The Preacher knew it—he who was considered the wisest of the wise.

“Everything is meaningless,” says the Teacher. “Completely meaningless.” (Proverbs 1:2, NLT)

We work for more than wealth or power. We must!

As it turns out, I have been a plutocrat. Just not in the way the world around us understands it. They’ve never recognized any power, nor any wealth in my hands.

Not much of what is really important will ever make sense to anyone else. And that’s how it goes on this walk we’re taking with our Savior and each other.

We’re not the blind following the blind. But, only because of His gift of sight.

I don’t always get it right. Sometimes, I’m confused by what I’m supposed to do and why I don’t do that.

And still, He gives grace for the journey. No matter how many times I have to be reminded.

You, too?

Maybe you could come by and sit on the deck sometime to talk about it with me.

It’s not mine anyway. And, that’s okay with me.

We could even roast a marshmallow or two over the firepit and share some s’mores.

Now—does that sound like something a plutocrat would do?

It ain’t the heat; It’s the humility.
(Yogi Berra)

Before a downfall the heart is haughty, but humility comes before honor. (Proverbs 18:12, NIV)

Is Grandpa Crying?

September 28, 2017September 28, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I stood silently for a moment, looking at the young man kneeling on the floor. I needed time to let my bruised ego heal.

I know. It’s a pretty fragile ego that can’t stand up to a boy’s question, but there it was.

He had asked the question several times. That could have been it.

No. It was just the idea that I wasn’t enough. I wanted to be enough.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Let’s see if we can sort this out.

The lad’s father had dropped him off earlier, telling me he’d be happy to pick him up if there was any trouble. I didn’t expect any and told the young man’s father so.

He is my grandson, after all. Grandpas and their grandsons can do a job together without falling out, can’t they?

I wonder if the last time had anything to do with his offer. It was a month or more ago.

I have this vision of a man on his knees in the kitchen struggling with the tile he is laying down. The old guy is clearly an amateur, unsure of his next move, but determined to make one anyway.

Oblivious to his grandfather’s quandary, the fair-haired boy at his side has a tape measure in his hand and is talking a mile a minute.

“Look, Grandpa! Six inches! Is that long enough? Hey, what does that rubber roller do? What are you going to do now? Can I help you cut the next piece? Do you think I could pound on it with that hammer thingy like you did? Are you ever going to finish this job?”

I don’t remember what happened next. Well, in truth, I don’t want to remember it, so we’ll just say I’m ashamed and move on, okay?

That memory, or lack thereof, is the reason I invited the boy back for another shot at laying vinyl tile—in the bathroom this time. I reasoned that I was now a pro at the task, having successfully (mostly) completed the original job in the kitchen.

I wanted another chance at being a better Grandpa as much as I wanted him to have another chance at laying the flooring with me.

What could go wrong?

We were using the left-over material from the kitchen job. We had enough to cover the bathroom floor with nothing to spare.

We couldn’t make a mistake. Not one.

The first cut I made was on the wrong end of the directional vinyl. The very first cut.

I did the only thing I could do.

I yelled for the Lovely Lady.

The boy’s grandma quickly came in from the front bedroom where she had been painting the walls. I showed her my error and enlisted her puzzle-solving skills to help us determine where we could work in the pieces I had cut wrong.

I think it may have gotten us off on the wrong foot. Every time after that, when we came to a moment of indecision or panic (on my part—not his), the young man looked up and asked if I wanted him to go get Grandma.

Well? Every kid knows if Grandma can’t fix it, it can’t be fixed.

It’s only logical. Grandma fixes boo-boos with Wonder Woman bandages. She can thread a needle in three seconds. She can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich like nobody else. She knows just when to get out the chocolate chip cookies. She mends the ripped dollies.

Grandma can fix it.

I get it. Still, it hurt. After the third time he asked the question, I stood for a moment considering. I didn’t want a repeat of the event we’re not talking about, so I took my time.

Finally, in a calm, unhurried manner, I told him the only time he’d need to call Grandma for help on this job was if Grandpa was crying.

I had no intention of crying.

The handsome young lad gazed at my face, a smile playing around his mouth. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or simply to nod seriously and wait for my next move.

He didn’t suggest we call Grandma again. Grandpa never cried. Well, there was that time the trim board fell on my head, but I suppose rubbing your skull and yelling Ow! isn’t crying, is it?

Nobody cried. This time. But, I’ve been doing some thinking.

Why are we experienced humans (old people) so slow to ask for help?

Our kids have no such reticence. Yet we, in our great wisdom (or ignorance) keep muddling through, making mistake after mistake, swinging the hammer thingy when we ought to be operating the roller, smashing thumbs and sucking the blood.

All we need to do is call. Aid is ours, simply for the asking. Click To Tweet

The writer of the Psalms knew it. The reason I call on you is that I know You will answer me. Listen now, and hear my request. (Psalm 17:6)

And, it is a fact that even David wept before God as he prayed. But, most of the time he asked long before that. Long before.

Why does somebody have to cry before we will accept help?

I said earlier I wanted to be enough in my grandson’s eyes. It is the desire all of us have. I read over and over these days, in the self-help, self-image propaganda that we need to know we are enough.

I don’t want to offend, but it’s a lie.

I am not enough. I never have been. On my own, I stumble along in the dark, feeling my way and frequently, falling apart.

I am not enough, but He is. Again and again, He is enough.

I am not enough, but He is. Again and again, He is enough. Click To Tweet

More than enough.

I can’t tell you if we need to call Grandma.

I do know that before the trouble starts, prayer works.

In the hardest days of our lives, God is there.

When the tears fall, He is enough.

And, He doesn’t need second chances to be a good Father.

But, I’m kind of glad He gives second chances for this old man to be a good Grandpa.

I need lots of practice.

If nothing is going well, call your grandmother.
(Old Italian proverb)

So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask him.
(Matthew 7:11 ~ 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.

Grace Comes Quietly

June 1, 2017June 1, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 6 Comments

I can’t remember when I’ve been more frustrated.

I like things to be done in a logical manner. When rules are followed, all is right with the world.

Or, is it?

My morning—as truth be told, have many other mornings over the last couple of months—was spent in dealing with one single company. The company promises to make life easier for me as the owner of a website.

The frustrating thing is, they aren’t. Making life easier for me, that is.

From the beginning, the hoops have been held in front of me and I have dutifully jumped through them. I like order and calm, you see. My assumption, when this journey started, was that by jumping through the hoops, I would achieve the goal.

Rules followed? Goal achieved. That’s the way it’s supposed to work.

The only thing jumping through the hoops has achieved in my case is the presentation of more hoops. Today, I would jump through what I believe to be the last hoop.

Well, really, the last hoops.

Muttering the entire time, I collected all the information the company required, and driving the well-traveled road to my bank, found a helpful young lady who was in possession of a legal stamp which proclaimed her to be a notary public.

I sat at her desk, proffering document after document to prove to the company that I am who I say I am. She dutifully stamped the copies and, watching me sign the final affidavit required, asked me if I was sure I was done.

I want to be done. I wish this were the end of this particular journey.

I’m not convinced it is. There will be more hoops to be jumped through—more rules with which to comply.

There always are.

While sitting at the nice young lady’s desk, I needed to separate a couple of pages of a document which were held together with a tiny staple. I pulled it out with my fingernail. She quietly mentioned that she had a staple remover, but I persisted in my quest without her help.

The tiny staple sat on her desk for a few seconds, only to find its way into my hand as I waited for her to make copies. I bent it back into the shape it had been in the paper. Then I bent it in half from that. Fidgeting still, I bent it again.

By the time my visit to the bank was completed, the staple was just a dot of crumpled metal in my hands. I would have thrown it away, but the trash can was behind the nice lady’s desk. I didn’t reach past her to toss it in.

I carried the tiny thing out with me. I could toss it into the dirt under a tree outside.

I didn’t.

Good people don’t throw trash on the ground. I would toss it into the tray in my pickup.

I didn’t.

The same thought came to me as I considered the deed. Someone would have to pick that up.

All the way home I held the tiny piece of metal between my fingers, its sharp ends and bent edges uncomfortable on my skin. Not until I walked through my door and into the kitchen, did I release the minuscule dot from my hand into the trash can under the sink.

Even then, I wondered if it could have been put in the recycle bin.

I hear the words now.

What a strange thing to write about!

What a stupid thing to do!

What a ridiculous amount of energy wasted for nothing!

Nothing!

Did I forget to tell about the lady who followed me out the door? I did, didn’t I?

I walked out the door of the bank, carrying my final (or not) hoop to be jumped through in one hand and the pesky little staple in the other. Focused on the little inconveniences of the day, I didn’t realize that a lady carrying her young child was close behind me.

Yep. I let the door close right in her face.

And the Teacher said to the religious leaders gathered there, calling them blind guides: You strain the gnats out of your drink, and satisfied with the result, swallow a camel instead. (Matthew 23:24)

I left the lady and her child to deal with the door on their own. I had more important things on my mind.

I carried my little staple all the way home. All the way.

Later this afternoon, as I sat at a traffic signal, I felt that old familiar surge of pride as I watched the driver of the car ahead toss the still-smoking filter end of a cigarette out on the pavement.

I’m better than that one!

No. I’m not.

I’m not.

If I could (which I can’t) follow the law in every facet, save one—if I only mess up one tiny rule—I have still broken the law. (James 2:10)

Two things I know about the law. Two things.

One, it is not possible for me to jump through every hoop without getting something wrong.

Two, pride and comparisons are always—without fail—the result of my little successes in keeping the rules. When I succeed, I think I am better than those who fall short in the same attempt.

Did I say there were two things I knew? I should have said there were three. The third is the most important.

Grace trumps law. Every time.

The nice lady at the bank offered me grace today. Quietly she said the words.

I have a staple remover.

Such a simple offer.

I just needed to give up my claim to the tiny metal staple.

Grace comes quietly.

Quietly.

Grace comes quietly. Quietly. And, it waits for us to respond. Click To Tweet

It waits for us to respond.

I think I don’t want to carry around the little staples anymore.

I’m not all that good at hoops either.

Grace waits.

For us, it waits.

Grace puts its hand on the boasting mouth and shuts it once for all.
(Charles Haddon Spurgeon ~ English evangelist ~ 1834-1892)

Sin is no longer your master, for you no longer live under the requirements of the law. Instead, you live under the freedom of God’s grace.
(Romans 6:14 ~ NLT)

Good for the Soul

January 31, 2017January 31, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

I wrote about this the other night. Really, I did.

Paragraph after paragraph to explain how I’m still a man of my word, in spite of my circumstances. I even included scripture verses to encourage the reader to do the same.

It was good. Do you remember?

What! You never read that article?

Well, yeah. I knew that.

It’s not true anyway.

The part about me being a man of my word isn’t, that is. I did write it. I just couldn’t bring myself to publish it. It still sits as a draft in my computer program.

Tonight though, I sat at my desk and, almost angrily, said the words to the ceiling in my office.

You’re going to make me write about this instead, aren’t you?

The circumstances of the two events are nearly identical; the actors in the little stageplay are the only real difference. Oh. Then, there’s my failure to live up to the claim this time.

The details aren’t all that important. An email arrived both times. I had sold products, back when I ran a music store, and made promises about the products. Both of the email writers wanted me to live up to my promise.

The first time, I passed. With flying colors, I passed the test. I wanted to boast about that. I wanted to make sure my readers knew how important it was to me to be a man of my word. Even when it wasn’t convenient to do that.

Tonight? It wasn’t such a rousing success. When called on to make good on my promise, I simply made an excuse and said I couldn’t.

Well?

I don’t operate the music store anymore. Money is tight. Bills have to be paid. No one could expect me to stand behind promises—now that the business is defunct. No one.

Except the One who called me. The One who sustains me with His own hand.

He expects it.

David, the psalmist knew it. He suggested that those who want to live in God’s presence needed, among other things, to do what they had promised, even when it hurts. (Psalm 15:4)

This was going to hurt. So, I said sorry, I won’t.

I don’t want to tell you this. I want you to think I’m a man of my word. I do.

But then, I guess I should actually be a man of my word. Shouldn’t I?

The red-headed lady who raised me had a saying for this (you knew she would): Confession is good for the soul.

Her sayings weren’t always right. This one is.

James said it in a little more round-about way. Confess your sins to each other and you will be healed. (James 5:16)

I suppose you might say that being healed is good for the soul.

I suppose you might say that being healed is good for the soul. Click To Tweet

I’m confessing.

The realization has grown in me more and more in these last days that we have become an arrogant people.

More inclined to boast than to confess, our spiritual leaders and teachers tussle and vie for the places of honor, only to be shocked when they are showered with disrespect and hateful words from other leaders and teachers.

We follow their example. I have seen more vile speech from believers, aimed at other believers, in the last short period of time than I have in my lifetime.

I wonder. We refuse to let anyone see our weakness for fear that they will respect us less, and then when the facade falls (as it surely will) our weaknesses and sins are exposed anyway, to the chagrin of some and the glee of others.

If we exalt ourselves, it is inevitable that we will be humbled. Inevitable.

Among all the shouting and self-promotion, somehow, I think our Lord would propose only seven words for us to say.

They are words of humility and penitence. Words that remind us who we really are.

I’m saying them tonight.

God be merciful to me, a sinner.

A proud man is always looking down on things and people, and of course, as long as you’re looking down, you can’t see something that’s above you.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British scholar/novelist ~ 1898-1963)

Then Jesus told this story to some who had great confidence in their own righteousness and scorned everyone else: “Two men went to the Temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, and the other was a despised tax collector.The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed this prayer: ‘I thank you, God, that I am not like other people—cheaters, sinners, adulterers. I’m certainly not like that tax collector!I fast twice a week, and I give you a tenth of my income.’
“But the tax collector stood at a distance and dared not even lift his eyes to heaven as he prayed. Instead, he beat his chest in sorrow, saying, ‘O God, be merciful to me, for I am a sinner.’ I tell you, this sinner, not the Pharisee, returned home justified before God. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
(Luke 18:9-14 ~ NLT)

Holding Loosely

August 23, 2016August 23, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Go, bid the hero who has run
Thro’ fields of death to gather fame,
Go, bid him lay his laurels down,
And all his well-earn’d praise disclaim.
(from The Captive Ribband ~ Robert Burns ~Scottish poet ~ 1759-1796)

Late one recent night, fallen prey to a short-lived spasm of conscience brought on by too much time spent in front of one screen or another, I took up a volume of Robert Burns’ poetry and determined to wade through it. Or, at least a portion of it.

My resolve—along with my guilty conscience—was in the final stages of relenting when I came across the jewel which contains the passage quoted above. I had slogged through too many lines of the bewildering Scots dialect, but it took only a line or two for me to grasp the poet’s meaning here.

Mr. Burns speaks of a single ribbon he has saved from the woman he loved, a ribbon he prizes as much as love itself. Thus the comparison to a hero’s fame and acclaim. He will never surrender it.

It is a familiar concept.

Some men can struggle through a lifetime and never be acclaimed a hero or even have their fabled fifteen minutes of fame. But, many people, given just one such opportunity, will hold tight to their proof of superiority for the rest of their lives.

I have to admit, I don’t know many old war heroes. I do know a fair number of old musicians. Young ones, too.

You wouldn’t believe the stories I hear.

I played with .

My band opened for .

I wrote music for .

Fill in the blanks. Big names. Huge stars. Crowds cheering and screaming for more. All in the past.

All of it, in the past.

A memory only, except for those who have mementos. Photographs, recordings (vinyl and otherwise), signed napkins, all are saved and clutched tightly as if they are more precious than gold.

And I, listening to the tale, may be accorded a quick glance at the talisman, as if a pilgrim at a holy shrine.

I find myself both fascinated and saddened by the stories—and the souvenirs. The joy—the pride—is all in the past, with none left for the future. Success achieved, aspiration is shed like a suit of clothes, never to be worn again.

Consider the words of the humbug Wizard to the Tin Woodman:

They are called phil. . .er. . .phil. . .er. . .er. . .good-deed-doers, and their hearts are no bigger than yours, but they have one thing you haven’t got! A testimonial!
(The Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum ~ American author ~ 1856-1919)

Without diminishing the importance of heroic acts—and they are not to be passed over lightly—I want to suggest that if we must look only behind us to see the deeds worth celebrating, we are a sad and hopeless lot.

The Apostle who loved to write long letters (he shares more than just a name with me) had a mountain of mementos and testimonials. A mountain. (Philippians 3)

He called the mountain garbage. No. He called it. . .well, I won’t write out the word here, but in the dialect of his day, it was a coarse word for dung.

Some folks have used that passage of Paul’s letter to the church at Philippi to prove that God has no use for our good works. It’s not what He was saying.

In the journey to our real home, the things we do will not earn us safe passage. They won’t earn us entrance into Heaven. There is only one thing that guarantees eternity with God. Only one.

We rely on what Jesus has done for us, having no confidence whatsoever in our flesh. (verse 3) Salvation is complete, without one iota of effort on our part.

The high calling is just that, a call to come up higher. Click To Tweet

Still, we are called to better things than what is in our past. The high calling is just that, a call to come up higher.

The goal still lies ahead.

The trophies and accolades of the past are nothing to what lies ahead.

If. . .

We must finish the course with integrity and with courage if we aim to win the prize.

If we must grip honor in a clenched fist to retain it, we have not yet earned it. Click To Tweet

If we must grip honor in a clenched fist to retain it, we have not yet earned it.

Let the past go. Nothing in it is anything compared to the trophies and testimonials that are to come.

Nothing.

Better things lie ahead.

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it someday for a crown.
(The Old Rugged Cross ~ George Bennard)

There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.
(From Collected Letters ~ C.S. Lewis)

God Eavesdrops

August 11, 2016August 11, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

I wonder sometimes if God listens in more to our normal conversations than He does to our prayers.

You too?

It happened tonight.

Twenty minutes prior, as the Lovely Lady and I worked together on a late-night project at the music store, I had—albeit, unknowingly—laid down the challenge. We were discussing a transaction which had taken place earlier in the day.

I told her about a minor mix-up in the terms of a trade I was making and then mentioned to her that I had compensated the customer with some free merchandise.

She looked at me, a little surprised. We are in our traditional summer slowdown—the calm before the storm, you might say—and the finances are a little tighter than usual. We don’t normally give away a lot of products during such times.

I explained that I felt the customer had been offered something he hadn’t received, so I wanted to make up for it. My next words are the ones I probably should have kept to myself.

“I’m not going to let circumstances determine who I am. “

I admit it; I was tired, and possibly not thinking at my best. That said, I never expected anyone was listening besides the two of us.

She went home, leaving me to toil on a different project, one which has been on my to-do list for weeks, maybe even months. I had already spent a fair amount of time replacing the head on the banjo during the afternoon. New strings had followed the head, along with a good bit of set-up.

The old banjo, one my father-in-law had sold way back in the nineteen-seventies, was once again playing as it did when it was new. All that remained was for me to replace the resonator, the round, wooden back-piece, on the instrument and I would be done.

A missing nut for one of the mounting studs was searched for (at length) and finally located before I completed the job. Then, picking the banjo up from the cradle upon which it rested, I strummed the strings a time or two.

Proudly, I should have said, I strummed the strings. Man! I’m good!

That’s funny. I heard a little vibration. That wouldn’t do.

I realized the resonator was shifting its position when I handled it, but I knew what to do about that. I simply needed to tighten up the four nuts that held it in place. So, one after the other, I tightened them up.

Until I got to the last one. That one, I went overboard on, tightening too much and twisted the mounting loose. The mounting is inside the resonator.

I would have to remove it completely, and make a repair. Then, I would have to put the instrument together again.

Again!

It was the proverbial straw and I snapped. I had had all I could take.

I wonder if this was the moment God had been waiting for. Perhaps, not. Regardless, it wasn’t pretty.

I shouted the words to the ceiling. Shouted them!

What gives you the right? Leave me alone!

The words had no sooner left my tongue than I clapped my hands—both of them—over my mouth.

What am I saying?

I could hardly believe the words came from me. Worse than that, I remembered my statement to the Lovely Lady, just moments before.

It had been a promise—a covenant if you will.

Circumstances will never change who I am.

And yet, all it took was one tiny Phillips-head screw to make me go back on my word.

I accused God!

I—proud and boastful—opened my mouth and questioned His authority, implying that He not only caused my misery, but He was overstepping the boundaries of His authority.

From somewhere in my head, I hear the voice of another man saying something similar. Job, as he sits in his misery, utters the exact sentiments. God is oppressing me. Without cause. (Job 10:3)

Worse, I told Him to leave me alone.

And somehow, again, there is the voice of Job speaking the same words, only to repent later. (Job 10:20-21)

I tell you, it is not a proud and boastful man who writes these words tonight. I trust it will not be a proud and boastful man who places that instrument in the hands of the lady when she calls for it in the next day or two.

Job knew enough to repent. I do so, as well.

I, too often, speak of things as if I have grasped the truth, only to realize that I merely know the truth in my head, but have not taken hold of it in my heart.

Whatever I am becoming inside is because of His presence.

When I boast of my resolve, He shows me how long that will last.

When I believe I have become something, He uses life’s tests to show me clearly what I would be without Him.

Did God break the banjo?

No. I make mistakes all the time. All the time. He just uses my mistakes to teach the lessons I need to learn.

I failed a test tonight. Standing there by myself in front of my workbench, I failed.

Circumstances do change who I am inside. I don’t want them to, but they do anyway.

Still, I repent.

There will be other days—other tests.

I wonder sometimes if I’m the only one who has these failures along the way. I really hope not.

My words in the moment notwithstanding, I am not estranged from my God. I have not abandoned my pursuit of Him, nor He His of me.

But, I did speak the words. I did think the thoughts.

And yet, the God who listens still calls.

Mercy still beckons.

I will follow.

Again.

Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts.
Point out anything in me that offends you,
and lead me along the path of everlasting life.
(Psalm 139:23-24 ~ NLT)

We fall down, we get up.
We fall down, we get up.
We fall down, we get up.
And the saints Are just the sinners
Who fall down and get up.
(from We Fall Down ~ Kyle Matthews ~ American singer/songwriter)

Disruption

May 22, 2016May 24, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

She’s no better than she ought to be.

The proper English lady sniffed pompously as she said the words. Quite obviously, she considered the woman about whom she was speaking beneath herself. I don’t have many British friends, so I’ve never heard the phrase used in conversation.

I am happy to say the BBC comedy program the Lovely Lady and I were watching has provided the impetus for many trips to the dictionary of origins for me.

I suppose I may be a little odd (perhaps, more than a little).

I have always loved words. Big words. Little words. Obscure words. I want to know where our language came from. If it comes to that, I want to know where it is going. Still, I didn’t have to do much research to figure this one out.

The female person about whom the words were spoken was quite clearly poor and uneducated. Her morality was also suspect. Somehow, for quite a few people, the two states are inseparable.

They believe poor and uneducated leads to immoral, every time.

Apparently, if you get a bad start, you aren’t expected to rise any higher in the years which follow.

If you are born disadvantaged, you’ll never be any better than you ought to be.

And, that might be a true statement.

Except. . .

Did you know that every one of us was born disadvantaged?

Did you know that not one of us has the ability to become good?

We can never be any better than we ought to be. None of us.

All of us have sinned. All of us fall short. It is the norm—the common condition of man. (Romans 3:23)

Except. . .

Except, the Disruptor came along. He made us better than we ought to be.

You know what a disruptor is, don’t you? In the jargon of today’s marketplace, a disruptor is someone or something which has the ability to change forever the item or entity with which it intersects.

It’s not that things are done in a different way; things actually are different.

For all of history before the Disruptor’s coming, our Creator, knowing that we were disadvantaged, and understanding where we came from (He fashioned us, after all), overlooked our sin.

Oh, it had to be covered; that’s what the sacrifices were for—a covering for sin—but God, understanding we were made from dirt and would always act like dirt, loved us anyway. (Psalm 103:8-14)

He loved us anyway.

And, in His time—at the perfect juncture in history—He sent the Disruptor. Because He loves us, things would be different forever.

We will be better than we ought to be.

Will be!

No more will we be able to point to our heritage and suggest that we are just as good as they were. Never again will we know the limitation of being only as good as our past allows.

He makes all things new! Disruption means that nothing will ever be the same again.

We have been re-created. And, not out of dirt! (2 Corinthians 5:17)

The very thought of it makes me sit up straighter. This new reality changes everything. I don’t have to go through life trapped in the same state as when I was born.

But still, the lie intrudes.

You’ll never be any better. Never.

Somehow, even in the truth of newness, and in the reality of not-dirt, we begin to believe the lie that we are worthless. And, being human, we find ways to build our own worth.

Bolstering our own worth always involves diminishing the worth of others. Always.

She’s no better than she ought to be.

Still, we say the words. The lie prevails. Pride rules in our hearts. And, as we take aim at others, we hurt ourselves.

He changes the rules. It’s what He came for.

Go ahead then; stone her. But the first stone must be thrown by one who has never sinned. (John 8:7)

Do you think He came to leave us in the same condition in which He found us? Without question, the most disruptive person in all of history is the Son of God.

He calls us to follow Him in his disruptive ways.

He calls us to love each other anyway.

We are the hands and feet—and heart— of the Disruptor here on earth.

Where we walk and serve, nothing should ever be the same again.

Perhaps, it’s time for us to get started.

Dust are our frames, and, gilded dust our pride.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ English poet ~ 1809-1892)

The Lord is like a father to his children,
    tender and compassionate to those who fear him.
For he knows how weak we are;
    he remembers we are only dust.
Our days on earth are like grass;
    like wildflowers, we bloom and die
The wind blows, and we are gone—
    as though we had never been here.
But the love of the Lord remains forever
    with those who fear him.
(Psalm 103:13-17 ~ NLT)

Winding Paths

January 18, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve believed it for a long time. I’ve even used the illustration myself before.

I’m not so sure anymore.

The boy learning to plow tries his hand at running the tractor. Completing his first row, he turns back proudly to view the result of his effort only to see a wobbly, wandering furrow.

You’ve heard it before, of course. If you’ve read enough of my writing, you know how much I love a moral. There’s definitely a moral to this one.

Eyes on the prize.

Somehow, I’m not sure this one is as clear-cut as it used to be.

The old farmer takes the wheel of the tractor and turns it around, suggesting to the lad that he needs to keep his eye on the goal. Pick a landmark far ahead and steer a course straight toward that. Don’t look at the ground; focus on the target. He plows a straight furrow every time.

Long term goals.

We revere men of straight paths. Focused on their destination, they move steadily in the same direction, never faltering, ever resolute.

Is there such a man? Perhaps. I have thought I knew some, but I’ve been disappointed before. We live in a world of distractions. Even the most focused human is bound to falter, maybe even to veer off the path, given the right diversion.

We make idols of men, believing a lie.

Only one Man lived a faithful life of purpose, never faltering from His purpose.

True, He’s the one we follow. Still, we take wrong turns. We misplace our resolve.

I spoke with a friend today, sadly relating my experience of watching a life lived in a straight line for many years, only to see it veer off on a incredible tangent just as the person neared the goal. So close—close and yet so very far.

A long obedience in the same direction, only to disappoint as the prize was within their grasp.

I wonder. Is there something wrong with the assumption that a straight line is the only way this following thing works?

When the Teacher told them to follow Him, was He asking those men to pick a target way out in the future, at the very end of their life and aim for that? I somehow don’t think that was what He had in mind. He didn’t ask them to pledge their lifelong service

He just said, “Follow me.”

That’s it. Follow.

I don’t have to know where the end of the road is. I don’t have to worry about interchanges and alternate routes before I get there. I’m not a navigator.

A follower, that’s what I am. I’m not that good at it, but it’s all I’ve ever claimed to be.

It seems that we want to set our sights on the straight-liners, the ones who stride along, head held high, secure in the knowledge they are on the right road. If we do, we’ll be disappointed nearly every time.

We weren’t called to follow them.

We’re only called to follow the One who faithfully followed His Father. Every step. (John 15:10)

Probably, the furrow He plowed would not have appeared to be a straight one to any onlookers. Certainly, it wasn’t to the religious leaders of that day. They knew the right path. Knew it.

But, they didn’t recognize the one He walked. He stopped in at too many parties, got caught in too many storms at sea, and touched too many lepers. Surely, this one couldn’t be following God!

We can’t be sure how straight the road will be from here on out. I don’t think we need to be worried about it.

If we stick close, we’ll be able to make the sharp turns when He does.

We may not stride in with head held high. But stumbling in with head hanging, knowing we followed all the way will be enough.

Oh. We should probably be ready to make a detour or two to visit a sick friend—or check on that fellow in jail.

The path is not all that straight, after all.

Then Jesus said to His disciples, “If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me.
(Matthew 16:24 ~ NASB)

All the way my Savior leads me,
Cheers each winding path I tread,
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living bread.
(Fanny J Crosby ~ American hymn-writer ~ 1820-1915)

Painting the Dirt

September 8, 2015September 8, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Dust are our frames, and, gilded dust our pride.
(Alfred Lord Tennyson ~ 19th century British poet)

The newlyweds moved into the little two bedroom frame house and began to learn about life together. They laughed. They cried. They argued—a little. They cried some more.

Mostly, they laughed.

Sometimes, all they had to do to find something to laugh about was to look across the lane to a tiny house just like theirs. The elderly lady who lived there was a nice neighbor, as friendly as they could hope for, but she had a strange habit.

She dusted her yard. With a dust mop.

They laughed and wondered what possible benefit there could be to dusting one’s yard. Now, nearly forty years later, the young man (who is growing old) wishes he had asked the lady herself. Well? Who wouldn’t wonder why she dusted the lawn?

It doesn’t make much sense, does it? The yard was just dirt and grass, and more dirt than it was grass.

He has some questions still:

How would one know when the job is completed?

Is it a job which must be done daily? Weekly?

Would the neighbors notice if the job were left undone?

He’ll never know the answer to his questions since the dear lady has been in Heaven many years now. But, the couple still laughs when the seemingly useless task comes to mind. Surely it was a complete waste of her time.

It’s a futile thing to do, dusting dust.

Kind of like painting tombs, isn’t it?

The Teacher laughed at the old men with their paint brushes. The graves of His day weren’t much like ours. Caves and hollows in the hillsides, covered with stones to keep out the varmints and grave-robbers—that was all they were. No amount of paint could quell the stench that wafted to passersby.

Whoa! I wonder what died!

I say it to myself frequently as I ride my bicycle in ever-widening circuits around our little town, especially along the narrow country lanes. I can’t see the culprits, but I can certainly smell the odor left behind by death. Skunks, raccoons, o’possums, even the occasional armadillo—all add their noxious fumes to the fresh country air.

I wonder if the white-wash on the stones over the grave openings fooled anyone back then. I’m thinking not many were hoodwinked into thinking there was anything desirable under that big white rock.

Dust mops and paint brushes are useful tools. For the right purpose.

The high-school-aged boy lugged the heavy black case in from the parking lot last week. He seemed a little embarrassed to be bringing the huge instrument into the music store.

“Could you get me a lyre to fit this tuba?” he asked. “I bought one the other day, but it’s the wrong shape.”

I laughed humorlessly. It is a problem I have struggled with for many years. I never seem to remember the essentials from year to year, though.

I pulled out a long, straight brass-looking lyre from the appropriate location.

“Give me a minute. I’ll make it work.”

They say pride goes before a fall. They are right.

I put the tail of the music holder into my vise and pushed on the other end of it, bending it in the approximate direction I knew it needed to go.

Snap!

The long rod, a foot long just a moment ago, was now only eight inches long.

That can’t be right! Brass is soft and bends easily! How could I break it so quickly?

You already know the answer, don’t you?

It’s not made of brass—only covered with brass plating. Underneath? Pot metal. Cheap trashy metal made from a mixture of soft metallic substances, cast into the shape of a costlier steel and then plated to be appealing to buyers.

Whisking the dust away from dirt doesn’t make it any cleaner.

Painting a stinking grave doesn’t make it any less offensive.

Plating pot metal gives it no additional strength whatsoever.

Dust are our frames,…

Lord Tennyson understood the premise. Who would argue that we are, indeed, dust? Even those white-washed graves can’t keep our bodies from returning to their beginnings. Eventually.

And yet, here we stand—arrogant things—boasting of who we are and what we have done. Merely dirt, yet we would have anyone else believe there is no longer any residual dirt underneath the decorated surface.

…and, gilded dust our pride.

Gilding causes the article it covers to appear as pure gold. Pure gold!

There is a test for gold, just as bending will show the difference between brass and pot metal. The test for gold?

Job knew the answer to that. And, when He has tried me, I shall come forth as pure gold.

Through the fire, the mettle of the whole piece will be known.

I’m not sure I’m ready for the fire. Yet.

I want to be. I want to be sure that I will prove to be pure gold, just like Job.

But, I’m confident there are a fair number of refinements which will need to happen first.

I want to be ready for the fire.

We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.
(from The Breakfast Club ~ American movie ~ 1985)

Now if any man builds on the foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw, each man’s work will become evident; for the day will show it because it is to be revealed with fire, and the fire itself will test the quality of each man’s work.
(I Corinthians 3:12,13 ~ NASB)

Robbery

August 28, 2015August 28, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Twice. In two days.

Twice in two days, I did good things. Because they were in front of me to do. And, like a student who has memorized his lessons well, I knew what must be done.

Love your neighbor as yourself.

“Twenty dollars. It needs more, but I’ll fix just the one thing to make it play.”

He had no more money to invest and I could help by giving the instrument a lick and a promise, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say. Only, as I did the repair, it became evident that the minimum that could actually be done was a sixty dollar job. It would never play otherwise.

I had promised to make it play. I would do that. And, I would cover the difference.

I was proud of myself. I had memorized the lesson and followed its instructions to the letter.

He came to pick up the instrument. I mentioned that I had to do more. I might have even told him I did three times as much. I waited for his gratitude to bubble over. Surely he would at least shake my hand and thank me.

“I don’t know why I’m spending this money anyway. She’ll probably not play it at all.”

With that, he was gone.

Robbed! I’ve been robbed!

No, not of money. I’ve been robbed of the gratitude that should have been mine. Where is my praise for being such a good person? That’s it? A word of complaint and he walks out?

I want what is rightfully mine!

Truly I say to you—they have their reward in full.

The next morning, a vehicle pulled up to the store. The folks took care of their business and left. No. Scratch that. They tried to leave. The vehicle wouldn’t start. It was out of gas.

Hey! Another chance! I bolted to the storage barn and pulled out my gas can. It was nearly empty, but there should be enough to get them a block down the road for gas. I told them to use it all. No—I don’t need any money. I’m just glad I can help.

Unfortunately, after they poured all that was in the can in their tank, the car still wouldn’t start, so they sent someone up the road with the now-empty can to fill it up and bring it back. I needed to take care of other customers, so I told them they could just leave the can in the storage barn when they were through.

What do you suppose they did? Well—not what I expected. They left the can in the storage barn and drove out of the parking lot! Seriously!

I’ve been robbed again! They just drove away without another word!

And worse, they left the gas can completely empty in my barn. Everyone knows you leave gas to pay back for what you used. Everyone!

I want what’s rightfully mine!

…and your Father, who sees what you do in secret will be the One who rewards you.

Clearly, someone in this narrative doesn’t understand the expectations of the love your neighbor as yourself directive.

Clearly.

May I take just a moment and assure you that I registered my complaint? Vociferously. Both with family members and with God. They listened sympathetically.

He didn’t.

You see—the someone in this narrative who doesn’t understand is me.

Only me.

Sometimes, when we do the right thing, the good thing, all we hear in response is crickets. Sure, sometimes the person we help gushes with gratitude. It’s nice when it happens, but if that’s what we’re going for, we’ve missed the point of the original instructions.

If what I anticipate when I determine to share with folks who are in need is the reward of their gratitude, or the loud proclamation of praise, all I have done is to initiate a transaction.

I believe the Latin term is quid pro quo.

Something for something.

I give you something. You give me something in return. The end.

It’s the way our economic system operates. It’s not a bad system, as human systems go.

It’s just not God’s system.

He says give without expectation of repayment. Give so that no one knows you’re doing it.

And then He says, I’ll be the one who settles accounts—when the time is right.

Like Job in the Old Testament, I sit here with my mouth open, grasping for words, but all that comes out is, I had heard about You, but now I see clearly for myself and I am ashamed.

I said at the start it was twice. Twice, I did good things. It may have been more than that.

I am determined it will be more than that.

I just won’t be telling you about it.

To give and then not feel that one has given is the very best of all ways of giving.
(Max Beerbohm ~ English essayist ~ 1872-1956)

Give your gifts in private, and your Father, who sees everything, will reward you.
(Matthew 6:4 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

pride