sheep

He was my horn teacher, so I would never have mentioned it. You just didn’t do that to the man who was pouring himself into you. For pennies a lesson, it seemed. And sometimes, for nothing.

I know, I know. Cart before horse. Again.

I never intend to do it, but sometimes the words just splatter themselves on the page before I can get them into any semblance of order.

Let’s try again.

Our story begins back in the late 1970’s. I was taking private lessons on the French horn, thinking I might be the next Barry Tuckwell, one of the greatest horn players of all time. I was not; am not. Still, Mr. Marlar thought I was a worthwhile candidate for his efforts.

One year, he suggested that I play with him in the summer symphony in a nearby city. I wasn’t sure I was up to the task, but he persisted. I played. He did, too.

We had been to our first rehearsal for the summer’s repertoire. I had a good night, inspiring the orchestra’s director to stop by as we packed up afterward and to compliment me. His “you’re really good” still echoes in the back of my mind after all these years.

Still, I can’t forget the other thing I heard that night. We were playing a Tchaikovsky piece and my mentor, playing first horn, had a short solo. Everyone else heard it too. I doubt anyone else mentioned it to him, either.

He played the lick perfectly. Well, except for that one interval, nearly an octave jump from one note to the other. The higher note refused to come, his lips sliding to a lower pitch with the same fingering.

Afterward, as we rode back to our town in his old 1963 Plymouth, with its push-button gear shift on the dashboard, he broke the silence.

“That was some clinker, wasn’t it?”

“Clinker? What do you mean?” I had not heard the term applied to a wrong note in music before, but I knew. I did.

He laughed, explaining that any wrong note played during a rehearsal (and hopefully not a performance) was called a clinker. He promised to work on the passage of music during the week before our next rehearsal.

There were no more clinkers heard from him the entire summer. Not so for me, but that’s a different matter.

Clinkers. Mistakes. Errors everyone knows about, but no one wants to make.

If the reader is confused, I understand.

Why would I write about an obscure error, made in a first rehearsal for a concert season over forty years ago?

The answer is that my mind works in strange ways. But, you already knew that. Still, unique and seemingly unrelated occurrences often make my thoughts jump to random memories from the distant past.

Just the other day, I made a quick trip to Tulsa, Oklahoma to drop someone off at the airport. We have a perfectly nice regional airport close to us, but a major airline that many use because of their cheaper rates doesn’t fly here.

I said it was a quick trip. I was assuming it would be that. I would travel the eighty minutes to the big city, drive the person to the departures drop-off, and travel the eighty minutes back home. It wasn’t to be.

The Lovely Lady considered the jaunt as an opportunity to visit our favorite antique store in Tulsa, so just like that, it was a not-so-quick trip to the city. I was happy to have her company.

She’s helpful like that. Talks to me. Listens to what I have to say. Holds my hand walking across parking lots.

There is a point to my rambling. Really, there is. If only I could remember…

Oh, yes! I’ve got it now.

In the neighborhood behind our favorite antique shop, there is a brick house. It’s got the strangest brick facade I’ve ever seen, all odd-shaped and dark-colored bricks. They’ve been laid this way and that. All oddly-goglin, as one of my old friends used to say. Bricks jut out from the wall, and window sills go off at angles never intended for windows.

I admit it. I didn’t understand. How could someone build a house like that? Who would live in such an oddity?

Do you know what we do when we don’t understand something—when it doesn’t fit our sense of order and neatness? I know what I did.

I made fun of it. On social media, I posted the photo I snapped as we walked past. (You may see it yourself elsewhere on this page.)

And, I made the claim that I could have done better. Me! I’ve never laid a row of bricks in my life.

Others joined with me, never having seen such a structure. I don’t blame them. I invited their responses.

Then a friend, a builder himself (and the son of a builder), wrote me a note. He explained that the house is built from a special type of bricks, themselves quite valuable now due to their rarity.

I repent. Again.

That beautiful house is built from clinker bricks. That’s what they call them.

Yes. Clinkers. Mistakes. Bricks that were too close to the heat source in the kiln the large batches were fired in. The heat distorted the material, making it darker and harder.

For many years, clinkers were thrown out. Trash. Debris. Rubble.

Useless to the brickmakers. No one would buy those ugly pieces of ceramic rubbish.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I would tell you I heard it from the red-headed lady who raised me, but it was most often my father who used the old saying when I was growing up. It’s still true.

Clinker brick is highly sought after now. Its beauty is in the oddity, in its non-compliance with the norm.

I do. I repent. Not just with regard to the house.

All around, I see the clinkers and I sneer. It seems to be the human condition, to be contemptuous of things that don’t fit our norms. And, by things, I mean people.

People.

The Shepherd left the ninety-nine sheep who complied—who fit in—and He went searching on the mountainside for the clinker. (Luke 15).

The religious leaders, who defined the norm in their day, were complaining that the Teacher was spending way too much time with the clinkers in their society. So he told the story of the shepherd and his efforts for the one who refused to fit in.

We have romanticized the story, making it a beautiful allegory of the lovely little lamb who wandered away. It’s not that.

It’s the story of a determined God who pursued a determined individual bent on doing wrong. A God who loved the person who hated Him.

And, who was determined to be and do ugly things.

Thrown out by many. Pursued by a loving God.

Broken.

Made beautiful.

I am a clinker. A one-percenter, if you will. Pulled from the ashes and made useful. Wrong notes and all.

You, too?

He still chases the one.

Still.

Especially us clinkers.

To all who mourn in Israel,
    he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,
a joyous blessing instead of mourning,
    festive praise instead of despair.
In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks
    that the Lord has planted for his own glory.
(Isaiah 61:3, NLT)

“That was great, Squidward! All those wrong notes you played made it sound more original.”
(Spongebob Squarepants)

Every day, my mail box has a smattering of the notices. I’m being followed. Again. And, then again.

I glance at the messages and click the button to relegate them to their proper domain. Twitter.

I don’t understand Twitter. I tweet a message and hope it will be noticed by my followers. It rarely is. On those rare occasions when someone likes a tweet or perhaps even retweets it, the result is short-lived. If they’re actually following, they’re not following far.

I’ve finally figured out my problem—I’m not an influencer. I didn’t realize until just a few days ago that I needed—or even wanted—to be. Now I want it so badly I can almost taste it.

Influencer. The description often follows the twitter handle—the name by which one is known in that strange social universe. I’m not sure how one gains the title, but I want it. The title carries weight; it has gravitas.

I don’t have gravitas.

I want to be an influencer. Followers would actually follow. People would value my input. My opinions would matter. I could make a difference.

Alas. Influencer is not in my resumé. Not on Twitter, anyway.

But, I’m wondering tonight—am I an influencer already? Maybe the Twitter universe isn’t the only place that matters.

I came across a poem the other day which used a word I thought I didn’t know. The poem spoke of a flock of sheep following one specific sheep home to where food and shelter lay waiting. It called that one sheep a wether.

A wether? What’s that? I searched my memory. Wait! No, it couldn’t be. I’ve heard of a bellwether. I wonder if it has anything to do with that?

Sure enough, the wether is a neutered sheep, usually an older one, that the shepherd trusts to lead the other sheep. Out to the fields where sweet pasture is to be found—then, back home again to safety and rest. The bell goes around its neck to let the shepherd find the flock any time they are on the move. Bell—wether.

Ah. The light comes on. A bellwether is an influencer. An influencer.

I want to be a bellwether.

But—and there is always a but—I’m wondering about a couple of little issues. Well, just one actually. And, of necessity, this part of the discussion may be a little earthy, perhaps even crude. It must be.

You see, the wether is neutered. Always. A high price, one might think, for the privilege of leading the flock with a bell around one’s neck. The fact is, the shepherd will not trust a ram with the flock. Rams tend to be a bit self-centered, intent on doing what male sheep do.

Leaving for the moment, the earthy part of this discussion, one might wonder how it enters into the conversation at all. We’re not, after all, going to be physically, nor even emotionally, neutered in our quest to be leaders or influencers.

What is the point?

Simply put, in order to lead, to influence, without doing so in a self-serving and self-aggrandizing way, we will have to make a conscious decision to fulfill the role of the bellwether.

In our case, there can be no consideration of taking advantage of those who follow or are influenced. We don’t get to personally advance our station or reputation as we serve.

Let this mind be in you then, which was in your Shepherd, who gave up His right to the green pastures of His Father’s land, to come and be one of you, going so far as to be slaughtered in your place. (Philippians 2:5-8) Sorry, the words are a little mangled, but you will see the meaning is nearly unchanged.

Our Savior, the Shepherd we follow, specifically and with purpose, gave up His claim to all rights and privileges so that He might lead us into His sheepfold.

How do we dare attempt to influence His people with any less assurance of selfless intent?

How could we even think that any person who is led by our influence might be called our follower, and not His?

If I want to influence, if I want to lead for Him, it will be on His terms.

Not mine.

We don’t like to talk about this. Our service requires the end to our self-centered plans, our platforms, our brands.

And the Shepherd said, If any man wants to be my follower, he will deny himself, taking up his own cross daily, and actually follow me. (Luke 9:23)

Whoa! I have to wear the bell. And, I have to fulfill my calling with no intent on my part to benefit from it.

It is what He did.

I think I might be willing to wear the bell for awhile.

Influencer?

Bellwether?

Perhaps someday.

Meanwhile, we all still follow the Shepherd—and He still leads us to good places.

Time to head for green pastures—maybe even some still waters.

You’re coming too, aren’t you?

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.
(John 10:27 ~ ASV)

Every one comes between men’s souls and God, either as a brick wall or as a bridge. Either you are leading men to God or you are driving them away.
(Canon Lindsey Dewar DD ~ Scottish Rector)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Clinkers (and Other Things I Don’t Understand)

Bellwether