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