What Price, Freedom?

“You are slaves to that which you submit yourselves to as obedient servants…. To sin and death or righteousness.” Romans 6:16

Revelation 1:5-. “To the one who loves us and has set us free from our sins at the cost of his own blood and has appointed us as a kingdom, as priest serving his God and father – to him be the glory and power for evere and ever! Amen.”

Independence Day, the Fourth of July, is not about picnics, baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and chevrolet. It is not about fireworks exploding and illuminating the night sky. It is not about beer and barbeque on the lake with friends and family. It is not so that government workers, bankers and wall street can have a long three day weekend. While we can all agree that these things are good things they sometimes serve only to cloud the real issue, which is that someone paid the ultmate price for our freedom. It is a day to enjoy Independence, to celebrate through our collective memory the benefits of Liberty and to reafirm our commitment never to submit to tyrants and despots but to willingly take up arms against those who would oppress freemen everywhere.

"It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!"-Patrick Henry March 23, 1775-

I would like to propose for our consideration that even in death, there is liberty in fact it may be the most liberating of all endeavors for those who give up their life freely for others. True freedom so dear, sweet, unimaginable and great is purchased at such an awful cost. Is a blessing given to us, placed in our hands and requires our eternal vigilance (Jefferson- “the price of freedom is eternal vigilance”) and utmost attention. We stand, as it were, on the shoulders of giants, titans, true heros who have set forth, launched out before us to asail the bastions of tyranny and oppression. It is their blood that nurtures and nourishes the soil in which grows the tree of Liberty. “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”-Thomas Jefferson- “Why stand we here idle,” Patrick Henry asks of those in his day. A valid question we should be asking today, during our time it is as relevant as it was then. How will you answer the call, the challenge? What price, freedom.

Why do we cower in the darkness, slink among the shadows, giving lip service to honoring those who have and will pay the ultimate price, all the while so many are unwilling to answer the call to arms, to give their “last full measure,” (as Lincoln says). We live as if there are no consequences to our actions or we fail to act on the behalf of ourselves and others. I support the troops they cry, but don’t ask me or mine to get in line. We desire liberty with out personal cost, which is a far cry from those signing the “Declaration of Independence.” Those whose actions on that fateful day in reality signed their own death warrant with these final words, “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.” So many hide behind empty words, slither under a rock of prevarication or hide safely in a cave of rhetorical convenience. While like Israel we discovered the wicked carry us away into captivity (Ps. 137) and “demand from us a song…”. I ask you then, What price, freedom?

The opressive iron bands forged for holding the captives in bondage and slavery, cut deeply into the soft tender flesh of our ankles and wrist. The chains hollow rattle, the ring of steel against steel as we haltingly hobble along, barely able to stand, unsteadily placing one foot in front of the other. Our heads bowed and eyes cast down, we shuffle along afraid to raise our gaze, unable or unwilling to force ourselves to meet the haunting lifeless eyes of another human being and never to look into black the eyes of the vile, sadistic taskmaster. We are slaves to that which we have submitted ourselves as slaves the scripture tells us.

We are weighted down by the burdens we carry in the haversacks filled with our failures, short comings and sins. We, not unlike the mythical Sisyphus, are forever rolling our massive stone up hill only to have it come crashing back down as we almost gain the summit, victims of eternal failure and toil with no purpose. That heavy unyielding burden bends our backs and buckles our knees with its unmerciful and oppressive weight. Oppression, slavery, forced servitude, we are branded with the mark of the lord of darkness as we continue to struggle under the burden of the awful price we ourselves are not able to pay. Again I ask, What price, freedom?

We feel the bite, the sting of the lash, our flesh laid bare and shreaded by the harsh taskmasters cruel whip. We awaken from slumber, our self-induced comma of self-indulgance to find that we are tied to the whipping post. We have sold our souls much like the ancient Roman who held as the ultimate credo, “In Vino Veritas,” (“in wine is truth”). The real meaning of which is that wine loosens the tongue and secrets are never kept. They became fat and lazy over endulging in wine and debauchery. They drank deeply from its blood red wine, the cup of corruption only to become addicted to its heady brew. Those noble Romans allowed their empire to crumble, destroyed as much by their own vices as by the Barbarians at their gates only to become salves to those whom they once held as slaves. We now travel the same path to destruction, bondage, forced servitude held in shackles by a cruel unyeilding master. Our bodies stripped and beaten, flesh mangled, ripped and torn apart, beaten to a bloody pulp. Seeking always hoping for release, crying out for death to end the suffering, agony and pain of our own failures, only to hear the laughter of the evil taskmaster as he cracks the whip one more time. This torture is not because we are free but because we have allowed ourselves to be come slaves, we willingly sell our souls far to cheaply. I ask, What price, freedom?

We have been sold into bondage by our own lust and desires. Our incessant cries for more, more and even more. It is the unrelenting, never satisfied obsession, the feeling of entitlement which rings throughout the corridors of time and echo down the dusty empty halls of our pitiful existance. We have sold our heritage so cheap that it brought us even less than a bowl of soup, and yet we believed we are owed more. “Is life so dear, or peace so sweet” that we are willing to sell it for oil, plastic, a new car, home, new spouse or even silver and gold? I think not, and yet here we are enslaved to what we call the “good life,” and call ourselves free when deep down we know that is only a lie we tell ourselves. We pretend because that is what we are suppose to do, it is what everyone does, we play a game of chance with our freedom gambling on the margin we go all in and find ourselves unable to comprehend why we lose. We sell ourselves to so many potential masters: the Nanny State’s protectionism, unbridled capitalism, social, ethical and moral relativism, religious atheism and scienctific or intellectual charlatanism. We cry “Peace, Peace, but there is no peace,” neither within or without only conflict, fear and doubt. Enslaved as we are to those things to which we present ourselves as slaves. I ask, What price, freedom?

I choose Liberty, in life and in death. Those whom the son sets free are free Indeed (John 8:36). We come here today to claim our freedom through the Blood of Jesus Christ (an awful cost). He purchased us with his own blood. He redeemed us by his sacrifice. He restores our soul. He has reconciled us by the blood of his cross. He transformed us from death to life.

I choose Freedom. I choose Life in him. I choose Liberty. I choose Jesus, because (as the song says) he first chose me. He called me out of my bondage and I will call upon him (Acts 2:21 &Joel 2:32). This Jesus whom you (I) crucified, God has made both Lord and Christ (Acts 2:36). What must we do (Acts 2:37)? The answer is simple, the same as it has always been, repent and be baptized…..(Acts 2:38)…Freedom awaits you, this is your Independence Day!!!!

Bob Phillips

Jerry’s Ragged Old Hat

Country singer (more accurate Texas Country) Chris Knight has a song that is pure Americana. It is a story telling song entitled, “Going Down the River.” I love this type of song because it tell story drawn from the canvas of the everyday lives of everyday Americans. Our stories chiseled in granite, carved upon the rocky hill sides of American life, the Rushmore of ordinary Americans. We find it easy to relate to them because we see ourselves in the story and the song becomes our own story. I have my own down to the river story but it is not mine alone it belongs to several branches of the Phillips family. It is the story of when we all went “Down to the River.”

One hot hill country Summer Daddy, Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Otis got a job hauling hay, this is not unique because they hauled hay and chopped cedar all their young adult lives. This one was, however, a fairly long term job, one that would last several weeks or more. Our fathers loaded up families and went (as usual) to where the work was so that they could provide for their families. The plan on this occasion was for the families to camp along the river for as long as the job lasted.

Daddy (Doc) and Uncle Otis teamed together to haul hay. They came up with an old government surplus truck one with six wheel drive called a “duce an a half.” It had a short flatbed and the tall wheels and tires that they used for rugged terrain in the military. It was from the Air Force and the reason I know this is that it was painted Air Force blue and you could just barely read the “United States Air Force” decals still painted in white on the hood. It was not a truck ideal for hay hauling because of the short but high bed (it must have been 5ft off of the ground). They would “buck” (use you knee to bump it up to about chest high and use your arms to throw it onto the truck) the bales of hay up onto that old truck and stack them “seven” high (meaning seven bales high on the truck bed).

My oldest brother Danny, who was the oldest of the children, got to go the hay field with them and work. His job was to drive the truck in the field. I say drive but actually what he did was hold the steering wheel and guide the truck between the rows of bailed hay. That old truck moved so slow in low gear that you would have to drive a stake in the ground to see if it was moving. They would get to the end of the row and Daddy would jump in the truck and turn it around to head it back down the field an action repeated over and over again on these large fields.

Uncle Jimmy had his own truck and partner. I am not sure that my memory is accurate but it may have been Pickle Goins that helped Uncle Jimmy. Pickle worked for him a lot of the time and even drove truck of him when Uncle Jimmy was running more than one. They were running buddy’s and may have even been related in distant way. The men put in a hard day’s work in the hay field. It was hot, dusty and dry work; they wore long sleeved shirts to hold in the sweat and help keep themselves cool. They all smoked cigarettes as most men of their generation did. I remember Daddy having a metal case to keep his cigarette pack in to keep it dry, because it was hot and they would all sweat profusely. Daddy smoked Camels, Uncle Jimmy smoked Lucky Strikes I don’t remember what Uncle Otis smoked but I am sure that none of them had filters. These were their usual smokes but sometimes when money was short Prince Albert or Bugler roll your own were a good substitute.

While the men worked in the hay field the families camped out along the river. The women cooked over an open fire. They cooked beans, taters, eggs, bacon and sometimes even fish all in cast iron skillets and the coffee was always strong, black and hot. Each family cooked their own and lived in their own little camping area at night but still close together. Sleeping outside under a canopy of stars, listening to the river as the water rushed past our sleepy little lives, cascading over the rocks and falls, singing us to sleep at night, a lullaby of real Americana. All of us “kids” sent as much time as possible in the water. We would have stayed all day and all night, until we wrinkled up like prunes if our mom’s would have allowed it, but even down on the river there were rules, dishes to be washed and chores to be done and of course you had to wait at least an hour after you ate to go in swimming.

These were days filled with joy, fun, laughter and your best friends who were also your first friends (your cousins) as we skipped rocks across the water, played tag or hide and go seek, splashing water on each other, fishing or just sitting on the bank with your toes in the water. Life does not get any better that this, because our needs were few, our dreams were big and we were surrounded by those we loved.

At this point you are probably wondering if I am ever going to get to the title of this little story that I boasted about as real Americana. Well your wait has ended. I am going to share with you one of my most fond and endearing memories of that summer on the river and even during my early years. My younger brother Maynard, cousins Tommy Joe and Jerry were all the same age, born within months of each other. When I think back over the vast expanse of time to those simpler times one picture that always come immediately to the album of my mind is of my cousin Jerry wearing an old beat up, battered, tattered, ragged straw cowboy hat. The brim of the hat folded and bent going in more directions that one would think possible. You could always find Jerry; all you had to do was find the hat. He wore it to the river to go swimming. You could see him wearing it as he walked along the banks of the river with a fishing pole over his shoulder (fishing poles that were little more that long sticks of wood with a piece of string and a hook). I often wondered if he wore that old hat to sleep at night. I still think of him that way, some pictures in your mind never fade.

It is fitting that Jerry is now a “Singer, Songwriter” a story teller in four/ four time who loves country music and Americana. The only thing that his current picture is missing is that “tattered, battered, ragged old hat.” It was a great summer that I will always remember. I journey often in my mind back across the currents of time and smile as I live again that beautiful, simple summer down on the river. Love you cousin.
Bob Phillips

Auntie's Little Red Rooster"

As children we always loved going to Pop and Auntie's house. They owned a farm/ranch on the Frio River in Leakey, Texas. I have fond memories of the old house with the wrap around porch, huge shade trees in the yard, Pop’s ever present stock dog and the fenced in yard. Pop's real name was Lloyd Brooks to many of the people around Leakey he was also known as "Mutt," but to all of us nieces and nephews he was just Pop. Auntie's name was Opal (Phillips) Brooks, and she was my dad’s older sister by about 20 months. We all called her Auntie (even my parents called her that or “Shorty”). As the expression goes “they were the salt of the earth,” the kind of people who make a difference by the lives they touched.

Grandpa Phillips lived with them during the years just before his death. When I think of that old house I can still smell "Pap's" old pipe that he smoked. That pipe was so strong it would make Hulk Hogan look like "Pee Wee” Herman. If you looked closely at one of the door post inside their old house you would see marked in pencil led, lines with dates and names marking the heights of the nieces and nephews. When they built their new house Auntie took that piece of wood with them. It was too important a memory for them to leave behind. It was a part of our history, the story of all of us.

In the days before ice boxes and refrigerators they kept the milk, butter and other things that needed to be kept cold in an ice cold spring down below the hill next to the river. The Frio was not far below the house but in order to get to it you had to either walk through the barnyard or the field. The shortest route was through the barnyard. The barn was surrounded by pens that kept cows, horses, chickens and goats. Their goats often at kidding time had twins so the pens were frequently full of live stock. It was also home to my greatest nemesis as a child, Auntie's RED ROOSTER. Who was my arch-enemy but also the source of great humor and laughter for my older brother, sister and cousins.

Every time I tried to follow the older kids down to the river that danged rooster would attack me and chase me all over the barnyard. He would go into attack mode, he was ready to fight and I was preparing for flight, wings a flapping', jumping at me with his spurs just like those fighting' rooster you see at rooster fights. I don't know what he had against me. May be he thought I was another rooster since I had short stubby legs and flaming red hair. Or may be he was possessed by the devil which is what I would like to believe, in fact I thought he was old Satan himself coming to get me. I would run as fast as my stubby little legs could carry me, often crying for my momma and all the while the older kids were laughing, being entertained by the drama before them. It must have been quite a show for all of them, while I tried to hide in the barn, get through the gate before the rooster caught me or even climb a tree hoping to get high enough on a limb that he could not reach me. It's not every child who gets bullied by a rooster but I was the happiest person on earth when at long last, I went down to the river and that rooster was gone.

In my vengeful dreams I often imagine that Auntie's red rooster was one of the chickens we ate for Sunday dinner. In some way I suppose that was my way of taking a perverse pleasure in his demise. In my mind, this is my way of finally getting even with the tormentor of my youth (they say what goes around comes around, but honestly you never really get even with evil). The absolute truth is, however, that old bird would have been too tough and gammy to make good fried chicken and the only way one could have eaten that old red rooster was to boil him for hours before you served him and even then he would have been tough as boot leather. As far as I am concerned he was just plain mean and ornery and the world became a much better place when that Old Bird died. I don't intend to sound callused, but there are some deaths that make the world a safer and better place to live.

I still loved going to Pop and Auntie's, walking the footlog (or at least trying to walk it) and learning to swim in the Frio River. Those were good times and in spite of everything, these are fond memories of a simpler time and the days of my youth, but I’m glad that Old Bird’s Dead!”

Bob

The Almost Famous Mule Story

It was just short of twenty years ago now, at least to best of my recollection, that I drove up from Hondo, Texas (the sign as you enter this small Texas town says, "This is God's Country, so please don't drive through it like Hell!") to Leakey, Texas. Leakey is a place near and dear to my heart. The thought of this sleepy little hill country town, nestled along the banks of the Frio River, awakens many fond, all be they slumbering memories from my childhood. On this particularly beautiful Sunday morning my family and I were enjoying the scenic drive along the winding narrow road through the hills and valleys with their multi-color hues. However, this day we were out just for "a Sunday drive" this journey had purpose beyond seeing Pop, Auntie, Doyle, Kathy and their family. I was going to preach for the Leakey Church of Christ. It is a church whose story and history intersects time and time again with the story of our family. This church and our family share a rich and common history, its story and many from our family's past are yet to be told. I hope with the help of family record these before they are lost in the black hole of time. Because of the historical significance and connections this small hill country church has for our family it was an honor for me to even be invited much less to be invited back numerous times.

This Sunday morning I told a story from the Phillips family past to illustrate my major point. I had heard the story several times from both my father and my uncle Orville. It seems that when Orville and his brother Norvel were younger they wanted to go into town on Saturday. Going to town on Saturday back in the early 1900's was a major event usually something that the entire family did together. When you lived out in the country miles and miles from nearest neighbors much less the closest town it was like going to a circus or carnival. People would load up in their wagons, hitch up their teams and make the long arduous journey along lonely, dusty, sometimes muddy section line roads. Upon arrival they would park in wagon yards, where the small children would play in the dirt, maybe be able to buy some penny candy or a nickel soda while the men traded, whittled, told stories, played dominos and played music. The women did their shopping at the general store buying their staples like flour, sugar and corn meal and sometimes when they had some extra money a hat or special fabric for a dress because usually dresses were made from flour and feed sacks. This was a special time not something that families did every week. A time to stay late, have a Saturday night dance, maybe camp over night, go to church on Sunday morning, eat dinner on the grounds and return home that afternoon. This is not to say that these activities did not go on every weekend but not all families went every week.

One weekend Norvel (the oldest) and Orville (who was 10 years older than my dad) wanted to go into town. The entire family was not going that weekend and my grandfather (John Andrew) was not sure he wanted his two older boys to go into town alone. John (John Henry was my father's name, family members called him Doc or Henry, the reason is a story better left for another day) was a "crusty" old character whom I only knew late in his life, sometimes during his life he was a lawman other times he was an outlaw, but he was not a man to be disobeyed and his older son knew this well. I am not sure what the boys had planned for that Saturday but having been a young man once I have my own ideas and it does not take a fertile imagination to assume it had something to do with girls. After some time the boys convinced Grandpa to let them go. He had one rule, be home before to late, I don't know what time that was but they knew and they knew what the consequences would be of breaking that one rule.
They got busy, hurriedly hitched the mule to the family wagon and headed out into to town. They were having a great time, as one might imagine two unsupervised young men on the town might. They were having so much fun in fact that they completely lost track of time (at least that's what I was told). It was late, after dark when they started the wagon toward home. One thing they knew was that they were going to be in trouble and Grandpa was not an overly forgiving man, a man that even in his eighties, when I knew him carried his pistol in his overalls. It would not surprise me in the least if they had to forcibly take it from him the last time he went to the hospital (but I digress and those are stories better left for another time). The boys were in a hurry, trying to make it down the rugged wagon ruts that passed for a road (great fun for your off road 4 X 4’s these days but not so much then) and they were making good time, for a while.

That old mule would just take a notion to balk (just stop and refuse to move) at the most inconvenient times, in fact he was famous for it. Ok, so you probably figured out by now where I am going with this, but I am going to tell you any way. He balked right in the middle of the road and absolutely would not budge. Orville bit his ear trying to get him to move. Norvel stuck his pocket knife in is flank. They hit him with a big tree limb that they broke off a tree beside the road. They tried dragging and pushing without success. No matter what they did the mule would not move. Now by this time it was getting real late and they were in deep trouble. One of them (Uncle Orville wouldn't tell me which) came up with the idea of building a fire under the mule. They heard some place that this would make a balking mule move. So they gathered leaves, twigs, tree limbs anything flammable from beside the road and started a fire right under the belly of that old mule. To their surprise it worked the mule jumped forward just far enough to get the wagon over the fire. They caught the wagon on fire and had to beat the fire out with their shirts. For them it was just one more thing that old John A. Phillips was not going to be happy about when and if the mule decided to move and they arrived home, very, very late.

I used this story in the sermon in an attempt to illustrate how sometimes when we try to motivate people, to get them to move or change that they often move just far enough to catch the wagon on fire. Or let me express it in another way, just far enough to create a whole new set of problems. After the sermon, Auntie (Aunt Opal) came up to me with this big smile on her face, looked up (because she was also affectionately called "Shorty") at me and said, “I remember that mule, his name was Ball, and he would balk whenever he wanted." That's all she said to me. My family and I went to her house for Sunday dinner, where she fixed corn for my youngest son Jordan because she knew how much he loved it. Auntie always set a great table with plenty of food and family around to enjoy its bounty and the love of a wonderful Christian woman. I sure miss, Pop and Auntie.

p.s. There are also stories about Auntie's table that, well I choose to share at a later time.

Bob Phillips

"Choppin' Cedar for Crybaby!"

If I ever knew his real first name it is long abandoned in lonely deserted place in the deepest recesses of my increasingly feeble mind. I only knew him as “crybaby Henderson" because that is my father and uncles always called him. They would at times imitate his whiney, squeaky voice that made him sound like he was crying when he talked. I can remember Otis, Jimmy and Doc all taking turns at imitating the man to whom they all sold cedar post. He owned several cedar yards (a place where they stacked and sold cedar post) throughout the hill country in the 1950's and the Phillips boys, among other things were cedar choppers.

Chopping cedar is hot, hard back breaking and dirty work. The cedar brake is not the place of the lazy, weak and timid souls too accustom to living and working under an air conditioner. Mountain cedar grows on the hills among the rocks and prickly pears, in thickets that block the wind but never the sun. The Phillips boys did not cut their cedar with chain saws, they were much to poor for that and besides there were not many dealers in such "high tech" gadgets. These men were from the old school they used their axes sharpened and honed to a fine edge, sharp enough to shave with, not that I ever saw them try. The cedar brake a place where men chopped, trimmed, measured and stacked cedar fence post for a few dollars a day. A place where what you made was determined by how hard you worked, how many and what size post you cut. But in the final analysis what you made was determined by the market, and by market I mean how good of a deal you could get from "crybaby Henderson." He also cried about how much he had to pay for the post, their price was too high and he could not make any money. He was in daddy's words, "tighter than Dick’s hat band." I will be completely honest with you I have no idea what that means, but it must be pretty tight.

In the cedar brake they always made a camping area. It was a place where they built a fire to cook their meals. There were two things that were always on the fire, a pot of coffee and a pot of beans. They were hot and sweaty but always took coffee brakes throughout the day; people of the "greatest generation" drank coffee all day and into the night. Not that low test decaffeinated stuff or some kind of "mamby pamby mocha decaf soy latte." My oldest brother Danny who is five years older than I am was old enough to go to cedar brake with the men. He was in what we would call Middle School today, but back then we had never heard of such a thing as Middle School. His only job was to make sure there was hot coffee on the fire and the beans were cooking. To say the least his only job was not a daunting task for a bright, curious and hard working young man.

One day Dan got distracted, not sure by what, but we all know how short boys of that age attention span can be, well let's be honest boys of any age. Daddy came in to camp sometime during that day to take a break and get a cup of coffee. He poured a big cup of that steamy brew hot and black; he took one sip, made a strange face but never said a word. He just looked over at the coffee pot crooked his index finger with that universally known come here motion, and if the pot had been a person it would have understood his meaning, coffee come over here. Danny told me the other day he knew exactly what daddy meant. The coffee was strong enough to get up and stand by itself. A simple lesson learned and mistake never repeated.
It is easy to get distracted and side tracked in life, often we realize the mistake without anyone ever saying a word.

The key to a successful life is learning the simple lessons and not repeating the same mistakes (easier said than done, I realize). But when we learn to master ourselves it becomes much easier to master the “things” around us.

Bob Phillips

Love is a Storm

Wild as the icy wind, screaming across the high plains.
Love is a texas thunder storm, crashing and flashing in my night.
A tornado of emotion, that rips me from my sleep,
and hurls me breathlessly to the ground.
This storm of love, grasps my heart in its vise like grip.
It breaks my mind with its savage wind.
When the danger passes and calm follows,
It brings healing and hope to my tortured soul.

For you my love, I will set my heart against the storm,
and trudge on thought, till safe on to the other side.
I ride in its eye, with violence raging all around.
My love for you is a storm, which can never be tamed.
Lightening flashes, thunder crashes, hail, wind and rain.
Healing rain washes away the dirt, filth and stain.
This love I have, is like the aroma of a fresh summer rain,
I inhale it in wonder, exhale the satisfaction, drained,
to discover peaceful rest in the calm that follows the storm.

You take my breath away; leave me hanging on for dear life.
I rise to launch myself once again into loves raging fury.
Risk, danger, adventure, mystery and wonder await me.
Your love for me is a storm, untamed and free.
My love for you is a tornado, spinning, devouring, scattering debris.
I will risk all in the raging storm that races toward me.
Love is a storm; I am your storm chaser, racing after your love.


I love you Nelma

Bob

Life, A Sadder Day

The Easter weekend those of us in the western world, consist of three days. We tend to focus mostly on two of them Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. First of all the term Good Friday is a misnomer, because that fatal Friday was filled with denial, devestation, desertion and death. Resurrection Sunday is a day marked by Sunrise, seeking women, surreal discoveries and a living Savior. Between these two days we wait, we hide in our upper room, behind locked doors and hope beyond all hope for the waiting to be over. We pray that the enemies of our Lord will come for us as they did for him. We live in the desperate,uncertain anticipation of Sunday, but tremble in terror because it is still Silent Saturday, the day when God is still and silent.

It is Saturday, the day of the cave and grave, between death and resurrection, this is sadly the real world where we all currently exist. The day of terrible, dreadful, oppressive and deafing silence. It is a world where evil appears and even views itself victorious, cruelty controls the seats of power in the world of man and terror and torture are triumphant. A dreary, debilitating darkness obscures the Sun and clouds our hearts. The graves are still filled, everywhere we turn sin holds sway and death devours, destroys and devastates God good creation. It is our appointed time upon this spinning orb, when we live out our lives on a dying planet among desperate dying people. Saturday is a day of fear, dread, loneliness, doubt and loss, when we wait in an uncertain anticipation, a faint hope of Sunday. We live out our earthly existence between death and resurrection. We are stuck in muck and mire of the sty that is Saturday but we dream of Sunday for we are a Sunday people.

We wait for the uncertain Sunrise of Sunday in eager anticipation and with bated breath for the chains of death to be broken. We yearn after, long for Sunday's healing anointing. We hope and trust in the seemingly unbelieveable promise of the resurrection's reunion. We tremble in fear behind closed, locked doors because it's Saturday, but when reunited with Jesus, when he stand in our midst, we touch his hands and feet all things are new and we are healed, whole, redeemed, we believe and confess "My Lord, and My God!"

I live in "Sadder Day" but I belong to Sunday....

Bob Phillips

"Shifty" by Chuck Yeager

Subject: "Shifty" By Chuck Yeager Notice at the end how many medals and decorations Shifty was awarded!!!!!!!!!!!! "Shifty" By Chuck Yeager SHIFTY DIED JAN 17, 2011..........rest in peace. "Shifty" By Chuck Yeager Shifty volunteered for the airborne in WWII and served with Easy Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, part of the 101st Airborne Infantry. If you've seen Band of Brothers on HBO or the History Channel, you know Shifty. His character appears in all 10 episodes, and Shifty himself is interviewed in several of them.. I met Shifty in the Philadelphia airport several years ago. I didn't know who he was at the time. I just saw an elderly gentleman having trouble reading his ticket. I offered to help, assured him that he was at the right gate, and noticed the "Screaming Eagle," the symbol of the 101st Airborne, on his hat. Making conversation, I asked him if he d been in the 101st Airborne or if his son was serving. He said quietly that he had been in the 101st. I thanked him for his service, then asked him when he served, and how many jumps he made. Quietly and humbly, he said "Well, I guess I signed up in 1941 or so, and was in until sometime in 1945 ... " at which point my heart skipped. At that point, again, very humbly, he said "I made the 5 training jumps at Toccoa, and then jumped into Normandy . . . do you know where Normandy is?" At this point my heart stopped. I told him "yes, I know exactly where Normandy is, and I know what D-Day was." At that point he said "I also made a second jump into Holland , into Arnhem ." I was standing with a genuine war hero .... and then I realized that it was June, just after the anniversary of D-Day. I asked Shifty if he was on his way back from France , and he said "Yes... And it ' s real sad because, these days, so few of the guys are left, and those that are, lots of them can't make the trip." My heart was in my throat and I didn't know what to say. I helped Shifty get onto the plane and then realized he was back in Coach while I was in First Class. I sent the flight attendant back to get him and said that I wanted to switch seats. When Shifty came forward, I got up out of the seat and told him I wanted him to have it, that I'd take his in coach. He said "No, son, you enjoy that seat. Just knowing that there are still some who remember what we did and who still care is enough to make an old man very happy." His eyes were filling up as he said it. And mine are brimming up now as I write this. Shifty died on Jan. l7 after fighting cancer. There was no parade. No big event in Staples Center .. No wall to wall back to back 24x7 news coverage. No weeping fans on television. And that's not right!! Let's give Shifty his own Memorial Service, online, in our own quiet way. Please forward this email to everyone you know. Especially to the veterans. Rest in peace, Shifty. Chuck Yeager, Maj Gen. [ret.]

P.S. I think that it is amazing how the "media" chooses our "heroes" these days... Michael Jackson, Charlie Sheen, Lindsey Lohan & the like that don't deserve one second of air time or our attention!

My Brother-in-law sent me this-thought it was good enough to repost

"We Shall Not Tarry Long On This Hill."

One constant in the old western movies the cemetery is called "Boot Hill." Usually this is a small barren hill just outside of town. In this place some graves are marked with wood or simple stone and some are not marked at all. It is a place were all men are equal, rich and poor alike find their final resting place side by side. Such is also the case today, "dust to dust and ashes to ashes" or as Wordsworth put it, "from dust thou art, to dust returnth was not written of the soul."

My experience preaching throughout West Texas has shown me that the truth is much like the fiction of these movies. It is common that cemeteries are found on a small hill just outside of town. They tend to be lonely barren places with stone markers row upon row, yet even today some are unmarked. These places are quiet except the wind rustling in the leaves and grass. The sad haunting song that sings our names, echoing eerily upon the gentle breeze.

It was then on a cold wintry West Texas day that our story takes place. A day when the cold wind cuts through you like a knife through butter. A frigid wind like a spear hurled by the hand of some ancient, mythic warrior that pierces your very soul. In Aspermont, Texas I prepared for the funeral service of the father of a dear friend. A man nick named “Gimp” a rough-neck, life long oil patch worker who had drilled his last well and brought in his last barrel of crude. We awaited the slow procession, a single line of cars, winding, twisting its way out of town to that place on the hill just outside of town. A parade led as was only fitting by a Cadillac Coach. His son had some final words of advice for me as we reached that lonely hillside just outside of town.

Don turned to me and said, "Bob remember, we shall not tarry long on this hill!" Words of wisdom that have served me well for these many years. Don Mullis, you are a wise and good man, and I thank you.

Bob Phillips

"I'll See You On Monday"

"I'll See You On Monday"
by Bob Phillips on Tuesday, March 15, 2011 at 9:00am
March 15, 2011
"Bobby"

My father was born on March 14, 1918, the year the Great War, The War to End all Wars, ended. I was on the road yesterday and did not get home until midnight so I wanted to take some time today to remember may Daddy. He lived through the dustbowl, the great depression and fought his way across the Pacific during World War 2. He came home to a young wife and son to start a new life and rebuild America. He has been gone for some time now but I still think of him almost everyday and wonder what he thinks of me and the man I have become. Why is it that a 60 year old man still worries about what his father thinks about him and still seeks his approval? Daddy would you be proud of the man I have become?

I recall working beside him in the fields, bailing hay, harvesting peanuts, working cows, working on a car or truck or old tractor. After he lost his left hand I would hold the nails while he started them with his hammer, or holding the wedge while it hit it with a sledge hammer to split post or wood. It is amazing the trust a son has in his father. Daddy would you be proud of the man I have become?

I see your face more now than ever when I look into the mirror. I see you in my sons and daughter. There are days when I wish I could talk to you again and ask your advice. The good advice you offered when I was a young man and which I so often ignored. Funny, isn't it how much wiser you became the older I grew and how much I would give to just spend and hour talking to you. Daddy would you be proud of the man I have become?

I still recall the last time we spoke. You were so weak, fighting as always but this time for just one more breath. I had to leave you because I had to preach the next day and it was a 3 hour drive home, but I lingered as long as I could. I sat beside you on your bed and said, "Daddy don't give up on me?" You whispered in reply, "I am trying son..." I kissed you on the forehead and said, "I love you, daddy, I'll see you on Monday." I did not know those would be the last words we spoke to each other, but I am very glad that they were our final words. Daddy would you be proud of the man I have become?

I meant the words I spoke as I sat beside you on the bed. They are still true today, "Daddy, I Love you, and I'll see you on Monday." You wait for me beyond the shinning crystal sea in that eternal Monday the day that follows the "Day of the Lord." I see you standing there gazing over the sea, baby blue eyes searching for me. I see you smiling, longing to greet me on the edge of the eternal sea. I'll see you on Monday I said to you and now I hear your whisper upon the wind, "I'll see you on Monday, Son." I hope you are proud of the man I have come to be. "I'll See You On Monday!"

Robert Alan ("Bobby")

Son of Wanda Colleen Sanders Phillips and John Henry Phillips

Things You Pick Up On The Side Of The Road

When our children were young, elementary school age, we planned a summer trip to Florida, to Disney World and the beaches. The Children were excited about the trip but they had no real concept of the cost. I told them if they wanted extra spending money we would all go out and pick up aluminum cans on the side of the road. I know this sounds like one of those parent ideas, but the 3 J’s were all in, so to speak.

We had a great road side to work, US Highway 70 between Crowell and Vernon, Texas. Foard County was a dry county, so no beer or liquor was sold there, but as is the case with such things in Texas there is always a store on the county line. While this does not lend itself to safe driving it is a treasure trove for a family gathering aluminum cans. We worked hard filling the bed of my dad's old Ford pickup truck. The job does not end with gathering the cans; you also have to crush them. We all worked hard for several weeks and loaded up our treasure to carry them to be recycled. You know they pay you cash money for such things. The children are all excited to know how much they made after all their hard work. I was not going to disappoint them, what father would. I never told them, though they may have figured it out, that I added money from my own pocket to make sure that they all had enough money to spend on the trip. It was important that they have their own money to spend on what they wanted. But it was also important to learn about work and the value of money. We picked up more than cans along the road; we worked as a family all together.

The trip was great over all but our youngest was disappointed with the Ocean. He had been so excited but the reality of it was something different. Playing in the surf is fun unless you are less than 3 feet tall and the waves are about 5 feet. The waves would hit him and knock him down, one right after another. I can still hear him say, "Stupid Ocean!" But they all enjoyed Disney World as all children do and even some of us who are older children. The other two did not have the same experience but we all got sunburned and had sand in everything. Even in this we picked up some things along the road.

Along life’s journey we encounter many people, we engage in useful work and we expect the eventual end of the road. We pick up little gems from all the people we encounter, rare jewels of diamond, emeralds, rubies and pearls. The true treasures of life. We gather treasures and riches from the in which we are engaged, and a merciful and gracious God makes up what is lacking out of His own pocket. We look expectantly, with hope in our hearts and the promise of a loving God of a home a city "whose builder and maker is God,” the road is long. The journey difficult. The path sometimes unclear. The things you pick up along the road are priceless and should be treasured beyond gold.

Bob Phillips

"Where Could I Go But To The Lord

The "Hound of Heaven" tirelessly pursues me, leaving me no place to hide.
I hear Him howling, calling; the sound, my name, upon the wind it rides.
My scent is in his flaring nostrils, He pants with joy and hunger in every stride.
A convict on a hopeless midnight run. He is closing in, nipping at my heals tonight.
I think it's freedom to which I run, it's to a prison's dark dungeon that I ride.
He pursues me to unchain me, from the hidden bonds of sin that hold me tight.
Blind to His true purpose, I run faster, a frightened, lonely man into the night.
The "Hound of Heaven" tirelessly pursues me, leaving me no place to hide.

The “Darling of Heaven” woos me, a lover’s passion, in His eyes.
I hear Him gently whisper, “come my love to your place at my side.”
My soul was empty; a black hole of doubt and fear, trouble filled my mind.
Wind blowing through the hole, it sent shivers down my spine.
My name He is sweetly cooing, my pigeon, white dove you are a find.
How could I know I was His obsession, the apple of His eyes?
I open my heart to His advances; love, peace and joy are now mine.
If in quietness I had only listened, I would have know or seen the signs.
The “Darling of Heaven” woos me, a lover’s passion in His eyes.

“Where could I Go, but to the Lord?”

Bob Phillips

COMMENTS ON THE ARTICLE “WHICH TRANSLATION IS THE BEST?”

This is a response to a friends request let him know what I thought about an article he read on line.

I would suggest that even though he tries to imply that he has no agenda in writing this article, quite the opposite is true. One simply has to read between the lines to know that he believes the KJV or NKJV are the best translations or versions. I knew that this would be his conclusion before I had finished the first paragraph. I would have preferred that he take a more direct approach, and a less a priori approach, but having said that I would not quarrel with his beliefs in this regard, just what I feel is a lack of candor and honesty.

Let me address the matter of Greek Text. That the Erasmus Text which is the basis for the Textus Receptus is a true statement as far as it goes. Erasmus was a Catholic Priest who taught himself Greek later in his life, because the Catholic Church did not approve of or see the need of the Greek text. For them Latin was the language of choice. That their Latin and Old Latin translations were made from earlier Greek manuscripts did not seem to matter. Erasmus became an excellent Greek scholar. His Greek Text was a triumph of one man’s desire to rediscover the original Greek Text of the New Testament. Erasmus used no manuscript older than the 10th century AD and most of the Texts he used were from the 12th and 13th centuries he also relied heavily on the Latin Vulgate. Bruce Metzger (the foremost Greek Scholar of the later 20th and early 21st century-“The Text of the New Testament p.100) “As would be expected from such a procedure, here and there in Erasmus’ self-made Greek text are readings which have never been found in any known Greek manuscript-but which are still perpetuated today in printings of the so-called Textus Receptus of the Greek New Testament.” He only had Greek manuscripts for the first chapters of Revelation. His solution to this problem was to translate these chapters from Latin into Greek. To me one of the most interesting things about this was how accurate he was and how close to the Greek Text he was able to come. A man by the name of Stephanus took the Erasmus text and improved upon it to a minor degree but it changed very little from the original. A group named the Elsevir’s worked with the text and because of the discovery of the movable type printing press purchased the rights to print the Greek Text, adding the phrase Textus Recptus or “This is the Text received by all,” which was more for marketing purposes than being accurate. The truth is that this text is based more upon what is know is the Western Text than is those that follow and it was not a critically arrived at text (no systematic approach at how to deal with variant reading). It is the Text used for the most part by the translators of the KJV though they also used Latin and other English translations such as The Bishop’s Bible and Timbales' translation. One of the reasons was that the organized church did not want the Bible in the hands of the common man and many of the common people could not read.

The so called Western Text that he refers to and calls inaccurately Wescott-Hort are the three oldest (Alexandrinus, Vaticanus and Sinaiticus) extant (complete) manuscripts and are not technically Western though they do have some Western influences. Westcott and Hort called the last two of these Neutral Text (they classify text by Western, Alexandrian and Neutral). Hort was also the first to suggest what he calls an internal examination of the text. The Manuscripts date from the first half of the 4th century AD (300’s) and some believe that they are manuscripts commissioned by the Emperor Constantine after he came to power in 325 AD (but there is no proof of this) and later make Christianity the official religion of the Roman Empire. Westcott and Hort led the way in modern Textual Criticism (The study of and attempt to recover the original Text of the New Testament). What they began in the 19th century was continued in the 20th century by a vast number of scholars some from our own fellowship. The discovery of Papyrus manuscripts and fragments has helped refine and develop the science of Textual Criticism. The Papyrus libraries contained the earliest examples of the text of the Bible. The oldest fragment comes from the Gospel of John and Dates around 100AD which is only a few years removed from the original writing itself. The Greek Text of today is not based on the priority of one family of text but upon a scientific, logical approach to what are known as variant readings. None of these variant readings change the meaning of the text. The majority are matters of whether the definite article (we translate as the) came before the noun or was not there. It is perfectly good Greek to either use articles or not use them. Another common variant is found when we have the common phrase, “Lord Jesus Christ.” The meaning is the same if you omit one title of even a combination of titles. Jesus is his name. He is Lord. He is the Christ or anointed one. It is easy to see how someone copying these manuscripts by hand could add one of these in order to clarify the text, at least in his view. The human hand cannot not remove from the transmission of these documents, because for over a thousand years they were copied and recopied by human hand. Yet there is not one fundamental doctrinal issue is affected by them or rest upon a questionable text. I would say that is amazing.

He says we must consider family of text but for the Biblical scholar this is only a minor consideration when determining a reading and often not considered at all because of the shear volume of textual material. The number of manuscripts now rest at somewhere around 100,000 manuscripts or fragments. He was using single source for his information which was in itself outdated (check his so called footnotes even uses this source to talk about Hort, one should always go to primary sources). I do not want someone quoting someone else quoting me this practice is rarely accurate. Westcott and Hort were not the proponents of the Gnostic theory that position came from F.C. Bauer and the Tubingen School in Germany (the beginning of Theological Liberalism). The German Liberals did not believe that any of the New Testament was written by the disciples in the 1st century. What they believed was that all of these documents were of 2nd century or later origin and a product of the church. If they could push the creation of these documents into the 2nd century that would deny and negate divine authorship, so they proposed a theory that most of these documents were written by the church to combat Gnosticism. What they knew and what scholars of today know is that Gnosticism was a 2nd century development in fact about the middle of the 2nd century. The more they repeated the lie that it was written to combat Gnosticism the more it became accepted. Today I am amazed at the number in the church and even conservative scholars who are still finding that non existent Gnostic in the New Testament, never questioning the origin of the theory. They just accept it because the read it in a commentary. If the New Testament was written in the 1st century as I believe it was then there are no Gnostics in the New Testament because they did not come into being until the middle of the 2nd century. Gnosticism has no barring on translation only on authorship and authority. Westcott and Hort were believers in the inspiration of scriptures. This is a no starter as an argument as is how they might have felt about Darwin (who by the way was not a scientist but trained as a theologian).

None of this answers the question of “which translation is the best?” It does in fact deflect attention from the primary question. My old Greek Professor use to say when asked which was the best translation of the Bible, “It hasn’t been made yet!” ( Robert Johnston) The article does touch upon part of the issue at stake here when he talks about literal translations. The ASV (1901) may be the most literal even to the point of keeping the Greek word order which makes it easiest to translate back into Greek, but it is somewhat mechanical in that English word order and sentence structure are different than Greek. The KJV is what is considered a literal translation but even it is not 100% literal. The issue is not whether it is a literal translation but of what is it a literal translation. This he does not address and simply ignores.
No translation from one language into another can be completely literal due to idiomatic considerations, word meaning and sentence structure. The NKJV is a revision of the KJV into more modern English. The RSV and NASV are also revisions of the ASV in an attempt to make more readable by American English speakers. These are all what are known as literal translations. The NIV was an attempt at a whole new translation using what is know as the dynamic equivalent as opposed to literal. What this means is that sometimes a word is better translated by a phrase to reveal the meaning of the word. It uses this technique frequently in an attempt to get at the original meaning of the text. Does it always succeed? These modern translations are base not upon Westcott and Hort but the Text used is the UBS 5th addition (United Bible Society) which is identical to the last Nestle-Aland text. The answer to this question is no but then neither does a literal translation. These are all imperfect human attempts to convey the meaning and core teaching found in the Bible. Just as a side note here, one of my Bible Professors was on the translation committee of the NIV (Dr. J.D. Thomas the long time head of the Bible department at ACU).

Let me address his attempt to use 2Timothy 2:15 to make his point. He fails on two levels. The first is his lack of understanding of Greek. The word means “to cut straight” it has been used in this way since Classical Greek. It is not a mathematical term as he suggests and to use a word that is not understandable or inaccurate is not helpful in translation. The second level is as follows; when one looks at the verse in its context one should recognize that it is being used metaphorically. The approved workman is a phrase used of a carpenter, builder or even blacksmith his work is approve or acceptable when he cuts the material straight. As my wife (who teaches sowing and as a good Ag teacher friend) always tell their students, measure twice cut once. We also have a saying, “do it right the first time.” When it comes to God’s word do it right, measure twice, cut once or God approves of the worker who uses the tool the way it was meant to be used.

The KJV was not accepted in England for several generations after it translation, it was rejected because it was not what the people were use to using, yet it has stood the test of time and stands as one of the great accomplishment in translation. It was translated by a committee not by a single individual. The ASV, NASV, RSV have served the church well. The ASV does not use the same Greek Text as the KJV as the basis for its translation and they actually are very dissimilar translations. The NIV is the most popular modern translation, I believe because of readability. We have raised up a whole generation of non readers and with the progress of technology I fear this will only get worse. We have made it easier for non or even poor readers to read the scripture and if a translation helps to get more people to read then more power to it.

When choosing a translation of the Bible I always tell people to find one that is translated by more than one or two people (a committee is best because no one person can control). Select one that is based on good scholarship and that you will read, if one does not enjoy reading the translation they have selected they will never discover the One and Only God revealed in those scriptures. I use a wide variety of translations but I have chosen to preach from the NIV for most of the last 20 years because it is the one most commonly found in the pews of our churches. I am not, because of my training like most people in the pews or even pulpit. I have over 5 years of university level Greek and I have continued to read from my Greek text for the last 30 years. This does not make me better than anyone just gives me an option that many others do not have when it comes to translations.

The Post-Moderns of this generation are fond of saying, “Why didn’t Shakespeare write in English?” They often say the same thing about the KJV which simply shows their ignorance and lack of historical perspective. It is a beautiful rhythmic language that sings to the heart when read aloud, a joy that too many of this modern day are missing. There is a richness found here that most Post Modernist will never know or experience and we are all diminished by this.

A final word, I have only scratched the surface of the study known as Textual Criticism. This is a subject which a couple of my former professors of devoted their entire lives. The article is interesting but in my estimation elementary, incomplete and flawed on many levels, yet I do applaud his courage and the attempt to discuss a difficult and often divisive subject. The argument over translations has been around since the 2nd century when the first translations were made, some of the earliest were translations into Coptic which is a form of the Egyptian language. There are still Coptic Christians in Egypt today many were injured during the recent up rising. I would venture to guess that the discussion will continue until the Lord returns.

Bob Phillips