Curtis Shelburne

Focus on Faith

“Short Words Are Best”

“Short words are best,” asserted Winston Churchill, “and the old words when short are best of all.”

So, may I suggest three—very short and very old which when lined up and strung together are the best three that could possibly be: GOD IS LOVE.

These words are chiseled into the rock, woven into the fabric, of the universe. More than that, if anything could be more, they are living and implanted by the Author of life into its every cell, resonating in every breath and heartbeat. How could we not feel the life of those three short words pulsing all around us? Perhaps in part because they are so much around us that we live in them and swim in them like fish enlivened by but largely oblivious to the very thing that gives them life.

God is love.

Note that in this short, old, and every morning new, equational sentence, the verb, the multiplier, and the fulcrum is IS, to BE. Yes, eternally. The “great I AM” will always be and will always be exactly what he always is, love.

Those three words mean that as long as our Father wills the universe to be, the stars to twinkle, the worlds to spin… Those three words mean that if packed in every grain of sand on every sea-washed beach were a million years and all of those mini-mega-grains were stretched across creation at attention in single sand-soldier file… Those three words mean that the dance of the cosmos, the symphony of space, and the music of the spheres, will still play on because God is GOD, and God always IS, and God will always be LOVE.

The order of the short word-cars on this magnificent train matters immensely. “God is love” is a breathtaking stream flowing with the life of the Creator and wash-singing, joy-splashing, over every rock and crevasse of the universe. “Love is god” is an idolatrous sludge defiling its worshipers and leaving a black trail of death, desolation, and the tears of despairing children in its sad and slimy wake. The first sings with the life of the Creator; the latter stagnates and festers in the stench of death-ridden darkness.

And, yes, in a fallen, sin-sick, and sadly twisted world, darkness is real and too often seems utterly pervasive. If we’ve lived very long, how could we not feel deep sympathy for anyone going through a time when darkness seems to have put out the sun? But no eclipse is forever. The sun’s corona glows around the blackness, impatient to blaze again unfettered, and we have the promise of Eden’s Creator that one day unending joy will again be the watchword of the universe. The first Adam fell, and we see the wreckage and the pain, but Adam’s word is not the last—because of the three short words that find their fruition, culmination, and crowning glory in the one Word who “became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.”

Does it sometimes, even often, seem unbearably dark? Yes, but one Word “shines in the darkness” and will banish it forever, all because of the three short words: God is love.

Brock Bronson and the Soviet Attack on Goliad

One day, almost sixty years ago, when I was just a small lad growing up at 125 N. Goliad Street, in Amarillo, Texas, Brock Bronson scared the living daylights out of me. Someday, I’ll get around to describing a “living daylight,” but suffice it to say now that I’m still short of them. Brock’s fault.

Brock Bronson. Now there’s a name that means business. Especially if it’s attached to a teenaged bully sort of guy. Especially if you’ve barely broken into double digits age-wise yourself. Especially if the teenaged Bronson lives just three doors down the street from you. (I’ve changed the name to protect the guilty—and to keep the innocent from being sued—but it was exactly that kind of name.)

I barely remember Brock, His Teenaged Highness, ever lowering himself to speak a word to me, which may have made the words he spoke on that fateful day all the scarier.

In his defense (which is crazy—a guy named Brock Bronson doesn’t need any defense), he may not have been that much of a bully. He may have been just a pretty normal teenaged boy which meant then, just like it probably does now, that he had a higher opinion than the facts would support regarding his own intelligence, invincibility, immortality, and skill behind the wheel of an automobile. And I hereby testify that the pre-teen boys on his block were confident that teenaged guys like Brock were either one notch below deity or in very close contact with the Devil. Either way, they were not to be trifled with.

Which might explain to some extent why my little brother and I believed him when Brock and his companions (I don’t remember if he had companions, but this is the kind of brainstorm teenaged boys usually have in groups) roared to a brief stop in front of our house, stopped my little brother and me in our innocent tracks as we were riding bikes or trikes on our sloping driveway, and informed us that a Soviet attack had been launched against these United States in general and Goliad Street in particular. He led us to believe that we didn’t have time enough even to run inside the house but that if we’d crawl in under the juniper bushes that bracketed our driveway, maybe the Russians wouldn’t see us, and we might have some slim hope of survival.

I suppose we thought Brock was headed to the Front. All we knew for sure was that he was headed away. Jim and I ended up way under a big juniper waiting for Soviet bombers to appear. I don’t know how long we waited, but it seemed like hours, and, later, it seemed like days before I quit itching. (Have you tried crawling around under junipers recently?)

Yes, we waited. And waited. I guess we were waiting for Brock to stop by and give the “All Clear.” It never came. Neither did he. But neither did the Russians or their bombers.

Ah, worrying about a Russian attack on Goliad Street was world-class dumb. But I hate to think how much time I’ve wasted in the years since then worrying about stuff which, from Heaven’s point of view, must be even dumber. Worry. Anxiety. It’s dumb and dumber.

Faith. Now that’s where wisdom comes in. On Goliad Street or anywhere else.

Pets and Patriotism, Booms and Bangs

Pets and patriotism. Aside from the pleasing (to my ears) alliteration of two words beginning with Ps, I’m not sure what I think of those three words strung together.

I’m not aware of any sociological or other studies funded to try to determine if a link exists between pet ownership and a significantly higher level of patriotism than the levels normally measured in pet-less people. But, come to think of it, don’t you think that sounds exactly like the sort of study some governmental agency might commission for a few million tax dollars?

I’ll not be pitching such a proposal for study, but a few potential problems and parameters immediately come to mind.

I’m guessing that, in our present cultural climate, more than a few thousand of the study’s dollars early on would be devoted to defining and delineating “unoffensive terminology.” I’ve already used the term “pet ownership,” and I’ll bet that term would raise an alarm.

What about the sorts of pets? Oh, dogs and cats, of course. But what about parakeets and parrots? What about goldfish and beta-fish? Hermit crabs and hamsters? Ferrets and iguanas?

And what differences might be engendered by the gender distribution of the particular pet species being studied in a specific section of such a scintillating study? I’m just asking. And would you need to poll the pets on pronouns? I refer you to the section on “unoffensive terminology.”

In such a study, I’d suggest the inclusion of at least a short section on the differences between “patriotism” and “populism.” Is a dog who is truly patriotic a different sort of animal from a dog who is just following the barking pack in populism?

I don’t know how to tell. You might be able to answer some survey questions for your dog just by looking into his eyes. Cats? Not so much, I think.

Oh, and it’s easy to lose focus, as I obviously already have. The purely hypothetical study I mention is not about pet patriotism; it’s about “people with pets” patriotism versus “pet-less people” patriotism. Just having discussed this with you for a short time, I now think the idea is a bad one.

Maybe I need to discuss it with the canine who lives with us. If I can get him to calm down. And if I can get him to sit still.

You see, we’re barely past the July 4 holiday, and I don’t think this is a propitious moment to talk to this dog about patriotism—his or mine. He still seems certain that we’ve been under attack, and another assault is coming. We did our best to assure him that the booms and bangs assailing his auditory apparatus were no real threat, but he’s shaky and shell-shocked enough that I think the chances of our having a mutually edifying meeting of human-canine minds at this moment are “slim” and “none.”

I doubt a pets and patriotism study would be worth much. But maybe it’s worth something for me to think a little about how hard my Creator must work to get me to understand what he already sees clearly. His love and care for me are far stronger than the booms and bangs I so often let frighten me in this world.

Real Freedom Is More Than “Flying the Coop”

Words and birds. Freedom and faith.

I’d planned to begin by sharing a simple story about a bird that “flew the coop.” But then I flew a little off course by looking for a little “poop” (as in, information) about “flying the coop.” Forgive me, but you understand that, with many birds around, the type of information I just mentioned drops pretty much everywhere.

“Flying the coop” led me to a Merriam-Webster online article about “Common Idioms That Come from Chickens” (along with poop, I guess). They list seven, from “flying the coop” to “pecking order” to “putting all your eggs in one basket” to… Well, I’ll let you tease your brain to fill out a nice seven or many more. But I need to switch birds here.

Years ago, I built in our back yard what I call my bird house. It’s a weathered wood, rustic, old barn-shed sort of building, with walls strung with lots of chicken wire (back to the cluckers we are). It’s decorated with some old tools, cans, and junk, and birdled—I assume “birdled” is to birds as “peopled” is to people—mostly with a few pied (white and beige “mottled”) ringneck doves.

One fewer now.

You see, if you plan to keep birds, you need to feed and water them. Often. And, in my bird establishment, carrying out those tasks involves opening a screen door. Often.

That’s what I was doing a couple of weeks ago when I heard, and felt, a swoosh over my head. News flash! Or news swoosh! Immediate notice. I’d become complacent, and one of the doves had flown the coop. Well, rats! (Or birds!)

It’s been years ago, but this has happened before. Most such doves who run (fly) away from home hang around in the area, as has this one. It started showing up in nearby trees (out of reach). Then it began to sit on the roof of its former home (out of reach). Then it proceeded also to strut around the yard and peck for the seeds we’ve charitably (but with ulterior motives) tossed out. Yes, we can get close to the bird, but the escapee stays, please repeat after me, “out of reach.”

The saga is not over. Stay tuned for updates, but here’s the thing: I don’t claim to know how the feathery creature’s tiny but amazing brain works. My own small mind surmises that, very soon after this turbo-charged dovish corsair sailed over my head and out into a dangerous and difficult world, it would have liked to reconsider, to contact the tower, and to request a vector back toward plentiful food and water—and away from the many sharp-toothed creatures for which it is a brightly-painted attraction.

I’d open the door for that bird’s return if I could offer a real choice and not thereby tempt three more doves to fly the same coop. I’ve talked to the bird, looked into its eyes, and offered food from my hand. No understanding has been reached.

When God entered this world, he came identifying with his human creatures completely. But even for God “incarnate” (in the flesh), well, trying to get us to understand and choose to trust him for our highest good was not easy.

We could talk about whether the dove I’ve mentioned is better off “in the wild” or back safely home behind the chicken wire, eating well, and not living life as a tasty target.

But what my Father wants for me is freedom, deep and real. As George MacDonald has written, “But a free will is not the liberty to do whatever one likes, but the power of doing whatever one sees ought to be done, even in the very face of otherwise overwhelming impulse. There lies freedom indeed.”

Ironically, when we freely choose to give ourselves, to fly, to the Lord who gave himself for us, we find freedom to become our best selves. It really is “for freedom that Christ has set us free” (Galatians 5:1). In our Creator’s love and power, genuine freedom is truly “within our reach.”

Ponder the Picture of an Exhausted Lord

A God who gets tired. That, my friends, is quite a picture. But it’s one of the amazing pictures hanging on the wall of the universe we inhabit. And, surprise, it hangs right there in the living room.

I’d have expected to see a Do Not Touch sign prominently displayed, but, on the contrary, a rather amazing placard posted nearby informs and invites us: Please Note the Question Scribed on the Back of the Frame.

So, before gazing at the front and center depiction itself, we reach up, take the picture off the wall, and, yes, we read on the back of the frame a question: What kind of God is God?

Beneath the query, another message: Please replace the painting/frame and take all of the time you need in viewing.

What an invitation! And now, we gaze at the deep, rich colors splashed across the canvas in a masterful portrayal of a fishing boat caught in a raging storm on an angry sea. Deep blues. Foam, brilliantly effervescent, highlighting the crests of the waves. Spray lifted across the scene on mighty winds.

Entranced, we can hardly look away, even as we feel the need to shutter our eyes to the roiling water and seek shelter from the sheer power of the storm. We fully expect the wind and waves to escape the canvas and frame, for if any storm could drown a universe, it would be this one. How could the artist have stilled his hand to paint layer upon layer over the loosed wrath of such a storm?

Oh, but never doubt that the mighty fathoms of the angry sea are shallow compared with the depth of the fear blown across the faces of the crew and passengers, save one, in the storm-ravaged vessel. Our eyes, still forced open, are drawn to the stern of the tempest-tossed boat where, sleeping soundly on a cushion, is an utterly exhausted Jesus of Nazareth.

The story, we remember, is astounding but not new. What’s new is the sea-sting of the storm here in our faces. Yes, and we know what will happen as men staring into the abyss gasp out into the wind a desperate question: “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”

Will he wake immediately? We don’t know. But we do know that he will “rebuke” the unruly wind and the rowdy waves, “Quiet! Be still!” And the calm will be his answer. After disciplining the misbehaving elements, he will also speak soul-searching words to the friends he so loves: “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

Even then, as the boat sails across a glassy calm sea, the story will not be over. Into miracle-blown minds will arise a tempest of a different sort and this question drenched in awe: “Who is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!”

No wonder this picture is hanging in such an auspicious location. No wonder we’ll need much more time to stare into its depths and peruse the brush strokes for more truth. We’ll certainly find ourselves drawn back to the question: “What kind of God is God?”

He’s the omnipotent God of the universe. He is the Father who gives all authority to his beloved Son. Look on and behold all of his power and glory and so much more.

Yes, all true, but from where I sit in the universe right now, I find myself losing my breath yet again as my gaze is drawn to the sleeping figure in the stern of the boat. His power is uneclipsed, and the storm’s might will be to him as nothing.

But for now, just look, just watch, just wonder. For centuries, if you have the time. Turn your eyes upon Immanuel, “God with us” so completely that even he knows the feeling of utter exhaustion because he cares so very much.

That may be the most mind-blowing and storm-stilling miracle of all.

“Why Is Resting So Hard?”

I’ve got a question for you. And I’m not kidding in the least. Why is resting so hard?

I understand that finding balance in life is a challenge. But if “too lazy to breathe” is on one end of the spectrum, most of the folks I know err very much in the opposite direction. I’d call that “rest-less.” They need to rest more.

“Rest,” according to one definition, is “freedom from activity or labor.” That sounds rather appealing, almost like something worth an occasional try.

It’s easy to find scads of quotations on the benefits of rest. Lurking among even some of those, you’ll find a few of a rather grudging sort that sound almost like a sop to Type-A hyperactives who won’t say “Good morning” unless it fits into their business plan and the utterance is duly scheduled. Some folks see the need to rest as being a rather embarrassing design flaw in the human organism.

But it’s not. The great preacher Charles Spurgeon really did tell the truth when he said, “In the long run, we shall do more by sometimes doing less.”

A wise doctor knows that sometimes the best prescription of all is simply to rest and let the body marshal its own defenses.

Sometimes the wisest action is no action for a time. And sometimes that plan takes the most discipline.

In great music, notes are only beautiful when the right amount of silence is interspersed between them.

“Rest is not idleness,” wrote John Lubbock, “and to lie sometimes in the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”

And someone (I’ve forgotten whom) has written, “All rest is no more idleness than all sex is adultery.”

When we run incessantly without some rest in our families, we needn’t be surprised when someone in the family becomes the “barometer” who first begins to be in distress.

Unless we’re in denial (addicts always are), we’d do well to address “rest-less-ness” as lurking near the heart of much of the soul-distress, the lack of joy, the loss of purpose, and the fractured relationships littering so many lives. As individuals, families, and a society, we pay a staggering price for our refusal to listen to the One who made us, to take time to rest (and not turn even that into work), to seek some healing balance in life, and let our souls breathe.

We run and run and run some more. And the God who is real rest and peace, who himself never needs to sleep, even though on that seventh day of creation he rested, smiles and says, “Take time for some time off, child. Get some rest, and let me do within you what you cannot do for yourself. I’ll spin the world for a few rotations without your help. Trust me.”

Of course, our Creator thought rest important enough that he gave us a commandment along that line. He knows us, doesn’t he? What kind of creatures are so thick-headed that they have to be commanded to rest?

Creatures like us.

“If Everybody Had a Father Like I Had a Father…”

Note: What follows is something I wrote in January 2000. As another Father’s Day is approaching, I’d like to share these words with you again.

It’s been just a little over twenty-four hours since I got word that the kindest, gentlest, strongest, and best man I have ever known passed away. He was my father. Though many thoughts have been racing through my mind, I’ve realized that, if everybody had a father like I had a father, well, lots would be different in this world.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, no child would ever have to walk out the door or crawl into bed wondering if his father loved and wanted him.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, no child would ever go to bed worried that his father might not really love his mother.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, no son or daughter would ever see his father raise his hand or even his voice in anger.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, no one would have to ask how it is possible to be strong and gentle, just and loving, all at the same time.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, nations would not fight nations, families would not fight families, and Christians would never fight Christians, because we would all rather be hurt than be hurtful. And the hurts that are part and parcel of human existence would never be hurts we inflicted upon each other.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, every child would grow up knowing that the way to real happiness is to love the Father of all and the Son who died to save us.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, every child would grow up knowing that, even with all the church’s imperfections, the Bride of Christ is still the finest family of all, and that in her warmth is found spiritual nourishment and fine fellowship and genuine love.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, good times would be even better and bad times would be more bearable, because of the unfailing love of our fathers.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, well, there would still be problems in this fallen world because we would all still be sons and daughters of our father Adam, too.

But if everybody had a father like I had a father, then everyone would grow up knowing a lot more what their Father God looks like and acts like and loves like.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, then everyone would know the Father’s love largely because of their father’s love.

If everybody had a father like I had a father, this world and life itself would be vastly better.

I wonder. If everybody had a father like I had a father, would I still know what a fine father I had? I think so. And I think our fathers would have taught us, every one of us, that every one of us has the very best Father of all.

Martha Files a Complaint

“Hey, why do I have to do all the work?”

If you had parents who cared about teaching their kids to work and who thought that a good place to start would be with some assigned tasks around the house, you’ve probably uttered the complaint above. It’s also more than possible that one of your siblings might have lodged such a complaint to the parental “powers that be” while rather obviously scowling in your direction. Isn’t it amazing how even little children come equipped with a highly developed sense of justice and fair play?

By the time my younger brother and I came along, Mom and Dad had already practiced parenting on three much older siblings. I’m not sure what the policy on “allowances” was with the older bunch, but I can’t imagine our parents ever believing that children should get any coins at all just for breathing. At some point, Mom created a chart listing tasks to be done by the family’s two late-arriving offspring. Stick-on stars were affixed to the various squares on the chart when the tasks were completed. Want your allowance? Finish your work.

I admit some bias, but it seems clear to me that I worked hardest. An almost overly conscientious child, I’m sure I felt duty-bound to be diligent. I’m pretty sure my brother’s conscience in that regard was a good deal more flexible. I’m also sure that his obvious tendency to “fidget” would preclude much focus on any one task for very long. So, imagine coming from my lips the whiny sentence above.

Maybe this little snapshot of human nature is why so many of us resonate with the account in the Gospel of Luke, Chapter Ten.

Jesus and his disciples have entered the village of Bethany, not far from Jerusalem, and have been welcomed into the home of the sisters, Martha and Mary, and their brother Lazarus. They were listening to Jesus teach, and Mary, spellbound, was hanging on every word. Martha was also amazed, but flies were buzzing around her head.

Okay, maybe not literal flies. But the King James Version says that Martha was “cumbered about much serving.” Cumbered indeed! To her, the need to deal right now with a few dozen tasks in the kitchen was obvious. Equally obvious to her was that her sister Mary was oblivious.

If the house had been equipped with a security camera, I’d love to have viewed the video of the moment Martha sidled up to Jesus, frowned, and complained, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister is shirking the work, and I’m doing it all? Tell her to help me!” Is that not a frame filled with the ring of truth and focused on real human nature?

But I ask, do you remember any occasion when Jesus was willing to sustain a grumbler’s grumble and didn’t “turn the tables” on them, shifting the focus?

And I wonder, do you identify more with Martha or with Mary? Oh, I confess that my personality is much more in tune with Martha’s. The same sorts of flies are always abuzz around my head reminding me, maddeningly, about a thousand tasks that need to be done. And who, pray tell, will do them if I don’t? I’ll even lodge a complaint: “Lord, does this seem fair to you? Would it really hurt the ‘spiritual’ folks to do a little real work?”

But on this occasion, Jesus answers, basically, “Martha, stop and breathe. Chill a bit. You’re worried about so much. But you’ll have plenty of chances to cook and clean when I’m not here. You’re distraught about what’s happening in the kitchen, but today Mary has chosen the best part, ‘the main course.’” (That last, from The Message.)

For good or ill, my first reaction probably always will be a word or two in defense of Martha. Christ obviously loves both sisters, but Martha needed a reminder. On that day, she needed to be still, listen to the Lord, and know that focusing on him is feast enough.

I need the same lesson. But I still think I did more work than my brother.

“Happy 39th Anniversary!”

My wife and I recently celebrated our 39th anniversary, and I’m thankful. Granted, both the original event and this most recent occurrence came almost on top of Easter Sunday (as have several of those occasions). As well it should, Resurrection Sunday pretty well eclipses any other anniversaries.

Someone who knows us well, and is even a little proficient with simple arithmetic, might be thinking, “Okay, I don’t mean to be a busybody, but aren’t three of your four sons already older than 39? I don’t wish to meddle, but I’m a little surprised that it took the births of three-quarters of your kids for you to get around to tying the knot.”

Well, that gets into some other subjects, a few of which are rather knotty themselves, but I ask you, Did I say that I was talking about our wedding anniversary? No, I did not.

I’m talking about the anniversary of our first Sunday at the little church we’ve been serving for, yes, 39 years. Seriously comparing our “beginning Sunday” here with Christ’s Resurrection Sunday would make about as much sense as confusing a candle on a cupcake with a nuclear reaction. But, nonetheless, I’ve always been glad that our first Sunday here was Easter Sunday. That is not even close to being a “nuclear” truth, but it does warm my heart.

Since I brought it up, I will mention that my wife and I are, matrimonially speaking, moving speedily toward Anniversary #49. That additional math fact means that for 39 years of our almost 49 years of marriage, this little church has been a huge part of our lives.

As I was just beginning life in “professional” Christian ministry, an older friend, a wise mentor, told me, “Of course, you need to seriously consider and pray about where you will serve. Try to choose well, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that any choice will be without problems. You’re just deciding where you choose to have them.”

Since the only members available are of the human variety, even the best churches face some occasional glitches. Our “adversary,” as the Lord calls Satan, is more than able to use someone’s fit of pious “piffery,” pseudo-spirituality, or a temporary fixation on some molehill “issue” to get God’s people off-track. Such wrecks are a matter for tears, not least because of the many people they’ve sent running away from local churches scarred and bleeding. But…

But it’s never fair to judge any group or endeavor by its worst examples, or wise to rob ourselves of beauty by focusing on ugliness. Pettiness, contention, and division seem so ugly in a church precisely because, when a church is honoring its Lord, what happens is so very beautiful. Strife in a church is as out of place as a cow patty flopped on top of a cheesecake (forgive me).

We often fall short, but when the members of a Christ-honoring church work together in unity to love their Lord, love each other, and love those around them, what happens is priceless and precious.

Jesus once promised that anyone who must sacrifice family relationships to follow him would receive a hundred times more “fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters” and “eternal life.”

I suspect the Lord is talking about the very large “family” of Christ, his church. And for most of us, loving Christ best means loving our families more than we do, not less.

I’ve not had to sacrifice family to follow Christ. But I have indeed found it sweetly true that even loving this little part of the Body of Christ and walking through life with them has greatly enlarged my family and given me blessing upon blessing.

Sinkholes, Justice, and Mercy

A sinkhole. That’s what I was told our little community recently acquired on the east side of our town.

Full disclosure: I have not seen this new-to-us geological feature with my own eyes. I’ve not even seen pictures yet. I’ve mostly heard second- or third-hand reports that may or may not be accurate, and, though I try not to spread lies and gossip in this column, I warn you that the words I’m stringing together here today are not in the same universe as serious journalism. I’ve done very little fact-checking (which may make this more like modern journalism than I care to think).

I do know that something unusual and disruptive has taken place. Highway 84 is a rather surprisingly busy thoroughfare, and the section here is now shut down and unavoidably annoying detours are in place. Skilled workers who deal with this kind of thing, I’m told, are hard at it, and, as they work long hours, the problem might be fixed in a couple of weeks. And, yes, this is mostly hearsay.

What I have heard is that the problem stretches across the highway. What I have seen are highway cones and barriers blocking the road and many vehicles taking a scenic tour through neighborhoods that would rather not welcome them.

As far as I know, the first of many intergalactic landing crafts from Mars may have set down out there, and authorities thought this event worthy of highway closure and detours. But “sinkhole” is what I’ve heard, and it seems more likely.

According to the U.S. Geological Survey, a sinkhole is “a depression in the ground that has no natural surface drainage.” Water from above (rain, which is rare here) seeps down, collects under the ground, dissolves some types of rocks, and “creates underground spaces and caverns.” Land above the underground holes gives up and crashes down if those voids become too large.

According to the U.S.G.S. website, sinkholes in the U.S. “over the last fifteen years” have cost “on average at least $300 million per year” and probably more. And they report that the largest sinkhole in the nation is the “Golly Hole” in central Alabama (325 feet long, 300 feet wide, and 120 feet deep). Well, golly!

Our sinkhole can’t compete. It is large enough to be quite disruptive, but, having read that website article, I’m wondering if, geologically speaking, calling it a sinkhole might be a stretch. But it’s way too big to be a pothole, so as far as I’m concerned, a sinkhole it is. Update: I might opt for the term “sewer sinkhole” since what I’ve now heard is that it has resulted from a major sewer line collapse. Stinky sinkhole?

In the Bible, Numbers 16, you can read about a God-created sinkhole the Almighty used to deal effectively and permanently with rebels and grumblers against his chosen leader Moses, and thus against God himself. Fire from heaven and a plague also figure in. God’s justice was swift and deserved.

It’s good that we humans can’t call up sinkholes at will. God’s justice is perfect; mine, not even close. My job is not to summon sinkholes and deal out retribution. My task is to love even my enemies and seek God’s help in learning to forgive them lest hatred and bitterness turn my soul into a sinkhole of the stinkiest sort.

God wants to build something in me that will last and not collapse. My job is to trust him and let him.

Focus on Faith

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