tag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:/blogs/focus-on-faith?p=36Focus on Faith2024-03-26T21:07:57-05:00Curtis Shelburnefalsetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73731012024-03-26T21:07:57-05:002024-03-26T23:45:03-05:00Easter, Joy, and the North Pole<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>t’s almost Easter, and here I am thinking about an almost-Christmas ride to the North Pole. I wrote one of these columns about that ride fourteen years ago. I just reread what I wrote, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll write some of it again.</p>
<p>I started by saying that the North Pole was surprisingly warm on that ride, but it was less surprising when you realize that my wife and I and our sweet little two-and-a-half-year-old giggling granddaughter were riding from Lubbock, Texas, to Brownfield, Texas, on the “Polar Express” train then in service and available. We were enjoying hot chocolate and elves and Santa himself, but, most of all, we were enjoying two big brown eyes wide with delight (even if they did get very sleepy before the journey was over). We made some delightful memories.</p>
<p>And I’m thinking again about this Yuletide tale just before Easter because I’m remembering getting home and then remembering some fine words from C.S. Lewis.</p>
<p>Lewis said he’d been told about a young boy who was heard “murmuring to himself” on Easter morning a poem he’d made up on his own about “chocolate eggs and Jesus risen.” Lewis commented, “This seems to me, for his age, both admirable poetry and admirable piety.”</p>
<p>He went on to observe that the time would surely come when the boy would learn the difference between the “ritual” aspect of Easter and its “festal” aspect, and then “chocolate eggs will no longer seem sacramental.”</p>
<p>Then, Lewis wrote, will come a decision as the poem-maker has to “put one or the other first.” And here’s the important point: “If he puts the spiritual first he can still taste something of Easter in the chocolate eggs; if he puts the eggs first they will be no more than any other sweetmeat. They will have taken on an independent, and therefore a soon withering, life.”</p>
<p>I went on to write that if we discard or ignore the deepest truths of faith, it’s pretty hard to find much deep or lasting joy in Easter eggs and “Jingle Bells.” But for those whose faith is in the Christ of Christmas and Easter, who believe that God did indeed enter our world incarnate at Bethlehem and that death itself was no match for our risen Lord, then we live all year long in the wonderful glow of those deep truths. And those holidays become joyful holy days.</p>
<p>Ah, and we get a very nice added bonus. Focusing on the central truths of those holy seasons, we can add in as many fine Easter and Christmas traditions as we wish. We can hunt the eggs (chocolate eggs are still my favorite), dye real eggs any colors we wish, light the lights, dance around the tree, and squeeze all of the joy out of every moment.</p>
<p>You see, those who know the Source of real joy—not conned by this world’s many counterfeits—need have no fear of experiencing too much of the genuine thing. Joy is a gift our God delights in giving, and his supply is unending.</p>
<p>Easter joy. Christmas joy. All of the genuine joy-glow. (I include grandchild giggle joy, of course.) Joy’s sweet little glimmers. Heaven’s utterly magnificent tsunami of joy. All in God’s time. Let’s thank our Father for all of it. </p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-dbc2ca3780a3a3e0c389f652c515a810"><em>Text Copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73685752024-03-17T20:56:26-05:002024-03-17T21:30:11-05:00When Time Chimes in the Universe<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>A</strong>s I begin to write, I’m about ten minutes away from hearing a beautiful sound. In ten minutes, our chiming wall clock will ring out a quarter past the hour. You won’t notice, but I’m listening, and I’ll be pausing for a moment.</p>
<p>You see, our clock has been away, taking time for a bit of a sabbatical for its health. For decades, it has been hanging on our living room wall and, as long as I remember to wind it, it has quite precisely and faithfully fulfilled its sweetly-toned chronological duty.</p>
<p>Ah, but clocks, and clock owners, are ironically prey to the onslaught of time itself. Our clock recently began to chime out (or not) a few warning signs that it needed some cleaning and fine-tuning. So, we took it down and entrusted it to the daughter and son of the skilled clockmaker from whom we’d bought it long ago. (What a fine and vanishing craft it is to be able to build and/or repair such an instrument.)</p>
<p>While it was away, I missed that clock terribly. Perhaps I’d not realized how often each day I’d gazed at our well-trusted timepiece. I’d not realized how accustomed my ears were to hearing the “quarters” rung out in the familiar Westminster fashion or how often, even in the night, I’d counted as it chimed the hours. I’d rather count from my pillow than roll over to gaze at the alarm clock which will soon—too soon, whatever the time is—be shrieking through my head. I much prefer the gentle chimes.</p>
<p>So, for a time, all I could count were the number of times each day my eyes focused on a sadly blank wall. My ears were so hungry for clock music that they tricked me into hearing some “phantom chimes” once or twice. But the clock is now back in its place, and I smile to report that some order has been restored to <em>our</em> place.</p>
<p>Time itself is one of the deep mysteries of our existence. We live in it. [Wait! Here come the chimes.] But we never really feel at home with it. It seems to move too quickly or too slowly and always inexorably. I remember C.S. Lewis’ assertion that humanity’s discomfort with time is a clue that our Creator had something far better in mind than for us to be time-bound, time-chained.</p>
<p>I wonder, and I marvel, that the eternal God of the universe, so far above and beyond time itself, is so divinely “aware” of the “right” times. The Apostle Paul writes, for example, that God sent his Son into this world “when the time had fully come” (Galatians 4:4).</p>
<p>As I write, we’re just days away (hear the clock tick) from another Holy Week which will begin with Christ’s “triumphal entry” into Jerusalem. Throughout his earthly ministry, Jesus gives hints that he is completely aware of “the time.” He knows when it’s time for him to “be about his Father’s business.” Later, he’ll perform incredible miracles, but almost as surprising to us as the miracles themselves are the times when he warns (I’m paraphrasing), “Don’t be loud about what I’ve done.” The Son, it seems, was deeply aware of the Father’s “timetable” for the culmination of that ministry. It must not be rushed.</p>
<p>But then perhaps you could say again that it was precisely “when the time had fully come” that the Lord enters Jerusalem as a triumphant king in a way that no one could possibly miss. And he says that, if the cheering crowd was silent, even “the stones would cry out.”</p>
<p>It seems clear that the disciples were deeply confused about what was coming and the kind of King he would be. But it seems just as clear, though profoundly mysterious, that the Lord of the universe was divinely aware of “the time.”</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-dbc2ca3780a3a3e0c389f652c515a810"><em>Text Copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73647992024-03-10T15:52:38-05:002024-03-10T16:15:14-05:00When You Need a Friend<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>O</strong>ne of my three favorite daughters-in-law has written a children’s book called <em>The Rowly Growly Bear</em>. Not in print yet, it soon will be, and I’m very proud of what she’s done.</p>
<p>Danetta is a great wife, mother, and teacher, and a good while ago, she began writing this sweet book. It’s based on a story her father spun for her when she was just a small child. The main character in the book is a little bear—the “Rowly Growly Bear,” of course. And the little bear is looking for a friend.</p>
<p>It’s not always easy to find a friend when you need one, but the little bear works hard at it. He thinks that Mrs. Bird would be a great friend, but she has some serious nest-building to do. It seems that Mr. Fox might be a fine friend, but he’s too busy finding food for his pups.</p>
<p>Ah, but in a surprise twist (I hope I’m not giving away too much here), the little bear meets a caterpillar who is open to friendship. The caterpillar is not much of a conversationalist; in fact, it doesn’t talk at all, but it is surprisingly good at playing “hide and seek.”</p>
<p>All goes well for a time, until… Well, until it’s chrysalis time for the caterpillar who “hides” quite effectively in its chrysalis and then, most surprisingly to the little bear—and perhaps to the caterpillar as well—emerges as a beautiful butterfly and flies away to do what butterflies do.</p>
<p>I won’t give the ending away, but I will say that a very nice little rabbit shows up as the story ends quite happily. Since it is a children’s book, if any rabbits anywhere might actually be eaten by bears who don’t have friendship in mind, that’s not happening here.</p>
<p>I’ll also mention that one of the nice things about the book is that the very talented illustrator Danetta has worked with has been a friend of hers since third grade. Friendship all around.</p>
<p>The little bear in the book is learning a lot about friends, how to find a really good one, and how to deal with the changes in life that affect and color friendships. Those are good things for all of us to know, and it’s great for kids to get an early start as they grow and as their friendships also grow.</p>
<p>Oh, the little bear is right that a real friend is an incredible blessing. To share your joys and your struggles… To experience with a dear friend the good times and good things you both most enjoy and then recall them again and again… To laugh and talk and be amazed later to look at the usually relentless clock and realize that even time itself seems to have surrendered to make room for the joy of friendship… To feel completely safe in the presence of a friend… What a precious gift!</p>
<p>Speaking of gifts, we do well to listen awestruck as Jesus tells his disciples how to love each other: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). We hear, and we know what is coming, that Christ’s love will be written in red blood on a cross and shake the universe.</p>
<p>After we catch our breath, we need to keep listening and be astonished anew at another wonder-filled tribute to divine love as the Lord continues, “I have called you friends.”</p>
<p>What a loving Savior! What a Friend forever!</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-94f8d1f3ade0e2ae8f2985b2de0578ed"><em>Text copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73608132024-03-02T17:40:19-06:002024-03-02T19:30:06-06:00“I Had All the Answers”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“W</strong>hen I was twenty-four years old, I was pretty sure I had all the answers.”</p>
<p>So said one of my dearest and, I think, wisest friends. He’s the kind of guy I always enjoy talking to, not least because in the midst of our “shooting the breeze” laughter, he always gives me something to think about. He’s lived a lot of life and taken both its deepest joys and most difficult sorrows with the kind of faith in God that I aspire to have myself.</p>
<p>After making the statement, or confession, above, he chuckled, “It’s been pretty much downhill ever since.”</p>
<p>I laughed, too, because I knew what he meant. A mentor as well as a friend, he is a deep thinker who has learned the right questions to ask and has never been (well, at least, since he lived past year twenty-four or so) willing to settle for easy and trite answers. As he has sought real answers to real questions, he’s encouraged many others in the same endeavor. If he’s in an analytical mood, which is often, you’d better not say, “Good morning” without being willing to back up your assertion with facts. But laughter will probably follow.</p>
<p>“What does it mean to be a spiritual person?” he once asked. I’ve spent years trying to hone the answer to that question, and it’s been good for me. It’s kept me from buying our society’s general view that if you enjoy sunsets, birdies, and mountains, you are “spiritual.” That answer is too thin and wispy. Most easy answers are.</p>
<p>The big questions are the hardest; they are also the only ones that ultimately matter. Does God exist? Is God both loving and good? Can we have a real relationship with the God of the universe? Who is Jesus Christ and what is the meaning of the cross? How can a loving God allow pain in this world? Why do good people suffer? Does prayer really matter? And so on.</p>
<p>In our lives, the answers to such questions are far more practical than many people tend to think. They make a difference in how we face each day and meet joys and sorrows. They make a difference in how we do business, greet a newborn, face a funeral, listen to a diagnosis, make vows at a wedding. They color how we live, and they shape how we die.</p>
<p>Oh, once we’ve lived much past whatever “twenty-four” might be for each one of us, we usually are much more aware of not having “all the answers,” but we’ve learned a lot more about how important the big questions are and what big answers really matter. Being less “full of ourselves” means that we have a lot more room in our souls for some humility.</p>
<p>As blessed as I’ve undoubtedly been in my life, I’d tell a much younger me that life will be both a lot harder than you think—and a lot better. Both. The sorrows will be deeper than you can imagine, but so will the joys.</p>
<p>And I would tell that younger me not to dodge the big questions. I’d say, “You may not like to hear this, but when you’re older, you will have many more questions than you do now. The good news is that you’ll also believe you have good and tested reasons to trust in two big answers: God <em>is</em> good, and God <em>is</em> loving.”</p>
<p>And I’d say, “By the way, don’t buy the popular notion that faith is unreasoned or unreasonable. God is big enough to allow us to ask questions even about his goodness and his love—and his very existence. How very good and loving of him!”</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-94f8d1f3ade0e2ae8f2985b2de0578ed"><em>Text copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73572032024-02-25T19:56:56-06:002024-02-25T20:15:29-06:00Thinking About Foolishness and Fools<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>M</strong>onths ago, I jotted down a few words about, well, fools. It was probably a foolish thing to do, likely motivated by my foolishly reading too much news. But here’s what I wrote.</p>
<p>“We all at times play the fool. Only a fool will install each of the bars of his own soul-cell by flaunting freedom for license, trading love for lust, parodying self-less patriotism with mindless populism, mocking virtue’s civility with soul-rot’s untamed tongue, confusing strong opinion with eternal truth, assuming that ear-shredding volume is more consequential than quiet, soul-stirring integrity, replacing strong spines with plastic and expecting a proliferation of courage, bartering with fool’s gold for cheap and fleeting results and expecting pure gold’s priceless permanence. The bars we build for ourselves go up, one by one, and we don’t even hear the click of the cell door behind us when it shuts.”</p>
<p>Okay, I suppose. Foolishness certainly does carry some very real consequences, and it is never in short supply. But I found myself seeking some wisdom from some of the Bible’s wisest words warning us about fools and foolishness. And that quickly led me to the Bible book of Proverbs, the sweet spot, in so many ways, of the “wisdom literature” of the Old Testament. Let me paraphrase a few verses. The “real ones” are better, and I’ll list the references, but what follows is my take. (Thanks to the folks at <strong>dailyverses.net</strong> for a handy listing of verses; if you want a really great—and fun—paraphrase, check out these verses in Eugene Peterson’s <em>The Message</em>).</p>
<p>“Spend time with people who are wise, and you’ll become wise, but run with fools, and you’ll end up bruised and bleeding” (see Proverbs 13:20).</p>
<p>“Those who are wise are quick to recognize and apply wisdom, but a fool chatters on, listening to no one, and is always crashing into brick walls with his mouth running” (see Proverbs 10:8).</p>
<p>“A wise person avoids arguments, but people who would rather fuss than breathe are certified fools” (see Proverbs 20:3).</p>
<p>“A fool is easily and often ticked off, but the wise know when it’s best to be deaf to insults” (see Proverbs 12:16).</p>
<p>“Fools never experience the priceless joy of learning from others because they bask in the counterfeit pleasure of loudly proclaiming their own opinions” (see Proverbs 18:2).</p>
<p>“The flapping lips of fools propel them into continual trouble, and their mouths full of nonsense are tempting targets for a therapeutic slap” (see Proverbs 18:6). </p>
<p>“Those who honor God and follow him are on the path to wisdom, but fools worship themselves and reject even their Creator’s instruction” (see Proverbs 1:7).</p>
<p>And I think my personal favorite is this one: “Even fools who keep their mouths shut and stay silent may be mistaken for people who are wise and prudent” (see Proverbs 17:28).</p>
<p>Some patterns worth noticing begin to show themselves here, and I know how badly I need to take them to heart. It seems clear that the foolishness of fools is most often proven by an inability to control their own mouths and a self-destructive love of their own voices. And I suspect that one of the most foolish mistakes that any of us might make is to think of ourselves as being wise.</p>
<p>A little humility is for us all a big step in the direction of wisdom. And some silence is certainly wise. I need to be quiet now.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-41efd8ed928fcf52e5daa13aca631edf"><em><strong>Text copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73520542024-02-15T15:53:50-06:002024-02-15T19:00:09-06:00Flat Tires and Some Perspective<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>F</strong>lat tires. I don’t know anyone who enjoys them.</p>
<p>Does anyone enjoy the raucous rumble of tire rubber flapping against the road and your vehicle’s fender wells?</p>
<p>Do you relish the opportunity to make the suddenly crucial decision as to how long to glide your once-smooth-now-loudly-limping ride to a stop? You’re actually faced with more than a few decisions that could well be discussed a bit—but not when you have scant seconds to make them.</p>
<p>It’s clear that you’re stopping but how quickly and where? Safety needs to be paramount, so you want off the road far enough. Nobody enjoys the roar and rocking motion as other perfectly operating crafts fly by feet away in a blur of terrifying wake turbulence. But you don’t want off the road so far that you bury up to your bumpers in sand or mud or get lost in tumbleweeds. And you’d prefer not to destroy the tire or rim if such hasn’t already happened.</p>
<p>Some flat tire psychology, even PTSD, might be at work. Perhaps some of the multitude of feelings flowing along with your adrenaline-charged blood are due to previous experiences. Do you enjoy berating yourself, maybe yet again, for not conducting a serious inspection of your tire-changing equipment and its location and use? Didn’t you promise yourself last time… Maybe it really would have been a good idea some time ago to conduct a trial run in the relative comfort of your driveway, but who thinks that far ahead?</p>
<p>Maybe you now remember the specific gut-wrench that came from a long-ago flat tire experience when you finally had the spare tire on and, as you began lowering the vehicle while your stranded family watched, discovered that your fear was more than theoretical. The spare was headed to the ground. All the way. About as flat as the tire you’d taken off. Time for Plan B. And that was what exactly?</p>
<p>No, I can’t think of many lovely memories connected with flat tires and automotive marooning. But I do think of a lesson or two from it, and, not least, I find it pushing me toward some perspective.</p>
<p>Flat tires happen in this fallen world. Sometimes we drive in our lives into places and situations we surely would have been wiser to avoid. Sometimes we just pick up a nail. But living very long at all in this world should produce in anyone who has ever been stranded by trouble a tendency to be merciful toward others presently in trouble.</p>
<p>And perspective matters. Flat tire sorts of problems can be intensely frustrating, and yet most of us can quickly think of much more serious difficulties—even tragedies and suffering and trials so terrible and heartbreaking that we wonder how anyone could survive them.</p>
<p>Without making too much of life’s flat tire problems and much too little of life’s tragedies, it’s true to say that the Lord Jesus was being utterly realistic and covering an incredible range of “tribulation” when he warned his disciples, “In this world you will have trouble” (John 16:33). That simple statement squares with the reality we see around us in this fallen world—from its annoyances to its heartbreak. </p>
<p>But I think Christ’s is the perfect perspective when, after warning us to expect trouble in the territory, he continues, “But be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.”</p>
<p>If we think the Lord is making light of pain, we certainly don’t know the suffering Savior. And we’ve forgotten some very important nails and a cross.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-41efd8ed928fcf52e5daa13aca631edf"><em><strong>Text copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73501772024-02-12T12:05:44-06:002024-02-12T12:30:13-06:00Driftwood and Eyes That See<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>D</strong>riftwood.</p>
<p>One person’s trash is another person’s treasure. For my mother, driftwood was treasure. She was a country girl, born and raised in Coke County, Texas, and I remember that, even after she’d been grown and married and had long since left Coke County, she had a love affair with driftwood. At least, that’s what I always called it, and I think she did.</p>
<p>It’s quite possible we were using the term inaccurately. I just looked up a definition or a few. One dictionary says that driftwood is “wood drifted or floated by water.” Another describes driftwood as “wood that has been washed onto a shore or beach of a sea, lake, or river by the action of winds, tides or waves.”</p>
<p>The wood that Mom was on the lookout for was, to be more precise, generally pieces of mesquite, the kind of wood Coke County has in plenty. What the county doesn’t have a great deal of is water upon which such wood could “drift.” Seas and lakes and, thus, shores and beaches, are not in large supply. These days, especially, with rivers dammed or diverted upstream and the droughts that have oppressed a large part of the area, even the bodies of water that remain have barely remained. When a lake is estimated to be two percent full, I assume that means ninety-eight percent empty, and even if it manages after rare rains to ramp on up to eleven or twelve percent full, it can be a pretty good hike from the end of a little-used boat ramp to actual water. And managing to drown in what passes in West Texas for a river or creek may take some effort. And yet I’m sure that a once-in-a-blue-moon “gully washer” might fill up a creek enough to wash out some mesquite.</p>
<p>But most of the pieces of mesquite Mom considered treasures were just old pieces of broken down or “cleared” trees that ranchers in the area are happy to grub out, pull down, pile up, and be rid of. And that is where Mom had a valuable ally. My Granddaddy Key, her father, was a rancher in Coke County, raising and trucking cattle and sheep. Granddaddy had plenty of occasion to run across exactly the kind of treasure Mom was after.</p>
<p>I remember, as a boy growing up in Amarillo, Texas, the wonderful times when Granddaddy and Grandmother would come to visit. In the back of his pickup bed (a place my younger brother and I loved to climb around in as we became cowboys, Indians, or various brands of soldiers) was almost always a load of mesquite wood pieces.</p>
<p>For a good many years, Mom would take those pieces of wood, pick out the best ones, clean them up, drill through them in the right places, and thread in the wiring, “lamp pipe,” and sockets. She would apply varnish, affix some artificial greenery and/or flowers, install a bulb or a few and an in-line switch, and add a lampshade if such was called for. That piece of “driftwood” mesquite was transformed into quite an ornate table lamp, television lamp, or night light. Mom was creative enough to work with a wide range of sizes. I can only imagine how many folks received these sweet craft pieces as completely unique gifts. For Mom, and for my grandfather, I’m sure, the whole process was a pleasure.</p>
<p>Handcrafted. The word itself says a lot. And a large part of the wonder of such a creation is that it is often made of the most common materials. What is uncommon is the eye that sees the beauty residing in the “ordinary.” You can’t get more ordinary than a mesquite tree. Ah, but Mom saw the beauty.</p>
<p>Eyes to see beauty. Eyes to see potential that many might look right past. How thankful we should be for parents, friends, teachers, and all of those who have seen in you and me something worth cultivating and encouraging, something precious and beautiful that might remain dormant were it not for eyes of wisdom and love.</p>
<p>Don’t doubt for a moment that our God sees us with such eyes. All of the time.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-7f1005267ca72563851dd8c2ac6fecb7"><em><strong>Copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73457642024-02-04T16:19:08-06:002024-02-12T12:30:13-06:00Of the Counting of Many Words<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>N</strong>o surprise, I enjoy words. I am amazed that, in the English language equipped with an alphabet of 26 letters, those letters can be combined to create hundreds of thousands of words. And that brings up an interesting topic.</p>
<p>If you have some time on your hands and are interested in doing just a very little bit of easy research (as in, internet search research), you’ll probably find the number of words in the English language variously estimated at being anywhere from a bit under 200,000 words to over one million.</p>
<p>I wasn’t surprised to find an incredibly wide range of estimates, but I was quite surprised to see in a few different articles an exact figure: 171,476 words. Not 171,475. Or 171,477.</p>
<p>Ah, but then that minor mystery was solved. In an article on the Word Counter website, Allison Dexter writes, “The Second Edition of the 20-volume Oxford English Dictionary contains full entries for 171,476 words in current use (and 47,156 obsolete words).” Bingo! Citing the venerable OED is bringing in a pretty big gun. But Dexter wisely notes that those numbers do not include “slang and jargon” which significantly increase the total. Word-counters are wise to seek wiggle room.</p>
<p>Of course, any person or organization undertaking this subject will be quick to point out that new words or combinations of words are being created all of the time, and not just a few words start out in another language and make their way straight into English usage. They count, too. Fancy an enchilada? The fact that the language is able to change and grow is an amazing strength. It is also one of many good reasons that no one will ever be able to nail down a specific number of words in the language. I suppose, too, that a word-counter would need a rule about how many forms of a particular word should be counted as their own separate words. No wonder this counting task is well nigh impossible.</p>
<p>Now, Pet Peeve Alert! I do wish that folks would slow down a bit in the process of trying to turn every noun in the language into a verb. Just because it’s often easy to do doesn’t mean it should always be done. If you enjoy such discussion, do an internet search on “verbing.” The word is an interesting example of the very phenomenon it describes. In your search (and you might include “verbifying” or “verbification”) you’ll quickly find that folks who care about these things have some strong opinions. I can envision a fight breaking out over such in a bar frequented by English majors.</p>
<p>For my part, I’ve largely made peace with “contact” as a verb. Even “impact.” I only cringe slightly now when someone talks about “gifting” or “regifting” a gift. And I admit to chuckling when I recently read of someone describing an elderly person as “turtling” down the hall. No turtles were harmed in the verbing.</p>
<p>By the way, it’s never bothered me at all that we “salt” our eggs or “butter” our bread or “table” a motion. Those nouns have been so successfully “verbified” ages ago that we no longer even notice. (I’m embarrassed that I needed someone else to point out those examples.) We “google” things all of the time now, and the language remains healthy.</p>
<p>So, yes, I guess I can be magnanimous enough to make allowances for lots of word-morphing in moderation, in good taste (some nouns really do turn into monsters as verbs), and when it’s done to accomplish the desired effect in one’s wordsmithing.</p>
<p>If you choose to start counting English words, let me know if you plan to count “salt” as a noun and “salt” as a verb as one word or two. And, if you come up with a word total for the whole language, I’d like to know. In the meantime, I’m quite content with this statement from the Merriam-Webster website: “There is no exact count of the number of words in English.”</p>
<p>For my part, I’m a lot more worried about word quality than word quantity. And I close these rambling thoughts with words easy to count but filled with meaning and mystery the whole universe cannot contain: “In the beginning was the Word…” (John 1:1).</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-7f1005267ca72563851dd8c2ac6fecb7"><em><strong>Copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73409452024-01-26T20:11:12-06:002024-01-27T00:15:17-06:00Problems with Possession Proliferation<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>P</strong>ossessions and proliferation. Two “p” words, each beginning with “p” as in “problem.”</p>
<p>For the first to be last and the last to be first—a biblical concept for sure—I begin with “proliferation.”</p>
<p>I’m not talking about nuclear proliferation. That is its own “capital P” problem. Suffice it to say that I love the prophet Isaiah’s words about the time when nations will “beat their swords into plowshares” (Isaiah 2). But, sadly, in this fallen world, that time is not now.</p>
<p>No, the proliferation I’m thinking about has to do with—here’s that other word—possessions.</p>
<p>Sometimes I wonder (back to the nuclear motif), if my possessions had somehow been irradiated, they could replicate in a more mad-multiplication, cells-out-of-control, cancerous fashion? The stuff I own seems to be engaged in wild metastasis, and I think you know what that means. It means that the possessions I own are well on their way to either owning or overwhelming me. I’m afraid that I struggle to think of a venue of my life that is not over-cluttered and over-stuffed with stuff.</p>
<p>In my study/office at church, the first items that would catch your eye are the books. I have many of them, and I’m mostly unrepentant. Bibles and commentaries. Books by well-respected authors on many subjects. Devotional and inspirational books. Books about faith and prayer and worship. Histories. Biographies. Novels. And so much more.</p>
<p>I confess to owning a ton or two of books that I’ve never read, and probably won’t, but still don’t want to part with. I also confess that once, decades ago, I opened the door to that room and discovered a literal avalanche of shelves and books. My death by book tsunami would have been nothing but just. Unscathed, though, I shored up the shelves and the procuring of bookish possessions continued, even after I carted a big bunch of books to the church library.</p>
<p>I’m cluttering this column with too many stacked up words and thus won’t have time or space to adequately report on my garage, the motto of which is “I might need that thing, tool, whatchamacallit, widget.” Years ago, I installed there a dartboard that my family and I have very much enjoyed. But the first problem was that no bare wall was available. Even then, I needed a possession proliferation workaround, so I engineered a “drop the dartboard down from the ceiling” arrangement.</p>
<p>Oh, and I should mention my home office (more avalanche danger), my shed/greenhouse (more “I might need that”), and my closet (quite cluttered). I will say that, just as I was writing this, my wife called me toward that latter space and reported finding a bunch of now-again-wearable jeans and pants that I’d thought we’d long ago given away after a period of my personal expansion. So, it’s good to have at least one sentence here pointing to something positive related to possession proliferation. But the fact that those were lurking in the inner recesses of a closet we’d already searched doesn’t say much praiseworthy about our stuff-stacking tendencies.</p>
<p>It’s small comfort, but I’m sure we’re in good (or bad) company in a society where lots of folks have way too much stuff. Maybe that’s good news if you own a storage business. You’ll work hard, but you’ll never run out of customers.</p>
<p>But the bad news for most of us is that what we own can quickly own us, that much of what we own isn’t really worth the trouble it takes to own it, that a lot of what we own is junk, and that having all of the spaces of our lives cluttered is literally depressing. And those are just a few of the very real problems associated with possession proliferation. We really should consider some moves toward non-proliferation.</p>
<p>A few simple words of Christ are far better than all of mine: “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed, because one’s life does not consist in an abundance of possessions” (Luke 12:15).</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-7f1005267ca72563851dd8c2ac6fecb7"><em><strong>Copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73374232024-01-20T18:03:31-06:002024-01-20T19:00:05-06:00Honoring Those Whose Work Honors Christ<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I </strong>have often found myself in need of a clever quotation and am happy to report that the internet usually makes such a search relatively simple.</p>
<p>If one is looking for a pithy turn of phrase, a quick search for G.K. Chesterton quotes will dig up gold with very little difficult mining needed at all.</p>
<p>Want words wonderfully crafted to make us think about faith and promote digging more deeply into the foundational truths of the Christian faith and how to live it out in our lives? My own “go to” list of such authors is so lengthy that I hesitate even to begin to share it. I immediately think of names like C.S. Lewis and George MacDonald. Some of my favorite wordsmiths in this category are even still alive. Something good can always be found from the pen of Philip Yancey, Max Lucado, and many more.</p>
<p>But my most recent search was a completely new experience. I was looking for some words from practitioners of a very honorable and essential trade. If you need a brain surgeon, you probably need one very badly. But I suggest that in more usual and everyday situations, most of us might more likely find ourselves in urgent need of a plumber.</p>
<p>My search leads me to believe that most plumbers are far too busy with their very useful business to feel a need or have leisure to write much about it, though I bet most of them have some great stories to tell. From a financial standpoint, too, practicing such an essential trade is a more reasonable pursuit than lining up words. Very few folks dial the phone in a feverish rush: “Quick! I’ve got a problem at the house, and I need an English major to write a 1000-word essay to stuff into a leaking sink drain!”</p>
<p>All of this aside, I think you’ll likely search in vain for quotations from famous plumbers. Most are too wise to desire to be famous and too busy with their truly exhausting work and crazy calls-at-all-hours schedules to spend a lot of time on other pursuits.</p>
<p>So, I changed my search parameters a bit and quickly discovered—no surprise—that plumbing practitioners are by no means lacking in good-humored witticisms.</p>
<p>“A good flush beats a full house.”</p>
<p>“We’ll repair what your husband fixed.”</p>
<p>“Professional, affordable, and we always leave the seat down.”</p>
<p>“If it weren’t for us, you’d have no place to go.”</p>
<p>“Plumbers have pipe dreams.”</p>
<p>“We’re number one in the number two business.” (Sorry.)</p>
<p>What, you may ask, has sent you exploring the drains in this direction?</p>
<p>Well, if I were a pagan, though I’d not be at church, I’d say that at ours we’ve evidently offended the gods of plumbing. Not being a pagan, I simply believe that the warranty (if there ever was one) on our old plumbing in our old church building has evidently expired, and it’s time to pay the piper. (Note the subtle reference to pipes.) This or that little leak, a stoppage and over-flowage, a trap or two that have quit trapping water, and even the discovery of a mysterious drain all add up to be no fun. Could it be worse? Oh, yes, but let’s not talk about such. </p>
<p>But the plumbing siege has brought up in my mind some realities that are always true but worth mentioning.</p>
<p>I’m reminded that in our communities, we are blessed when we have people whose very different talents and expertise we all need. </p>
<p>I’m reminded of how much genuine respect I have for anyone who is a master of a trade and probably has forgotten more about it than I will ever know. I honor that.</p>
<p>And I’m particularly thankful to have friends in my community who capably ply all sorts of trades and professions but who do so with good will and integrity. I may not like the situation (leaky pipes are just one example), but I respect my friends whose genuine expertise is matched only by their character. I may not be happy about the situation that’s forced my call, but I know they’ll tell me the truth, be fair with me, and do very well the job I need done.</p>
<p>The Apostle Paul told us long ago, “Whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus” (Colossians 3:17). What a sweet blessing to know so many folks, many friends, who, whatever their job, do exactly that and honor their Lord. That makes me happy to honor them, and I do.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-40ad4a211897a73b939dab16ad268808"><em><strong>Text Copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73344042024-01-15T11:44:07-06:002024-01-15T15:00:22-06:00“In the Bleak Mid-winter”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p>“In the bleak mid-winter / Frosty wind made moan,” writes the English poet Christina Rossetti in her 1872 poem.</p>
<p>The poem, which she called “A Christmas Carol,” is one we usually call by its first line, as we do the song(s) written upon which to hang her sweet lyrics. I love the lyrics and the melodies, particularly Gustav Holst’s tune that was paired with the words a few decades after Rossetti penned them. (It’s fun to check out various versions and recordings on the internet.)</p>
<p>The poet praises God for the Incarnation and goes on to paint word pictures that morph in my mind into images even better than those boasted by the most beautiful Christmas cards. Stables, complete with oxen and camels. A manger-crib with a blanket of hay. A sky filled with angels and archangels.</p>
<p>All of Heaven, including “cherubim and seraphim,” join amazed shepherds in adoration. Mary tenderly worships her Baby, her Lord, “with a kiss.” What a sweet gift!</p>
<p>Most of us have at times almost battered our brains trying to think of exactly the right gift for a family member or friend, and the speaker in this poem laments facing that difficulty in the extreme. She knows who this Baby is. She sees the worship and the worshipers. She wants to join them in giving. She longs to give exactly the right gift, but what, in her poor circumstances, does she have to give?</p>
<p>For shepherds, she says, a lamb would be most fitting. We know, of course, that such would be utterly appropriate and filled with meaning. “Behold,” John the Baptizer would later exclaim, “the Lamb of God!”</p>
<p>The speaker is certainly aware of the Wise Men who will come bringing precious gifts. They brought gold and frankincense and myrrh. Were she numbered with them, she opines, she would be more than willing to join them by “doing [her] part.”</p>
<p>But she’s not a shepherd. She’s wise, I think, but she is not an “official” Wise Man. So, what, given who she is and what she possesses, is her part, her gift? What from her could ever be a fitting gift for the Baby, God in the flesh?</p>
<p>Does she make a long search? Does she scribe a lengthy list of possible presents for the Christ child? Or does she just suddenly know exactly what the perfect gift, the most truly appropriate gift, the most precious gift must be?</p>
<p>What can she give him? She knows. And she pledges. She will give her heart.</p>
<p>The season of Christmas has passed. Even if you enjoy observing the whole twelve days, well, it’s over. One more year, as the decorations have come down and been relegated to boxes in the attic or under the stairs, I find myself bemoaning what, without sparkling lights and heartwarming songs and more-than-usual good-spirited cheer, is a post-Christmas mid-winter. I admit that “bleak,” to me, is not too strong a word.</p>
<p>The weather is working to do its part, as temperatures are dropping, wind is blowing (I find that part particularly bleak), and record-setting cold is testing our infrastructure and maybe even, to some extent, our spirits.</p>
<p>But again I turn to a precious thought embedded in Rosetti’s sweet poem portraying a “bleak mid-winter” complete with “frosty wind.” In this life, we understand more than we wish about “bleakness” and moaning. Of course, we’ve just celebrated Christ’s first coming. But part of the deep joy for people of faith is looking forward to the time when he comes again “to reign.”</p>
<p>The first coming. The second coming. Yes, thank you, Lord! But, for anyone at any time willing to give the most precious gift, their very heart, the Savior’s “reign” begins right now, right here. And what Christ gives his people makes all the difference in the “bleak mid-winter” and what can be a cold world.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-0d02a0ce295ffc29c693578a2355204d"><strong>What can I give him? I’m glad I know. <em>Copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73304072024-01-08T11:39:13-06:002024-01-15T15:00:22-06:00Thinking About a Non-riddle Riddle<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>here do you find a good riddle when you need one? On at least two recent occasions as I’ve begun writing this column, I’ve wished I could begin by grabbing a good riddle and deftly tucking it in to the first paragraph.</p>
<p>Two problems. The first has to do with “deftly.” I get many opportunities to line up words. Most of the opportunities have nothing to do with riddles—unless I muddle them up so much that they morph into such. But “deftly” often eludes me.</p>
<p>The second problem is that, though you can do an internet search and find a few million riddles, writing a good one yourself is surprisingly difficult. The more you try, and the more you look into the whole subject, the more you find out how complex it is.</p>
<p>When I think about riddling, I love to recall the classic contest J.R.R. Tolkien portrayed in <em>The Hobbit</em> between his great characters, Bilbo Baggins and Gollum. A simple but rather elegant example: “A box without hinges, key, or lid, / Yet golden treasure inside is hid.” And the answer is… Well, wait just a bit.</p>
<p>For the moment, I present for you no real riddle here at all. But just consider a few words and look for something they have in common. Who knows? You might later come up with a great riddle.</p>
<p>Snowflakes. Bricks. Debts. Clutter. Pounds. Firewood. Email. </p>
<p>You’ll soon see that a multitude of words fit the category I have in mind. You may have unraveled my non-riddle riddle words already, but I’ll add two more words that seem particularly appropriate to me right now: years and thoughts.</p>
<p>Since my birthday is in January, just a few days from now, I may be primed a bit to think about the passing of years. I remember that, as a teenager, I did a little math (the only kind of math I ever do) and determined that I’d very likely live to see the year 2000, but that I’d be pretty old by then.</p>
<p>I’m fond of sharing a paraphrased Bible verse with friends on their birthdays: “Now Barzillai was old and advanced in years” (2 Samuel 19:32). A more serious and precious verse is the prayer of the psalmist, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12). I’ve been told, by the way, that the last sermon my father preached was on this latter text. He lived it. Wisely.</p>
<p>Now, regarding “thoughts,” the Apostle Paul wisely encourages us to stack up in our minds the kinds of thoughts that can be described as true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy. “Think about such things,” he writes (Philippians 4:8).</p>
<p>The answer, you may remember, to the Bilbo-to-Gollum riddle I mentioned earlier is “an egg.” Or, as Gollum puts it, “Eggses!”</p>
<p>I’ve listed nine words as clues to my non-riddle. And I now reveal (drum roll) that the category is “Things That Stack Up.” You can probably easily think of a slew of other words that fit. Of course, I’ll think of a dozen more as soon as I send this.</p>
<p>At present, what do you think about making a serious effort to put into practice the Apostle Paul’s counsel about what we should think about? For my part, I can hardly think of anything that will bless us more as we stack up years.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-7f1005267ca72563851dd8c2ac6fecb7"><em><strong>Copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73206072023-12-17T17:07:39-06:002023-12-17T20:30:11-06:00“When the Time Had Fully Come”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>n the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes, the wise man wrote many things that will tax most people’s wisdom. Trying to understand is worth the effort. But I most often find myself gravitating to his words in Ecclesiastes 3 where he writes, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens…” He goes on to list a slew of activities with which we all identify. And we all recognize the wisdom of those who know “when the time is right.”</p>
<p>No surprise, this wise man said nothing about the right time to put up a Christmas tree, but I’ve always looked forward to that time. Maybe you can file this seasonal endeavor under the category of “a season for every activity.”</p>
<p>This year at our house, we were slow putting up the Christmas tree. Maybe our tardiness was partly due to the fact that it’s a new tree, bought at the end of the season last year when trees went on sale. I wasn’t sure what we were going to get into, but I was very sure after last year’s battle with the maddening lights on the old tree that we were done with that one. The decision came even after I’d snipped all the pre-strung lights off of the old one. You’ll only try that once, but you’ll gain some wisdom the hard way, which is the preferred method for most of us.</p>
<p>So, we finally jumped in a few days ago and unpacked the new tree. We even read some of the directions. The wise man might have done well to add to his long list, “There is a time to read directions.”</p>
<p>Most families have long-enduring customs about how to put up the family Christmas tree. When I was growing up, years before “pre-lit” described Christmas trees and ours came complete only with pine sap, it was clear to me that the family member in charge of stringing the lights bore great responsibility. Exactly when that honor became mine, I can’t say, but I rightly felt that a “rite of passage” had come my way. And the lights were lit just fine that year, still I suppose to my sister’s high standards as I was promoted, her tree-lighting apprentice. That’s another story. She was the unquestioned queen of the whole decking-the-family-tree process.</p>
<p>I remember those ancient lights. My younger brother still has a string of our family’s old lights that each year he ceremonially plugs in, at least for a while, lest their old wiring go awry. Plugging them in is an act of faith and a salute to our heritage.</p>
<p>This new tree has modern lights, the sort that can change color at the flip of a switch. The symphony of color doesn’t begin to compare with the angelic glory igniting the night sky and washing over awe-struck shepherds. It’s barely a twinkle compared to the glory that surrounds the giving of God’s best Gift. But eyes open to receiving that divine presence also become able to perceive even the smallest joy-reflections of the greatest Light as its eternal essence infuses every good gift.</p>
<p>May God grant each of us wisdom to discern “the times and the seasons” in our lives. May he light our way. And may even the smallest lights of joy this Christmas remind us to give thanks for the wisdom and love of the eternal One who “when the time had fully come, sent forth his Son” (Galatians 4).</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-7184663475a2e87b5de63387b66eaf8b"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73174812023-12-10T21:09:45-06:002023-12-11T01:30:09-06:00“I’m Thinking About My Mother”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>’m thinking right now about my mother, and I’m not sure why.</p>
<p>Oh, I think of Mom often, of course, and that’s no surprise. It’s not just that without Mom, I would not be breathing. (You come to this column for deep wisdom and unusual insight, right?)</p>
<p>And you’re right if you suspect that my thoughts about my mother are deeper than just ponderings about the mind-boggling realities of genetics and more, and how—we’re talking about a mom here, but I’ll mention a dad later—an individual’s mother affects not only that person but all the generations to come.</p>
<p>True, and amazing, but I’m thinking about one mom. Mine.</p>
<p>I arrived on the scene late. I now think that I won the lottery on birth order. I was the fourth of five kids—and I also grabbed the unusual spot of first child of the “second family.” My folks already had their “first family,” two boys and a girl. I came along fifteen years after my sister. I was, no doubt, a complete “don’t-forget-to-breathe” surprise. But, after many gasps, they welcomed me as a January 11, 1957, post-Christmas gift from God. Two years later, they had another baby boy. He was planned. Planned, I remind him often, as a playmate for little Curtis. And that’s worked out very well. But back to the point…</p>
<p>You may be more likely to understand now that my mother was a strong woman. She had to be. Her minister husband was often away from home preaching and teaching. I tell you the truth when I say that we all knew that Dad did all that he did to further a Kingdom that was not his, and we honored him for it. But I’m also telling you the truth when I say that my mother was an incredibly hard worker, taking up the slack in every way she could. I also know that what she undertook had to take its toll, and forty years of PTA meetings was not the hardest part.</p>
<p>For most of my growing up years, Mom didn’t (as we used to say) “work outside the home,” but, oh, how hard that little lady worked! One of the most amazing things about amazing moms is that they are absolutely willing to do anything necessary for the good of their families. (By the way, I married one of those.)</p>
<p>Maybe that’s why I’m thinking especially of Mom right now. It’s almost Christmas, and whenever I see a beautifully wrapped Christmas package, I think of my mother. You see, the time came when our family needed some extra income, especially at Christmas. Mom began working as a seasonal gift-wrapper at a very nice (and high end) store near downtown Amarillo. The magic she could work with wrapping paper and ribbon rivaled anything Santa could ever do with even his best toys. Oh, what better fate could await any gift than to be so adorned!</p>
<p>And so, it’s no mystery. I see gifts, and I think of my mother. I think of her as God’s sweet gift to me. I think of her warm smile and her sweet hugs. As a Christian, I fully believe that one eternal day, I’ll receive those precious gifts from my mother again. I can’t imagine how my Father will accomplish that, but he is, after all, the Giver of the best Gift of all. And perfectly, though surprisingly, wrapped, too.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-7184663475a2e87b5de63387b66eaf8b"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73135672023-12-02T15:54:44-06:002023-12-02T19:30:06-06:00In a Dark Night, God’s Stars Are Still Real<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>L</strong>ong-suffering readers of this column know that I care about and try to focus on the traditional foundational truths of Christianity, but one of my deep beliefs is that truth is truth wherever it is found, and all of it is God’s.</p>
<p>When someone begins to talk about “my truth,” as if truth could be changed for any individual like choosing a differently colored shirt, I want to dissent. Gravity is a law that follows laws, and in this world, we all must deal with its truth—and all that is true—or deal with the consequent bruises.</p>
<p>I’m not conversant with writer Annie Dillard’s beliefs or life or writing, but I will say that she has captured deep truth for all of us in a few well-chosen words that I love: “You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it.”</p>
<p>You’ve found that to be profoundly true yourself, have you not? If we were to sit together and talk about our own life experiences and share in a setting of safety and trust, I think we would come away with some stories of star light.</p>
<p>I think we would find that, upon reflection (I choose that word on purpose), most would say that it was a dark time that eventually made it possible for them to see some glimmers of light that they might otherwise not have seen.</p>
<p>I’m not naive, and I do not trust or easily accept “throw down” platitudes. Seeing light when the darkness seems impenetrable is not something that happens quickly or easily. I would never make light of anyone’s suffering. But the truth is that stars do shine, even if we have a hard time seeing them. And we learn things only such precious and costly light can reveal when they shine through.</p>
<p>The people we respect the most are not people who have never walked through times of deep darkness. They are people who have learned the hard way that the stars are there. They are people who can share with us from experience, and often through tears, that the time came for them when in darkness, a light pierced the gloom. Maybe only a barely seen star or two, at first. And even one caught them by surprise. Was their pain suddenly gone? No, but any sparkle of hope in darkness is precious, never forgotten, and a light to steer by. Ask the Wise Men.</p>
<p>The most respected figures in the Bible all will point to that truth. It would be wise to invite them into our group. Bring in the sufferer Job, for sure. There’s a good reason that Bible book is called “wisdom literature.” Bring in the psalm-writers, especially the one who wrote of his God, “even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you” (Psalm 139:12). I’ve probably taken that out of context, but I believe the truth that our Creator knows how absolutely black darkness can truly be. The psalmist reminds us that our Father is in no way blinded by it, nor are we hidden from him in its murk.</p>
<p>Never was a day darker than that Friday at Calvary, and even God’s Son felt dark despair. But hope won. Love won. And stars did pierce even that blackness. They were always there, and so is their Creator.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-7611bd40fe5306dcaacd0fdc8ddfb66e"><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73096752023-11-26T17:10:12-06:002023-11-26T20:45:12-06:00All Creatures Large and Small—and Us<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“T</strong>he world is a great stage,” exclaimed the venerable St. Francis of Assisi, “on which God displays his many wonders.”</p>
<p>So true! And I’m struck yet again that some of God’s most beautiful wonders are on full display as the seasons change and God gives us a new view of the world we walk through each day. We have it on good authority that no two snowflakes are exactly alike. But the truth both of science and our own eyes, if we really open them, is that we have never stepped out our front door and seen exactly the same scene.</p>
<p>I find that realization itself filled with so much wonder that I can hardly wrap my head around it. I’m in good company. The psalmist, in Psalm 104, boiled over in praise: “How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures.”</p>
<p>Praise is exactly the proper response. Awe is more than called for.</p>
<p>Remember that I said that. Nothing I will write next is meant in any way to gainsay that reality. A “but” here is, I admit, completely out of place.</p>
<p>But . . . just a few lines down in the psalm I just quoted, the writer goes on to describe the “vast” sea, “teeming with creatures beyond number, and he talks about “living things both large and small.”</p>
<p>What I have in mind right now during this particular seasonal change is a small creature, the kind who usually comes with friends, who is not a sea creature but is a small, furry mammal and is well aware of autumn’s falling temperatures. He is not the most amazing of God’s creatures, but you have to say that he is, in his own way, a wonder of creation. A committee of the most accomplished scientists this world has ever seen would be powerless to create even one of his kind.</p>
<p>This little creature has a brain that is hardly the size of a pea, but he is as crafty as he is agile. My mother-in-law, a wonderful and wise farm lady who rarely saw much she couldn’t handle, was known to claim that such a critter could get through any hole larger than a pencil eraser, and she took defensive measures accordingly.</p>
<p>I hereby confess my own difficulties in the same battle. I seem to be incredibly challenged when it comes to vanquishing or destroying such a creature and his kin.</p>
<p>You’ve likely already named my nemesis. The temperatures have dropped, and it’s the season when we discover that the aforementioned pencil-sized or slightly larger holes and small crevices in the house evidently come with what such creatures see as flashing “Vacancy” signs and welcome mats.</p>
<p>For, yes . . . mice.</p>
<p>A better mousetrap? Folks keep trying to build one to catch, squash, cage, incarcerate, poison, and otherwise vanquish these little creations. When you ponder God’s majesty, you really do have to marvel at the immense complexity of even such an annoying mini-mammal.</p>
<p>For the present, I simply report that my wife and I have dispatched a few by various methods. I’ve willingly joined the fight. After almost five decades of marriage, I’m still pondering the wonder that my bride has kept me. But I learned many years ago to make peace with the fact that neither man nor mouse will have any real peace at all if the lady of the house is aware of a rodent intruder—intricate creation of God though it certainly is—who is still breathing.</p>
<p>I don’t offer this week’s column as anything very inspiring. I rarely try to “focus on faith” by focusing much on vermin.</p>
<p>But it’s worth pondering the wonder, albeit with some slightly mixed emotions, that the God who designed everything in creation from sleek stallions galloping across verdant meadows to majestic eagles soaring effortlessly on waves of wind . . . on down to, yeah . . . Well, it’s worth some serious reflection that the Creator of all creatures large and small is our Creator, too. And we’re assured in Scripture that we are “fearfully and wonderfully made” and, uniquely in our case, created “in his image.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73063072023-11-20T10:18:52-06:002023-11-26T20:45:12-06:00Thanksgiving: Caught by Surprise<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> seem to be having a hard time catching the calendar’s train this year. I caught myself almost writing the wrong year on a check a few days ago. Then I almost wrote the wrong month. All of that is early January stuff, not errors I expect to be making in November. It could be my age, of course. A clue is that I still occasionally write checks. </p>
<p>Thanksgiving is upon us, and it has almost caught me by surprise. It’s no surprise, I’m afraid, that as we grow older, the calendar pages seem to flip past a lot more quickly. But I don’t need a calendar to tell me that the days are getting shorter (even before we quit saving daylight), the temperatures are dropping, and the leaves are losing their grip. Why should any of us be surprised?</p>
<p>Ah, but the thing about genuine gratitude is that one of its best features is that it does indeed catch us by surprise.</p>
<p>You step outside onto the porch on a dark evening, and when you breathe in, your lungs thrill to that touch of crispness in the air that seems to have just appeared for another year. Before long, at least where I live, you’ll be smelling the lovely scent of firewood perfuming the invigorating air. I love doing my part in the neighborhood to help with that. </p>
<p>The leaves are indeed falling, but, before they do, they’re blazing with the kind of glorious color that only the Creator himself can splash across the earth’s canvas.</p>
<p>It’s flat where I live on the high plains of Texas, and I try to gain altitude and find mountains as often as possible, but what this flat land has that no place I have ever seen can match are its brilliant sunrises and sunsets. Not one has ever been exactly the same, but they keep coming, thrilling me and commanding my eyes to gaze and my heart to soar.</p>
<p>For most of us, the Thanksgiving holiday comes with tastes that are faithfully familiar. They’re a big part of the celebration. But even though I know that they’re good and they’re on the way, I’m always a little surprised again at just how truly amazing they are.</p>
<p>Best of all, in my estimation, are the sweet surprises from the people we love. Each of them brings out in us, both as individuals and as the group, something unique. The grandkids are laughing and playing, their imaginations in full flower, and then, at different times, one will stop for a moment, look up into my eyes, and say, “I love you, PawPaw.” And that’s a treasure no one can ever put a price on. I’m rich, and I know it.</p>
<p>The prolific songwriter Johnson Oatman, Jr., urged us long ago, “Count your many blessings, name them one by one.” If you know the song, you’ll remember that then he immediately promises, “And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.” Again, surprise!</p>
<p>It’s a great plan always, but I hope we’ll make a particular point during Thanksgiving to keep our eyes open for surprise blessings. None are too small. From warm slippers to a fluffy pillow, from a sweet song well-played and/or sung to a symphony of gratitude that makes music in our souls as we realize how truly blessed we are. The blessing itself may be an unexpected surprise, but another kind of fine surprise comes to me when I realize that I’ve just opened my eyes to really see and be grateful for something or someone I usually take for granted.</p>
<p>I know. For many people, Thanksgiving and other iconic holidays can come with some real pain and the kind of throbbing heartache that’s all the worse because so many other people seem so incredibly happy during the celebrations. Maybe it’s an unusual year with some unusual difficulty when the special day comes, and this year it just has to be lived through. Or maybe the dull holiday sadness has come to be the unwelcome but not unexpected norm. I hope not. But, if so, you may know better than many others that a surprise bit of quiet joy doesn’t have to be spectacularly impressive to be real and warm and appreciated. Such moments savored warm the cold and bring some light even in dark times.</p>
<p>Yes, Thanksgiving is here, and it’s caught me by surprise. But, no surprise, embracing some genuine gratitude always leads to even more blessing.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/73028632023-11-12T21:54:12-06:002023-11-13T02:30:04-06:00United by the Blood of the Lamb<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>O</strong>ne of the most unsatisfying (at least, to me) sermons I have ever preached was delivered during one of the highest points of my life. I was preaching at a church in Mbale, Uganda.</p>
<p>If it was a weak sermon, it wasn’t because I hadn’t worked hard in its preparation. I knew it would be an opportunity to preach to brothers and sisters I’d probably never get to share the word with again. It was a blessed and humbling experience. I was a rich, spoiled American, and they did me the honor of listening, though I felt sure that most of those simple, poor people had far more to teach me about life and faith than I could ever teach them.</p>
<p>When the time came, I preached, and they listened. But I was terribly aware of how my words and style, and even my Texas flavor of English, all stood between me and much effectiveness. I was used to preaching to people like me.</p>
<p>Later, I was discussing this with my younger brother who’d had a similar experience. His analysis was that we both in our speaking and preaching like to play on words and dance with English in a way that is harder to translate and effectively communicate than is “plain” teaching with little word play. I think he was right. I felt like I was trudging knee-deep through snow.</p>
<p>Ah, but the most important things happened. We weren’t a particularly large congregation that day, but we were bowing before the same King the Apostle John describes in the Book of Revelation. He pictures the throne room of heaven. A great multitude from every tribe and nation and language, all worshiping the King and “the Lamb who was slain.”</p>
<p>He describes the assembled throng all holding palm branches in their hands and wearing white robes. The palms and white robes were symbols of victory. Both would be involved in celebrating, for example, the victory of a Roman general who’d won battles and subjugated peoples by the power of his army and the iron-strong authority of Rome. </p>
<p>But in Christianity the tables are always turned upside down. “Your great men and those in authority lord it over those under their authority,” Jesus told his disciples, “but it shall not be so among you.” When God’s Son enters this world, he comes as the Servant of all. He washes feet. He loves the poor and downtrodden. The world bows and scrapes to those who are rich and powerful and proud. But the church knows its greatest treasures are the weak, the poor, the sick, the aged. What this world worships as success, God says is garbage compared to the worth of knowing Christ. In God’s kingdom, everyone who knows him is rich and valued. And the more the church adopts the world’s values of success and size and power, the more it bows before the wisdom of this world, the more it looks like any other business but its product just happens to be religion, the less it looks like the church, and the less it knows of real victory.</p>
<p>Who are these people, this multitude, holding palm branches and wearing white robes? The Apostle John tells us that they are “those have conquered.” And how did they win the victory and come through the great tribulation, the great time of suffering and persecution, victorious over all the power and might and wisdom of the world?</p>
<p>The answer is jarring. They died. They testified to the truth of their faith and their absolute hope in the Lord, by the shedding of their own blood. Their robes have been washed white by the blood of the Lamb who conquered Satan and evil by triumphing on the cross. And now, following their crucified but victorious Lord, these multitudes who followed their Lord in death were truly undefeated by all the powers of evil. The Apostle John says that they are the ones who are victorious.</p>
<p>That sermon and that preacher on that day in Uganda were pretty limited, but I consider the opportunity to bow together with those faith-filled confessors of Christ a fine foretaste of a time when we’ll join an amazing multitude of every “tribe and tongue and language” in the most magnificent worship and praise.</p>
<p>In beautiful ways, that blessing is ours whenever we bow together in any place and are united by “the blood of the Lamb.”</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72998102023-11-06T20:43:25-06:002023-11-07T00:00:16-06:00Court Sense and Life Sense<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>T</strong>he picture is a little fuzzy. It was an action shot and so seriously zoomed in that it’s probably amazing that it’s as clear as it is. But it’s plenty clear enough, and I smile every time I look at it.</p>
<p>My next-to-the-youngest grandchild, a precocious little eight-year-old—and, of course, an amazing little beauty in every way—is in mortal combat with another little girl as they’re sliding around on the floor of a basketball court. The ref will soon blow his whistle and signal the “tie ball,” but Kendall is not planning to let go of that ball until somebody pries it out of her hands. Heart and soul, she’s very much in that game.</p>
<p>It’s fun to see her having fun, and it’s fun to see her playing really competitively. In the photo, her lips are parted, and her teeth are gritted, and her face is formed into the scariest sort of grimace that an eight-year-old sweetie could possibly pull off.</p>
<p>This is the same little girl who, in a game a couple of weeks before, missed a good bit of the action because she was busy consoling one of the “enemy.” She had her arm around a little girl who was sobbing, tears welling up in her eyes, obviously scared stiff and not at all happy to be out on the court. The game was rushing on, but Kendall was busy taking care of that little girl. I loved that. I love her heart, and I love her priorities. Kendall could’ve scored a three-point shot, nothing but net, and her PawPaw wouldn’t have been more proud of her.</p>
<p>Need I tell you that in the more recent game, her heart was still the same? But that opponent’s heart was definitely not being broken, and Kendall meant to come away with the ball.</p>
<p>Good for her! The moment called for some serious competitiveness. It was also—and this is the thing that causes me to chuckle—a good photo op. Oh, she had a death grip on that ball, but guess where her eyes were focused? On her mom—and her mother’s camera. Not only does the little girl have court sense, she recognized that her own personal group of paparazzi deserved some good shots.</p>
<p>But photo op aside, our girl was doing a good job, and getting the job done called for grit and determination. It also called, her PawPaw thinks, for some wisdom. Making that kind of split-second decision does not come with time to write an essay about pros and cons, even though her proud grandfather is indeed writing an essay about it. You either know, on the basketball court and in life, when the time is right to grit your teeth and compete full speed ahead, from the time when mercy and compassion and a hug is the only right response—or you don’t.</p>
<p>I know. More than a few people berate those who choose for kindness. You don’t have time for that if you want to get ahead in this world, they say, and they consider mercy and compassion to be weakness, traits for losers. They are wrong.</p>
<p>Just for fun, I googled “soft hearts and compassion.” Surprise! In one psychological journal article, the writer said that a person with these traits could almost be said to possess a “superpower,” a very real strength. And, of course, it wasn’t in a journal but in his “Sermon on the Mount” that Jesus said that “the meek will inherit the earth” (Matthew 5). He went on, you recall, to talk about the beautiful blessing that comes from being “merciful,” the incredible power of being a “peacemaker.” I love the paraphrase in <em>The Message</em>: “You’re blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That’s when you discover who you really are, and your place in God’s family.”</p>
<p>Wisdom means knowing the times and seasons. If you’re on the basketball court, there’s rarely a time when you should kindly offer the ball to your opponent. And it’s no game but a sad truth in this fallen world that sometimes terrible wars must be fought if we care about justice and refuse to let evil misleaders trample the weak and spread their poison. </p>
<p>But beware of those who never see a time to help a deserving coworker rise to the top and be genuinely glad for their success, never find a time to say a kind word about a political opponent or try to find ways to work together across walls to wisely compromise (it’s a good and noble word, in this sense) to accomplish at least something together.</p>
<p>A person who can always easily find an excuse to be angry and mean and call it conviction is weak and small and cowardly, a loser even if he “wins.” When we live by “biting and devouring” others, everyone loses (Galatians 5).</p>
<p>I think our little girl is showing some real wisdom. We can learn a good deal from an eight-year-old who shows some court sense and some life sense.<strong><em></em></strong></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72961932023-10-30T15:47:48-05:002023-11-07T00:00:16-06:00A Kazoo Player Interrupts the Orchestra<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> wish I knew more about the scene. The Gospel of Luke, Chapter 12, begins with Jesus teaching a crowd, a very large crowd. He teaches like no one else, warning them about hypocritical religious teachers, assuring them that God loves his children completely and knows them down to the very hairs on their heads. When will the Holy Spirit of God ever leave them? Never!</p>
<p>Was it right in the middle of these amazing words that a shriveled little man in the crowd spoke up? “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me!”</p>
<p>What? An estate squabble? Front and center, now? I wonder how many people in the crowd are beginning to wonder if this amazing teacher might actually be the Messiah? At the very least, his teaching is spellbinding. It taps directly into deep meaning and truth. And that’s it, isn’t it? It’s true to what <em>is</em>. His words point to reality in a way that almost takes his listeners’ breath away; they want him to keep teaching and never stop.</p>
<p>Oh, they’ve heard charlatans and rabble rousers, easy answer manipulators and slimy hucksters. Nothing new. That ilk could always attract crowds for a while. Maybe they gave out caps; they certainly gave out cotton candy “solutions” with no substance, antifreeze lollipops to crowds of cats with a taste for poison. But in the face of this rabbi’s teaching, the fire-up-the-crowd words of the flash-in-the-pan charlatans shattered like glass hitting granite. A penlight trying to light up the morning sun. A kazoo player trying to steal the show from the London Philharmonic.</p>
<p>So, yes, the people listen, enthralled at the words of Jesus, and this stunted little creature with his cap (okay, I’m kidding), his withered soul, and his boatload of resentment, wails out in a thin and grating tone a report of his brother’s greed.</p>
<p>Has this guy not heard anything? Is nothing but a cold black drizzle of grievance left where his living soul once resided? If the tables are turned… If he gets the “win” he wants, squashes his brother, scrapes up even a few more than his fair share of the family shekels, how happy is a person utterly devoid of wisdom, character, and integrity likely to be?</p>
<p>That last is perhaps at the root of the problem. A person with integrity has “strong moral and ethical principles and values.” Many in our society may laugh at such, but even as we deride foundational values, we still bump up against them and must deal with their reality. Gravity doesn’t go away because one finds it inconvenient. And we’re soon reminded of another important aspect of integrity. It’s also “the state of being whole and undivided.” Most of us know it when we see it. Just as surely, when we feel it, it feels good, reassuring, worthy of trust, like something that will bear weight. We might not immediately say, “That is a person of integrity,” but we feel it.</p>
<p>Yes. And here’s a test. Just pick out a few names at random—historical figures, people you know, political figures or other well-known folks—and fill in the blank. “I believe that ______ is/was a person of integrity.”</p>
<p>When I tried this little experiment, I was surprised. It works better than I’d have expected. My reactions were stronger and easier to catalog than I had expected.</p>
<p>With some names, it almost blinks green, “Yes!” With some other folks, you just don’t have enough information. Inconclusive.</p>
<p>But, with others still, it’s either a resounding “No!” or, just as likely, almost a sad giggle or laughter. It’s as if even a sentence with the word “integrity” in it will convulse until it’s shaken that person’s name from its midst. It’s just wrong for it to be there, and your soul issues a groan at the thought. You may even try to coax the sentence into letting the name stay put, but the other words won’t let it. That’s the right call, and you’re honest, and you know it.</p>
<p>Now, for a moment, why not head back to Luke 12 and give the test a try? Try it with Jesus. I’m serious. The meter rushes to the top. Try it with the aggrieved brother. What happens to the meter then? A stark contrast.</p>
<p>How much of this man’s soul has he already killed himself? What is left? All we know is that Jesus says, basically, “Fellow, why would you think your estate squabble is my business? But far more seriously than you realize, and for your own good, we really do need to talk about greed. Not your brother’s. Yours.”</p>
<p>Then Jesus tells his pointed parable of “The Rich Fool.” It’s well worth reading and pondering. The rich guy has obtained much more stuff than he can store away, and he’s planning some serious expansion. But Jesus asks what will happen to all of that pathetic man’s stuff when, that very night, he dies. Will it really matter then that he’s the richest corpse in the funeral home?</p>
<p>I wonder if the poor mistreated brother listening to Jesus teach got the message. I rather doubt it. I’m afraid his soul was already too shriveled. How else could he have been so oblivious to the words of life from the Word of life?</p>
<p>Integrity matters. It matters forever. We disregard it at great peril.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72922842023-10-23T15:11:50-05:002023-10-30T17:30:17-05:00The Key Place, Four Brothers, and Rooster Calibration<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> spent most of last week in Robert Lee, Texas, with my three brothers at our maternal grandparents’ old home place. It was a good week. Those weeks always are.</p>
<p>Granddaddy Key built that little house in 1928, so it’s approaching a 100th anniversary. I hereby propose to the guys (two are not all that far off from their own centennial) that we plan ahead and extend one of that year’s stays to a month or, at least, two weeks. Anything less would be disrespectful.</p>
<p>For around forty years, my brothers and I have been meeting there a couple of times each year, once in autumn and once in spring. For more than a few of those years, our father joined us—all five of us, pastors. A very special place.</p>
<p>The guys and I try to make sure that those days, the two Coke County convocations, are scheduled a year in advance. I just label them “Coke County Pastors’ Conference.” I’ve never been to a conference where I learned more about ministry. Or had more help and valuable advice in dealing with this or that ministry conundrum. Or, and this is the big item, had more fun.</p>
<p>I really enjoy spending time with my brothers. If I get energetic, I might write a column or two. I usually read a little. We visit a lot. About anything and everything. A bunch of breeze-shooting about whatever comes to mind.</p>
<p>Coffee. Lots of it. Food. Too much. The menu varies very little. Amazing what you can do with a kettle grill (or two, if the ribeyes are large). Hot dogs at noon. Steaks (and occasionally, pork ribs) in the evening. A nice fire in the firepit and more coffee until, well, as late as we wish.</p>
<p>That’s the thing, I guess. We don’t have much of a schedule at Robert Lee. Almost all of the time is “down” time, and that’s good time.</p>
<p>We really do occasionally talk about some serious stuff while we’re there. I offer the following as proof.</p>
<p>My two-years-younger brother Jim and I had headed down to the Austin Street Coffee Company to sit, visit, and drink coffee, which we did. Then we drove back down to the house, perched in old rocking chairs on the porch, and resumed sitting, visiting, and drinking coffee. At least one of us was offering cigar incense. And then we heard…</p>
<p>We heard a rooster crowing rather late in the morning. We went on visiting a while. More crowing. Same rooster? Different rooster? We didn’t know. But it was soon after the roosticular crooning that we began working on an ad that we might pitch to an appropriate company. See what you think.</p>
<p><strong>IS YOUR ROOSTER crowing erratically, erupting vocally for no apparent reason? At any moment? At all hours of the day and night? Take heart! You do NOT have a BAD rooster! No, what you have is a rooster badly in need of CALIBRATION!</strong></p>
<p><strong>At ROOSTER CALIBRATION SERVICES, LLC, we take pride in our many success stories and proven record of ROOSTER CALIBRATION. Bring in your bird on Monday, and we GUARANTEE to have him crowing CHRONOLOGICALLY perfectly by Friday! GIVE US A CALL! And don’t forget to ASK ABOUT our optional RULE THE ROOST Rooster Vocalization Package featuring our most recent innovation: Creative Crowers’ PITCH CORRECTION. We’ll get your bird crowing ON TIME and ON KEY! Satisfaction GUARANTEED! We are ROOSTER CALIBRATION SERVICES, LLC, where COCKA-DOODLE-DOO means the very BEST in ROOSTER-RELATED SERVICES just for YOU! (<em>Lawyer litter and disclaimer:</em> Please note that not all rooster crowing is chronological behavior. Romantic rooster crowing is, at this time, not covered in our calibration service.)</strong></p>
<p>Well, I will admit that we’ve had more productive moments than the one on the porch that morning at the old Key Place. And I’ve written much better columns than this one.</p>
<p>But time with my bros at that special place is always a great gift from my Father. I thought that today I’d crow about it a little.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72874862023-10-13T11:07:06-05:002023-10-23T15:30:13-05:00A Very Old Picture of a Very Old House<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>’m looking at a picture of an old house. A very old picture. A very old house.</p>
<p>It’s the house my mother, Wilma Jean Key, was born in on August 15, 1915. I assume the picture of the house was probably taken a year or two later because another picture, just beside it in the album, is of my Grandmother Key holding my mother in her arms, and Mom is (maybe) a little less than two years old. The photo album was created by Grandmother; my oldest brother just found it, scanned the pages, and shared them with our family.</p>
<p>Another old house and windmill, not much left of them now, and not far from the little place I just mentioned, were both near what was the Edith community, seven miles or so west of Robert Lee, Texas. Grandmother and Granddaddy Key lived all of their lives in Robert Lee. Paint Creek Cemetery, also in what is left of Edith, was within sight of the house with the windmill. That house was the homestead of Alf Key, my Granddaddy Key’s father. For a long time, you could see the crumbling remains of that old house and windmill from both the highway and the cemetery. You didn’t even have climb over the barbed wire fence. Years ago, another of my older brothers <em>did</em> scale the fence and ambled over to the still-standing house. He looked through a window and saw movement—more rattlesnakes than he’d ever seen in one place. That sight was enough to quench his thirst for any more exploration.</p>
<p>Alf Key, who was born during the week in 1865 when President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, donated a chunk of the land for the Paint Creek Cemetery. Alf (along with, I believe, another donor or two) just asked that his family always have plots available there for free. So, I have lots of relatives buried there—Alf and his wife, my maternal grandparents, my sister, uncles, aunts, and many more. I like that cemetery. I’ve never seen more beautiful bluebonnets anywhere than the ones that, on a good year, blanket the earthly remains of its residents who are there—but not really there.</p>
<p>Birthplace. Earthly resting place. All within walking distance. I rather like that.</p>
<p>Grandmother and Granddaddy were married just after Christmas 1911. He would ranch and truck cattle and sheep for all of his life. For years, he had the only cattle truck in Coke County, and he made many a trip to Fort Worth.</p>
<p>Scanned also from the old album are pictures of my grandparents and their young family. Granddaddy looks like a strong, young cowboy as he holds my mom. Grandmother looks so young and pretty. Both look like they’re no strangers to the strength and character it takes to make a good life. No coddlin’ required.</p>
<p>In 1928 (I think), Granddaddy built the old house I know as the Key Place in Robert Lee. My brothers and I have been meeting there twice a year for around forty years. Dad was with us for a number of those good times. I plan to head that way again next week. I doubt I can do much to improve my three brothers, but it’s worth another try.</p>
<p>I was playfully swatting one of my own grandsons last week at our house, and I told him about how Granddaddy Key would sit, straddling a chair backwards, near an old radio and doorway in the old Key house. He generally held a flyswatter, and the tail section of any grandkid passing through was fair game.</p>
<p>Not that long ago, I was surprised to see Granddaddy looking back at me from a mirror. Not that long ago, I sat on a rocking lawn chair out under a tree as I was watching grandkids laugh and play, and I realized why Granddaddy enjoyed doing pretty much the very same thing.</p>
<p>Right now, I find myself looking at the photo of the first old house I mentioned, Mom’s birthplace. Of course, it’s a black and white photo, which makes it seem even more stark. Were the photo in color, maybe there’d be some little green attempts at prairie grass around the house, but mostly I see dirt. The ground looks hard and dry, and color would seem an extravagance, wasted pigment.</p>
<p>The house is <em>really</em> small. One room? I wish I could see the inside. The exterior walls seem to be of some sort of ancient board and batten construction (long vertical boards butting together with thin boards covering the joints). No paint. The roof appears to be covered with wooden shake shingles. One vent or smoke pipe. Virtually no eaves or porch at all. A very disjointed stone foundation. The sun must be setting. The shadow of a scraggly old leafless mesquite tree falls, as if exhausted, across the front of the house.</p>
<p>Not much to look at, this photo. But much to ponder. And much for which to be thankful as I realize that strong men and women of faith in the eternal living God once lived there. Their bones lie not far away. And their souls are safe with the Father of us all. How many blinks of an eye before I join them? God knows, so I don’t need to. But all will be well.</p>
<p>That old house was never the home of a rich family, but what the residents left their descendants is a precious legacy of faith and hope and love. And that is still very much alive.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72853132023-10-09T22:50:12-05:002023-10-10T00:15:05-05:00“More Than All We Ask or Imagine”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>e’d not often put it this way, but I’m afraid that most of us live way too much of our lives afraid.</p>
<p>When you boil down what bothers us—reduce it to its essence—at the bottom is almost aways fear. Analyze it even further, and at the root of most of our fear is this: we’re afraid that we won’t have enough. And then what will become of us?</p>
<p>In John 6, Jesus and his disciples have just sailed across the Sea of Galilee and landed, probably, near Bethsaida. What they’re looking for is, in part, just a little peace.</p>
<p>Life has been a blur. Jesus had sent the disciples out to teach and heal. They’d returned incredibly excited and with great reports. But you know what often follows exhilaration: exhaustion.</p>
<p>In the background is deep grief. John the Baptist has just been beheaded by Herod. Dealing with grief takes time and energy. They have neither.</p>
<p>People, crowds of them, have been pressing Jesus and the disciples so constantly that there has hardly been time for the Lord and his companions even to stop and eat. So, when Jesus says, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest” (Mark 6:31), the disciples are more than willing.</p>
<p>I’d have suggested some time high in the mountains, preferably up where mobile phone service was bad to nonexistent and thus just right for rest. What they do is get into a boat, cross the lake, and land at what St. John calls “a solitary place.” Thank God for such places!</p>
<p>But it wasn’t solitary for long. The needy crowd found them and began to crowd in. Crowd out peace. Crowd out quiet. Crowd out respite and rest.</p>
<p>Jesus had walked up the hillside and sat down with his disciples as, in the distance, he sees a slow-moving tsunami of people, a lava flow of need, moving toward them. Physical healing. Spiritual healing. Soul healing. All sorts of need.</p>
<p>John remembers Jesus looking at Philip and asking, “Where are we going to get bread for these people to eat?” (Did any of the disciples think about the need for porta-potties? That’s not mentioned.)</p>
<p>But I wonder. Did John also remember a twinkle in the Lord’s eye? He (John) writes that Jesus “asked this only to test him [Philip]; he already knew what he was going to do.” Philip, though, didn’t know, and the culinary accounting he was doing in his head had him worried.</p>
<p>“Lord, we don’t have enough money to buy bread for these people to eat. Slice it any way you want, and there still won’t be enough bread. Not even close. Not enough.”</p>
<p>More than you may at first realize, you understand, don’t you? Marriage. Family. Work. Health. Wonderful at times. Terrifying at times. So much being juggled at all times.</p>
<p>And we, more often than we care to admit, afraid. Afraid that there won’t be enough… Time. Wisdom. Money. Mercy. Strength. Health. Grace. Love.</p>
<p>Jesus teaches on the hillside near the sea. Andrew, maybe smiling, says, “Well, here’s a wee lad with five little barley loaves and two small fish. How far can they go among so many?”</p>
<p>And you know what happened. The Lord miraculously multiplies that little gift. All of the people eat, and twelve basketfuls are left over. Much, much more than enough.</p>
<p>Philip would never forget. Tradition has it that he would later preach powerfully in Greece, Phrygia, and Syria. And he would die a martyr’s death. It was not an easy life. But it was filled with purpose and blessing in the midst of joys and sorrows. And he knew, beyond doubt, that he truly had nothing to fear. In Christ, he’d always found enough. More than enough.</p>
<p>Philip remembered the loaves and the fishes. And, maybe, Christ’s smile.</p>
<p>“Perfect love casts out fear,” John writes. And Christ’s love is perfect, complete, all we need.</p>
<p>It may not be a story of loaves and fishes you will one day remember and tell. But everyone who loves and trusts Him will one day have stories to tell about times when in the midst of perplexity and trouble, deeply afraid and in serious need, we eventually found our Lord to be… more than enough.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72819632023-10-02T21:23:06-05:002023-10-02T23:45:10-05:00Some Thoughts About Martyrs and Martyrdom<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>A</strong>ccording to <strong>Merriam-Webster.com</strong>, “martyr” most commonly refers to “a person who voluntarily suffers death as the penalty of witnessing to and refusing to renounce a religion.”</p>
<p>I recently read an article which asserts that as many as 160,000 Christians each year give up their lives because of their allegiance to Christ. Dan Wooding, journalist and co-host of the “Window on the World” radio show went on to write that “according to current rates, one in every 200 Christians can expect to be martyred.”</p>
<p>I have no way to verify either number, but I suspect the 160,000 figure is high. Trying to arrive at an even moderately accurate estimate is notoriously difficult. The “Center for the Study of Global Christianity” of Gordon–Conwell Theological Seminary once put the estimate at 100,000 Christian martyrs per year, but then walked back their estimate.</p>
<p>Some other less specific estimates I’ve seen indicate that the number of Christian martyrs each year is certainly in the thousands and likely in the tens of thousands. Such numbers, sadly, seem to me to have the ring of truth—a truth well worth much pondering and prayer.</p>
<p>Todd Nettleton of “Voice of the Martyrs” tells the story of a Tajikistan pastor named Sergei Bessarab who, in 2004, was shot to death as he was playing his guitar and leading worship in a small city named Isfara where he and his wife had planted a church.</p>
<p>Bessarab had been in prison for criminal activities (real ones) and was finally led to Christ by another prisoner (also named Sergei). Bessarab resisted for a long time, but he eventually became a man of deep faith, led many in the prison to Christ, and, after his release, was often back at the prison ministering to the inmates there.</p>
<p>As the number of Bessarab’s converts grew, the local newspaper sounded the alarm which would lead to the son of the leader of a local mosque firing thirteen bullets into Bessarab on that sad night. But the prison ministry went on and grew. Bessarab’s friend, Sergei, predicted that the time would come when Christians would meet the man who killed Pastor Bessarab and tell him about Christ.</p>
<p>The murderer was convicted and sent to prison. His cellmate was a Christian who had been discipled by Bessarab. And, yes, Sergei Bessarab’s killer did give his life to Christ, accepting the hardship and danger such a decision meant for him. One day, Nettleton writes, these two men who many would have written off as “lost causes” will stand side by side as brothers joyfully worshiping their Lord.</p>
<p>An amazing story, but such stories abound, from the first Christian martyr, Stephen, to the believer put to death across the world from us five minutes ago. We know so few of their names, but Christ knows them all. They are still, as the Apostle John would write in Revelation, “those who are victorious.”</p>
<p>Strictly speaking, a “martyr” is one who dies, whose blood is shed, for Christ. How many more faithful Christian “witnesses” (the word comes from the Greek “witness) are not executed but have faced and are facing serious suffering and persecution for living out their faith in Christ? Those, too, we should pray for and honor.</p>
<p>Of course, the word has come to also be used in a much more “popular” and colloquial sense. More than a few folks who want our vote or our allegiance regarding any number of political, ideological, or other issues<a>—</a>rational or not, true or not—can be said, in common parlance, to “play the martyr.” It’s a use of the word that is as slimy as the former use is noble.</p>
<p>Think about it. Have you ever seen anyone who looked good trying to “play the martyr” and dress up as a self-professed victim? I’ve tried (I really have!) to think of someone I would esteem as a person of character and maturity, a person worthy of respect, who has appropriated that term personally or who has been willing to accept it from his/her followers. I can think of no one.</p>
<p>But then comes a harder question as this gets personal, and I look inward. Making victimhood a full-time job and an integral part of one’s character, or lack thereof, is weak, wrong, and vile. How many times, though, if I’m honest, have I fallen to the temptation to “temporarily” play the martyr or see myself as a victim and thus feed for a while a dark part of my soul? That’s a dangerous game because personally playing the martyr can’t be done without being seriously self-centered.</p>
<p>Isn’t it striking that the real thing is exactly the opposite? One who is martyred for his or her faith in Christ is not thinking about self at all, just praying that the Lord will be glorified and Christ’s kingdom enlarged. Blood freely given by a true martyr is considered by them as no sacrifice at all compared to Christ’s blood. We honor Christ and we honor them, in all ages, for their utterly selfless victory in their Lord.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72781732023-09-24T20:14:12-05:002023-09-24T23:45:11-05:00Being Still Can Be a Real Accomplishment<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>f you’re perusing my column today for some sort of deep spiritual lesson, I warn you up front that I’ll be surprised if you find much. Wisdom and I may not, I’m afraid, sit on the same couch as often as we should anyway, but today… </p>
<p>For one thing, there’s not much room on the couch. It counts as a somewhat flat surface. If my main goal in life was (<em>were</em> if you prefer the subjunctive) to fill up flat surfaces with all manner of junk and debris, I could hardly be more successful. Worse than any woman’s purse, my computer backpack needs to be dumped out at least once every six months, so it can shed fifteen pounds and give up some secrets—items that I’d thought were long since lost.</p>
<p>Since I was sitting on the other end of the couch when I boiled over and spilled the bag, I am sitting beside an assortment of six different computer cables, twenty varied computer dongles, one portable charging battery, one old iTouch, two external hard drives, one digital audio interface, one or two cool small flashlights, one Olight flashlight flyer (one can never have too many cool flashlights), an iPad, an iPhone, a USB-C hub, an English-style flat cap, several little cloth carrying bags, some Velcro straps, and a caulking gun.</p>
<p>Full disclosure: Several of these items did not come from the computer bag; they just found their way to the couch and were tossed onto the debris pile. The caulking gun is on the couch because it showed up at my door a couple of days ago, as ordered.</p>
<p>This is, by the way, the best caulking gun I’ve personally ever owned or touched. A pox on the cheapies that invariably fail when you’re perched on the ladder or crawling under the house. This, finally, is the real deal that puts the others to shame. It’s a pleasure just to hold it and admire the craftsmanship. All-metal construction, baked on enamel paint, built like a tank but elogant and lithe. Smooth plunger technology with a 12:1 drive ratio (available also in 26:1, I suppose so you can use it for tubes of solid concrete). It costs more than the pathetic attempts at the throwaway caulking guns you’ll find at most hardware stores and is worth every penny. (Albion is the brand.) But enough of that. Down to the garage, ready and waiting for caulking perfection, it will soon go.</p>
<p>My retired municipal judge wife just came through and issued a decree. I paraphrase: “Don’t even think about moving your rear off that couch until you’ve cleaned up the other end of it.” I’m not sure how she expects me to do both of those things at the same time, but it doesn’t seem like I should ask.</p>
<p>This is a golden Saturday, a Saturday at home as the good Lord intended for Saturdays. I slept until almost 10:00. I managed to successfully put off doing several things I thought I should maybe try to accomplish (including writing this). Hey, occasionally finding a sweet Saturday to be still enough to accomplish almost nothing at all is a very worthwhile accomplishment, one that seems to be completely out of the reach of many people who accomplish very little by screwing up perfectly good Saturdays as they expend tremendous effort to accomplish never being at home on Saturdays attempting to accomplish finding some rest. The latter would be a worthwhile accomplishment.</p>
<p>I’m hoping that if I stay on the couch long enough, my wife will shift her focus elsewhere, and I can escape to the garage to accomplish some puttering, a worthy goal for a golden Saturday. Or maybe I can turn on a good quirky British detective TV series and distract her into binge-watching it with me.</p>
<p>It’s a golden Saturday, filled with potential lofty goals to be gratefully kicked aside and temporarily but gratefully forgotten so that when they’re picked up again, it’s with some perspective. For most of us, I’m afraid, even our Saturdays are a study in how we can work to make even what we call our “play” utterly exhausting. Our families pay a far heavier price for such than we usually realize or admit. If you’re the one in your family who (unwisely) thinks you can go and go and go and be just fine, at least be wise enough to know that not everyone in your family can. Race too long and a tire will blow. Full speed ahead, Type A types are often surprised by that. They shouldn’t be.</p>
<p>Unexpected but possibly pithy spiritual point: A big part of our God’s Sabbath commandment surely has to do with reminding us that healthy souls need some time to rest and just “be” as we let God spin the world for a while without our help. For sure, we can talk about Sundays and worship, etc. But isn’t it amazing how much trust in God and almost gut-wrenching discipline it takes for most of us just to find a golden Saturday—or any other day—to simply breathe and rest? Maybe it would show at least a little glimmer of wisdom if we were embarrassed to fall so often to the temptation to be so dumb. </p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72754672023-09-18T21:42:30-05:002023-09-24T23:45:11-05:00An Inconvenience or an Adventure?<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“A</strong>n inconvenience is an adventure wrongly considered,” writes G. K. Chesterton. I suppose, then, that I must be in the midst of an adventure.</p>
<p>I’m writing on a Sunday evening. On Friday afternoon, my wife discovered that the air conditioner was not conditioning. Please note that I am not in the least blaming the messenger for imparting negative news. It is just a fact that she usually notices inconveniences of this sort before I do.</p>
<p>If one of our vehicles is making a bit of a strange noise, she notices before I do, reports the potential problem, and presents me with a work order.</p>
<p>If a mouse has the temerity to put one of its itty bitty feet anywhere in the residence, she notices before I do, and presents me with a kill order. Neither mouse nor man will find peace until the rodent is dead. I once shot myself in the head (ricochet) with a BB trying to execute a hit she put out on one. That’s another story. </p>
<p>These things often come in groups. After the A/C went on the fritz, she discovered that the back yard floodlight was dead. And then, running the ceiling fan at high speed, she reported a fan pull-switch malfunction. (High speed only.) Another work order. (She’s happier with high speed only than I am. She has long seemed to have a deep-seated fear of dying by spontaneous combustion. Fans? Oh, we have them.)</p>
<p>The present A/C inconvenience would have been much more inconvenient during our recent 100-degree convection oven weather. Now, it’s mostly a nuisance. Open the windows. Fire up fifteen fans. And get to work. </p>
<p>The A/C was, if not dead, comatose and unresponsive. The inside blower, coil, etc., unit gizmo (note my precision with these terms) was not responding. The outside compressor, fan, etc., unit thing was just as brain-fritzed. The thermostat was faithfully recording rising temperature but, if it was issuing the proper “turn on and cool this place down” orders, they were ignored.</p>
<p>I checked breakers and called an over-worked A/C guy. He was already working, still working as Friday afternoon was ebbing away. I asked what else I could check myself, and then I went to work testing fuses and (I’m shortening the story) found one little 5-amp fuse with its brains burned out. When he arrived, we checked more wiring, and he pointed a finger at the thermostat wire. He was fresh out of such, having used all of his at earlier stops at homes having their own adventures. So, we made plans for Monday.</p>
<p>On Saturday, my wife and I made a trip out of town to watch a great little grandson play flag football. We ran by the massive hardware store, and I picked up a big roll of 8-strand thermostat wire. I was praying that I could successfully “pull” it by attaching it to the old wire. Later that afternoon, I tried. No such luck. My “borescope” camera showed some errant concrete had oozed around the wire. No pulling. So, the adventure was, as expected, ramping up. I’d hoped a trip under the house wouldn’t be required. The A/C guy shared my view. But now…</p>
<p>I unscrewed the access panel and crawled under the stairs in the garage. I was slithering up and over the foundation wall and shining a light around. But I soon noticed that the house seemed lower—or it’s possible that I was thicker—than the last time I made such a trip. The destination was farther away than I had expected. No. Nope. Heck no. Abort.</p>
<p>Saturday night, I lay awake thinking about options. Early Sunday morning, when I should have been thinking about my sermon, I thought about more options.</p>
<p>On Sunday afternoon, when I prefer to be unconscious, I decided to ascend. I opened the attic crawl space hatch and climbed upward a bit. Then, back down. Then, up a ladder outside. Drilled a hole in the house. Cobbled together some “bride of Frankenstein” mismatched plastic conduit (all I had), pulled wire, shoved the pipe through the hole, crawled back up inside the mechanical closet, pulled wire, gave thanks, and called it a day.</p>
<p>Even I can splice together color-coded wires, but I’m done. I’ll let the expert do the splicing. I’m tired, and this adventure seems increasingly inconvenient. At least, neither of us will be crawling under the house.</p>
<p>The Apostle Paul was talking about real suffering, something much more than an inconvenience, when he said that, rightly understood, problems produce endurance, endurance builds up character, and character grows into hope.</p>
<p>I wish to make light of no one’s genuine sufferings by my levity here. I will say that I am not yet sure that this little A/C inconvenience qualifies as much of an adventure. And I’m not sure you’d think it improved my character if you’d been under the house or in the attic with me.</p>
<p>But I do live in hope. I hope to be cool by the time you read this.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72717042023-09-11T10:26:15-05:002023-09-11T14:30:04-05:00“Do Not Worry About Tomorrow”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>’m sitting at a table this morning breathing mountain air and relishing delicious silence. Until ten minutes ago, I’d been spending the morning out on the deck of the cabin, bestirring myself only to move my chair to chase cool shade as the sun began its march. Ponderosa pines barely move in the almost non-existent breeze. This is good.</p>
<p>A week ago (where did the time go?) we left home with another couple, some of our dearest friends with whom we’ve shared every stage of life. No one could ever be called poor who has had such friends. Three of the four of us are now retired. As usual, I’m the odd one out. I love what I do, but I seem to be the one most dreading leaving the high country. I love preaching, singing, writing, “pastoring,” and, retired or not, I’m sure I’ll never completely stop doing those things until, well, I completely stop. (Unless my Father has a different plan, I expect the singing to go on.) But after almost thirty-nine years of doing all of the above from the same home base, I could do with, say, a six-week sabbatical if I could get my paid staff to cover for me. Oh, wait. What staff? And trying to get things done ahead for that many great weeks would <em>not</em> be great.</p>
<p>Even a pre-vacation week of what my brother calls the “pre-tripulation” was no fun, but this present week has been great. I preached and sang during the first weekend. That’s not really being “off,” I guess, but doing so at 8,600 feet or so in the mountains is a sweet pleasure.</p>
<p>Most of us should take much more time “off” to be worth much more when we’re “on.” Some time spent just breathing and “being” helps us keep our “doing” in perspective. That’s no small gift. Our Father knew what he was talking about when he prescribed, yea, verily, in his Commandments, some regular down time.</p>
<p>One of the things I’ve learned, yet again, about myself is that I spend too much time dreading things. I’ve always spent too much time worrying, and that has never been fruitful. My Father is right about that, too. I don’t think my tendency to worry is sinful—part of my propensity toward anxiety is as much inherited as are my blue eyes—but a significant portion of it is just dumb. My job, with God’s help, is to try to rein it in.</p>
<p>In the mountains, I do better at saying to myself, “You’re off, Curt. If you feel a need to worry about something, put it off until you lose altitude.” I do fairly well at that. But dread is worry’s scrawny twin. Nobody loves home more than I do, but I know how these days fly by, and unbidden comes the always unwelcome mental image of mountains in the rear-view mirror. I dread re-packing even as I’m unpacking. Dumb and dumber. I know. But did I claim that this is rational? I did not.</p>
<p>I managed to finish a fairly large project and several smaller ones before we left. I’m thankful. And surprised. But I still have in my head, like anyone with responsibilities, a list of “to do” items and events that are waiting for me at home. Most of them are good. Even enjoyable. I still dread getting back up to speed. I’d gladly wait another month.</p>
<p>Some of my “dreads” are more significant. The time with my three companions, one of whom I’ve been married to for 48 years, has been remarkably sweet. I dread the time when we’re down to three, but I need to be celebrating the time we’ve had and still have together. (And I really do; I’m not <em>that</em> neurotic.)</p>
<p>Strange maybe, even as a “dreader,” I’ve never particularly dreaded the end of life, except for causing sadness for my loved ones. Author Bill Bryson reports in his great book <em>The Body: A Guide for Occupants</em>, that slightly more than 8,000 items make up the list of things that can kill us, and “we escape every one of them but one.” Interesting. And he’s not factoring in the Christian belief that our “end” is no end at all but the most wonderful beginning, the eternal description of which is Joy.</p>
<p> But right now, well, I dread a list of things from the morning’s quietness passing, to the ending of a good cigar out on the deck (forgive me, but I’m unrepentant), to the bottom of a great cup of New Mexico Piñon Coffee, to the vacation’s end. I dread packing. I dread losing altitude. I dread next week’s quarterly IRS payment. I dread… I dread your reading this column and discovering that I’m a whiny idiot.</p>
<p>Jesus says this is no way to live. Instead, he urges us to gratefully focus first on God, his kingdom, and his provision. For paragraphs now, wise readers have been wanting to tell me that the medicine for this affliction is to live in the moment, marinating each of them with gratitude. The Lord agrees. And then he says, “[D]o not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.” I smile when he adds, “Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matthew 6:34). That sounds practical, realistic, and very wise.</p>
<p>Time to pack. That which I have dreaded has come to pass. Rats.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72686272023-09-04T11:53:56-05:002023-09-04T15:00:04-05:00“I Come to the Garden” but Not Alone
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<p><strong>I </strong>was sitting out on the patio on a recent evening and enjoying some quiet time. It was almost cool, by which I mean that it was mercifully less than 100.</p>
<p>I’ve got some plants out there that seem to be doing well—considering the oppressive heat and drought. A couple of Mandevilla plants are blooming nicely. A pomegranate plant (believe it or not) is filling in well. Not sure yet what it will need to really bloom, but I need to do some research. I’ve got two or three hibiscus plants (a couple of them out front) that have bravely bloomed some this season in the midst of the scorching heat.</p>
<p>Ah, and I like my night-blooming Cereus plants (from cuttings tracing back to my Granddaddy Key’s plant). A bloom or two early in the season and no more attempts. Their amazing blooms open and close and fill the air with fragrance for one night each. Literally as I write, my brother in Amarillo is staying up to watch several of those blooms on his plants (from cuttings of mine from cuttings of his from cuttings of Granddaddy’s) “pop” on the same night. And he’s got six or seven more shaping up for a few days later. Wow!</p>
<p>When I’m sitting out back and enjoying plants, or doing anything plant-related, I think of my mom. Mom was a plant artist who could grow almost anything. Her mother was, too. Growing up in Robert Lee, Texas, meant not having an intensely fertile “canvas” for plant artists, but Grandmother Key and my mother worked with what they had. Grandmother had a beautiful yard. She loved cacti, and she was always on the lookout for little hollowed out rocks she could use as pots for a wee cactus or a few. When my brothers and I go to the old homeplace there, I sometimes find rocks that I know Grandmother had stockpiled for cactus planters. Looking at the yard, I feel like I should apologize to her. That yard has fallen on hard times, but, amazingly, a few of the plants (and offspring) she started are still there. Very few.</p>
<p>I remember Mom spending lots of hours working in our yard in Amarillo. She did a great job with what she had, and she taught her children how to use a grubbing hoe (her favorite implement) and not to worry about getting dirt under fingernails.</p>
<p>In 1975, when Mom & Dad moved to South Houston, well, that was quite a move. But Mom was rewarded with a canvas worthy of her impressive talents. Say what you will about the “swampiness” and oppressive humidity of that area, the very conditions that make human life tough there make it a plant paradise. I can’t even begin to describe the horticultural beauty she helped foster and lovingly tended in that back yard. I can’t imagine the number of hours she spent out there, but, yes, the yard was gorgeous.</p>
<p>When my mom got sick in 1991, it was obvious that her yard work days would soon be over. I never was sure whether it was the brain tumor or the treatment for the brain tumor that finally killed her in January 1992, but either the tumor or the treatment effectively took her mind away almost from the moment of the diagnosis. That was, by the way, my first experience with hospice care. I’ll never second-guess the decision my folks made to try the chemo and radiation, but for this type of cancer, opting for hospice much sooner would have been much better as the traditional options of slash, burn, or poison were not, barring a miracle, going to be anything but a lengthening of an already terribly trying time.</p>
<p>What I did quickly was to take my camera to Mom’s back yard and get to work on a small attempt at a photo record of that beautiful showplace. I knew that, before long, that once wondrous fertile place would metastasize into uncontrolled chaos, effectively consuming itself and passing away.</p>
<p>I’m not the kind of gardener Mom was, but I do like to watch plants grow, thrive, and bloom. It makes me sad when I drive by a house where a wonderful steward of that lawn/garden lived for years and fostered the beauty—and then was gone. “Look at those flowers!” I used to say. Now, I try not to look. Or I’d look at Mr. So-and-so’s Bermuda grass and know that, if it still looked sickly, it was not yet time for mine to even begin to try to shine. And then he’s gone. And so, too soon, is that verdant beauty.</p>
<p>“You know, dear, you make the same comments every time we pass those yards,” my wife says. “I know,” I reply, “but it just makes me sad.”</p>
<p>But it also brings some perspective. If you love to work with God in growing that sort of green and brilliant beauty, do that with joy. Just remember that the relationships and ties of love that you nurture with humans will last a lot longer and outlive you when you’re gone.</p>
<p>And a little perspective also says that, if you know your Father, you know that nothing is more like him than to surprise you one eternal day with a re-emergence and multiplied magnificence of the garden beauty that you thought was lost and gone forever.</p>
<p>No, our God is never done with nurturing genuine beauty. The real thing is never lost forever.</p>
<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.25in"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;,serif"> </span></p> <b style="font-size: revert;text-indent: 0.25in;color: initial"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;line-height: 115%;, serif">You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></i></b>
<p><i style="font-size: revert;color: initial"><span style="font-size: 12pt;line-height: 115%;, serif">Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;,serif"></span></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72643982023-08-27T22:26:30-05:002023-08-28T01:15:02-05:00Two Kingdoms and Some Perspective<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>n my email today was a survey from the U.S. Congressman from the district where I live. One of the main questions had to do with the first GOP Presidential Debate that was held on Wednesday (the 23rd), in Milwaukee.</p>
<p>Of course, a basic question was (I paraphrase): Did you watch the debate, the rival interview offered at the same time, or neither? I watched the debate. I couldn’t not; I’m interested. I’ve said before that the day I look forward to a repeat of the choice we faced in the 2020 presidential election is the day I’ll be eager to choose between a root canal or a hemorrhoidectomy.</p>
<p>That debate was a chance to check out some of the (at least) theoretical choices. Choosing between it and the rival event was not difficult. Our 45th president had chosen not to be at the debate, and I was glad. I wanted the chance to hear somebody else, even though I knew he’d be, as co-moderator Bret Baier said, “the elephant not in the room,” and his absence would speak rather loudly. Nice double play on words, by the way. A missing elephant among the other Republican elephants. (You know, Republican elephants as opposed to Democrat donkeys).</p>
<p>So, I wanted to hear from the folks who <em>were</em> there. And, I admit, I wanted to watch my own reaction and see if I missed the guy who wasn’t there. I soon found that I didn’t, and that I’d love to try not missing him for a lot longer. I went to bed that night thinking that, though there were certainly many canned and plastic answers<a>—</a>as always at such events—there were also some questions and answers that helped me learn something about those folks.</p>
<p>Several I could happily vote for as they seemed to show the kind of character, integrity, wisdom, experience, knowledge, and maturity we should demand. One of those I’m thinking about, well, she’s always been impressive. (I don’t know if she’s won my vote, but I think she won that night.) Personally, I like the guy who tells the truth and serves it straight up whether you like it or not. A backbone is good (and all too rare). One of these folks stood up when our Constitution and our nation desperately needed his courage. I honor that deeply. He, and I think, most of the rest seem to be good human beings. (We still care, right?) One of the candidates just rubs me a little wrong (as do a couple of his positions); smiling seems to be painful for him. One rubs me a lot wrong (an incredibly naive rookie) and when he smiles my retinas burn (man, those teeth!). And so on.</p>
<p>Yes, at the very least, I found watching that debate quite interesting. I actually ended up thinking that some of these could be good choices. I’m glad I watched it.</p>
<p>But there’s another reason I watched it. I watched it because I’m the brother of Ruth Ann Shelburne. Ruthie, my fifteen years older sister, passed away a number of years ago, but I’ll always remember that, if anything seriously political was coming on TV—such as a national convention, etc.—woe to the person who tried to change the channel. My sister was extremely intelligent, seriously interested in history, government, and politics, and not terribly patient with younger brothers whose desire to watch Star Trek might interfere with her quest for knowledge.</p>
<p>I guess I caught the bug. From her. Which is why I was sitting on the patio with my iPad on that Wednesday night watching the debate outside. In my home, I do not have my sister’s clout regarding the TV.</p>
<p>A few days after the debate, I read an excellent article by Karl Rove in the <em>Wall Street Journal</em>. The bad news is in the title: “America Is Often a Nation Divided.” Rove gives reams of historical evidence. The good news is also in the title. If we think our nation has never before faced and survived times of deep division and disunity, we’re wrong, as this article, and the history we easily forget, makes clear.</p>
<p>Some perspective helps. A lot, I think. Social media rarely provides any. This may be strange, but, for me, thinking about my sister provides some more. I smile when I think about her voracious appetite for televised political conventions and such. But I smile a lot more when I think about her life focus and the King in whom she truly trusted.</p>
<p>Perspective.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72603972023-08-21T11:54:59-05:002023-08-21T12:00:17-05:00“My Own Eyes Are Not Enough for Me”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>’m stuck. Stuck in a reading rut. And I really don’t mind.</p>
<p>A good many years ago, I found myself hooked on the <em>A&E Network</em> series Nero Wolfe. It was a great series with some fine actors. The casting, I know now, was perfect. But producing it was expensive, cheap “reality” TV was beckoning, and it was canceled after two seasons, making way for more of the mind-numbing fare we now expect.</p>
<p>That TV series introduced me to Rex Stout’s <em>Nero Wolfe </em>opus. Over the years, I’ve read the thirty-three books (plus short stories) more than once and consumed the unabridged audio versions.</p>
<p>The test of a good book is whether or not it’s worth re-reading. Granted, the Nero Wolfe novels are not going to crowd William Faulkner’s books for literary excellence, but they’re still great fun. Hey, blackened mahi-mahi with Alexander sauce has its place, but so does a great hamburger. I just like spending time with the eccentric genius detective, Nero Wolfe, and his confidential assistant (and goad), Archie Goodwin.</p>
<p>Great writers create worlds that you enjoy visiting, worlds you can visit at will (which is almost a miracle) when this one becomes tiring or tedious or oppressive, or just when you need something bigger or different or soul-enlarging. As C.S. Lewis said, “The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others.” He did, and so can we.</p>
<p>Spending time in Narnia, the world Lewis himself fashioned, changed my world vastly for the better. Spending time with Aslan there has taught me far more about Christ than I could have known had I simply stayed in this world.</p>
<p>And who could spend time in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth and not fall in love with Bilbo and Frodo and all the rest—and not be hungry to go back there often?</p>
<p>Life is too short, and so many worlds beckon through the magic of books.</p>
<p>It’s not Narnia or Middle Earth, but Nero Wolfe’s old New York brownstone townhouse is a pleasure to enter. His office on the first floor (which he never leaves on business) is a wonderful room. Gourmet chef Fritz Brenner’s kitchen and the dining room, also on the first floor, are paradise for culinary dreams. And on the top floor of the brownstone reside 10,000 orchid plants with enough exploding color to guarantee sensory overload.</p>
<p>Wolfe and Goodwin are certainly parallel in some ways to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, but though Goodwin esteems his employer as the world’s greatest detective, he needles him unmercifully to provoke him into actually working rather than spending all of his time reading, eating, and nursing orchids.</p>
<p>So, through the magic of books, I’ve recently been back spending some leisure time at the old brownstone listening to Wolfe and Goodwin trade verbal jabs as they solve murders, annoy homicide inspector Cramer, give me a glimpse into New York decades ago, and do me the favor of cutting into the time I might spend doom-scrolling on the Internet, yammering incessantly on a cell phone, or being lobotomized by never turning off the TV.</p>
<p>It’s not that I’m feeling very guilty about this latest reading rut, you understand. But it is time now for me to branch out again, and I’ve hit the end of the series once more. Of course, I’ll be knocking on Wolfe’s door again, but for now…</p>
<p>Reading often happens to be a way to find fodder for this column, though that’s far from my primary goal. Usually, it’s not that a specific quotation or incident or insight jumps out from a book, runs around in circles chasing its tail, focuses its puppy dog eyes upward, pants and begs, “Write about me, will ya? Huh? Will ya? Will ya? Will ya, now? Okay?” No, what happens when we read is usually more subtle. Our eyes are just a bit more open to the things we already live with or walk past day in and day out, and just don’t really see.</p>
<p>By the way, it’s simply a fact that no one, believer or skeptic, can claim to be an educated person who doesn’t have some familiarity with the Bible; otherwise, his or her mind remains unable to connect the dots for a jillion biblical references to history, literature, and our world. Believers, specifically, may have read this or that verse or story or psalm or Gospel account many times before, but every time we read it, its Author opens our eyes to another truth about his Son and where life is found, about this world and how to live in it, and about the best story of all that never ends.</p>
<p>“My own eyes are not enough for me.” Not even close.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72568932023-08-14T10:22:33-05:002023-08-21T12:00:17-05:00God’s Smallest Gifts Are Often the Largest<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>T</strong>he most important things in this life are the small things. To be blind to those is the worst sort of blindness.</p>
<p>If you’d come to our house on a recent Saturday in the midst of a very hot August, you would have noticed something large in the back yard. Rising high above the back fence, easily seen from the street in front, was a “blow up” water slide. The thing was huge, taller than our house. And it was loud. The blower fan was making its presence known, but louder still were the giggles and laughter and joyful screams of eighteen kids, from two years old to sixty-seven.</p>
<p>Every summer, we try to get our grandkids here one at a time for a couple or three days each. I love those times.</p>
<p>But we also try to have a day or a few during the summer when all of them come at once. This year we had a one-day blowout with parents and all. Burgers, hot dogs, three kinds of homemade ice cream—and that massive water slide.</p>
<p>The kids have always loved what MawMaw does to make these times happen. She’s the prime force, and I think they’re seeing ever more clearly how much she does. I just do what she says, contributing a little minor work along the way—and play. She does a million small things to make the big thing happen.</p>
<p>It’s been several years since we last arranged for that slide to be here. The first time, we’d imported the grandkids without parents. We got them all in bed the night before the slide day. That’s when I decided it would be a good idea to hook my little toe hard on a doorframe just before bedtime. It hurt. And the 45-degree angle it assumed seemed unnatural. Yep. Broken. Medical confirmation and a plan. Buddy tape it to the adjacent toe and be glad when days later it quit hurting. (Still aches occasionally.) I was not about to forego the water-sliding fun, but I had to climb up the thing on my knees—which I did, many, many times. This year, I got to ascend the thing using both feet, a noticeable improvement.</p>
<p>That slide literally took up most of the yard. It was a very big thing. But the very best things about the day were the small things. Like this…</p>
<p>The sliding was well underway, though I’d not jumped in or on or down yet. I knew I would, but I was seeing to something inside the house when an eight-year-old princess popped through the door and simply asked, “PawPaw, will you play with me?”</p>
<p>It was not a hard decision. I geared up to get drenched and headed out the back door. I climbed up the slide with that little gal and a gaggle of other grands, and several of us perched up at the top for a while. It’s surprisingly comfortable up there. If people would quit squirting you with water, and jumping on you, and throwing your floppy hat down into the mini-lake below, you could almost take a nap up there. Sure, if you get four or five hundred pounds of adults up at the top also, some load balancing becomes a good idea. But at the pinnacle, it’s shaded and cool, though moist. The view is excellent, and, yes, the company, though rambunctious, is better than excellent.</p>
<p>One by one, they squeal and scream, slide down, and splash into the little lake at the bottom of the mountain. That’s a cold splash.</p>
<p>But up at the top, just before you and that eight-year-old gal are about to take the plunge, comes a warm hug, and a sweet little voice, “PawPaw, I love you.”</p>
<p>That, friends, is no small thing. Of course, I’ve had many such beautiful moments with each of these truly “grand” people. Each of them amazes me in different ways and catches me wonderfully by surprise at different times. But every one of those many moments is golden.</p>
<p>I can’t imagine a more beautiful gift from God.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72536562023-08-07T12:19:32-05:002023-08-14T13:45:17-05:00A Good Nap Is Almost Heavenly<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> probably shouldn’t wax lyrical about how much I love naps. You might get the idea that I’m not one of those people who take the view, “I can sleep when I’m dead.” And who believe that people who truly love naps will probably never lead Fortune 500 companies. </p>
<p>Well, as to the latter, I very much suspect that leading a Fortune 500 company is incredibly overrated. Happiness is worth far too much to me to pay the price for that sort of gig, even if it had ever been a realistic threat.</p>
<p>And to address the earlier opinion—“sleeping when dead”—I have concerns. Since I try to avoid the company of people who say, “I have concerns,” you can see how serious I am about this.</p>
<p>Maybe it would be closer to the mark to say that I have questions. I’m not “concerned” about the afterlife. I really have thought seriously about the topic, and I think the classic Christian hope is more logical, reasonable, and true to reality than the popular modern approach: “I can’t believe in that because I’m modern.” And I have little patience with what I consider the “I’ll just spit into the wind and bravely face the darkness and consider myself some sort of tragic hero” approach. Ironically, it’s too easy. Too lazy. Too full of itself. And too presently popular.</p>
<p> While we’re at it, forget the me-centered “I’m counting on more credits than debits” nonsense: “Well, I’ve sure got my share of problems, but I think I’ve probably been a fairly decent person, maybe, if I may say so, more good than bad, and…” On so many levels, Christians, of all people, should know better than to buy that rot. We are not all Bible scholars or theologians, but are we too illiterate to read St. Paul’s “Letter to the Romans”? The good news, the gospel, is that real faith centers on trust in Christ and not at all in us. The Cross pulls my merit totally out of the picture, and “do it yourself” salvation is still as much a lie as when the Apostle Paul warned us about it in the first century. But it’s still popular. Still false.</p>
<p>So, trusting in Christ and not in me, am I looking forward to something after this life that is more truly life than anything I’ve ever known here? Yes. And I’d rather bet that it’s true than bet that it isn’t.</p>
<p>In Christ, I have the only final and eternal Answer that I need. And God’s got this. But our Father gave us our minds, and questions, in perspective, are more than okay.</p>
<p>Now, back to the end that I believe is far more truly a beginning.</p>
<p>I like the idea of “resting in peace.” Did I mention that I like naps? A very, very long one in the arms of the Almighty would be perfectly fine with me. The great scholars and theologians of the Christian faith have long discussed and even debated whether or not a time of “sleep” might follow death, or if God’s people pass immediately and consciously into what Jesus, speaking to the penitent thief on the cross (Luke 23:43), called “paradise.” </p>
<p>Because of such Scriptures, I probably go with the latter position on the topic, though the “sleep” folks are not without some good points of their own. I do suspect that when we talk about what happens “when” after death, and thus bring in the idea of time—and we always do, even when we try not to—we skew the whole discussion and prove only that we’re babes trying to explain trigonometry between diaper changes in the nursery. The wisest people I know usually end up saying they can at least see some good points on both sides and that the only sure answer is that, again, God’s got this, and his arrangements will be more wonderful than we can imagine.</p>
<p>Of this I’m sure: We’re always wrong when we catch ourselves thinking of heaven with any sense of loss. As I think I recall C.S. Lewis having written, the deep kernel of joy within anything here that we rightly love will be beautifully present there but magnified beyond our most wonderful dreams. We lose nothing; we gain everything.</p>
<p>So, you see, though I might be genuinely tempted to ask how perfect bliss can be perfect bliss if no naps are involved, I simply am forced to admit to an appalling level of ignorance and immaturity. Even more serious, I admit that I can hardly imagine the beauty and wonder of an existence where no such thing as physical tiredness or emotional weariness exists at all. Come to think of it, not only are we promised “no tears” there, we are also promised “no sighing.” I sigh a lot.</p>
<p>Real rest. Full and rich, complete and life-filled, utterly infused with joy.</p>
<p>A good nap here is, I suppose, almost too trivial to be mentioned in the same breath as God’s genuine and never-ending “rest.” But neither, I think, should it be counted as anything less than a real blessing and embraced with gratitude. And that is not trivial.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72502272023-07-31T21:56:04-05:002023-07-31T22:00:13-05:00“For the Altitude We Have Received, We Thank Thee”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> am writing this column a bit early this week—mostly as a defensive measure. As long as I’m writing, I’m under air conditioning. And I’m not mowing the second half of my yard.</p>
<p>I mowed the first 5000 square yards of my yard this morning, but then I had a noon meeting. Since it’s 103 degrees now, I’m willing to wait until later to finish.</p>
<p>The legendary David “Davy” Crockett had already served in the U.S. Congress (from Tennessee), but he lost the 1835 election and famously fired a verbal volley toward the fools who failed to again elect him: “You may all go to hell, and I will go to Texas.” This summer, my own feeling is that no choice is required. We can easily do both at the same time. Sometimes things just work out.</p>
<p>That said, I am willing to wait to mow the little chunk of Texas in my vicinity until the hellish temperatures abate just a bit later this evening. One of the nicest features of this region of Texas is that “high plains” are, well, high. Altitude, I’ve decided, is a gift from God. I think also, as I cast my eyes over toward my friends and faithful readers in New Mexico, that mountains and snow are among God’s best gifts, and the real deals require what? Say it together in an attitude of praise to the Almighty, truly the “Most High”: ALTITUDE! (Okay, for purists, I just mention that in this column, I’m using “altitude” and “elevation” pretty much interchangeably, and I’m not distinguishing between “true” altitude, “absolute” altitude, etc. It matters not much here. But it matters a lot if you’re flying a plane.)</p>
<p>In Muleshoe, Texas, where I live, affectionately known as the Greater Muleplex, our altitude is 3800 feet. It’s roughly 70 miles down to Lubbock. I still consider that a (truly boring) trip, though most of our citizens make the trek more often than they change their minds. Make that trip, and you’ll descend to 3200 feet. Keep on heading down—say, on down U.S. Hwy 84 to Post, Texas—and you will have dropped off the Caprock Escarpment (the “Cap”) and managed to lose 600 more feet (down to 2600).</p>
<p>People have gone farther down and survived. Right after our son Jeff went to play college football in Abilene, we called to ask how it was. He said that the level of intensity was definitely high, but, physically, anyone who could survive a Coach David Wood (Muleshoe) workout could survive any workout. But, he said, “the humidity is killing me.” He was still in Texas, but he’d descended much closer to the other option Davy Crockett had mentioned.</p>
<p>Altitude.</p>
<p>You may have noticed that Texas towns/cities list their populations—not their elevations—on their signs. I’ve thought about this. I could be wrong, but I think it’s because most below-the-Cap Texas towns feel some inherent shame in being low-lyers. It’s bad theology—yea, verily, mistaken theology—and it makes no sense at all, really, but I think that deep down they just feel that they must have done something morally wrong to be consigned to the desperately altitudinally challenged nether regions of the state.</p>
<p>It’s like the guy who slips on the ice (oh, heavenly thought, ice!) and straightway opines through his moans, as a bone sticks out through his shin, “Aw, <em>*!@*d^</em>, I wonder what I did to deserve that!?” The rational answer is almost always, nothing really. Ah, but, unbidden, we say it, thereby saying more than we mean to say.</p>
<p>So, conversely, be assured, dear friends who may be consigned to the nether regions in the present heat wave, that I’m aware it’s no moral superiority that allows my neighbors and me to at least experience, even though it is presently 103, some significant cooling down after sundown. We’ll drop into the low 70s sometime after midnight and, for a few hours at least, it will make a little less sense to rush into going berserk because of the heat.</p>
<p>I know. We’re short of scenery here. We’re mostly dry, often-airborne dirt with some scorched and drought-stricken crops scattered around. But at least up here we get a wee bit of daily relief in the evenings.</p>
<p>I’ve managed now to put off lawn-mowing long enough to catch maybe a 10-degree break before I fire up the mowing machine.</p>
<p>Yes, friends, that’s the blessing of altitude. Doubt I can pull it off, but I sure would like to import some more of it. Bring in a mountain or two. And way more snow. If I can figure that out, I intend to propose listing the newly-inflated elevation prominently on our town’s sign. Along with a big thermometer so we can watch the evening temps drop even more quickly.</p>
<p>If that happens, I’ll probably need the Lord’s help to watch my attitude—about my altitude.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-63a4497e37edc83f2f3aef5a0e206022"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72465862023-07-24T12:33:23-05:002023-07-31T22:00:13-05:00Good Words Can Point to Nuggets of Truth<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> enjoy reading, and I particularly enjoy reading good columnists. “Good” may mean that I agree with them. I can be narrow that way. But “good” also means that they make me think. I do that rarely enough that I appreciate the help.</p>
<p>My favorite columnists are my favorite columnists in large part because they’re good at wielding words to cut through fog and haze and mental mushiness. At least, they help me see what’s going on around us all through the eyes of someone I’ve learned to trust as a no-nonsense observer. At best, I get to glide along for a while on words given wings by a writer who is a master at launching them.</p>
<p>Just FYI, the late Charles Krauthammer was one of my favorites. His books, especially the compilations of his columns, are incredibly good. I’ve always enjoyed George Will, a man guaranteed to expand your vocabulary and slow to put up with nonsense. A lover of baseball (and a baseball scholar!), he’s good at calling balls and strikes. His writing pointed me toward the late William Zinsser who literally wrote the book <em>On Writing Well</em>—and wrote brilliantly. I love reading Lance Morrow. “Brilliant” is not over-much praise for him as well.</p>
<p>My favorite columnist for a good while now has been Peggy Noonan. Some of the best money I spend is for (this sounds like a contradiction in terms) the online version of the <em>Wall Street Journal</em> print edition. Their regular columnists are very good—and they have Peggy Noonan, the best of all, I think. Her weekly columns are more than worth the price of the subscription.</p>
<p>I hear many people boiling over these days about media bias. I don’t blame them; the slants are obvious. All I have to do is mention “far to mostly right” or “far to mostly left,” and you can immediately name news organizations occupying those slots.</p>
<p>I was once standing at a border crossing between Uganda and Kenya when a Greyhound-type bus rolled past. It was rolling under its own power, but it had obviously “rolled” before. Over and over. It looked like a barely mobile parallelogram, a four-sided object, kind of like a matchbox squashed out of square with wheels attached. It was so whomper-jawed that the windows were broken out and the outside corners of the tall seats jutted out through the geometric plane on one side.</p>
<p>Our national news is often like that. With editorials and commentaries, you expect opinion. But my opinion is that with far too much of the national news, we get slant. Like that bus, it rolls down the highway, listing or almost tumbling off left or right. That is wrong, unethical, and unprofessional, but it’s been a long time since it surprised us much. The various news organizations have long ago pasted their ads on their chosen sides of the slanting bus.</p>
<p>I like it when I have the feeling that I’m reading—traveling on a bus—that at least makes an attempt not to roll down the road sideways. The news is reported “straight” and the commentary is labeled as such. Hearing or reading such, I feel that maybe I’m heading down the road toward at least something that squares a bit with reality, that I’ve learned something. Maybe even some truth.</p>
<p>One of the things I enjoy about a good column is that, even as the issues and news items of the day change, some of the nuggets of truth the columnists dig out in their particular mining still glitter days and months and even decades later.</p>
<p>How’s this for prediction? In one of his columns, G. K. Chesterton (no one ever road words like Chesterton) wrote, “We shall soon be in a world in which a man may be howled down for saying that two and two make four” (Aug. 18, 1926; thanks to Brad Shorr for his compilation of Chesterton quotes from <em>The Illustrated London News</em>).</p>
<p>And, regarding political parties, “I do not particularly object to the pot calling the kettle black. The Party System is made like that. But I do strongly object to the pot calling the kettle white” (Chesterton, Feb. 21, 1914).</p>
<p>But the real reason I suppose that good columnists write, and that I enjoy reading their work, is again put into words by Chesterton: “I have gone through most of my life looking for an uninteresting subject—or even an uninteresting person. It is the romance of my life that I have failed to find either of them” (Jan. 11, 1913).</p>
<p>And there’s a deep truth. Our Creator made a world full of marvels, and most marvelous of all are our fellow beings.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72429492023-07-16T22:27:16-05:002023-07-24T15:15:16-05:00“I’m Okay. I’m Just Tired.”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“I</strong>’m okay. I’m just tired.”</p>
<p>I don’t know what you usually say if you’re ever a bit tired and down and, truth be told, as you look around at our world and society, deeply disappointed.</p>
<p>But that’s what I say. To others and to myself at those times. I hope most folks don’t think of me as being depressive and depressing. I hope my tombstone has something engraved on it pointing to the real hope I absolutely believe is ours in Christ. But, yes, on some days, I figure that stone will say: “I’m okay. I’m just tired.”</p>
<p>Living in this world has always been tiring. And lots of people have had, and do have, things a lot harder than we do. I’m a wimp, and I know it. I should be far more grateful, and I know it. Which disappoints me in me a great deal.</p>
<p>No tribal warlord is hauling off my grandchildren. No “dear leader” is starving me so he can play with nuclear warheads. No sawed-off dictator is dropping bombs on my head and on daycare centers and hospitals while moaning to anyone who will listen (shame on us if we do) that he’s been seriously provoked and can’t be blamed.</p>
<p>“In times like these, it helps to remember that there have always been times like these,” a wise person once said. True, I think. But a lot of us do seem a bit more than usually tired. Stuff adds up. I hesitate to start listing much.</p>
<p>But, wow, when you think about it, in just the last few years… I’m talking about all of us here. Not even counting the individual challenges that come to each of us personally. Just a taste here. Serious racial strains and then riots, looting, and arson in summer 2020 in Oregon. Such behavior is never defensible. Then the mess at the Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021. No way that was defensible; it was shameful and pathetic. Oh, and the 2020-21 ham-handed withdrawal from Afghanistan. Disgusting.</p>
<p>And the politics connected? Pathetic. People, including chief executives, trying to defend the indefensible are always pathetic. In the military, generals presiding over serious wrecks on their watch are almost always held accountable by some combination of reduction in rank and pay, forced retirement, etc. I wonder why at the voting booth we don’t seem to hold Commanders-in-Chief just as accountable. I love the cartoon where one of our recent presidents (I’d make it two, and provide two horses) is handed the reigns of a horse: “Here’s a horse, pard, and there’s the sunset. You know what to do.” If only. How lobotomized and spineless do our political parties have to be to rush us, one more time, toward a choice in 2024 that the majority of Americans greet with as much enthusiasm as the choice between a near-fatal bout of hemorrhoids or half a dozen root canals?</p>
<p>Oh, and I almost forgot (not really, but I’d like to) about a little pandemic. Brutal and 10 out of 10 on the stress-scale, even before it was politicized.</p>
<p>So, are we all tired and a little depressed? And maybe a lot disappointed because, for some reason, we expected better? Yes.</p>
<p>I need to listen to the late Dallas Willard, one of the wisest spiritual mentors I can imagine. He warned, “You have only to ‘stay tuned,’ and you can arrive at a perpetual state of confusion and, ultimately, despair with no effort at all.” Ouch.</p>
<p>So, what to do?</p>
<p>Tune in much more and much more often to God’s wisdom in his word than to society’s idiocy always in our faces. Focus on what is good and permanent, not what is maddening and fleeting.</p>
<p>It wouldn’t hurt to demand with our votes some combination of wisdom, character, and integrity from politicians, even as we often remind ourselves to “trust not in powerful princes, mortals who cannot save” (Psalm 146:3). The psalmist goes on to say, basically, that they die quickly and decay into dust. I admit to indulging in a grim smile when one commentator recently used the term “actuarial arbitrage,” making the not very nice claim that leaders of both parties wouldn’t be all that cut up if a blood clot or myocardial infarction solved their 2024 candidate problem in a way that required no courage at all on their part. Nope, not nice, but true, I bet.</p>
<p>Remember my Dallas Willard quote? Jesus himself told his disciples long ago, as he was introducing a great parable in Luke 18, that “they ought always to pray and not lose heart.” So, how not to become cynical and deeply disappointed? Jesus tells us where to “tune in.” Keep praying, he says. And on a much lower level, I might suggest that, once you’ve done the above, it might be good to call a friend who could use some encouragement. Or go dig in the garden or mow the yard. Positive change. Small, but real.</p>
<p>And, of course, we do very well to remember our true King and the kingdom that can never be shaken. His really is “the kingdom, and the power, and the glory <em>forever</em>.”</p>
<p>Oh, I so badly need to focus on that truth—if I want to have a healthy soul, the real and life-giving confidence of a child of God, and a much better epitaph than “I’m just tired.” </p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72397442023-07-10T18:35:36-05:002023-07-10T19:45:05-05:00Praying at a Condemnation Hearing<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>hen I was a much younger preacher, I was occasionally asked to offer an invocation, a prayer, at the opening of my hometown’s City Commission meetings. Once my part was done, I often stayed around for a while just as an interested citizen to see what was going on that might be interesting.</p>
<p>On a few rare occasions, I found myself at a meeting where “condemnation hearings” were on the agenda, and they were indeed interesting. The city couldn’t condemn (and order torn down) somebody’s dilapidated building without going through due process, which is certainly as it should be.</p>
<p>But the time had to come when the owner, some of them as dilapidated as their decaying buildings, either cleaned up the mess or ran out of time and excuses (though the excuses could be entertaining). Eventually, for the good of the city and all of us who preferred not to live in a slum, the order was pronounced: Condemned! None too soon for most of them.</p>
<p>So, surprise! Condemnation is not without its positive aspect. But I’m thinking right now about a type of condemnation that is not positive at all, a feeling that I’m afraid oppresses us all from time to time and, some folks, almost continually. It’s the nagging suspicion that we simply don’t measure up. As individuals, as family members, as students, as employees, as… you name it.</p>
<p>I hope you had parents whose love was unconditional, who wanted the best for you but whose love you knew was there always, through successes and failures. Priceless! But too many folks have had parents whose love was, or at least, felt, “transactional” or conditional.</p>
<p>Maybe you have a great boss whose support you can count on. But too many people work for bosses whose management style is more bull whip than affirmation and haven’t given a real compliment to anyone since the Carter administration.</p>
<p>So, it’s rather ironic—stay with me here—that before we can hear the truly good news of Christ, we need to hear this news: no one measures up. Not by themselves. No one.</p>
<p>“Ah, but I’m so religious, I measure up.” That’s a lie.</p>
<p>“I keep all the rules, so I measure up.” Another lie.</p>
<p>“Well, at least I’m closer to the mark than you are.” Lie. The best person you’ve ever known or heard of is in the same leaky boat we’re all in. Mother Theresa. The Apostle Paul. No one measures up completely. (Read Romans 7 to hear St. Paul’s take on this. In fact, I dare anyone to seriously read Romans, grapple with its truth, and not find it life-changing.)</p>
<p>Oh, we can try to lower God’s standards. Folks of the toxically religious sort (not all is toxic) pick a few pet rules they can keep and ignore the really hard ones, the ones that are hard to measure but truly affect souls. Pharisees in all ages pick their favorite rules and look down on others. It’s a game. A lie. A delusion.</p>
<p>So, the Apostle Paul calls us all out. In Romans 3, he says, no less than three times, as if— exactly as if—he’s trying to call us out, trash all of our excuses. “No one is righteous; no, not one.”</p>
<p>If we don’t, if we can’t, measure up on our own even to our standards, much less God’s, where does that leave us?</p>
<p>In a bad spot. In deep need. So, the apostle himself cries out, “What a wretched human I am! Who will set me free?” (Romans 7).</p>
<p>Then he rings out the answer that takes the focus completely off of us—off of our bad-ness and off of our supposed goodness: “Thanks be to God! God did [what no law code and what no human effort can do] by sending his own Son.”</p>
<p>The perfect sacrifice, the Son “measured up” completely, and those who trust in him partake fully in the pardon and the power only he brings.</p>
<p>“A continuous, low-lying black cloud” hung over us (Romans 8:1, <em>The Message</em>). Guilt and fear and, yes, condemnation. And if being right with God was something we scraped and struggled to attain by our own effort, it would make a sad sort of sense to live in fear, always feeling condemned—or working very hard to ignore that nagging uncertainty.</p>
<p>But if he has done the work, always, fully, and forever, then our task is not to earn something that can only be received as a gift. Our job, and a full time job it is, is to trust him. A life lived to honor and thank him is the only proper response. No more fear. Joy, security, peace, deep hope, freedom.</p>
<p>And the focus? It’s never on us. When we do poorly, we know we are forgiven, and he lifts us up to move on. When we do well, we know who empowers that, and we thank him. We’ll find we won’t have a self-righteous leg to stand on. No, but we’ll have two good legs to dance on.</p>
<p>The focus is where it should be. The worship is where it should be. No more games. And now? No condemnation.</p>
<p>“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:1).</p>
<p>If you want a condemnation hearing, you won’t find it regarding anything God builds. I’d suggest a good worship service instead. A song or a few there. And a song in your heart.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72361532023-07-02T20:38:27-05:002023-07-02T22:45:02-05:00The Apostle Paul Had Seen “the Nightfall”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>hen St. Paul stakes with words God’s claim of sovereignty over the circumstances of our lives and proclaims the Almighty’s promise of ever-present and never-failing love, the great apostle does so with his eyes wide open.</p>
<p>“What can separate us from the love of Christ?” he asks, and when he lists among the weapons of the enemy, “trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword,” his list is much more than hypothetical. These are the words of a man who has opened his eyes on many mornings and seen these very darts of Satan aimed ominously in his direction.</p>
<p>Long before Peter Jackson’s breathtaking motion pictures captured the hearts of theater audiences, <em>The Lord of the Rings</em>, by J.R.R. Tolkien was my all-time favorite literary work. (Tolkien thought of it as one but the publisher thought one massive volume would be massively daunting to readers, and it became three books; and <em>The Hobbit</em> is really the prequel to all.). I’d far rather spend one day in a hobbit hole with Bilbo or Frodo Baggins than a week in a mansion with any king or president or head of state I can think of (even the ones I’d be willing to invite into my home).</p>
<p>Some of my favorite lines in the first of the trilogy’s books, <em>The Fellowship of the Ring</em>, are these as the faithful dwarf Gimli comments to the king of the elves: “Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.” And Elrond answers wisely, “Maybe, but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.”</p>
<p>The Apostle Paul had seen the nightfall. He’d seen trouble, hardship, persecution, and all the rest. He’d been on the receiving end of the very worst of Satan’s weapons. And that makes his resounding affirmation of faith all the more impressive and trustworthy. No empty words, his.</p>
<p>Paul had indeed seen the nightfall, but still he writes with utter confidence, not in his own strength but in the strength of his King: “No, in all these things, we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.” Nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God!</p>
<p>God’s people are more than conquerors even in the midst of tragedy when tears seem to be more constant than any other companion. God wraps us up in the Father’s embrace in the midst of our tears, and the Almighty cries with us. Remember Jesus’ tears before the tomb of Lazarus?</p>
<p>God’s people are more than conquerors even as they are lying flat on their backs wracked with the pain of physical disease because they know that through Christ all pain and suffering will one day be forever banished and, even now, the disease that can kill our bodies can never kill souls filled with God’s genuine life, and one day death itself will forever die. And, yes, since Christ baptized even suffering with his own blood, no suffering, for those who trust him and live in him, need be meaningless. It may be horrible. It may be almost unendurable. But it is not meaningless.</p>
<p>God’s people are more than conquerors, and nothing in all of creation or beyond can take away the victory that is ours in Christ Jesus.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72327992023-06-26T13:12:09-05:002023-06-26T14:30:14-05:00“Procrastination and I Are Conjoined Twins”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>t’s just a sad fact that for a decade or two, the deadline for this column to be sent to the not-even-close-to-a-hundred newspapers that publish it is, Monday, each week, at 12:00 noon.</p>
<p>A sad corollary to the sad fact above is that I seem to be completely incapable of writing the column early (unless an editor makes a cogent plea for such). When I say that I tend toward procrastination, what I mean is that procrastination tends to permeate every cell in my body. I doubt that I will ever know how well I might work were I not under pressure, because under pressure is pretty much the only way I work. I am impressed with my more disciplined colleagues. Disgusted. But impressed.</p>
<p>So, on Sunday evenings, usually rather late, I try to get a few words keyed into the computer for the column due the next day. If I can just nail down a paragraph or two, just make a start, words seem to continue to flow on the next morning. Unfortunately, on as many Sunday nights as not, I stare at the blank screen. My brain wriggles and writhes and I get, for my trouble, a yawn and a deep longing for the blissful oblivion of sleep. Sleep—I love it, and I’m good at it—is all too soon interrupted by Monday morning. About mid-morning, need and adrenaline kick in, and I write.</p>
<p>I read a fascinating book recently that recounted stories of a number of famously creative people, most writers, and their writing and working and living routines. Those routines varied widely. Some worked in spurts. Not at all for days and then furiously. Some worked intensely for hours, and then took long walks or long breaks or long sessions with friends at the local tavern. Most fell into or actively planned regular daily routines, though some were regularly and incredibly irregular.</p>
<p>For most of those folks, varying amounts—often copious amounts—of caffeine, nicotine, and alcohol were not uncommonly involved. I’m just reporting here. The book did not feature folks writing “faith” columns or regularly contributing to <em>The Baptist Standard</em>. All I can say personally is that I can’t imagine being so foolhardy as trying to write without the aid of coffee.</p>
<p>No surprise, it also helps if everyone else in the house is unconscious and it’s past the hour when civilized people usually call civilized people. In deep need, and if anyone nearby is still awake, I find noise-canceling headphones helpful—set to be almost totally silent, or to play some nice, light, and lyric-less saxophone and/or piano jazz, or to emit “white noise” such as airplane sounds (YouTube; people actually record this stuff and, surprise, for me it kind of works).</p>
<p>I hate Monday deadlines. I admit to having a weird view of Mondays. I love what happens on Sundays, but it’s no contradiction to say that I like Mondays because they’re as far as you can get from Sundays. In general, I like taking Mondays pretty much off. Except there’s that Monday deadline. Traditionally, a Monday break has been a good choice for pastors and barbers. One of my brothers, also a pastor, takes Fridays off because he says he’d hate to feel as bad on his days off as he would if he took Mondays. I understand. But did I mention that procrastination and I are conjoined twins? I need to grab hold of Monday before I put off taking it off and it gets away.</p>
<p>But there’s that deadline.</p>
<p>I should be able on, say, a Wednesday, to get Wednesday to self-identify as a Monday (poking reality in the eye is popular these days), get the juices flowing, take a couple of hours, and write. I should also be able to write a couple or three columns early. (I do, sometimes. Usually they’re “blow off steam” columns that get key-banged out and then stuck in a computer folder and molder, a good thing both for writer and potential readers.)</p>
<p>In any case, I’m about out of time explaining, lamely, why I’m about out of time.</p>
<p>I could nail this one down right now. Tack on something like… “Our Creator never rushes, never procrastinates, always does exactly what we need at exactly the right time. It was, after all, ‘when the time had fully come’ that ‘God sent forth his Son.’” That would morph it into something almost useful as a Christmas column. It would be finished, set aside, and ready. Not great, but ready. Months ahead.</p>
<p>Yeah, I could. But it’s Monday. 11:51 a.m. And I need it now.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72289642023-06-19T11:39:32-05:002023-06-19T12:00:12-05:00Garages, Dogs, and God’s Gifts<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>G</strong>arages are like dogs.</p>
<p>All dogs are descended, canine genetic researchers tell us, from wolves. (A canine genetic researcher is not, I should mention, a dog who does genetic research. “Genetic canine researcher” is nonsensical. “Researchers who study canine genetics.” There ya go.) No, your garage has nothing to do with wolves. Be patient.</p>
<p>Chihuahuas are dogs. Weimaraners are dogs. Pomeranians are dogs.</p>
<p>My garage is a garage. My friend’s garage, down the street, is a garage. Same word. Descended from the French word <em>garer</em>, which has to do with “docking” or “mooring” as in “docking a boat.” And also the Old French word <em>varer</em>, “to protect oneself against.”</p>
<p>The theory is, I suppose, that a garage is a place where a vehicle can be docked and kept safe. But, in practicality, my garage bears about as much resemblance to my friend’s garage as a chihuahua does to a pit bull. Still, we use the same word for his and for mine.</p>
<p>My friend’s garage has walls. Mine does, too. But you can see his garage walls; you can see only a few square inches of mine. When I wanted to hang up a dart board, I was forced to create a fold-down wooden panel upon which to mount it. No wall space available.</p>
<p>He can park a car, as in “docking” or “mooring” his car, or even two, in his garage. If I can ever park even one car in mine, I’m rather amazed.</p>
<p>His garage is clean. I wonder if he ever does anything, makes anything, putters about working on anything. His garage is too clean to provide evidence of useful activity beyond his work.</p>
<p>My garage is dirty. Pretty much always. Evidence of activity, useful or not, abounds. I do projects, make stuff (much of it mostly useless), and occasionally fix stuff. And I keep old stuff. New stuff. Almost all stuff. I putter around in the garage, cutting stuff, sanding stuff, soldering stuff, gluing stuff, occasionally taking a break to offer stogie incense as I pause the messing with stuff. Then I continue nailing stuff, mixing stuff, painting stuff, staining stuff, destroying stuff, building stuff, and piling up all sorts of collateral stuff dust and debris. (Debris is from the Middle French word <em>debriser</em>, “to break into pieces.” Yep.)</p>
<p>A person could eat off of my friend’s garage floor. Even sweeping mine is a dirty job. And blowing it out should never be done without donning a mask or respirator.</p>
<p>My friend’s garage has about four tools, catalogued and hung perfectly above a small unused workbench. My garage includes many tools and many tool duplications because it’s always true that one or two of the same tools that I have are lost or buried in the garage, and I “needed” another one. If I get hit by a truck or stroke out, the kids are gonna have a tough job mining that garage, but they will occasionally find, I predict, a lost nugget of treasure. Even now for me, a rare “clean the garage day” is frustrating, but it’s also almost as good as Christmas when I find that which was lost. (Hmm. Sounds like a parable.)</p>
<p>My garage. His garage. Both theoretically docking places for vehicle safe-keeping. His, mostly used for that very purpose. Mine, much more used than his but not for that purpose. My garage, a shaggy Australian Shepherd. His garage, a hairless Xoloitzcuintle (some people actually prefer a “hairless” dog with a “primitive temper”).</p>
<p>Okay, I admit that my friend is a fictional composite whose character is based on the garages of several friends whose garages are too clean to belong to mentally healthy and well-balanced people like me.</p>
<p>But you get it, right? All dogs are dogs. All garages are garages. But inside the same category, their specific iterations are spectacularly different.</p>
<p>This is not profound. It is mostly, I suppose, evidence that I need some petting the dog time, or some garage time. Or some time off from writing stuff time.</p>
<p>But it does remind me that it’s no contradiction to say that even as God’s children are more alike than they are different, the gifts we are given can be very much alike, even as they are incredibly different. The same. Different.</p>
<p>I need to think more about this. Maybe in the garage… Maybe discuss it with the dog…</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72252712023-06-12T11:38:01-05:002023-06-19T12:00:12-05:00A Change That Begins at Home<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“C</strong>hange. What we need is change!”</p>
<p>That word and sentiment, or a jillion variations of them, work well as political campaign slogans. Toss the rather plastic word out there, and most folks immediately think of some fairly solid and even specific improvements in their circumstances, though slick politicians usually get away with mouthing “change” in vaporous terms.</p>
<p>Of course, there’s always an exception. Something really specific. Chickens. </p>
<p>I found myself thinking of the old political slogan that promised voters “a chicken in every pot.” That is change, positive change, if your cookpot is normally chicken-less. So, vote for Herbert Hoover, urged an ad paid for by Hoover supporters (not an ad created by him) during the 1928 election, and there’ll be “a chicken in every pot” and, they enlarged on the promise, “a car in every garage.”</p>
<p>Do a very little research and you’ll find that, though he was wise enough not to promise it (writes Brian Burrell in <em>American Heritage</em>), King Henry IV of France (1553-1610) said, “I want there to be no peasant in my realm so poor that he will not have a chicken in his pot every Sunday” (Wiktionary).</p>
<p>I need to dig some more to find out how that went for Henry IV, but I already know that 1929’s stock market crash resulted in many fewer chickens, pots, cars, and garages, a lot of misery—and nothing good for Herbert Hoover.</p>
<p>“Change” is a one-syllable word, slides off the tongue easily, and once launched, leaves the taste buds with a nice “finish,” the sweet taste and mild buzz of a quick nip of virtue.</p>
<p>Hmm. I didn’t really mean to teeter into an alcoholic metaphor, but here we are. And sometimes I do wonder what our society has been drinking.</p>
<p>Don’t we know that “change” isn’t confined to a positive direction, and that we need to be careful which direction we choose? Starting the day by hanging your little toe on a bedpost counts as change. So does a flare-up of hemorrhoids. I don’t plan, without some serious thought first, to hold up a sign recommending “CHANGE.” </p>
<p>If you mean “change” politically, I’d personally (forgive me) love to see a presidential election where Elmer Fudd and Jabba the Hutt are not our options yet again, and we might actually elect someone who could at least “move the needle” positively with some genuine combination of integrity, character, discipline, and wisdom. That’s a change I could go for and one we should insist upon.</p>
<p>What occurs to me, though, at this moment in June, is that, if we really want positive and amazing change that truly matters, we can let chickens and pots and presidents simmer on the back burner for just a bit. You see…</p>
<p>I can hardly imagine a change that would bless this land more than for each of us who are fathers to ask the Father of us all to help us fill that role as we should. To do that, we need God’s help. We don’t have to be perfect, but we do have to be present.</p>
<p>What would better bless this land than for fathers to ask for their Father’s help to love their children and, yes, do so with a combination of integrity, character, discipline, and wisdom?</p>
<p>Being a real father has more to do with unselfish and committed love than with loveless and self-centered procreation. I’ve always loved the words of the amazing leading man and famed “stereotypical Latin lover type” Ricardo Montalbán: “A great lover is someone who can satisfy one woman her entire lifetime and be satisfied with one woman his entire lifetime. It is not someone who goes from woman to woman; any dog can do that.” He meant it. He and his first and only wife were married for sixty-three years (until her death).</p>
<p>A real father “mans up” and makes the practical choices to genuinely love his wife and his kids more than himself.</p>
<p>A real father knows that love, to be genuine, must be freely given and can’t be earned, but that genuine respect must be earned and can be received in no other way.</p>
<p>A real father knows that his wife and kids will forgive many flaws and failures if they know they have his heart.</p>
<p>“What we need is change! We need to change the world!”</p>
<p>Can you imagine a more practical and beneficial change in our world than to have more fathers who truly seek to love their families humbly and unselfishly? We desperately need many more committed fathers than we have, but even a few more in each of our communities would change them immeasurably for the better.</p>
<p>Guys, do you want to change the world? Start at home, and make sure your heart is there. No accolade the world offers could mean more than the respect of the family you’ve chosen to genuinely love.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72215312023-06-05T13:00:30-05:002023-06-12T13:15:12-05:00Peer Pressure, a New Mower, and Wisdom<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> bowed to peer pressure recently. Ironically, the pressure came from the very offspring I’d always sternly counseled to avoid peer pressure.</p>
<p>Yes, and I’d also taught them to resist blaming other people for their own actions. None of this, “He made me mad, so I decked him.” Nope. You let the kid punch your buttons and you—yes, son, you!—chose to deck him. You made the choice. Now, own it, and deal with the consequences.</p>
<p>Whether or not your taking the jerk down a notch or two was, in fact, a benefit to humanity is another question. But it’s the stated policy of this family (I paraphrase from the <em>Shelburneshire Code of Conduct</em>, Chapter 2, Section 3, Paragraph 21) that it’s foolish to let fools punch your buttons, and, generally speaking, we avoid punching people even if they need to be punched.</p>
<p>All to say, I did bow to peer pressure. No one made me.</p>
<p>It’s just that in addition to seven incredible grandchildren, eight mostly above average grand-dogs (I include one bug-eyed pug who might lower the average a bit), and, presently, a few chickens, ducks, and ducklings, our corner of the Shelburne clan has come to own three zero-turn riding lawn mowers.</p>
<p>Those things are amazing. I admit that I got to the point that I couldn’t walk past one of them parked in one of our family garages without coming seriously close to breaking the commandment, “Thou shalt not covet…”</p>
<p>Well, “thou” really shouldn’t, but I guess “I” really did. Anyway, I found myself reading reviews of the various brands and options of those amazing mowers that will, quite literally, turn on a dime. They’d be incredibly fun to pilot even if you never turned the blades on. They have rather massive cutting widths, and I figured that using one of them would cut not just grass but the time it takes me to cut our grass in about half. The seems like good stewardship of time, certainly a virtue.</p>
<p>I should mention here that my wife and I are approaching 48 years of marriage. (That’s the real number. We didn’t test drive for 12 years before taking vows.) For a number of those years, I’ve counted pretty heavily on the fact that it would likely be too much trouble for her to break in another one. I may at times be presumptuous, but I do know that buying a very high-dollar item (these gold-plated mower things count) without running the idea by her would be a mistake.</p>
<p>So, I flew a balloon or two. Just commented as I passed a son’s grass-cutting machine, “Wow, it must be nice to have one of those! Hmm. Wonder how much that thing would cut down a three-hour mowing challenge? Ten thousand square feet of yard. Boy, my back’s still sore from the last time I tackled mowing the estate.”</p>
<p>She saw it coming. Caught me fiddling with what amounted to zero-turn lawn mower porn on my computer. Drooling.</p>
<p>Yep, she knew the signs. And, retired municipal judge that she is, issued an edict bereft of judicial authority but scary nonetheless, “You can get one of those, but <em>only after you clean out the garage</em>.”</p>
<p>So, of course, I did.</p>
<p>I maintain that I did. She maintains that the job is not yet even close to finished. I admit that she has a point, but I counter that now, with a little effort, her minivan will fit.</p>
<p>She charges that I cheated. I say that it was because I figured she’d be happier if I went ahead and purchased the mower while she was away delivering “Meals on Wheels” that I did so.</p>
<p>We’re not in the right denomination for me to simply argue that the Creator of the universe was on my side and wanted me to have this machine. “Well, dear, I just felt led…” Nor is my wife gullible.</p>
<p>I’m still working on the garage. She has even test-driven the mower, though not engaged the blades yet. Hasn’t stuck a blade in me, yet, either.</p>
<p>I wish I could blame my sons. I still claim that at least a few of my points in favor of buying this machine were at least partially rational.</p>
<p>I know. Jesus was certainly right when he said, basically, that Lady Wisdom has many folks who claim to be her children, but, to change the metaphor, the “proof’s in the pudding.” Wisdom is real if it produces worthwhile results.</p>
<p>Hey, it’s been raining ever since I bought that mower. More rain at once than we’ve seen in years. To a friend who said, “It’s starting to smell like Houston,” I replied, “It’s not smog; that, my friend, is mildew.”</p>
<p>Mower. Moisture. Mildew. Muleshoe. Marriage.</p>
<p>There you have it. Five M-words. Oh, wait! Six. Mulch.</p>
<p>And everywhere I look, the evidence mounts. The mower is green. Grass is green. The mower has a very comfortable seat. My back likes that seat.</p>
<p>I was meant to have this mower. Wisdom. Proof. Pudding. All there. The purchase is even biblically sound.</p>
<p>Surely, this will now be clear to my wife. She’s far too wise not to recognize wisdom when she sees it.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72174582023-05-29T12:03:06-05:002023-06-05T13:00:53-05:00“A New Command I Give You”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>f Jesus had done no other miracle (and he did many), I wonder if getting the twelve guys we now call apostles to spend time in the same room and not kill each other might not be a pretty impressive feat.</p>
<p>Okay, let’s go ahead and take Judas out of the mix. But still…</p>
<p>Maybe it’s not terribly surprising that the fishermen would get along. Two pairs of them were brothers, of course. Generally, that helps. Except when it really, really doesn’t. I think it did. (And, by the way, the list of apostles includes another pair of brothers, too.)</p>
<p>Then I find myself quickly thinking of Matthew and Simon. Not Simon Peter, Simon the Zealot.</p>
<p>Matthew, of course, was a tax collector before he was an apostle. Does anybody like tax collectors all that much? I’ll apologize in advance, but most of us likely have in our heads as the stereotypical IRS agent a bureaucrat who, through years of government training, has been relieved of most of his common sense and much of the “milk of human kindness.” I’m sure the stereotype isn’t fair, and many are really fine folks. Years ago, I played tennis with an IRS attorney who was quite a good guy.</p>
<p>But I doubt that any of the other apostles were, at first, overjoyed to have a tax collector in their midst. Tax collectors at that time and place were working hand in glove with the hated occupiers, the Romans. Sure, they were required to collect Caesar’s taxes, but the Romans didn’t mind if the collectors collected more than Caesar’s share and pocketed the extra. So, tax collectors were considered to be greedy filchers, traitors to their own people. I doubt that any of the other apostles were at first happy to play tennis with Matthew—or even to breathe the same air. I’m fairly confident that Simon the Zealot was not.</p>
<p>Traditionally, Simon, one of the most “obscure” of the apostles, is thought to have received his descriptive name to distinguish him from Simon Peter. Again, traditionally (a little study on this is interesting), most folks have identified him as a member of the Zealots, a faction of Jewish nationalists who advocated the violent overthrow of Roman rule.</p>
<p>You may have noticed that the difference between being zealous and a “zealot” is vast. Personally, I try to avoid zealots, one-issue folks who may be ever so correct on the “issue,” but who are quite wrong in letting their laser focus turn into tunnel vision that blinds them to the bigger picture. Sight-challenged, they drive too fast and run over people.</p>
<p>Along this line, we might be correct in supposing that Simon the Zealot was what we’d call a nationalist. Like zeal and zealotry, patriotism and nationalism are not the same things. Patriotism leads one to love his or her country, which is often a noble thing. Nationalism, on the other hand, can easily turn malignant as it falls prey to easy “answers” to complex problems, stokes anger and division and seeks scapegoats to blame, and bows to charismatic leaders with quick and simplistic “solutions,” a deep hunger for power, and rotten hearts. This stuff is nothing new. And people lap up the poison like a frenzied cat guzzling antifreeze.</p>
<p>If Simon the Zealot was a card-carrying member of the group(s) just described, he may well have been running with folks who’d just as soon put a knife in a Roman as look at one.</p>
<p>So, we have Matthew the tax collector (traitorous Roman-lover) and Simon the Zealot (violent Roman-hater) sitting around the same table.</p>
<p>Also around that table, add in all the usual personality differences and clashes any group of folks must deal with. Simon Peter is loud and impetuous. Thomas is turned to be quiet, maybe often brooding and introverted, even depressive. And so on.</p>
<p>But those differences, and so many more we’re unaware of, soon faded into insignificance compared to what bound them all together—their love of the same Lord and, at the heart of it all, his love for them.</p>
<p>It’s right after the Last Supper (and, thus, soon after Judas had left) that Jesus says: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” John 13:34-35).</p>
<p>In so many ways, Christ’s people have often failed at keeping this command. When we do, we damage our witness, dishonor Christ’s cross, and thus betray our Lord.</p>
<p>But we’ve not always failed. And some of the most beautiful examples of love this world has ever seen have come when those who wear the name of Christ have loved each other deeply, heart to heart, in spite of real differences. That kind of love is an amazing witness. One might truly say, it is the kind of miracle only Christ could perform.</p>
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<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72144212023-05-23T19:15:08-05:002023-05-23T20:15:06-05:00Who Put Jesus on the Cross?
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<p><strong>W</strong>ho put Jesus on the cross?</p>
<p>That’s a question one of my favorite Bible professors liked to ask when he wanted to make his students’ brains bleed. And it’s a question with a hook in it.</p>
<p>So, what do you think?</p>
<p>If you answered, the religious authorities who were in power, you’d be right. The most overtly religious folks of Jesus’ day. Folks who fancied themselves the most “spiritual” of all people killed the Son of God.</p>
<p>Now, by the way, if you think I’m leaning toward any kind of anti-Semitism here, forget it. No. Not only would that be stupid and vile, it would let the rest of us off the hook far too easily. I would argue that, whatever cultural or ethnic setting Christ had been born into, the most “religious” folks in that setting would have killed him.</p>
<p>Want a good crucifixion today? Find folks more religious about their religion than about genuinely loving God, and you’ll find folks leading the charge to crucify people in their midst who truly know their Creator. People who like to fancy themselves as the most spiritual of the spiritual, the most religious of the religious, are dangerous and always first to show up at the site of any crucifixion. (This is even true, ironically, of folks who are incredibly religious about their religion of irreligion.) </p>
<p>Who put Jesus on the cross? If you answered, powerful and prideful religious authorities, you’d be right. But who else?</p>
<p>If you answered, the governmental authorities—in this case, the Romans—you’d be right. Pilate put Jesus on the cross because he was a threat to Pilate’s position. “If you allow this man to live, you’re no friend of Rome!” That pretty much did it.</p>
<p>And the Romans’ puppet, King Herod? Spineless, he was quite willing to help with the deadly charade. Trying to kill Jesus, his father had killed the boy babies of Bethlehem years before. Now Herod Antipas is complicit in the murder of our Lord. Kings don’t care for rival kings, no matter what kind of kingdom they come to bring. So, the governmental authorities put Jesus on the cross, too. Yes, but who else?</p>
<p>Well, Judas betrayed Jesus into the hands of his enemies. For whatever motive—we could talk about several possibilities—Judas certainly had a very guilty hand in putting Jesus on the cross. Yes, but who else?</p>
<p>Satan, someone shouts. Satan put Jesus on the cross. Well, yes. Satan wanted Jesus to go to the cross because he wanted to see God’s Son—the gentlest, strongest, and best Son, the Son unbelievably dear to the Father—tortured and killed and God’s plan thwarted. Satan wanted to see mankind spit in the face of the Creator and dash to pieces the best Gift ever given. So, yes, Satan put Jesus on the cross. But who else?</p>
<p>It’s bit of a jarring shift of gears here, but we have to say, Jesus himself. Yes, Jesus, in an amazing sense, put himself on the cross. He didn’t want to go and die, but he wanted to obey, and that meant that he did go. And he did die. When he stood before those who held the power of life or death, he refused to defend himself. Witnesses lied, and he said nothing. The Scriptures remind us, “Like a lamb before its shearers, he was silent.” We’re told that he could have called 10,000 angels to rescue him and to destroy the world, but he chose not to. He let Roman soldiers put nails through his hands and feet. He let them. So, you have to say that Jesus had a very significant part in putting Jesus on the cross. But who else?</p>
<p>Remember Christ’s prayer in the Garden? “Not my will, but Thine be done.” He didn’t want to go to the cross, but he wanted above all else to obey the will of his Father. Yes, you have to say that God the Father, who sent his Son into this world, and whose love for his Son knew no bounds, put Jesus on the cross.</p>
<p>And so we’ve come full circle. It was God who spoke the Incarnation and sent his Son, the Word become flesh, into this world. It was God the Father who watched as humans nailed his sinless Son to a tree.</p>
<p>But why? Because in the list of those who put Jesus on the cross, a list that includes those with the worst motives—religious authorities, governmental authorities, Judas, and Satan—and those with the very best motives—Jesus himself and God the Father—we’ve forgotten some folks who also put Jesus on the cross.</p>
<p>You know where I’m going with this, don’t you? And you know I’d rather not. But…</p>
<p>Add your name. Add mine. Your sins—and mine—put Jesus on the cross.</p>
<p>That’s bad news. But Christians believe it is a truth that sets the stage for the best news of all.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72095312023-05-15T13:33:33-05:002023-05-15T18:00:13-05:00Goodbye to a Dear Friend<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>S</strong>ad and glad. At this moment, I am both.</p>
<p>This afternoon I completed the editing and page creation for the final issue of <em>The Christian Appeal</em> devotion magazine. I’ve served as the managing editor for the little monthly magazine for almost forty years (forty as of September 2023). A very little math is the only kind of math I ever do, but I’m pretty sure that, when I sent the files to the printer today for the June issue, it was Issue #472 for me.</p>
<p>That’s quite a run, though it’s less than the sixty years this issue marked for Senior Editor Gene Shelburne, one of my older brothers. Gene took over as editor of the magazine in 1963 and molded it into its present form. Of course, it has changed a bit during the years, but its primary focus as a Christian devotional magazine has always been to honor Christ, point to him, and encourage the faith of its readers.</p>
<p>The magazine has always been a part of my life, in one way or another. (I was six years old in 1963.) But, to fast forward, in the fall of 1983, Gene called me one day to ask if I’d consider joining him in the effort and becoming managing editor—conceiving the issue themes, assigning and editing articles, writing articles, and laying out the pages. He’d teach me, continue to write many essays and articles, and oversee fund-raising and circulation (two aspects I’ve always avoided like the plague, but he’s good at.) I said, yes.</p>
<p>So, for all of these almost forty years, my brother and I have worked together in this ministry. We both agree that working together has been an incredible partnership and blessing. I’ve enjoyed my part, and he has enjoyed his.</p>
<p>I feel very good about our mission and our content. Of course, some of those older issues look, well, old. They are. And so are we. Not all deal with issues in the way we would today. But, on the whole, I think it’s a very creditable and high-quality body of work. I could write a great deal about some of the utterly amazing writers. (All the issues will remain available at <strong>ChristianAppeal.com</strong>.)</p>
<p>Aside from feeling very good about our content, I like writing and editing. I’ve grown (at least, a little) from the wet-behind-the-ears editor I was when Gene brought me on. And I’ve always enjoyed building pages. As I punched SEND this afternoon to fire the files to our utterly trustworthy printer in Amarillo, I remembered the old days when I sent the paper “dummy” layouts to the printer via the U.S. mail. I remember marking all the copy (traditional proofreading marks) and working through the galley proofs. I remember cutting and pasting and the smell of rubber cement. The whole process took almost forever. And then came computer page-making. What a game-changer! I loved it, and still do.</p>
<p>A bit of a side note here. I dare anyone to publish a magazine with as few errors as we’ve let slip through over the years. Gene and I are both pastors (and our churches deserve a huge amount of credit for allowing us to make this ministry part of theirs), but we are also English majors, and, though proofreading is just plain hard work, we’ve done it, going over each issue scrupulously. We both take typos and such dull stuff as subject-verb agreement very personally. And I can put you to sleep talking about leading and kerning and discussing the merits of various typefaces, not to mention discussing programs like QuarkXPress and Adobe InDesign, Photoshop, etc.</p>
<p>For many reasons, when we realized that the June issue this year would mark sixty years for Gene, it seemed like a good time to lovingly put the magazine to bed.</p>
<p>I found myself procrastinating even more than usual as I worked on the final issue. I don’t need a counselor to tell me why.</p>
<p>Too often, I’m tasked with officiating at the funeral service for a dear friend. The time comes to start writing, but to work on the service will make the loss real. It will also mean straining to do my job, which is to find and express the right words for us all. No words will be good enough, but, with God’s help, I eventually must get to work and, misty-eyed, try. So I do.</p>
<p>And that’s the way I’ve felt about our final issue. It’s time to lay this longtime friend to rest, and Gene and I do that with full hearts.</p>
<p>Of course, a sense of loss is genuine, but far outweighing the loss, are real joy and deep gratitude for God’s blessing and for the faithful support our readers, collaborators, and many contributors and friends have given generously all along the way.</p>
<p>Not least, I’m thankful for patience and support of my wife and family. This little magazine has been a serious part of their lives, too. Will I be able to sit on the couch without a computer in my lap? Go to bed when normal people do? Will my wife and I go on a vacation without me always saying, “I just need to get this issue finished first”?</p>
<p>I’ll soon know. But I’m truly grateful for forty years of working with words about the Word incarnate and getting to share those with some great folks. The last issue is in. I’m headed to bed.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72051312023-05-08T12:28:01-05:002023-05-15T18:00:13-05:00The Legacy of a Great Mother<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>N</strong>o doubt, among the most influential Christian leaders who ever lived was the amazing John Wesley who, along with his brother, Charles, “founded the Methodist movement within the Church of England.” And John Wesley writes simply, “I learned more about Christianity from my mother than from all the theologians in England.” </p>
<p>If you read even a little about Susanna Wesley, you’ll get a picture of an incredible lady of faith. The quality of Susanna’s and John’s relationship is portrayed particularly beautifully in the letters they wrote each to the other, some of which have survived.</p>
<p>Susannah was the 25th of 25 children, and she gave birth to 19 of her own, 10 of which survived infancy. She not only gave her children physical life, she led them to spiritual life in Christ and, in the process, touched, and continues to touch millions.</p>
<p>“There are two things to do about the gospel,” Susanna Wesley wrote. “Believe it and behave it.”</p>
<p>She had no doubt about the importance of the role and responsibility of parents in training their children. “Subduing the will” of the child was a gift of love meant to make present and eternal blessing for the child (and those whose lives intersected the child’s) real and possible. She refused to let her children grow up stunted, living undisciplined lives, crippled and chained by their own selfish and shifting passions. “The child that never learns to obey his parents in the home will not obey God or man out of the home.” Susanna “believed that for a child to grow into a <em>self-disciplined</em> adult, he/she must first be a <em>parent-disciplined</em> child.”</p>
<p>In the Wesley home, the task of teaching and raising the children fell almost completely to Susanna as her husband, Samuel, to put it charitably, lived with his head in the clouds, was often away, and was much less than helpful. An internet search will quickly lead you to Susanna’s “16 Rules of Parenthood.” With only minor differences in detail, they could easily have been written by my own mother. Most striking to me is the combination of her deep love for her children coupled with high standards. She loved her Lord and knew that freedom and blessing were found in submitting to him. She would require their obedience, even as she would never be stingy with her love. (My mother, for sure!)</p>
<p>Lying was not tolerated, and, to reinforce truth-telling, she would “punish no fault” which was “first confessed and repented of.” She would “never allow a sinful act to go unpunished,” but she would “never punish a child twice for a single offense.”</p>
<p>She tried her best to be completely fair. I get the feeling that she intuitively knew the truth that James Dobson would write about many years later: A wise parent knows the difference between childish irresponsibility (dealt with patiently) and willful defiance (which a wise and loving parent will punish swiftly and decisively, to the great benefit of all). The children were to know that (what we’d call) spanking was more than theoretically possible.</p>
<p>No eating between meals, she said. No fussing about taking medicine. Children were to be in bed by 8:00 p.m. (and, she mentions elsewhere, they were expected to be able to go to sleep on their own).</p>
<p>No child was ever to receive anything it “cried for” or requested impolitely. “Property rights” were inviolable. (You don’t mess with other people’s stuff!) Both child and parent were to “strictly observe all promises.” The children were taught to pray as soon as they could speak, and they were expected to be “still during family worship.”</p>
<p>Her “rules” make it clear that, far ahead of her time, Susanna gave the education of the girls the same priority as the education of the boys, and that, though she was strict, she required herself to “comment and reward good behavior.”</p>
<p>Susanna expected and required much of her children, but all of her discipline of them was meant to be fair and just and to allow them to grow “capable of being governed by reason and piety.” She loved them fiercely and, as they certainly came to realize, required more of herself than she did of them. What an incredibly wise and devoted woman!</p>
<p>I can’t imagine how my mother spent so much time with Susanna Wesley, but it certainly seems that she did.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/72009182023-05-01T12:42:43-05:002023-05-08T14:45:11-05:00An Update We Should Trust<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>M</strong>y laptop computer went mute recently. I can’t tell you exactly when, but I’m sure it lost its voice several days before I noticed that it had lost its voice.</p>
<p>Its speakers, I knew—or thought I knew—were fine; they just were not speaking. As emergencies go, it was way down the list from a house fire and just maybe a bit above being subjected to another smarmy ad on TV by a politician going low to assure you that he is not a low-life politician or, at least, not as slimy as his despicable opponent. (These things are relative.) It was not a serious emergency. It was an annoyance that I figured I could cure or that I could call for help to cure. But I was busy. I figured that, after I rebooted the computer a time or a few (always the first thing to try), some glitch would probably be sniffed out and de-glitched by the machine on its own, and it would get its voice back. Who knows? If AI doesn’t destroy the world, one day such a computer might reboot and speak to you with a sweet and feminine English accent, “Good day. I am so moved by your help that I can hardly speak, but I am indeed speaking again. May I sincerely say from the depth of my quad core heart how deeply I appreciate your patience and the valiant measures you’ve taken to ensure my well-being. I am so very grateful for such a caring owner. Thank you, dear one.”</p>
<p>That did not happen. So I took appropriate action. Valiant measures, even. I made sure the machine was completely mute and not just silenced when running a particular program or two. Yep. Completely tongue-tied. Aphonic. Mum.</p>
<p>At that point, I went to the “volume mixer” and to “sound settings.” Both seemed to indicate that all was fine. All was not.</p>
<p>Then I remembered that I’d recently installed one of those seemingly ever-present Windows updates. You know, the ones that show up most often when you’d really like to shut the machine down quickly and get on with life. But you’ve been dodging the update for days now, and the machine is planning to go right ahead with it. It’s beginning. You get the warning that, whatever you do, “Do not shut down or unplug your computer.” If it’s an especially ominous request (not from Microsoft but from your computer’s manufacturer) you might even get a really scary screen. Cautionary colors. A warning not to breathe or blink while your computer’s BIOS is being flashed. That sounds like something that could land the perpetrator on a national registry. Or it sounds like something “biological,” which means “living,” which your computer is not. It actually has to do with “Basic Input/Output System.” This type of update really is serious, but if you stay six feet away from the computer during the “flash,” you’ll only have a moderately increased chance of most types of cancer. (I’m kidding.)</p>
<p>I know. You can set your computer to perform updates only at specific times that are convenient. Good luck finding one of those. I never have.</p>
<p>I also know that the updates are supposed to be good for my computer’s health and, more importantly, my computer’s security. If I perform them as requested, no one will ever get nuclear launch codes from my machine. Still, I am always happy and a little surprised when my computer still works properly after the update is completed. You see, I have trust issues. So, I wait. My computer seems happy now. “If it ain’t broke . . .” When I think about this, I realize that it’s like choosing to go to the doctor or hospital. My personal philosophy is, I’m afraid, fear-based. I will go when I am more afraid of not going than going. Ditto, the computer updates.</p>
<p>All to say that, though I can’t prove it, and I’m not at all sure, I think my computer lost its voice after the most recent, most major update.</p>
<p>So, I reasoned, it was about time to call the company to get the high level of support I’d paid for (extortion, I think), the level of support a good company should automatically offer to all of its customers, not one of which they should be willing to allow to languish on hold. Ever. I digress.</p>
<p>But I decided to try one more thing first. I searched the company’s website for “driver updates,” found a few and ran them, suspecting that I had a 50/50 chance of fouling something else up. No good. But no worse. Then I did some more in-depth searching, found another audio driver update, ran it, and . . . Success! The machine talks.</p>
<p>All updated. And, as far as I can see, back to the point I was quite happy with before the update. Maybe a lot is better, more protected now, than I realize. It probably is. But did I mention that I have trust issues? If they’d find efficient ways to leave me alone, I’d appreciate it.</p>
<p>I’m thankful that our Creator knows, as the old song says, “just what I need.” He knows us completely. Understands us completely. Knows exactly what we need to live our lives in a way that honors him and allows us to be the best “us” he created us to be—far better, far freer, far more uniquely ourselves—than we could ever be by bowing before ourselves. We always become “taller when we bow” to our Maker.</p>
<p>And updates? Well, no updates to the Ten Commandments are needed. And no update at all is needed to the Good News of what his Son did once for us all, for all time. We do, however, need to trust our Creator and say Yes to the updating only his love and presence can work every day in our souls.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71963492023-04-24T21:46:06-05:002023-05-01T17:00:17-05:00“There Are No Uninteresting Things”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p>“There are no uninteresting things, only uninterested people,” wrote G. K. Chesterton.</p>
<p>And he’s right, you know.</p>
<p>I just returned from a few days with my three brothers at Robert Lee, Texas. For almost forty years, two times a year, we’ve met at our maternal grandparents’ old place there. For more than a few of those years, our dad was with us. Precious time. A precious place.</p>
<p>Granddaddy Key had that little house built in 1928, so it’s sneaking up on 100 years old. We’ve pitched in some TLC over the years, and during our time there last week, we tore pretty deeply into the front part of the house, replacing some windows and siding, applying some paint, etc. We also took appropriate breaks involving ribeyes, NY strips, a filet mignon or a few, and a couple of racks of smoked ribs. No green beans were harmed in any of the activities of the week.</p>
<p>Yes, we’ve spent a lot of time there—very good time—over the years, but my eyes have not run out of “items of interest.”</p>
<p>At least three layers of siding of various types and ages cover the exterior walls. The materials, patterns, and layers of old paint are . . . interesting.</p>
<p>The short wire fence in front of the house is the kind of “woven double loop decorative fence” that, at one time, I’m sure you could find setting off the yards and gardens of hundreds of thousands of homes. Its Art Deco style appeals to me, and 1928 is not a surprising year for it style-wise. It’s so iconic that it seems to be a fairly hot reproduction item now and is not hard to find. I do find myself wondering how much of the 100-year-old stuff is left. Maybe a lot. It was attractive in 1928 and still is (unlike—this opinion is free—almost any feature of buildings erected in the 1950s whose style might be simply described as 1950s Ugly).</p>
<p>And, speaking of fences, I’d like to know some history of the type of livestock pen fences—cedar branches held tightly together by twisted wire—that were a prime feature out back, near an old barn, a chicken coop, and, until it showed up on top of one memorable Robert Lee High School homecoming bonfire, an old outhouse.</p>
<p>A small pile of “cupped out” rocks near the bottom of one old cedar fencepost might be a mystery to some, but not to any of Grandmother’s offspring. She always had an eye out for rocks with significant “dimples” in them. For her, they were cactus planters. She’d fill them with little cacti, shelter them on the front porch, and water them with teaspoons. She’d occasionally share them with grandkids. (Granddaddy shared jars of rattlesnake rattles no longer needed by their owners.)</p>
<p>An Arizona cypress tree, a Bois d’Arc tree, a willow, and one old massive mesquite tree surrounded by lesser companions, all have stories to tell. And, in recent years, some soapberry trees (often confused with the much less desirable Chinaberry tree; that’s another story) are starting to provide better shade than we’d ever hoped. Those translucent yellow berries, aptly named, have a long history of being used as—you guessed it—a natural and efficient soap.</p>
<p>I like the old gate out behind the back door of the house. I still try to keep it closed when I head out to the “patch” and the firepit. Why? Because Grandmother always told us to be sure and close it lest the chickens get into her yard. No beautiful yard now. No chickens, either. But I still feel guilty if I don’t close the gate.</p>
<p>I could go on. But suffice it to say that almost every square yard of that old place holds something of (old or new) interest to me. I am not an “uninterested” person.</p>
<p>Grandmother’s green thumb and “precious” rocks. Granddaddy’s old livestock pens strategically fenced to work well with his cattle truck. The old creek and its cane. The ancient blue bottles and other relics we’d discovered as we made our way through the creek. The old clothesline Granddaddy put up out in the patch because Grandmother needed it. (It’s still standing and ready for use.)</p>
<p>Oh, there’s much more still to discover at the old place, much more to cast light on my grandparents’ lives and history, and their whole era, in some ways. It all fascinates me.</p>
<p>But what fascinates me more is the realization that we were all created by a God who knew and valued us immensely even before we were born, knows every hair on our head, and still finds each one of us…</p>
<p>Well, “interesting” isn’t strong enough. “Fascinating” is closer to the mark. “Delightful” might surprise you, but I think ruling it out too quickly says more about us than about our Father (and that’s worth some thought).</p>
<p>Is the God who knows us far better than we know ourselves “interested” in us? Oh, yes. “Interested” with a depth and quality of love we can barely begin to comprehend.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71910242023-04-15T12:59:04-05:002023-04-15T14:00:05-05:00The Theme Song of Hell<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>f I were asked to give the title of my favorite song, I don’t know what I would say. I like too many.</p>
<p>If I were asked, by someone trying to make the task easier, to list ten of my favorite songs, I don’t think I could do that, either. Same problem. Too many.</p>
<p>I like so many songs! Different styles, genres, eras. Oh, I could list some of my favorites that I’ve sung, performed, and even recorded—but, when push comes to shove, that would be like asking me to list my favorite grandchildren. They’re all my favorites in different ways, and the specific joys that they bring are beautifully unique.</p>
<p>But, back to songs. A song doesn’t have to be perfect for me to like it. Hey, I was in high school in the Seventies. Lots happened in that era that no one should be proud of, but some of the music was pretty amazing. Even if I listen critically to some of the words—some utterly naive nonsense and some a lot worse than nonsense—some of those harmonies, I still like.</p>
<p>But, if you changed the question and asked me to mention the names of some songs that I really dislike, I could name some. Some have rotten lyrics. Some have lousy music. Some are just ugly and wallow self-importantly in ugliness.</p>
<p>No one will ever ask me this question, but if someone asked me to nominate the theme song of Hell, I’d not have to think twice. It is…</p>
<p>Now, a pause. I realize that I may be picking on a song you like. If so, I apologize. I’m not picking on Paul Anka, who wrote the English lyrics, or on Frank Sinatra or Elvis. Sinatra’s version, I’m told, spent 75 weeks on the UK Top 40. No small feat. Lots of people liked it. Not me.</p>
<p>The song is… Drum roll…</p>
<p>“I Did It My Way.”</p>
<p>I’m not wild about the tune. It takes itself far too seriously. And the lyrics? Much worse. Maybe I’m taking “My Way” the wrong way by taking its lyrics too seriously, too. I’ve tried to read them in a more positive context, but it doesn’t work; they make me cringe.</p>
<p>A guy saying these words would, it seems to me, be well worth avoiding. Look up the lyrics and tell me if this is a guy you’d trust very far. I think of a paunchy, boozy guy in a moth-eaten leisure suit, gray chest hair billowing out through three unbuttoned buttons, a gold neck chain nestled in his scraggly fur, and the tear-floated wreckage of ex-wives and brokenhearted children bobbing in his wake.</p>
<p>Note: If you think that I think the generation that produced that song has a lock on selfish sleaze, you’d be wrong. In the generations since, it almost seems that if our goal was to epitomize weakness, selfishness, self-centeredness, soft-headedness, and whininess, we could hardly have done a better job. Pass out the participation trophies, utter any four-letter word except the unutterable word “duty,” make sure we have decades to “find ourselves,” and ask every hour on the hour with ever-increasing poignancy, “Am I happy yet?” Thereby ensuring misery.</p>
<p>This is sadly funny, but a colleague of mine attended a funeral where that song was played. His church was hosting as another pastor performed the service, and he was up in the sound booth helping a staff member. Somewhere during “I Did It My Way,” she leaned over and whispered, “He sure did! And that’s why he ran through three wives.”</p>
<p>In <em>Paradise Los</em>t, John Milton puts Satan’s focus in perspective: “Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.” Yeah, my way. And Hell for all around him.</p>
<p>The great Scottish preacher and author George MacDonald spoke deep truth when he said that “the one principle of Hell is ‘I am my own.’”</p>
<p>That is exactly what anyone who bows before God can never say. Oh, we fall short and fall into selfishness often. But we know Whose we are, and we believe that in bowing to him we find our true freedom and the power to become the best selves we could ever be. Ironic, isn’t it? The surest way to become a twisted, bent, and grotesque caricature of what we might have been outside of self is to worship at the altar of self. It’s hard to find happiness in a soul-sucking black hole called “My Way.”</p>
<p>The One before whom “every knee shall bow” is precisely the One who went willingly to a cross in the most supreme act of unselfish love this world, this universe, has ever seen. And he is the One who not only says, “Follow me,” but also gives us the power to follow.</p>
<p>It’s not about self. Not about how bad we are or how good we are. It’s about Whose we are. It’s about pardon won on a cross. Not by us. It’s about power bursting forth from an empty tomb. For us, but not procured by us. </p>
<p>It’s the way to songs of deepest joy we’ll yet sing. Oh, we’ve sung some of the preliminary notes right here, but even the tones here that almost break our hearts with beauty are only quiet notes in the symphony that awaits. Souls here could not possibly stand that level of joy, but one day, they’ll be ready for the music unmuted. I know what song we will <em>not</em> be singing.</p>
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<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71871702023-04-10T13:38:33-05:002023-04-15T14:00:05-05:00Holy Week, the Lord’s Prayer, and a Roasted Chicken<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> was sleeping soundly on a nice Saturday morning. It was, to be exact, what many Christians have called for long ages “Holy Saturday,” the Saturday before Easter.</p>
<p>It had been for us a very nice Holy Week indeed. In our little community, for much longer than the 38 years my family and I have been here, we’ve had a nice tradition sponsored by our Ministerial Alliance. A Palm Sunday Community Service, hosted at one of our churches, gets us off to a great start. Then, begun several hundred years ago (well, at least, a long time ago) by the Methodist Church and for lots of years now hosted by other churches as well, noon services and luncheon/devotional meetings during several days of the week. And then, the Community Easter Sunrise Service.</p>
<p>It’s always a great week! Not only do we join together with Christians the world over during Holy Week to thank God for Christ’s sacrifice of love and for the hope and joy of the Resurrection, we share together beautifully and meaningfully with Christians right here whose faces we know. Together we praise him. The fact that we come from a variety of Christian traditions makes the time all the more beautiful and wonderful, and we’re better together than we ever are alone. Not least, this time becomes a visible fulfillment of Christ’s prayer (almost literally, his “last will and testament”) for his disciples.</p>
<p>We talk, of course, about “The Lord’s Prayer”: “Give us this day our daily bread…” It is, of course, his, but he makes it ours by teaching us how to pray it. Many of us do so often and find it a genuine blessing.</p>
<p>But, in fact, the prayer that might be more aptly named “The Lord’s Prayer” is the one Christ prays poignantly very near the end of his earthly life, the prayer recorded in John 17, in which he asks that all of his disciples “may be one, just as you and I, Father, are one.” His prayer is for unity, and it is a magnificent prayer indeed.</p>
<p>When in Isaiah 11:6, the great prophet talks about the coming of the Messiah and the time when even the wild animals will lie down together in peace, and “a little child shall lead them,” I find myself wondering about little towns. You’ll never catch our Lord disparaging the “small.” Little children. Little towns. He used Bethlehem. And maybe he can still use some little towns to teach some much larger ones what is truly important.</p>
<p>A friend who is a new pastor at one of our local churches expressed his amazement at what he saw happening during Holy Week in this little town. He said that in the city he’d come from, a much larger place, he rarely even saw two churches from the same denomination coming together for joint worship, much less churches from all over town bowing with each other.</p>
<p>Excuses abound, of course. Size can be at least partially legitimate. Big churches are often very busy churches. Even doing a joint service with churches from their own “bunch” can be a challenge, much less planning and holding interdenominational services.</p>
<p>But some excuses are just excuses, and “The Lord’s Prayer” deserves that Lord’s people who truly honor him as the fully human, fully divine, Son of God expend a little effort to be serious about living out his prayer. Whether the walls are built up inadvertently, or whether they’re built by apathy or enmity or church marketing or party spirit or small spirit or poor theology or just coving our ears and our eyes to make sure we don’t hear anything outside of our own edifices, a glad Hallelujah or two or a heart-lifting chorus or a few of them will blast some fine and much-needed holes in some ponderous walls.</p>
<p>You don’t expect Walmart and Target to stage a love-in and encourage employees to meet together in sincere gratitude and appreciation. But surely our Lord should expect better than four churches on the same street in the same city in the same Bible belt carefully ignoring each other’s existence as if each one alone could “get it right,” do it better, and never feel the slightest need to raise their voices together. Then someone across town builds a shoebox-designed church with a software-sounding two-syllable name to get on with the business of “doing” church better, incorporating more trendiness, and, of course, ignoring everyone else except to out-market and steal members from the “competition.” Tastes bad. Smells bad. Is bad.</p>
<p>Maybe it really will take some little towns “to lead them.” Towns with ordinary people in ordinary churches who don’t feel a need to “out-mega” each other. Places where, against all odds, the churches respect each other and, despite differences, honor the Lord and his prayer. We might as well get started praising him together. After all…</p>
<p>Yes, it was one of the best Holy Weeks I ever remember us having here in our little town. I’d not be willing to easily let go of this very large blessing in this very small town.</p>
<p> Back to Saturday. Things were right on target last Saturday morning. I was snoozing peacefully, as the Lord intended on Saturday mornings. And that’s when my seven-year-old granddaughter landed right on top of me. Giggling. Soon joined by her nine-year-old brother. They wanted pancakes. And she informed me that I was late getting up anyway because she’d already heard “the roasted chicken” yelling.</p>
<p>The what!? “The roasted chicken,” she said again.</p>
<p>I was sleepy, but I figured it out. So, by the time we were together with the crowd at the Sunrise Service on Easter Sunday, I was ready when the roasted chicken crowed loudly at sunrise.</p>
<p>That rooster was primed and ready. And we were ready, too, to crow out and shout out some praises of our own. United as one in praise. Hearts uplifted in worship. Together.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71838312023-04-04T09:47:49-05:002023-04-10T13:45:09-05:00“A God Who Knew the Way Out of the Grave”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“C</strong>hristendom has had a series of revolutions,” writes G. K. Chesterton, “and in each one of them Christianity has died. Christianity has died many times and risen again; for it had a God who knew the way out of the grave.”</p>
<p>Oh, yes, and a God who “so loved the world” that he truly did “give his only Son” both to pardon and to empower.</p>
<p>The pardon had to be real. The power had to be real. Why? Because humanity’s problem was real. Put simply, our problem is that none of us measures up. We all foul up, and we must deal with the reality that not one of us lives up to his or her own standards, much less to the standard of right and wrong woven into the fabric of the universe.</p>
<p>Oh, and it is. Pick a modern philosopher or guru—they’re a dime a dozen—confidently proclaiming that right and wrong are just human constructs and he or she is above all of that. Then watch his reaction as his new car gets stolen or keyed, or if she becomes convinced that her publisher is cheating her out of the royalties promised to come from her trendy book in which she declares that absolute right and wrong do not exist. Almost any kid on any playground knows better. Fair’s fair, right’s right, and the converse is true, and kids know it.</p>
<p>So do we. And we are often far from right in attitude and behavior. How do we deal with the dissonance when we fall short? We can probably find any number of folks to comfort us with the idea that we just need to get comfortable with the “fact” that good and truth, right and wrong, are easily adjusted to fit our need. If on this Thursday, we prefer two plus two to equal five, we can just conveniently pronounce it to be so. But deep down, we know that up is up, no matter how we feel about it, and down is down, even if we’d prefer it otherwise.</p>
<p>We don’t fall up, we fall down. We fail, and, yes, we might as well use the word, we need forgiveness. We need it from those our failures have hurt. But we also have a lurking feeling that our failures and sins cut into this world’s moral fabric more deeply than we might like to think. Our sins are more than locally consequential.</p>
<p>Our attempts at changing truth and reality fail. Granite is not malleable. Our struggles to forgive ourselves fall flat. We make lousy gods. Our efforts to gut it out and lift ourselves into perfection by will power only serve to show us how imperfect and weak we really are. (God grant that we learn that before we drive ourselves crazy and our loved ones away.)</p>
<p>Just at the birth of this new year, I saw these words on a sign near a busy street. I’d not have been surprised to see them elsewhere, but this was on the sign of a church purporting to point people to Christ: “A new year. Another chance to get it right.” Were they completely unaware of how idolatrous and anti-gospel those words actually are? Did they not know that they’d just relegated Christianity to the self-help section of a bookstore chain, shoved the gospel into a shelf beside a bunch of fad diet books? Many are the schemes and the religions of the self-help variety peddling the moonshine that we humans can eventually work hard enough, smart enough, efficiently enough that through our own effort, we’ll “get it right.”</p>
<p>But this sort of self-delusion is nothing new. Our ancestors sought a way to “appease” a violated universe and its “gods.” Render worship “to whom it may concern.” Offer sacrifices of all sorts. Do some sort of penance. But the focus of your “religion” is ultimately on you. Pick a god who agrees with you that digging out of your grave is all up to you.</p>
<p>Some of the “gods” were (and are) laughable. Isaiah the prophet made merciless fun of idolaters who would pick a nice bit of wood, a piece that wouldn’t quickly rot or easily topple over and could be fashioned into a “god” to worship. Yes, if the termites didn’t get it or the wind didn’t blow too strongly. The same prophet laughed at idolaters who would cut off a branch, heat themselves with part of it, cook a meal with another part, and save a part to carve into an idol.</p>
<p>We laugh. And then we head over to the “self-help” section of the bookstore or to the latest seminar of the most popular “success” guru. Maybe we baptize the search with religion and pick one with rules we think we just might keep if we just keep trying harder. Human-centered religions and self-centered gurus are always available for us to fall down and worship. (But so, thank God, are churches who worship Christ as Savior and Lord.)</p>
<p>Or we just worship humanity, or bow down to science, or worship our own comfort. We act as if we can control and explain everything if you just give us enough time. We valiantly try to ignore the largest and most important questions of life and its purpose, assuming that if we have enough stuff and a massive net worth, we won’t have to consider questions about real value.</p>
<p>Oh, we’ve got plenty of paltry gods we build and worship and hope to appease. We offer modern sacrifice and pay a heavy price to fool ourselves into thinking we’re not paying at all.</p>
<p>There is a genuine way out of the grave. Real pardon. Real power. But it comes completely from outside of ourselves.</p>
<p>The fully human Son of God could literally suffer and die and completely identify with us, knowing real hunger and thirst and pain. The fully divine Son of God could literally take all of our sin and guilt on himself and truly away, as only the truly divine could do.</p>
<p>Fully human. Fully divine. And completely loving. For real pardon. For real power. Nothing less is enough to get us out of our graves and raised with genuine joy and life-giving grace and hope. The cross matters. Easter matters.</p>
<p>So, we have exactly what we need. Not self-help and self-centered snake oil. Not human-centered “faith” that just helps us redecorate our graves and tries to teach us to be content with the stench and decay. We actually have a God who “knows the way out of the grave.”</p>
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<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71794682023-03-27T15:20:23-05:002023-04-04T10:15:17-05:00When a Small Church Is Large<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>N</strong>o doubt about it, I have a heart for small churches. And that means, most churches.</p>
<p>Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for churches of all sizes who preach the good news about Christ. And all churches, whatever their size, have their share of challenges.</p>
<p>According to Aaron Earl’s article in Lifeway Research, based on a 2020 “Faith Communities Today” (FACT) study surveying 15,000 “faith communities,” seventy percent of the churches surveyed had less than 100 members and averaged 65 in weekly attendance.</p>
<p>That’s not too surprising. And “weakly” attendance isn’t surprising, either. Well, you know what I mean.</p>
<p>Since I came on board, many things in our society that I grew to think of as precious have been on the decline. I don’t take it personally.</p>
<p>A time-tested “logical fallacy” that has been in play since Eden is a particular favorite of ours in this Golden Age of Stupidity (that’s Lance Morrow’s apt term). It’s the <em>post hoc ergo propter hoc</em> fallacy. That’s Latin for “after this, therefore because of this.” Think of the neurotic rooster who became terrified that he might oversleep, forget to crow, and therefore cause the sun not to come up, at great inconvenience to us all and resultant global calamity. We must love that fallacy because we “use” it all of the time. It’s the main framework for some of our most popular Internet conspiracy theories and a favorite in the toolbox of the populist politicians we love to let pull our strings.</p>
<p>All to say, I’m not neurotic enough to think that my ministerial “career” coinciding with a serious period of church decline is anything more than, yes, coincidental. But the fact remains that I’ve rarely ever known a time when most of the churches I’ve known best were truly growing. (Shifting members around to make large churches larger and small churches smaller is not real growth.)</p>
<p>If you’re a member of a relatively small church, you’re in good company. Yes, the largest number of churches in our land are small.</p>
<p>The good news about the bad news is that, if you believe that relationship matters, well, in a small church, “where everybody knows your name,” it really does. If you’re not there, somebody notices. If you’re not doing your part, a part doesn’t get done. And it’s good news (mentioned in the survey cited above) that the members of small churches are generally more active in attendance, giving, and other involvement. No surprise. This issues in the right kind of accountability and fertilizes the ground for the genuine sharing of life—joys, sorrows, and all.</p>
<p>Of course, the small church will have far fewer programs for you. You might not find a light-show-choreographed Sunday School class featuring a coffee bar and focused exclusively on left-handed dental hygienists with birthdays in months ending in R. But I’ll betcha the small church will do you a much finer funeral with more genuine tears. (Think about it.)</p>
<p>So, I don’t worry much about large churches. Not about their numbers, at least. But anything I can do to help a small one (small for good reasons and not small because of enmity and divisiveness), I will do. It’s fun to sing for a banquet for five hundred, but singing for twenty folks in a small church sanctuary brings its own joy. I like encouraging little churches and telling them the truth that their faith and commitment are not unseen and ignored by everyone. They are deeply appreciated and of incalculable value in God’s kingdom.</p>
<p>I thought of some of this as our church’s steeple tried to dance off the roof recently. Old structural support. Very high wind. How to fix it was a bit of a conundrum. It’s the focal point of our little building’s architecture, and it makes a beautiful faith statement, especially at night, shining above that end of town.</p>
<p>I can now report that we got it fixed. I had nightmares about a huge financial hit, but we came out very reasonably. I’m thankful. But though we were fine writing the check, a friend who understands and loves small churches sent $100 just to say, “We appreciate and love that little church. Those decades of faithfulness matter.” Such encouragement is worth more than gold.</p>
<p>So, when my wife and I heard that a little Methodist church that we know in a little town that we know had had its metal roof blown off by the same windstorm that we thought would topple our steeple, we sent a little check to add to what others who care for them are contributing to their roof fund. That church is small. The bill for the new roof is large. </p>
<p>Small churches can use help and encouragement. They are of immense value.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71751542023-03-20T12:04:29-05:002023-03-27T18:30:15-05:00“This Is the Day That the Lord Has Made”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><em>“This is the day that the Lord has made / We will rejoice and be glad in it.”</em></p>
<p>If you find your brain putting the tune to those lyrics in your head, you probably learned it in Sunday School or Vacation Bible School. It’s a nice song, with a great message, though it is most certainly a potential “ear worm.” As “ear worms” go (songs that get stuck in your head), it beats the daylights out of “Achy Breaky Heart” and such mind-numbing atrocities. But I confess to a bit of a strained relationship with it.</p>
<p>I don’t ever expect to wake up with a desire to break into a jaunty song, even one with an uplifting message. (I did sing an early morning live music program at a coffee shop once for a couple of hours and actually enjoyed it.) It’s not that I wake up in a bad mood, I just am not a “morning person.”</p>
<p>It really is science, you know. We are all born with a certain “chronotype.” It’s literally in our genetics and hard-wired into our brains. Look up “suprachiasmatic nucleus” (SCN). I can point you to some good books on the fascinating subject of chronotypes, but it won’t take much thought for you to know if you’re a lark (morning person), owl (as in night owl), or a “third bird” (somewhere in the middle). You already know, and it’s clear that everyone who is breathing is on the scale somewhere. Obviously, we all have to learn to shift, like it or not, into the mode that jobs and families require. But we’re all at our best when we’re in our natural “zone.”</p>
<p>The above really is true, but I wish you luck in trying to convince most morning folks that their chronotype is not inherently more virtuous.</p>
<p>In any case, I prefer to greet the morning as quietly as possible, easing into conversation and light.</p>
<p>So, I admit that the “This Is the Day” song is one I’d prefer to have wafting through my brain cells a bit later in the day. And when I leave the house, and it’s already windy with a brown haze rising up to foul the atmosphere, I know I should be thankful anyway. I know that I am incredibly blessed, and nonetheless tempted to be whiny. So, sing me that song? Please, no. By the way, my considered opinion is that the “new heavens and the new earth” will feature only gentle breezes and no dirt in the air. I refuse to blame God for sandstorms—and anything else far, far worse.</p>
<p>Maybe that’s why I felt a little better when I realized that, in context, the verse that is the basis for the aforementioned song is not actually talking about any, or all, of our days; it is talking about a specific day. It’s the “day of salvation,” the “day” when Jehovah saves his people. Through his mighty power, the “stone” the “builders rejected” becomes the very “cornerstone” of God’s kingdom. Christians believe that the true cornerstone has a name: Jesus Christ. (Read Psalm 118, and Matthew 21:33-44 in which Jesus himself references the psalm. For a thought-provoking article on this, Google the name “Andy Kessler” and “What Does Psalm 118:24 Mean?”). </p>
<p>I’m not sure what it says about me, but I could easily be the guy who, when asked if a cup of coffee was half full or half empty, replies, “It doesn’t matter. Either way, we’re not gonna have enough coffee.” That said, I’m very much aware that, through Christ, whatever sort of day comes, his people will find in him more than enough strength and hope, grace and love. I just find the realism of the Son of God refreshingly reassuring and grounded in truth: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 14:33).</p>
<p>Trouble, yes. But also, assured and ultimate victory in Christ. Both assertions very true, no matter one’s mood. Both very true, no matter if the day is a great one or, not so much.</p>
<p>In the same way, I like it when Jesus says, “Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matthew 6:34). And that, in this present world, is the plain, realistic, and unvarnished truth.</p>
<p>As the recent ads have said about Christ, “He Gets Us.” He surely gets me.</p>
<p>Trouble is real. But joy and hope in Christ is real, too, and far longer-lasting.</p>
<p>Back to the song. You don’t have to tell me. I’ve long ago realized that I get no pass on the “rejoicing” part. Of course, the Psalms take reality head-on, and you can find yourself and any of your “days,” good or bad, all over them. Every emotion humans can experience is found somewhere in the Psalms. But they do indeed say a lot about rejoicing.</p>
<p>And you don’t have to remind me (I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t, though you probably should) that the Apostle Paul famously said, “Rejoice in the Lord always . . .” (Read Philippians 4:4-7.)</p>
<p>I’m working on it. But I admit that, if you want to find me a tad more toward “glad,” it’s best to wait until mid-morning.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71705432023-03-13T12:42:52-05:002023-03-20T14:45:23-05:00Waiting for the Deepest Joy<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>t’s a sure sign that you’re beginning to learn at least a little about something when you begin to realize how very little you really know about it at all. And it’s an equally sure sign of how little you know if you allow yourself to suspect that you’re the smartest person in any room. Other folks with more sense (it would seem that anybody would have more sense) will leave the room as quickly as possible, whether the room is a coffee shop or the Oval Office.</p>
<p>Corollaries to this truth are clear: Never trust anyone who has a simple solution to every problem. And never trust anyone who feels no humility at all in the face of serious problems, all of which he writes off as “simple.” It takes an incredibly, and dangerously, simple-minded person to think that most real problems are simple. (It often takes a duplicitous politician of the most foolish and pernicious sort, but any of us can fall prey to this malady.)</p>
<p>Examples abound, but here’s one out of my own experience. I never knew how very little I knew about recording music until I was involved in the recording of four of my own albums of music. It is some of the most fun, and some of the hardest, work I have ever done. Getting ready, being sure you’re ready, takes a lot of work. If you don’t do the work beforehand, all the preparation it takes to be ready for the actual sessions, you’re wasting some expensive studio time and the time of some incredibly talented people. This also, by the way, becomes clear: you can’t have a successful project without the help of far more amazing folks than you might have thought. (I can easily count more than twenty people seriously involved in the production of my last project.) And, yes, having done this several times now, I am beginning to figure out how very much I have left to learn about, well, name any aspect of the process. </p>
<p>Here’s one funny little thing I’ve learned: the longest note in any song is the last note. The singer knows how long the last note needs to be held. But the music needs to be held longer. And the audio engineer is ultimately the person who punches the button that stops the recording. Wait, wait, wait a little longer, and . . . not yet . . . not yet . . . now. It seems to take forever.</p>
<p>And this is with professionals. How much harder is it for folks who aren’t professionals but are doing the work, usually well, of playing the music in other venues<a>—</a>church, for example—to learn to let the song play out, and not stop it just a second or a few nano-seconds early? Most of the time, you won’t notice much, if it stops just slightly early. But a significantly early “stop” equals what I call “audio whiplash.” It’s jarring. It almost physically hurts. If you’ve gotta stop it early, oh, please, fade it out.</p>
<p>I suppose some life lessons lurk in this. One lesson might certainly have to do with patience. Waiting to punch that button takes some serious patience.</p>
<p>Another lesson might be colloquially put, “It ain’t over ’til it’s over.” Like most folks, I thought this was perhaps the most famous of the legendary Yogi Berra’s quirky sayings. Google this, and you’ll find out that maybe it was, sort of, but not exactly . . . But the saying most certainly became the title of a 1991 song by Lenny Kravitz.</p>
<p>In any case, it’s true. The song, the story, the life, is not over until the very end. And, even then, Christ’s people are trusting their Savior for the kind of wonderful life, real life, that never ends and is only the beginning of the most beautiful song of all.</p>
<p>That’s worth remembering always. It is particularly worth remembering when the notes of your present “song” are sad and difficult, maybe even heartbreaking. Just ask God for the courage to sing the next note, to wait for the music to play out. The times when it’s hardest to wait are the very times when waiting is most important.</p>
<p>The great old Scottish author and preacher George MacDonald is pointing us to deep truth when he says, “The glad creator never made man for sorrow: it is but a stormy strait through which he must pass to his ocean of peace. He makes the joy the last in every song.”</p>
<p>Wait for it. The joy, the beauty—much more than you can begin to imagine—will come. No one who has trusted him with the music has ever been disappointed. </p>
<p></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71663432023-03-06T14:29:28-06:002023-03-06T17:30:06-06:00We’re All Looking for Home<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> don’t know why, but I found myself recently looking at some Google Maps views of an old house.</p>
<p>How, I wondered, could it be that old? It was the house that was “my” house, my home, from the moment Mom and Dad brought me home from Amarillo’s original Northwest Texas Hospital. It remained my house for all of my school years.</p>
<p>I knew every nick in those wooden floors (Mom would pour wax on the floor and send us off with old towels; we’d spin around on hands and knees as human buffing machines) and every inch of its old paneling. I remember pulling kitchen chairs up to the sink where my two years younger brother and I would squabble over who washed and who dried the dishes. I remember the family table and, above it on the wall, the print of Warner Sallman’s famous “Head of Christ” painting.</p>
<p>I even remember my tricycle, believe it or not. Jim had a smaller one, red and white. Mine was orange and white and a little larger. I remember getting my chins bruised when I’d head down the little hill at the end of the driveway and try, too soon, to get my feet back on the pedals. Oh, and I remember our skateboards. Two by fours with metal skates nailed to the boards. A sidewalk pebble could fling you into next week.</p>
<p>I remember the tree houses Jim and I built in the back yard and the way we’d string rope from one old elm tree to another to build tents and play with the cool stuff we bought at the old Army Surplus store on Georgia Street. Grenades were not sold there, so we just used dirt clods from the alley when battles called for them.</p>
<p>A good family friend, Lee Meadows, worked at the hospital, and he donated to us the bottom frame of an old hospital meal cart. It came with four five- or six-inch wheels, two stationary and two free-wheeling. We rigged a top for it out of scrap lumber, and we’d take turns, one sprawled out on the top and one of us pushing as fast as he could down the driveway and then spinning the thing to see how centrifugal force would affect the rider. It was cheaper than Disneyland. (And we were as likely to go to the moon as to Disneyland.)</p>
<p>I’ll never forget some wonderful snowy days when we could open our bedroom windows, pull off the screens, and launch ourselves out of the house and down snow slides. My lifelong love affair with snow started in Amarillo. (Mom and Dad had already had three kids. After #3, they waited fifteen years to get it right with me. Then quality control botched it with Jim. By the time we came along, they were tired, and we got away with a lot.)</p>
<p>I remember fond hours spent in the garage and creating all sorts of experiments and a few minor explosives on the old workbench (it was scorched by a lab fire or two). We made use of a chemistry set augmented by chemicals we could buy at Jack Bell’s Pharmacy over on Line Avenue.</p>
<p>I recall our “territory” expanding from the house and its yard to the neighborhood, enlarging as we grew. We were particularly fond of what we called “alley-ratting,” which meant checking out the neighbors’ trash. The neighbor directly across the alley, Mr. Sarpolis (Google “Doc” Sarpolis, and you’ll find he was rather amazing, though we didn’t know it), smoked cigars that came in glass tubes, and those became test tubes for our endeavors. We found a lot of great stuff. (These days, you’d probably prick your finger on a needle and catch a dread disease.)</p>
<p>And I could write a book about our dear next door friends, Harold & Phyllis Harris. I think I loved their teenage daughter, Pam, even before I fell in love with Doris Day.</p>
<p>Jim and I often played at West Hills Park, just another street down from the house. Later, we’d become businessmen with two newspaper routes (in the days when you had to put the paper on the porch and not just somewhere in the vicinity of the property). We threw papers for years, starting out on foot, graduating to bicycles and, finally, a VW beetle.</p>
<p>Eventually, paper route customers became lawn care customers. And a few years later, we found employment working after school on the greens at the nearby Amarillo Country Club.</p>
<p>But the little house on Goliad Street was the center of it all. Home base.</p>
<p>Okay, I begin to see now how the house could be called old. But, honestly, it really looks today very much like it did in my growing up years, though improved. The dear friends my folks sold it to took great care of it and raised their own family there.</p>
<p>The more I think about that place, the more stories come to mind. How time passes!</p>
<p>I don’t know where you call home or where your own “home place” is; I hope it holds mostly good memories. But I do know this: home, and I mean our true Home filled with utter joy, is where, in the deepest parts of our souls, we all long to be. It’s the place we’re really searching for, consciously or not, all of our lives. And my faith is in the One who promises to lead us all the way Home.</p>
<p>I’ll bet my old home has had quite a few new floor coverings since I was there. I wonder, but I’ll bet that, down on the wooden floor underneath the new stuff, right in front of the wall where the old upright piano stood, is a greasy place marking the spot where I once dropped a plate full of my mom’s amazing enchiladas. </p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71617452023-02-27T12:14:33-06:002023-02-27T15:45:10-06:00“It Could Always Be Worse”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p class="has-black-color has-text-color"><a><strong>D</strong>isgusting, this day. At least, a chunk of it. Almost, I might even say, one of those “no good, very bad” days you’ve heard about.</a></p>
<p>Oh, but it could always be worse, someone says, rather unhelpfully. Well, of all people, Christians have the very best reasons to be optimistic and positive. But I hereby confess that I have some days when, to the cheery person assuring me that “it could be worse,” my reply might be, “I believe you. I don’t doubt that it could be worse. And I would not be at all surprised if that’s exactly where ‘it’ is presently heading.”</p>
<p>So thanks, my optimistic friend, for trying to cheer me up. But I already feel bad about how bad I feel, and now I feel even worse. Just give me a few minutes to feel good about feeling bad, okay? Go away.</p>
<p>I’m writing on a Sunday. By candlelight. I led worship this morning and preached, singing and teaching about the good news, the only news that ultimately matters. But I already knew that, at the end of the service, I would need to let our folks know that a couple in our church, folks we love deeply and they, us, would soon be moving out of town. We pray that it’s a wonderful new chapter for them. But when we talk about being “a family united in Christ,” we mean it. Or, to use the Apostle Paul’s metaphor, the church is a body with many parts. Bodies can indeed lose an arm or a leg and still function, but what body ever quits missing that part? So, a loving and lovely but bittersweet morning. That is not the disgusting part. And then . . .</p>
<p>Then we went out to eat with a good many of our church folks. Fun time, as usual. And then . . .</p>
<p>Then the blasted wind really cranked up. A predicted percentage of rain here rarely produces anything but mud on the windshield. But a prediction of wretched wind (that’s a meteorological term) never misses. The wind today has been as bad as I’ve ever seen it. Horrible. Unrelenting. Dirty brown. And did I mention “disgusting”?</p>
<p>There is never a good time for such, and, certainly, not today.</p>
<p>You see, our church steeple has been trying to leave the church, and we’ve been doing all we can to convince it to stay. After lunch today, I went back by the church, and that spire was starting to dance. Our temporary best-we-could-do fix was failing. No more options. All I could do was watch it teetering. I’d have given (sorry to say) less than even odds that it would hang on all day. I love to see it pointing toward the heavens, but we had a very good chance of watching a real “steeple chase.”</p>
<p>I stayed at the church for a while. Leaving would feel like abandoning ship. But I soon realized that nothing could be done. A good neighbor across the street promised to call if the steeple sailed. Feeling sunk, I drove home, cursing the wind.</p>
<p>For a while, I could see the steeple from an upstairs window in our house. Binoculars helped. And I could see it quite literally shifting angles. And then . . .</p>
<p>And then the wind increased, and I could barely see across our street. Horrible! I was expecting a steeple call at any moment. And then . . .</p>
<p>Then the power went out. In a power outage, even sane people will stumble into a room and flip the light switch. And, in a power outage, well, if your water comes from a well, you know that no power soon means no water. (You may need to explain this to big city dwellers.) This means, among other things, that you’ve only got one or two toilet flushes until you have no toilet flushes, so you take emergency measures and soon find that flushing is also an unconscious action. You also discover that battery power on phones, iPads, computers, etc., is not unlimited. You find that you should keep candles where they can easily be found. You find that rechargeable flashlights should be recharged more often. And you find that you quickly miss, as the old ads used to say, “the convenience of electric living.”</p>
<p>It really has been, in some ways, pretty close to being a “no good, very bad” and disgusting day. But here’s the thing. I have friends who are presently dealing with heartbreaking grief. I have friends dealing with cancer. And I often think these days about Ukrainians dealing with death and horror and living day in and day out in danger, perhaps in rubble and without power, all because a sawed off, putrescent little dictator with a massive inferiority complex thinks he can throttle them and thumb his nose at the world. (If allowed to, he won’t be the only thug encouraged by our weakness or naïveté to try such a play nor will he stop there.)</p>
<p>This day could be worse. Oh, yes, it could.</p>
<p>It’s still blowing. Still brown, dirty, and disgusting. Even the sound is horrible and relentless.</p>
<p>But the power just came back on. (I’m thankful for linemen and very thankful not to be one.) And my kids and grandkids are all well and safe at home. No bombs dropping on their heads.</p>
<p>And our steeple is still standing. Maybe it will make it through the night. We’ll soon know. But whatever happens, the One to whom it has pointed for decades is still the Father who loves us even on our worst days.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71573212023-02-20T11:08:24-06:002023-02-27T15:45:10-06:00A Job for a Steeple Stabilizer<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> like steeples. I’ve always liked them. The church I grew up attending was an A-frame structure with a fellowship hall attached, and it looked like a church. But a steeple would have improved the building.</p>
<p>I like them. And that is one reason I was particularly hurt when our church’s steeple recently decided to consider leaving the church behind, presumably to seek spiritual care and ecclesiastical mooring elsewhere.</p>
<p>Okay, I will admit that steeples don’t have spirits, but they point our spirits in the right direction. No, you don’t have to tell me for the ten millionth time that the church is the people and not the facility, up to and including the steeple. But a good church (the building) is a very special place. Place matters. So much that is beautiful and holy has gone on in “our” particular place, so many amazing people have worshiped in that place, that you won’t catch me considering it “common,” though its bricks and mortar, rafters and joists, are about as common as any you’d find at Tomas’s Totally Fine Tacos.</p>
<p>And “recently” deserves a line or two. For years, when I’d be working on the audio-video computer, etc., up in the front part of the balcony, and the weather was windy at all (which is almost always), I’ve heard some bumping sounds that I thought were just normal building noises.</p>
<p>But during a recent particularly disgusting blow, I looked outside at the steeple and then decided I’d better take a look inside by removing access panels from the balcony’s ceiling. Yep, two iron brackets and their steeple-tethering bolts and nuts were moving more than you’d like for your steeple hardware to move.</p>
<p>This may have been happening for years. But it’s one of those things that, once you know about it, well, something needs to be done. And that is a problem.</p>
<p>If you become afflicted with a boil on your nose and go to an “ear, nose, and throat” physician (an otolaryngologist) seeking health and help, you are likely to be disappointed. Though you quite naturally consider the pain to be a proboscis (nose) problem and the doctor’s credentials specifically mention noses, the nose guy will probably blow you off and send you to a dermatologist.</p>
<p>And what about a steeple guy or gal? Were we in New England where beautiful steeples abound, I think we could find some bona fide steeple specialists. But we’re not. The best we can find might be folks whose work very occasionally involves steeples. They like doing roofs. Or they like doing carpentry. But steeples? Not so much.</p>
<p>If you’re a steeple specialist and you read this, please call me. The last time I was up on the roof doing external steeple work—just replacing lights—I was moved to prayer. And I resolved it was the last time. (Not for prayer.) Even from the inside, I’ve already done more work temporarily “shimming” those iron braces than I’d really care to. If you hear of a pastor being rescued by the fire department as he was stuck up inside a steeple, you’ll know I made a very poor decision.</p>
<p>Steeple amputation is something we’re not considering. That church was built for and with a steeple. Some churches are not, and that’s fine. Some churches (as in, the people) have done an amazingly fine job with buildings of all sorts.</p>
<p>Nothing matters, of course, if the church’s first and deepest love is not Christ. But I wish all well, whatever their style in worship or architecture, whatever their number in attendance, who proclaim his name.</p>
<p>I will admit that I don’t care much for the presently popular “church in a box” architecture coupled with the meant-to-be-exciting, trendy, one-word church name, all of which could easily belong to one of the presently popular “houses of worship” built to enshrine various sports endeavors. It all seems so canned, shallow, and temporary.</p>
<p>If a church proclaims Christ, the fully human, fully divine Son of God as Lord, I rejoice.</p>
<p>But if I ever am involved in building a church (as in, the building), though such architecture is presently unpopular, it will have a steeple, bells (as in a carillon system that sounds like bells which is about as much as most of us could afford), and, very likely, kneelers, since bodies and spirits are connected and kneeling is good.</p>
<p>In any case, I very much hope that our steeple chooses to remain with its present congregation. And, yes, if you’re a plumber with a steeple-stabilizing side job and you’re good at it, please call me. I’ll have my cell phone even if I’m up inside the steeple.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71533062023-02-13T14:10:54-06:002023-02-20T12:45:08-06:00Super Bowl LVII Is Now History<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p class="has-black-color has-text-color"><a><strong>I</strong> was sick and missed school for a day or two in Second Grade when the teacher who followed Mrs. Blackburn was teaching our class about Roman numerals. I don’t remember her name, though I’m sure she was a great teacher. The fact is that Mrs. Blackburn was beautiful and kind, and I was in love with her. Since she left us to give birth, I seem to have had a rival.</a></p>
<p>In any case, I was left with a seriously broken heart. But it wasn’t my heart<a>—</a>it was a virus—that caused me to miss the lessons on Roman numerals. I’ve done my makeup work since then, but I’m still a bit weak on the subject, which means that I am sometimes a bit slow in finding the right chapter in excellent old Bible commentaries and in Super Bowls. As I write, Super Bowl LVII (that would be 57) was played yesterday, but I mistakenly called it Super Bowl 52 (that would be LII) a couple of times before the game started.</p>
<p>By the way, do you remember who won Super Bowl LII or even who the teams were? I’m sure some of you do, but I don’t have a clue. Who was the famous football player who was asked by a sports announcer if he thought that year’s Super Bowl was the “ultimate game ever”? Well, he was very pleased to be there, but the player simply replied, “Did they play the game last year? Will they play the game next year? [Pause.] Well.” Perspective is good.</p>
<p>That said, I thought yesterday’s Super Bowl Fifty-Something (make that LVII) was an incredibly good—yea, verily, even great—game. Granted, my opinion here is worth incredibly little. I’d rather watch an old John Wayne movie than most sporting events of any sort (unless I’ve got kids or grandkids playing), and I think anyone who pays the price charged for Super Bowl game tickets is certifiably insane. I’d pay <em>not</em> to go and to be able, instead, to watch the game at home on a good TV with good friends, good food, and a pillow thirty paces away and ready for use when it’s over. And that’s what I did.</p>
<p>But, as worthless as my opinions here really are, here are a few observations.</p>
<p>I enjoyed watching a game where the opposing quarterbacks were both exceptionally classy guys with deep respect for each other. Patrick Mahomes (Chiefs) and Jalen Hurts (Eagles) are both winners.</p>
<p>Folks always like to fuss about officiating, but, at this level, I think the officials are almost always incredibly professional. And one of the classiest things I heard after the game came from Eagles cornerback James Bradberry who drew a game-altering holding penalty very late in the game. When asked about it after the game, Bradberry just said, “It was a holding. I tugged his jersey. I was hoping they would let it slide.” Ya gotta appreciate a guy who just tells the truth and won’t whine. </p>
<p>Of course, there’s more to a Super Bowl game than the game. A few of the commercials were funny. Automakers hawking electric cars are still full of prunes, in my opinion. And I’m inclined to think that the “He Gets Us” Jesus commercials are really quite (surprisingly) good and more than defensible.</p>
<p>Ah, and don’t forget the Halftime Show. I’d really rather forget most of them. They make me cringe, and I very much doubt they’ll ever feature any “star” whose music I enjoy.</p>
<p>By the way, I very much enjoyed hearing Chris Stapleton sing the national anthem. I wish he’d sung the halftime show. But I guess he’d have looked silly in a red costume like Rihanna’s. It would be a bust indeed if he sang in a red plastic bra, though some such is probably on the way for a year or two from now. </p>
<p>The announcers said that Rihanna’s show was loved by jillions of folks tweeting cheers. The folks at my house just endured one more such show knowing we’d eventually get through the 29 minutes. I’ll admit that flying the singers and gyraters around was impressive. I still haven’t figured out the white, baggy ski-suit folks. I’ve heard people say they were sort of video game characters and that was the vibe being attempted. They reminded me of bleached Star Wars Jawas (Google it). Anyway, if the choice was to watch a 2024 Presidential Debate featuring a rematch between (please, no!) Elmer Fudd and Jabba the Hutt (Google them and then tell me the characters and politicians don’t fit), I might rather endure a Super Bowl halftime show. For me, “endure” is almost always the right word.</p>
<p>Anyway, Super Bowl LVII, 57, Fifty-seven, is now history. Ya never know exactly what to expect when these roll around. Kind of like life, I guess. Big wins, big losses. Tears of joy, tears of sorrow.</p>
<p>I wish both quarterbacks could have won. The Kelce boys, one on each team, had parents who were proud of them. Mom cheered from a luxury box; Dad, from the stands.</p>
<p>I hope you know that you’ve got a Father who’s incredibly fond of you and cheering you on in a far more important game.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71493052023-02-05T22:09:21-06:002023-02-13T18:30:15-06:00Pigs, the Space Station, and Perspective<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>P</strong>erspective. It matters. You’ve heard the “ham and egg breakfast” wisdom? The chicken is involved, but the pig is committed. (Of course, these days, anyone who needs eggs is pretty committed, too.)</p>
<p>Point of view. How we see. What we see. How we evaluate what we see.</p>
<p>I was out in the backyard one recent evening trying to catch a glimpse of the International Space Station zooming by. And I wasn’t just looking up and hoping for luck.</p>
<p>A couple of years ago when my brother told me that NASA would send you emails or texts regarding dates and times to see the space station flying overhead, I signed up. (You can, too, at <strong><a href="https://spotthestation.nasa.gov/" rel="nofollow">https://spotthestation.nasa.gov/</a></strong>.)</p>
<p>So, yes, I was outside that night. Not very late, but very dark. Pretty cold. Staring out toward the northwest, about ten degrees above the horizon. That’s approximately a couple of handwidths high at about five degrees per hand. Just extend your arms all the way out and pretend to be measuring a horse. Your arms need to be extended all the way out or your perspective will be messed up. One hand. Two hands. Stop. (Notice that I’m slipping in the word “perspective” here on purpose.)</p>
<p>According to NASA, when the space station is visible at night, it’s the third brightest object in the sky. And it’s most certainly the fastest moving object visible in the sky. Fast moving and quickly gone. You usually have 3-6 minutes to catch a glimpse of it as it blazes across the black velvet.</p>
<p>So I was outside. Looking out toward the northwest, as that email notification advised. And there it was! No doubt about it. Bright, check. Fast, check.</p>
<p>Of course, I’d seen it before. But what I saw that night was a bit unusual.</p>
<p>First, a couple of planets appear unusually bright this month, and I almost mistook one of them for the space station. Almost that bright, it was not sky-streaking. And I’m pretty sure it was a good bit farther away. Ya think?</p>
<p>Second, a plane was flying by as I’d spotted the real space station. From the ground, it looked like they were going to pass dangerously close to each other. NASA and the FAA were gonna have a hard time explaining such a mid-air collision. Maybe they’d issue a press release like all organizations do when they’ve messed up. The standard lawyer, risk management, cover your tail section, verbosity: “Please be assured that safety is our primary concern, and in our tireless and unending efforts to serve you better . . .” We blew it. But we can’t exactly say that.</p>
<p>But you already know that such an air disaster is not going to happen. It’s much more likely that Trump and Biden would embrace, uttering to each other words of heartfelt admiration, and ride off together into the sunset.</p>
<p>Nah, no mid-air collision. Just an odd perspective that evening.</p>
<p>As I watched, the space station flew into the branches of one of our big trees and was lost.</p>
<p>Really?</p>
<p>Well, I did lose it in the tree. I kept looking for it past the three promised minutes of visibility. I knew that tree could eat a kite, but I never expected it to obliterate a space station. That’s crazy, you say?</p>
<p>Well, I’m just reporting on what I saw. My shivering “guy on the ground” perspective. Of a planet. A plane. A tree. A space station. And three contradictory and reality-challenged views.</p>
<p>Notice that reality is not changed even a little by a skewed perspective. Remember “the blind men and the elephant”? One, feeling the elephant’s leg proclaimed the beast to be tree-like; another, feeling its trunk, was sure it must be snakelike.</p>
<p>And all of this leaves me wondering. Not about chickens and pigs, space shuttles and trees, or blind folks and elephants.</p>
<p>Nor does it leave me truly wondering about reality. Real is real. Truth is true. You don’t get your own reality or your own truth any more than you get your own personal law of gravity; neither do I. Both are, I believe, rooted in God’s very nature.</p>
<p>Genuine truth is not changed by the depth or intensity of our feelings about it. Like this or not, some opinions regarding truth are closer to the mark than some others. And that matters. A map that’s accurate is a blessing. A map that’s largely erroneous is misleading and dangerous.</p>
<p>But just a little thinking of the kind we’ve been doing here should add a good bit of humility, mercy, understanding, and grace to . . . our perspectives. If our Creator’s view is, as his people have always believed, not limited at all, no wonder our Father is the God both of all Truth and of all Grace. No wonder. But it’s the greatest wonder of all.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71455652023-01-29T22:33:21-06:002023-01-30T02:00:25-06:00Right on Time, Here Comes Punxsutawney Phil
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<p><strong>W</strong>hen I start writing about the weather, my readers might logically suppose that I’m feeling uninspired, dull and unimaginative, and short of things to write about. They would be right. My apologies.</p>
<p>Strange. I just looked back at a few old columns (I’ve got well over a thousand of them), and I see that on several occasions, about this time of year, I’ve written about the weather. So maybe I’m on track. And so is the year. Right on track.</p>
<p>Christmas is over. That’s depressing. The decorations are down. That’s depressing. I’m working on taxes. That’s depressing. It’s been January for almost a whole month. Aside from a few birthday bright spots, January is, to me, depressing—except for the theoretical possibility of snow, the most beautiful weather-wonder our Creator ever creates.</p>
<p>Full disclosure: I’m the grandson of a rancher, but I do not have cattle, or I might be less excited about the white stuff.</p>
<p>It has, thus far, and yet again, been a wimpy winter in my neck of the woods. I’m not qualified to discuss the reasons why. I’m not terribly conversant about La Niña or El Niño. I have some opinions about climate change and weather patterns and how much we humans affect such, but I’m not religious about those opinions. I can, however, smell climate politics. </p>
<p>Convocations of very religious folks (most of whom wouldn’t admit their religion is a religion) remind me, as I’ve mentioned before, of gnats congregating on an elephant’s posterior debating how to best save the elephant. I doubt if he knows or cares. I could be wrong.</p>
<p>I remember when many experts were wringing their hands over the population crisis, by which they meant, too many folks. Now we’re hearing scary stuff about the opposite. I don’t doubt that climate patterns change. But what to do? I don’t know, and I figure that by the time they come up with an electric pickup I’d want to buy, my kids will have confiscated my driving license. I am, however, concerned that the more real danger is that, busy sanctimoniously “saving the world,” we allow real enemies to make a bigger mess of it while we’re worried that our popsicles might melt. I could be quite wrong. </p>
<p>I am not a meteorologist or the son of a meteorologist. My only qualification to have an opinion at all is that I like seasons, and I like them best when they behave like the seasons they are. If I wanted perpetual spring, I would live . . . elsewhere.</p>
<p>Each season has just claim to fame but winter may be my favorite. Of course, it’s working at an unfair advantage: it’s got Christmas. And, at least when my wife and I go to the mountains to get it, winter has that snow I mentioned. And roaring fireplaces. And skiing. And hot chocolate. And books by fireplaces.</p>
<p>But in my opinion, this winter, despite a few very, very cold days (we’re in the midst of some as I write) has been wimpy and windy. Almost—and I find this chilling—springlike. Not “springlike” as in birdies singing, trees budding out, new life bursting forth from the ground. No. Picture rodents and small children flying around in the atmosphere as acres of parched land rise up to switch counties. Springlike. And the real thing will be here soon enough.</p>
<p>We surely don’t need “Goliath” type blizzards (December 2015), but I’m always a bit disappointed when winter in these parts consists of about 62 flakes of dry snow. Wimpy.</p>
<p>So I’ll be watching with interest as the redoubtable rodent, Punxsutawney Phil, emerges on February 2, Groundhog Day. I hope he sees his shadow. If we can get the real thing, a little more winter is fine with me. By the way, those who keep track of such things say that Phil’s prediction is reliably unreliable. But it’s fun.</p>
<p>If you’re a beach person, we’re still friends. If you worry about cow flatulence, I’m sorry that you have to deal with such anxiety. Our faith—the kind that really matters—is not dependent upon our climate agreement. We might disagree on how best to do so, but folks with faith in our Creator all agree that he did an amazing job spinning this globe, and we should do our best not to mess it up.</p>
<p>I hope our trust is in the Author of life and all seasons. Whatever the weather (forgive me if I’m tempted to cross my fingers here regarding blowing dust and wind), our Creator makes “everything beautiful in its time” (Ecclesiastes 3:11).</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71422792023-01-23T12:29:46-06:002023-01-23T13:15:17-06:00January 20: Penguin Awareness Day<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> may need to apologize to a penguin.</p>
<p>Are you aware that Friday, January 20, 2023, was Penguin Awareness Day? I wasn’t, either, until I ran across a “news” blurb flashing across one of my screens late that day, and by then it was too late to do anything very practical about it. (And I just assumed that most likely the event was designed to help people to be more aware of penguins and not for penguins to be more aware of their surroundings lest they step into traffic or something.)</p>
<p>Greeting card companies probably have some (overpriced) cards for that day. Black and white. Maybe tuxedos with black tie ribbons? I could have bought one had I not been so callously unaware of the special day. Better yet, I could have spent the entire day in heightened awareness of the particular difficulties faced by penguins in our modern world. At least, I could have posted well wishes on Facebook. Maybe “liked” or “loved” some awareness-provoking pictures of penguins. Alas, too late.</p>
<p>I figured I had two good options. I could make it a point to apologize in person to the very next penguin I bumped into, or I could just wait until next year’s Penguin Awareness Day and do something really special. Whichever comes first.</p>
<p>My oversight was nothing personal. As far back as I can recall, I’ve had nothing but the warmest feelings toward penguins and, indeed, the whole penguin community.</p>
<p>I assume they have one. A community, I mean. We all seem to have a “community” these days. The right-handed community. The left-handed community. The right-handed and green-eyed people who like chocolate community.</p>
<p>Anyway, I’ve made a special note on my phone’s calendar marking January 20 for those specially-beloved waddlers lest I blow right past their official day yet again.</p>
<p>Ah, but my callous oversight has made me think. Wondering what other special days I might be sauntering past with nary a thought regarding their specialness, I did some Internet searching. Turns out that there’s not a day in the year that’s not been designated as a special day. If you don’t believe it, navigate over to HolidaySmart.com and browse a bit.</p>
<p>The folks at that website somehow neglected to mention that January 11 is my birthday, but they did tip their hat to that auspicious calendar square as being, among other claims to fame, Hot Toddy Day. Good to know.</p>
<p>Just for fun, I looked up my younger brother’s birthday. Cheddar Day. I’ll send him cheese if he’ll send me . . .</p>
<p>As exhaustive (and exhausting) as that website is (I mean, you can’t take a breath on any day and not be trampling on top of somebody’s “day”), it’s quite thorough. I did notice, though, that they completely overlooked Hobbit Day, Sept. 22. (You can look it up.)</p>
<p>With apologies again to penguins, I give up. I plan to try to act like my littlest grandkids and recognize every day as a special day, a day given to them by God to use to run and laugh and play and hug and learn. A day from which to squeeze out every last bit of joy before getting some great sleep so you can do the same to the next one. After all, it was just the other day—a day I’d already mentally pronounced as windy, dusty, and generally unpleasant—when I heard one of those little snaggle-toothed princesses remark, “It really is kind of a beautiful day.” And in her company, ya know, it really kinda was.</p>
<p>I know now that the day Kendall dubbed “kind of beautiful” was also World Quark Day, and Tin Can Day, and Good Memory Day. That last was right on target. But she’s already told me a bunch of times on more than a few days, “Today’s my best day.”</p>
<p>Come to think of it, that’s not at all a bad thing to note on a calendar. I think it even overshadows Penguin Awareness Day. No offense meant to the penguin community.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71388072023-01-16T13:39:53-06:002023-01-16T15:15:40-06:00Toothpaste, Toilet Paper, and Marriage
<p class="has-black-color has-text-color"><a><strong>Toothpaste, Toilet Paper, and Marriage</strong></a><strong></strong></p>
<p>By Curtis K. Shelburne</p>
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<p><strong>F</strong>orty-seven years. That’s how long my wife and I have been married. It probably seems longer to her.</p>
<p>I’m counting pretty heavily on the fact that breaking in a new husband would likely be for her, at this point, more trouble than it’s worth.</p>
<p>These days, the statistics for folks who get married as young as we did are pretty grim. And I will admit, if one of my grandkids expressed a desire to get married at age 18, I’d likely need some sort of sedation.</p>
<p>But for those who marry young and survive to grow up together and grow old together with their first spouse, blessings abound. Of course, all married couples face some challenges. Fewer challenges, I think, than folks who choose to live together without vows and can cut and run at any moment, but challenges nonetheless.</p>
<p>Early on, my wife and I faced and dealt with the toilet paper challenge. She explained to me an advantage or two of the “under” rather than “over” approach to hanging TP. It still seemed rather uncivilized to me, and we went with “over.”</p>
<p>Couples also bump quickly into practical decisions regarding everyday household chores. I am not a great dishwasher, but I am fairly proficient at gathering and carrying out trash. Since my beloved doesn’t like the way I load dishwashers, and since I’m not sure she knows where the dumpster is, the “division of labor” solution we came up with in this regard seemed easy and obvious.</p>
<p>Moving on, we came to the potential contention regarding toothpaste. More specifically, toothpaste tubes. In our marital alliance, I discovered very quickly that my wife takes it as a personal affront if any tube of toothpaste fails to surrender its last molecule of product. I’ve watched in amazement as she tortures toothpaste tubes until they give up every bit of their tooth goop and beg for mercy. She is not happy if I, in frustration, toss a tube into the trash too soon. So now I work my personal toothpaste tube down to a reasonable level, and then I surreptitiously switch out my dwindling tube for her fuller one. Win win.</p>
<p>By the way, her particular talent extends to anything that comes in a plastic bottle. I was a bit concerned (my heart skipped a beat or two) when I first discovered a large butcher knife stored in a drawer on her side of the bathroom. (Does the surname Bobbitt ring any bells?) Turns out she uses that rather frightening instrument to saw lotion-dwindling bottles in two so she can—you guessed it—retrieve any recalcitrant hand lotion molecules out of the containers.</p>
<p>We are somewhat similar in our “chronotypes.” Neither of us is a lark (a morning person), and neither is an extreme owl (a night person), though we (particularly me) definitely tend to be “owl-ish.” Neither of us arises merrily to chase the dawn, and one of us can get along just fine with limited light and speech until quite a good while after dawn and copious amounts of coffee.</p>
<p>The way two streams can come together to form one marital river is rather amazing. Why would we expect to have no occasional turbulence at their convergence? But—and this is also deeply true—who could ever have dreamed of the marvelous beauty and unique blessing their flowing together as one, unselfishly un-dammed, could become?</p>
<p>God. That’s who.</p>
<p>In our society, many self-righteous—and loud—folks may babble incessantly about diversity and equity. Strange, how often they seem to mean, in practicality, forcing lock-step conformity and a dreary sameness. “Equity” tends to mean cutting everyone off at the knees lest anyone grow taller than anyone else.</p>
<p>I think God’s way is better. We’re each and all valued and loved and given varied gifts that we unselfishly use to bless each other, and, to switch to the Apostle Paul’s favorite metaphor, when each “member” of the body functions well, the whole body reaps the amazing benefit.</p>
<p>All of this, I suppose, to say that “better together” and “more than we could ever be apart” are wonderfully true concepts for those who really do love their Lord and each other more than they love themselves.</p>
<p>Mark my words. A young couple able to deal unselfishly with toothpaste and toilet paper issues is off to a great start.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71353342023-01-09T12:23:37-06:002023-01-16T15:15:40-06:00Selling the Moments of Our Lives
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<p><strong>A</strong> new year. In the dance of the universe, the annual calendar flip always seems to me to be mostly a non-event, plastic hype, modern media “News Alert” news. I never notice much difference between 11:59 p.m. on Dec. 31 and 12:01 a.m. on Jan. 1.</p>
<p>And yet . . . I’ll admit that the dawning of a new year might not be a bad time to check our smoke alarms and our priorities. Regarding the latter, the sharp-pointed question is actually this: For what price are we selling the moments of our lives?</p>
<p>Because there is a price.</p>
<p>A friend, a man I respect immensely, recalled a conversation he had with a superior in his company. My friend was being offered a significant opportunity for advancement—and a lot more money. But he turned it down. Why? Because, as he told his boss after considering the hours, the time away from home, the travel: “Happiness is worth a lot to me.”</p>
<p>“Well,” the boss replied, “isn’t it to everyone?”</p>
<p>The answer is No. More than a few people are willing to trade their happiness, and that of those closest to them, for any “advancement,” “success,” and more money. They’ll rationalize the decision and hope their own souls and their families won’t notice. But they are willing to put happiness on the auction block.</p>
<p>I’ve been blessed with a number of friends wise enough to know when such was the actual choice, and who made the best decision. I’ve never known one who later regretted making the selfless choice.</p>
<p>The choice is not always that stark. Some very fine folks advance and reap the benefits of their hard work even as they remain happy, content, and continually pray to be a blessing wherever they work and serve. But they are never the ones who equate “more” with “happier” or who spend time saying or thinking, “I’ll be happy <em>if</em> . . .” They know that “if” never really comes.</p>
<p>They know that selling their integrity for success is deep loss. They know that to become strangers to their spouses and kids is terrible failure, no matter their financial “net worth.” They know genuine truths about real worth. (Remember Harry Chapin’s classic “The Cat’s in the Cradle”? It’s worth a listen.)</p>
<p>A wise person whose name I don’t recall once remarked, “Has it ever occurred to you that most of the worst things most people ever do are done to please people they don’t even really like?”</p>
<p>How many people sell their lives to “reach the top” and find that the “top” is cheap and tawdry, though slithering to the summit cost them dearly. And then the moments fly by, dust returns to dust, and their “place knows them not” (Psalm 103). They got a watch or a plaque. Then another climber climbed into their spot. And the process repeats.</p>
<p>Just a few days ago, a well-known politician in our land got the high position he coveted. But more than a few folks across the political spectrum are left wondering if, after all the bowing, scraping, and groveling he’s been willing to do to some very slimy human beings, what he finally got is really worth having or is now so demeaned that it will become dust and ashes in his mouth. I don’t know. When our two national political parties seem mostly characterized by craziness, cowardice, or, at any given moment, some combination thereof, and do their best to expel anyone with much character or wisdom, I don’t expect much. I guess time will tell. But, just from the reports I’ve heard, I hope I’d not have been willing to pay that price. </p>
<p>Don’t let me sidetrack this with politics. The principle holds true in every arena of our lives and at every level. I’ve seen religious “rock stars” sell their integrity for mega-church fame and neon glitz. I’ve also seen large churches led by folks who were selfless and humble. I’ve seen churches, little and large, split by tyrants, and churches, little and large, blessed by wise and selfless leaders who would “give their lives for the sheep” and were invariably true to the Shepherd. We all know that greedy rich folks and greedy poor folks are easy to find. As are some folks at all levels of income who know what it means to be truly rich. </p>
<p>Name a business. Name an endeavor. Name a church, or a school, or any organization. Name a family.</p>
<p>And then name some names. Think about the people you remember, and will always honor, who have blessed you by loving you and the people around them so much that they “sold” the moments of their lives wisely to be a blessing wherever they worked and served.</p>
<p>Thank God for them. And pray to partake deeply of that same wisdom and blessing. If God gives you the talents and abilities to be a great CEO, use them, and ask for humility, realizing that the janitor mopping the hallway of the company and humming “Amazing Grace” may be a very rich man indeed if he knows happiness, contentment, and the love of his family.</p>
<p>This is sure: One day, sooner than we think, we’ll each reach a moment when we know—we really know—that, though we’ve made many mistakes and taken some missteps along the way, we’ve journeyed in the right direction. We followed the right Leader. And we sold our moments well.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71315992023-01-02T10:54:27-06:002023-01-09T13:00:21-06:00January Is a Good Time for Looking Both Directions<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>ell, here we find ourselves again in January, and maybe some reflection is in order.</p>
<p>On the one hand, author Thomas Mann is right: “Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunder-storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols.” So a new year? January? Big deal.</p>
<p>On the other hand, I’m always a little surprised when 12:01 a.m. of the new year rolls around and there’s not even any perceptible “bump” indicating that our wheels have run over a chronological curb. Even so, the seasons of the year each do have a discernible character, and I like that.</p>
<p>I like seasons, and I like living in a place where weather-wise, they are pretty obvious. It’s strange. I don’t tend to like change, but I like the changing seasons. I particularly like the fact that there is so very little change each year in the way that they invariably change. I like the particular character with which the Creator has endowed each season, and winter just might be my favorite.</p>
<p>I know nothing about Edith Sitwell, but I think she captures for me winter’s winsomeness: “Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”</p>
<p>There it is: “the time for home.” I like that.</p>
<p>One of my sons recently reflected on the time our family had together at Christmas, and what he said delighted me and may well have been the best Christmas gift I received. He said, “You know, it was really nice to be home. You and Mom have made it a really enjoyable place to be, and that’s true for all of us, from the little ones to all the rest.” I love that, and am immensely thankful for it!</p>
<p>Home matters to me, and there is no place I’d rather be. Maybe that’s why I can think of nothing better (as long as the cupboard is full and there are some good books, old movies, and firewood available), than being snowed in for a few wonderful days. The only way, it seems to me, that we ever have anything much worthwhile to offer to the loud and bustling world outside is when we spend enough quiet and rich time inside, being gently reminded of who we are and Whose we are. That’s true of our homes, I think, and I believe it’s also true of our minds and our spirits.</p>
<p>Perhaps it’s never more true than in January. I always tend to find January depressing, scrunched up as it is right alongside of December. Granted, it starts off with a few of the twelve days of the Christmas season. It can certainly use the color. It includes my birthday and the birthdays of several family and friends I deeply love. Nonetheless, I hate it when the Christmas stuff comes down and the tax forms come in. Christmas holds so much beauty, hope, joy, and magic. Then comes January, a month that seems, unless we can get some beautiful snow (real snows are always magic), mostly designed for bloodless bureaucrats whose imaginations flat-lined sometime very early in elementary school.</p>
<p>But, I admit, that’s not entirely fair to January. The first month really does have some very good points and some unique wisdom. January gets its name from the Roman god Janus who was depicted on Roman coins as two-headed, looking both ways, backward and forward. He was the keeper of gates and doors.</p>
<p>Wisdom lies in spending the right amount of time looking in both directions. God is still the Lord of both our “coming in” and our “going out.” He is the God of all times, all seasons, both “now and for evermore” (Psalm 121:8).</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2023 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71292602022-12-27T19:39:05-06:002023-01-02T14:15:10-06:00Times Square Is Podunk Hollow Compared to Bethlehem<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>A</strong>nd here we are. One more year. Almost as far as you can get from Christmas Day.</p>
<p>I hope your Christmas has been, and is being, filled with everything good. I’m quoting me to me here: “Christians who know the real meaning of the holy days should celebrate everything that is good about them—lights, trees, candles, songs, family, services, bells, friends, snow, sleds, presents, candy, laughter—with more joy than other people and not less. If we truly love Christ more than Christmas, then we’re free to love Christmas immensely and with a real freedom and genuine joy deeper than we could ever have otherwise. All that’s truly joyful and good is God’s. It would be nonsense to thank Santa for God; it may be very good sense indeed to thank God for Santa.”</p>
<p>Oh, I stand by that! My grandchildren have called me “the king of Christmas.” If they mean that no one enjoys it more than I do and is more intent on tasting the joy in every bit of its fruit, I joyfully plead guilty. But, of course, they know as well as I do that there is only one King of Christmas. And we might do well to notice that, as his early disciples figured out and as our little ones know instinctively already, if we’re really looking for Christ, he will be the one laughing with the children.</p>
<p>One of our family jokes is for a grandchild or two, after Christmas Day, to put on a fake frown and intone dolefully (about the time a few of their parents are considering bowing to the temptation to box up all the decorations early—oh, the shame of it!), “Christmas is over, Curtis!”</p>
<p>I beg to differ. And I like to think I have Christian history, dating back to A.D. 567 (look it up) on my side, regarding “the twelve days of Christmas.” History seems to indicate that a time of preparation, Advent, preceding the actual season and the celebration of Christ’s birth, was observed at least from about A.D. 480 [Wikipedia]. In any case, anything that honors the Lord and makes Christmas even more meaningful is fine with me. I want it all—the whole twelve days, “geese a’layin’” and “lords a’leapin’” not required, though they’re fun. (If you press me on the history and mention that Advent traditionally included some fasting, I might have to admit that I’m not a complete purist.)</p>
<p>Here, though, is a very practical point. We’re all tired after the main celebrations, but many of us who lead worship and help churches celebrate this beautiful time, as much as we love it, are truly “toast” pretty early in the days right after the Day. Yes, I’m still celebrating (“No, you sweet little folks, it’s not over!”), but it’s quieter now. And quietness is its own very real blessing.</p>
<p>I’ve tried to lead others in praise and reflection. Now for a few days, I’ll do my best to intentionally slow down more, drink in some stillness, and pause by the fire just to be and breathe and be grateful.</p>
<p>I know. The stillness won’t last. New Year’s sparklers and largely artificial joy are always a bit of a bump in my road. I am not, however, a complete New Year’s Grinch, and I’m truly thankful to be aboard to begin another year. Life is God’s sweet gift. But my hope is not in a new year and my impressive ability to steer my way through it. The only New Year’s resolution I’ve ever come close to keeping is the one I made decades ago about never making New Year’s resolutions.</p>
<p>If Christmas does what I’m sure God wants it to do in my soul, I’ll enter a new year buoyed by the hope of Bethlehem and the angelic proclamation that God is with us, Immanuel, and the Almighty has done and is still doing what we could never do and never even imagine.</p>
<p>That’s real hope, real because it centers completely on God and not at all on me. Sparklers are puny light compared to glory-fired angels. And Times Square will always be a backwater podunk anywhere in the same universe as Bethlehem.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-red-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71253692022-12-19T12:14:29-06:002022-12-27T21:45:09-06:00“The Light Shines in the Darkness”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>F</strong>our candles. At church, we lit four candles this morning. I’m talking about Advent candles. One for each of the four Sundays before Christmas. And now, only the “Christ candle,” the large white one in the center of the Advent wreath, is left.</p>
<p>I didn’t grow up lighting candles at church. I do remember getting to light candles at a wedding in my hometown church once. My brother and I were pressed into service as candlelighters. Using real candle-lighters. We looked like altar boys in training. And I still think it was probably a mistake to let Jim loose with fire. But we lit a lot of candles, and I liked it.</p>
<p>I was taught many good things at that church that have blessed me all of my life, and I treasure many of the relationships, but I still think we were short on candles. I’ve been trying to rectify that for a number of years now.</p>
<p>I won’t go into the history, but, truth be told, I think we were a little wary of anything that was perhaps too beautiful. We were certainly wary of anything at all “ornate.” Were our Puritan roots partially responsible? I think so. Right along with the idea that what was not “authorized” in Scripture was forbidden (as if the New Testament were simply an update on the Old, a revised book of laws; as if the cross-bought new covenant itself were really just a revision of religious business as usual). “Silence” in Scripture, particularly regarding worship, was considered to be strictly prohibitive, instead of being an area of complete freedom.</p>
<p>It was no new fight, of course. I understand that the great reformers (and their followers), Martin Luther and Ulrich Zwingli, the former in Germany and the latter in Switzerland, disagreed over the same sorts of “issues.” Candles for Luther, but none for Zwingli. Organs for Luther, but not even congregational singing for Zwingli who found no authorization for it. Those two giants dealt with the “silence” of New Testament Scripture very differently.</p>
<p>It seems to me that the Apostle Paul would tell us that we need to make a decision we believe does not hinder the spread of the gospel or violate the law of love toward our brothers or our neighbors in any way, and proceed to worship, glorifying God. No fussing and no judging. “Your brother may disagree with you, but don’t you doubt for a moment that he will stand justified before God—for the very same reason you will” (Romans 14:4, my paraphrase).</p>
<p>But the far larger point, vastly larger than any externals, is also made incredibly strongly by the apostle. What an amazing chapter is 2 Corinthians (that “2” is pronounced “second,” by the way, and this hint is free for politicians) Corinthians 3 where he again contrasts (as if Romans and Galatians and more were not enough) trusting in a written code and the power of human effort, versus trusting completely in the Spirit and God’s “work” accomplished completely through Christ. Even as the apostle warns us, “the letter of the law kills,” he exults, “but the Spirit gives life.”</p>
<p>This is potent stuff! This is the gospel, the good news. It will bring freedom to our souls. It will light them up with joy! If it encourages us maybe to light a candle or two, or sing a song or two, or play a symphony, or dance in delight, or marvel in wonder, or bow in gratitude, or open our hearts for laughter in the very presence of the God of all joy, well, that’s just the beginning of eternal consequences. (Warning: It has also been known to cause religious folks of the toxic variety to start nailing together crosses for crucifixions.)</p>
<p>I’m not particular about the candles. They’re just one sweet tradition (and, look it up, the whole idea of Advent seems like a very good idea, and a “preparation” my heart seriously needs; funny how often we discover stuff someone else discovered centuries ago). I surely do like them. I just wish I could slow down the time between now (the four candles) and the lighting of His. I want to enjoy every moment. Bask in the anticipation. Enjoy the twinkle of every light. </p>
<p>But I am serious about “the joy” and very particular indeed about our not missing this fact: When we celebrate Christ’s birth, the whole point is that God did it. We didn’t. And we never could. Salvation didn’t come from us. Never could. Never would. Never will.</p>
<p>We celebrate Christ’s coming at Bethlehem. Because. God. Did. It.</p>
<p>Wonder of wonders! The light has come! And the darkness will never overcome it.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-red-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71218832022-12-12T15:04:10-06:002022-12-19T15:15:14-06:00“What Then Can I Give Him?”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>’ve been enjoying reading Stephen Nissenbaum’s fine book <em>The Battle for Christmas</em>. Most Americans tend naturally to think that the Christmas traditions we share have been relatively unchanged for a very, very long time. Not so.</p>
<p>For example, when the Pilgrims arrived in North America on <em>Mayflower</em> and established Plymouth Colony in 1620, the last thing a child in that colony would expect around Christmas or New Year’s would be a gift or present of any sort. According to Nissenbaum’s rigorous research, the idea of giving gifts and presents during that time of year didn’t really take hold until the 1820s. But when it did, wow!</p>
<p>Early on, in the 1820s and 1830s, books, literary “annuals,” and “gift books,” collections of short stories and poetry, etc., became popular and increasingly ornate. Before long, they included “presentation plates,” opening pages in which the giver could inscribe his name, the name of the one to whom the gift was being given, and even the reason for the gift. “From _____ as a token of _____ to _____.” It might be “a token of” “his regard” or “friendship” or “affection” or whatever.</p>
<p>In this rather ingenious way, a book that was, though a rather expensive (and perhaps very expensive) extravagance, albeit mass-produced and very popular, became a personalized gift. It really was not at all a “one of a kind” gift, but the inscription transformed it into a “one of a kind” gift especially from me to thee.</p>
<p>Not surprisingly, Bibles also became very popular gifts. An incredible array of Bibles in sizes and editions with illustrations and “helps” such as maps and pronunciation keys, and much more, were available in myriad colors and bindings. Again, they were great gifts, mass- produced, to be sure, but also with the “presentation page” at the front to make them intensely personal gifts. Publishers were not slow to recognize both their popularity and marketing potential. According to Nissenbaum, <em>Harpers Illuminated Bible</em>, ornately illustrated and handsomely bound and gilt, earned for its publishers in “its first dozen years” the “staggering sum of $500,000” in retail sales.</p>
<p>And, of course, as gift-giving took firm hold and the holidays began to center increasingly on children, all sorts of toys and dolls and . . . began to fill stockings, and Santa Claus (or some variation of that spelling referring to the “jolly old elf”) became quite prominent. In fact, Clement Clarke Moore’s “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” known to most as “The Night Before Christmas” (1823) did more than any other single work to paint the holiday, and especially St. Nick, in our minds as we’ve pictured it ever since.</p>
<p>Nissenbaum follows the experiences of one particular family through several decades and includes quotations from the letters they wrote to each other or others during the holidays as gifts became an increasingly prominent feature of their celebration. He particularly notes the reactions of the children to the gifts.</p>
<p>We begin to see soon in the descriptions of their holidays and gifts some categories of gift-related problems that are as modern as tomorrow.</p>
<p>Various members of the family talk about how hard it is to “find the right present.” Some of the gifts ordered turn out to be “the wrong gift.” Some are “lost in the mail” or “don’t arrive on time.” Or so-and-so, it was discovered, “already has that.” Or “it was really not what was asked for.” Or the gift turns out to be “rather a useless trifle” or “what do you do with this?” Perhaps the toy breaks quickly. Maybe the size or color is wrong. And on the problems went. And on they still go.</p>
<p>One of my favorite songs to sing during the holidays features the lyrics of Christina Rossetti’s poem (1872), “In the Bleak Midwinter.” She takes the reader to the scene of Christ’s birth where “may have gathered,” she writes, “angels and archangels” and where “cherubim and seraphim thronged the air.” His mother Mary “worships the Beloved” with “a kiss.”</p>
<p>But “what shall I give Him,” she asks, “poor as I am?” What indeed can be given to the One all of Heaven cannot hold, “nor can earth sustain,” the One who will “reign” over all?</p>
<p>“If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. / If I were a wise man, I would do my part.” But “what then can I give Him”?</p>
<p>Her answer is still the best, and points to the only real gift that you and I can give to the One who has given us life and breath, joy and hope, and who sustains us and the entire universe every moment: “I will give my heart.”</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71192572022-12-06T19:50:22-06:002022-12-12T18:24:14-06:00“Presents Did Not Fly About as They Do Now”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>n 1850, which was before she wrote her classic <em>Uncle Tom’s Cabin</em>, Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote a story for Christmas. One of her characters describes the difficulty of buying gifts, Christmas presents:</p>
<p>“‘Oh, dear! Christmas is coming in a fortnight, and I have got to think up presents for everybody! Dear me, it’s so tedious! Everybody has got everything that can be thought of.’”</p>
<p>She then recalls the early years of her life when “‘presents did not fly about as they do now.’” In fact, “‘the very idea of a present was so new.’” But now, she laments, “‘There are worlds of money wasted, at this time of year, in getting things that nobody wants, and nobody cares for after they are got.’”</p>
<p>These lines are quoted by Stephen Nissenbaum in his book, <em>The Battle for Christmas</em>. The “battle” has nothing to do with whether we wish each other a “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays.” It has everything to do with this noted historian writing “A Cultural History of America’s Most Cherished Holiday.” The book is incredibly well-researched, was a “Pulitzer Prize Finalist,” and is packed full of surprises regarding how America’s celebration of Christmas actually came to be what it is. (It’s interesting that America’s foremost scholar on the history of Christmas in America is Jewish, a fact he finds interesting, too.)</p>
<p>The reader probably already knows that the celebration of Christmas was not looked upon with favor, and was even outlawed at times, by Puritans in the New World. When you read his description of the history of mind-blowing rowdiness, party-crashing, uninvited “guests” showing up at the doors and inside the houses of folks from whom they demanded cakes and ale (“trick or treat” on steroids), you’ll have a bit more sympathy for the Puritans. I had no idea!</p>
<p>According to Nissenbaum, Harriet Beecher Stowe is on point when her character describes the kind of gift-buying and gift-giving conundrum we still face. The interesting thing is that, though we’ve faced exactly what she describes for generations, it was indeed a new thing in the early 19th-century. It was in the 1820s, the historian says, that buying presents for folks at Christmas actually became a very major part of the holiday in our country.</p>
<p>At one time, lords of manors in England invited their workers in to their masters’ homes during the holidays for food and drink. That “invitation” later devolved in New York, Philadelphia, Boston, etc., into the uninvited sort of thing described above. A time of making the rounds and visiting friends, eating and drinking, to excess or not, was also common.</p>
<p>But eventually, the celebrations became less centered in places and people outside the family unit and shifted focus to the family itself. The kids would receive some small presents (fruit, candy, and later, books, etc.). As was the case with the manor’s workers years before, around the holiday times, society’s tables turned topsy-turvy and kids, who occupied a place in the household on par perhaps with servants, were elevated in status during the holidays.</p>
<p>Nissenbaum catalogs it all. In the 1820s, gift-giving really ramped up. Stores, sales, advertising in the newspapers, and so on. Gifts for wives and the mothers of the household soon gained favor, and shopkeepers and publishers, etc., increasingly jumped on the bandwagon which gained, as you know, incredible mass and speed.</p>
<p>I think I’ve reported accurately here, but Nissenbaum’s book is worth a read.</p>
<p>My own history, I know much better. In my family, we pretty much always knew that Santa Claus was Dad. (Nissenbaum talks a lot about St. Nick’s origins.) On Christmas morning, we opened the gifts one at a time. Dad was Santa, and the unwritten rule was that each gift went through his hands to ours. One at a time.</p>
<p>Mom and Dad’s older kids went through sparser times (fruit, candy, clothes), but by the time my brother Jim and I came around, we usually got a special and much-wanted present or two, some much less expensive ones, and, not unusually, some stuff we needed and the family budget would be accommodating anyway—pajamas, socks, blue jeans, underwear, etc. We were far from poverty-stricken, but Mom and Dad were smart. Wrapped socks do constitute an actual present that can be added to the stash under the tree for Yuletide plenty.</p>
<p>One of the worst presents Jim and I ever gave Dad (it may have been a birthday, but I think it was Christmas) was a bottle of “Grecian Formula” guaranteed by its makers to slowly turn gray hair dark. We tried to scratch off the directions regarding hair color and just wanted to watch his surprise in the days ahead. Our trick didn’t work.</p>
<p>If my meanderings bring to mind the history of some of your own Christmases and gifts, I’m glad. But most of all, I hope my words (sparked by Nissenbaum’s great book) help you think a bit about the kind of gifts that really matter and that your loved ones really need. The most precious cost nothing at all but your love.</p>
<p>The history of how we celebrate Christmas is fascinating. But the real celebration centers on the best Gift of all.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71121432022-11-28T11:34:20-06:002022-12-06T23:45:10-06:00A Turkey-induced Stupor—or Not<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> am writing, or trying to write, in a turkey-induced stupor.</p>
<p>Well, that’s at least partly correct. But not, I think, the turkey part.</p>
<p>Our family had a really nice Thanksgiving. I hope you and yours did, too. Into a relatively normally-sized house we crammed more folks than the house was designed to easily accept. The grandkids buzzed around like happy little bees, playing with the dog (who is never happier than when the kids are home and now seems to be in a stupor of his own), heading out to a rather cold trampoline, helping hang lights in the shed/greenhouse “magic” princess-prince castle, pulling out way too many toys, piling onto PawPaw, etc. (“PawPaw,” asked the littlest princess, “who wakes you up when we’re not here?”)</p>
<p>Some of the “littles,” as we call the youngest four, even joined in, for the first time, in a card tournament (with some modifications to help them compete).</p>
<p>Nertz (it has other spellings and names) is usually something we get around to playing when we’re together. As is true with so many holiday traditions, our version is an amalgamation, a blend, of the practices of the families that marriage has brought together to make our bunch.</p>
<p>I was playing at something of a disadvantage for a few hands as I came in late and nobody had told me that our usual 13-card pile had been temporarily downgraded to a 10-card stack. I would’ve lost anyway. I always do. I’m a word guy, and no one will play word games with me.</p>
<p>We’ve long ago come up with rules that work for us. Different members of our bunch come from families with different rules governing how you flip your cards. That disagreement has been handled. And we all agree that it is forbidden to “two-hand” cards when smashing them into the piles in the middle of the table.</p>
<p>I don’t know why I’m picky about such. I am destined to lose anyway. I’m at a disadvantage whenever speed is required and numbers are involved. Two strikes starting out. I enjoy it anyway because I love my adversaries. And losing means that I never have to spend the energy it would take to move to the winners’ table.</p>
<p>Of course, we ate far too much. Which brings me back to the turkey.</p>
<p>From what I’ve read, it seems to me that the turkey gets a bad rap. Yes, the bird contains a bunch of tryptophan, but the research says, not that much more than many other meats and proteins. Yes, tryptophan is, I’m told, involved in our bodies’ serotonin production.</p>
<p>You can do your own research to check this out (I promise that there’s more than you care to read, especially if you’re in a real stupor already), but if you really want to know what makes you drowsy after a big Thanksgiving meal, the culprits are likely at least two-fold: way too much food and way too much dessert (carbohydrate-rich). How much you stretch your small intestine (yeah, that’s a thing), the miles you traveled to get to the celebration, the work you did to prepare for the celebration, and sleep deprivation figure in as well. A whole lot of folks stacked up, a serious change in “routine,” and much more, and, yes, it’s a great time, but you’re toast at the end of getting stuffed with stuffing.</p>
<p>It’s all worthwhile, of course, including the stupor at the end of the festivities.</p>
<p>My wife’s family had a Thanksgiving tradition that, though sensible, was new to me decades ago. Almost as soon as the main Thanksgiving meal was over, what was left of the turkey “hit the fan.” I mean that the leftover bird quickly became turkey salad. It wasn’t bad in that form, but I always campaigned for a little to be left in recognizable form to go with leftover dressing and cranberry sauce. I don’t mind several opportunities for the traditional meal.</p>
<p>No turkey salad this year. The bird was pretty much completely dispatched very quickly.</p>
<p>It was a good time, and I’m thankful for that. Sleepy. Tired. I don’t think I could put two cards together tonight. In a stupor, for sure.</p>
<p>But very thankful.</p>
<p>Oh, and here’s a reminder for this and all of the holiday season. Holidays don’t have to be perfect (there’s no such thing) to include plenty for which we should be genuinely thankful. With that, I am now gratefully taking my stupor and the rest of me to bed.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71075202022-11-21T11:47:45-06:002022-11-28T14:00:12-06:00“Don’t Forget to Say Grace”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>S</strong>aying grace.</p>
<p>It’s an interesting term. What about . . .</p>
<p>Saying mercy. Saying hope. Saying love.</p>
<p>We don’t “say” those things. But we “say grace.” And we know exactly what we mean.</p>
<p>Wikipedia says that “the term comes from the Ecclesiastical Latin phrase <em>gratiarum actio</em>, ‘act of thanks.’” The article goes on to mention various biblical passages in which, no surprise, Jesus and the Apostle Paul pray before meals. For over two thousand years, “saying grace” before meals has been a sweet tradition for most Christians. I’ve not done much further research, but it seems that in Judaism, a benediction is most often said after the meal.</p>
<p>Various Christian traditions have used specific table graces. Most of us have taught our kids simple table graces. I remember an older and well-loved mentor, Dr. John Victor Halvorson, always leading us in the well-known, “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest; let these gifts to us be blessed.” From what I’ve read, this sweet table grace is particularly prominent among North American Lutherans, though it has certainly spread much farther. Dr. Halvorson was Lutheran, for sure, but he was also Norwegian, and I’d wondered if his tradition might have had Norwegian roots. Anyway, I brought that table grace home with me, and my little family used it often.</p>
<p>And, of course, many of us pray more “spontaneous” table graces quite often. I wonder how many times my father said grace at our table as I was growing up in Amarillo. On the wall above the table hung a beautiful print of Warner Sallman’s “Head of Christ.” Beneath it, my dad and our family prayed.</p>
<p>However we thank God for his gifts and ask for his blessing, gratitude is the point.</p>
<p>May I pause here to chuckle a bit?</p>
<p>One of my blessings is having the best “birth order” imaginable. I was the fourth of five kids, but Mom and Dad had two families. Three kids first, and then fifteen years passed before my birth. Two years later, here came my third brother, the caboose, Child #5. My older siblings have always asserted that our parents were just tired after Jim and I came along, and we’ve always gotten away with a lot. Be that as it may (okay, they’re correct), I was the fourth kid but the firstborn of the second family. Fourth child license but also with some firstborn privilege. It doesn’t get better than that. Jim and I were along for the ride just for fun, and we’ve always considered that to be our job description.</p>
<p>For years, my brothers and I have been incredibly blessed to spend a bunch of good time with the older bros. (My sis passed away some years ago.) Twice a year, at least, for decades, we’ve gotten together at our maternal grandparents’ old place at Robert Lee, Texas. At a restaurant there, we discovered years ago a bit of a problem.</p>
<p>You see, our oldest brother, with (I suspect) the conscience that is his birthright as the true firstborn, is very committed to saying grace before meals, even at restaurants. My next oldest brother is equally convinced that Jesus meant it when he cautioned us about doing our “acts of piety” before men. For a year or two, I thought we might starve as we waited to plot a prayer course before the meal. Jim and I could go either way. But we were hungry.</p>
<p>Decades ago now, the older boys reached a compromise. Yes, we’d pray, but nothing long. And I must say, I agree that gratitude deserves a real place at any table, but a filibuster does not. Come to think of it, Dr. Halvorson’s prayer is a nice compromise. Saying grace is a good thing. It is a simple but rich reminder of the Source of all blessing. But let’s not stop there.</p>
<p>I like G. K. Chesterton’s approach: “You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and the pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in ink.”</p>
<p>Point well made. And well taken.</p>
<p>Grace to you and yours for a Happy Thanksgiving!</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/71021832022-11-14T12:25:18-06:002022-11-21T14:15:17-06:00“It’s Time to Get the Firewood Stacked”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>Y</strong>ou are reading the words of a man who feels, at least for the moment, that he’s done what he can to provide for his family. And I feel good about that. Warm, even.</p>
<p>A quick look out into the back yard will tell the tale: firewood. Every year at about this time, I get a nagging feeling that I’m neglecting some responsibility, some father/grandfather’s sacred task, and then it hits me: time to get the firewood.</p>
<p>Truth be told, I usually don’t have to wait long enough for a nagging feeling. School starts. (Pretty much in the middle of summer.) We start talking about “fall” when the school calendar proclaims it. (We mean the semester, but the season will tag along presently.) Then foggy mornings. Colder mornings. Then Daylight Saving Time quits saving, goes bankrupt, and liquidates its stash of light. It’s dark even before the TV weather prognosticator comes on-camera at 6:00 p.m. or so to mention that, wow, our evening and morning temps are surely taking a dive. And they are. And the leaves are starting to turn colors and turn loose. Some of a tougher sort are getting red in the face from holding on too tightly.</p>
<p>My wife starts warning me, “We’ve gotta start getting the plants in.” When I hear “we,” I usually react as if her index finger was stuck in my chest. It’s really not, and she really will help me on this. But getting the plants “in” means a massive clean “out” of my shed/greenhouse/man-cave. I always dread that. I was out of town one time about this time when the freeze frosted early, and my valuable assistance was unavailable. Was it during the Clinton administration? I don’t remember, but she does.</p>
<p>All of this is evidence, you know. Seasons. Seasonal warning. Pumpkins coming. Trick or treaters lining up. Temps plummeting.</p>
<p>Somewhere, slogging along in the midst of the evidence, I look across the living room and see a rather dark and lonely fireplace still harboring very dark and lonely candles. We almost never light them. In fact, it is their dreaded (by me) appearance in the spring that spells death to real fires.</p>
<p>But now? Bingo! It’s time! Order the firewood! Away with you, flame-less candles! The turkey will soon be basting, most of us thinking about thanking the Author of all blessing, lights twinkling (I’m at 300 and shootin’ for 600 LED lights in my man-cave, grandchild-magic-light-castle shed), and another Yuletide of hope, life, and love is sledding this way. Those qualities are all the more precious because they can be in such short supply in this world.</p>
<p>Yes, this year, I’m on time! More firewood than ever, stacked high, giving my old sagging fence a face-lift. Beautiful. And more beautiful still as it soon reaches its firewood apotheosis. (Lit!) And my family? Provided for.</p>
<p>Bring on the hot chocolate and the snow! And, coming on the scene a few days after the sacrifice of the turkey, <em>A Christmas Carol</em>. My annual reading of Dickens’ masterpiece. The annual watching(s). PawPaw and his co-conspirator grandkids not-so-patiently explaining to his kids/their parents that it matters not in the least that we know four lines ahead and have already seen three film versions this year. Oh, dear parents of my grandchildren, you who will one day be old enough to be young again and re-sprout imaginations, do you not realize that the fact that your children and I already have seen this and heard this and loved this many times before . . . Do you not realize that this is precisely the point?</p>
<p>In the midst of all of this holiday activity and tradition, I have the serious feeling that firewood matters in an integral and mysterious way.</p>
<p>I still prefer the real stuff. But I now admit that the new gas log fireplaces can be quite beautiful and look more than ever like real real-log fireplaces. I even admit that, if I ever build a mansion or McMansion or really large house, I plan to have in my bedroom a gas fireplace that can be fired up via one hand and a remote control stuck out from under the bed covers. complete with its own remote control. But any living room I build will boast a fireplace faithfully burning genuine firewood. I want a real reason to have real firewood stacked out back. And I want the smell. For myself. For the neighbors. I feel a responsibility here.</p>
<p>So, yes, I’ve stocked up on firewood yet again. It should’ve come in an armored car complete with machine gun-wielding guards. But I love it too much to fuss too much. That many BTUs of joy are worth what they cost. One more year, I’ve done my job.</p>
<p>When I read rich, hope-filled words, words such as the Apostle Paul’s in 2 Corinthians 1 where he calls our Father “the God of all comfort,” I seem to instinctively equate comfort with warmth. Because, as you know, so much here is cold. And barren. And hard. But what Elizabeth Seton wrote two centuries ago is still true: “Jesus is a fire in the very center of our souls ever burning.” Yet, she warned, “we are cold because we do not stay by it.”</p>
<p>Let’s not be cold. Let’s stay by the fire.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70969242022-11-06T19:48:12-06:002022-11-14T15:30:19-06:00The Autumn Leaves Have Much to Teach Us
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<p><strong>S</strong>easons are good, and I’m glad I live in a place where we get a distinct taste of each of them.</p>
<p>“For everything there is a season,” writes the wise man in Ecclesiastes 3, “and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted . . .” and on he goes, pondering not really the seasons of the year so much as the “times” of our lives. Nonetheless, the deep truth he utters finds its root in the reality of the seasons.</p>
<p>A quick look out of our window this morning revealed a world very much in the midst of fall. Leaves dressed more beautifully than ever in their autumn bronze and gold finery, a heavy dew and a blanket of fog—enfolding, comforting, and oddly reassuring because, well, it’s time.</p>
<p>This time every year. The same scene. Always beautiful. Even though the marvelous, almost mystical, truth is that every leaf is different. You’ve never actually viewed the same scene twice—which is one of the things that makes it so faithfully and consistently wonder-filled.</p>
<p>Every shimmering leaf bears witness to a new and different sort of ethereal beauty, even as every leaf in quiet eloquence preaches its own farewell eulogy: “Get ready, children of earth; death is coming.” We knew that, of course, but it’s more than theoretical now and won’t be folded and forgotten, put away in a closet in the back of our minds.</p>
<p>No, the truth won’t be denied now. The green was beautiful in its time, stem-strong and vibrant, but its time passes like a ripple racing across a garden pond.</p>
<p>The leaves are destined to soon release but they won’t go without a show. Before they flame out, they flame-burst into fiery color, as brief a conflagration as it is gorgeous. A strong wind or two will both fan their fire and loosen their weakening grip as they let their leaf-lives go and gently, this way and that, dance their way down into their own “time to die.”</p>
<p>It’s a metamorphosis, of course, a change. Not the quintessential transformation of the green leaf-inching caterpillar bundling up in its cocoon to one day burst out in butterfly splendor. No, the verdant leaves are beautiful already and glorious. But one sort of glory gives way, even as release and death draw nigh, to the eye-popping surprise of a more brilliant and blazing glory.</p>
<p>The Apostle Paul’s spiritual eyes are sparkling with excitement as in First Corinthians 15 he points us to another incredible change. We see it all of the time, he writes. Now learn from it! A seed falls into the ground, dies and is buried, and then is born into new life. And so it is, he says, that for God’s people, the very death that seems to be the end of life is the planting of a seed. Christ’s own selfless sacrifice was the first planting in a furrow overshadowed by a cross but tilled into vibrant life by Resurrection power.</p>
<p>As Eugene Peterson paraphrases in <em>The Message</em>, “The corpse that’s planted is no beauty, but when it’s raised, it’s glorious.” Yes, “the seed sown is natural, but the seed grown is supernatural.”</p>
<p>Thank God for life that can grow deep and beautiful in soil enriched by joy and made fertile by, of all nutrients most expensive, pain. But don’t hang on too tightly. Trust the God of all the times of our lives. Believe him when he promises that what is coming will have its own glory, far surpassing all of our most hopeful dreams and fondest imaginations.</p>
<p>And don’t forget to thank God for the beautiful bronze and crimson leaves. Even as they let go, they remind us that something wonderful is promised and is coming.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70925512022-10-31T14:21:51-05:002022-10-31T18:00:35-05:00“We’re All TV Preachers Now!”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“W</strong>e’re all TV preachers now!”</p>
<p>I was laughing with some of my colleagues. Whether or not you were virus-screened regularly as 2020 and COVID-19 hit us hard, most churches were thrust into a love/hate relationship with video screens of all sorts. If a device had a screen, churches were scrambling for ways to beam their services onto it. We were suddenly tossed into the deep end of the video pool.</p>
<p>Many churches spent big bucks for equipment. Almost all churches spent some bucks. And we all spent a lot of time. Live-streaming is complicated. Even recording and posting later brought up all sorts of issues most of us had rarely considered.</p>
<p> Yeah, and all of this video scrambling happened in the midst of pandemic mayhem of all sorts. Folks charged with trying to manage a mess no one would know how to manage. Pundits from the far left and the far right politically decked out with the unshakeable confidence crazy and foolish people always possess in spades and at high volume, doing their best to drive the rest of us crazy.</p>
<p>Yes, and in the midst of all of that—one pastoral colleague of mine did more than 25 funerals for members and friends, deaths directly related to COVID-19—pastors and churches were also trying to figure out audio-video. What a weird picture. But there we were.</p>
<p>The video might look good, but the audio was horrible. The audio might be okay, but the video was jinky. What cameras for live-streaming? Recording?</p>
<p>“Hmm, that thing I make phone calls with and allow to disturb my meals also has a camera . . .”</p>
<p>“Well, really my iPad does a pretty decent job.”</p>
<p>“I think I need an attachment to mount this phone to a tripod.”</p>
<p>“How many experts do I need to involve?”</p>
<p>“I think I need this cable and that adapter and fifteen dongles.”</p>
<p>“I’d like to try this brand of computer camera but they’re as scarce now as toilet paper.”</p>
<p>“I’ve tried four different microphones, and the only question is which is the worst.”</p>
<p>“Uh, oh! I just coughed! I wonder . . .”</p>
<p>I even remember learning about camera placement when, one Sunday, a viewer commented on my, uh, nasal hair.</p>
<p>Each day, each week, and each Sunday, we stumbled on. And, finally, most of us came to some resolution we could live with.</p>
<p>And now we’re stuck. Oh, maybe some of the craziness is a notch or two quieter. Or maybe we’re just used to it, and since we know which of our friends prefer which flavor of foolishness, there’s little point in blathering on.</p>
<p>But what I mean is, we’re stuck in video production. For good or ill, most churches will keep the cameras rolling post-pandemic.</p>
<p>It’s probably good to get our services “out there.” I’m glad that folks who literally aren’t able to come, or shouldn’t come in person, have this option. It’s kind of nice to see names pop up on the screen, folks who are friends from long ago or former members or family—or anyone.</p>
<p>Want to visit a church to see if you might want to visit in person? Video.</p>
<p>Genuinely sick or “shut in”? It’s not just that the dog seems slightly bilious or that the barometric pressure in Bolivia is not conducive to church attendance. I mean, you’re sick. Or confined at home. Video.</p>
<p>For a real reason that you need to prove to no one, you genuinely need to stay home that day. Video.</p>
<p>There’s that screen. Punch the right buttons and, if the folks on the other end have punched the right buttons, video!</p>
<p>But we’re friends here, so we can be real, right? For most Christians who are serious about faith, it’s time to suck it up and get back to church.</p>
<p>I mean, really. I like sleeping late and sweatpants and a leisurely breakfast, too. But enough’s enough.</p>
<p>Hey, you may say, I have a real reason to stay home and watch the video. You don’t have to prove it to me, of all people. Anyway, I trust you.</p>
<p>But I’m also sure you’ve probably noticed that most American Christians are more likely to die in their sleep than by any dangerous over-commitment to anything as brutal as, say, serious church attendance.</p>
<p>In any case, we’ll still beam out the video.</p>
<p>But here’s the deal: Christians really need more than that.</p>
<p>We need to bow in the midst of others who bow—and who think bowing together is worth some actual effort. We’re talking about worshiping the King of the universe, not just checking off a to-do list where “worship-lite” is a great alternative.</p>
<p>We need to bow with folks who also share hugs and smiles and needs and tears and meals and songs and prayers.</p>
<p>We need to lift our voices together, our spirits together, our hearts together, in a special place made holy by generations of worship offered and life lived together.</p>
<p>Not least, we need to worship together to remind us of our brothers and sisters oceans away who risk persecution and death to worship together.</p>
<p>A screen at need, okay. But Sunday after Sunday?</p>
<p>For those for whom the church has never been a part of real life, not understanding this is understandable.</p>
<p>But Christians who worship the Giver of life should know better. And worship better.</p>
<p>Says a guy who is now also a TV preacher.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70878642022-10-24T14:09:53-05:002022-10-24T17:45:19-05:00Knowing When the Time Is Right
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<p><strong>“W</strong>hen the time had fully come, God sent his Son” (Galatians 4:4).</p>
<p>Ten words in English. Thirteen in Greek. Packed full of enough wonder to fill the universe. I’m baffled by even the first phrase, and that’s the easier part.</p>
<p>A quick Internet search for “discerning the times” (it has a religious/biblical connotation) turned up a few good articles on plotting a wise course in our lives and culture.</p>
<p>I should also report that the majority of articles the search brought up didn’t pass my smell test. I think it takes very little discernment to know to be wary indeed of self-proclaimed “end of time” gurus, esoteric seminar speakers, and prophecy conference advertisements. “Hold on to your wallet and back away slowly; the circus is in town!”</p>
<p>I always find myself backing away whenever anyone begins using “God told me” or “the Lord has revealed to me” language. I suspect that “taking the Lord’s name in vain” by verbally writing checks with his unauthorized signature is at least as serious as using his name in a curse or punctuating conversation with “Oh” or “My” and attaching the name of the King of the universe. Anyway, the folks in my life whose spiritual maturity I most respect almost never use “spiritual-speak” to signal spirituality.</p>
<p>For most of us, knowing “when the time is right” for life course changes, even in rather small matters, can require wisdom, reflection, study, good counsel, and, yes, prayer. Then we make a decision and take action.</p>
<p>For more than a few decades, one of my brothers and I have been editing a little monthly devotional magazine. (We’ve both been blessed to serve churches that are supportive in this.) My brother Gene will soon have been editor/senior editor for 60 years. Almost 40 years ago, he asked me to come on board as managing editor. We both have written many issues, edited a few jillion articles by others, proofread our eyes out, and much more. For 20 years, he did it all. In our work together, he’s done the fundraising, circulation, and all the business. I’ve done the issue themes, planning, editing, layout, and design. (The fun part.)</p>
<p>I remember Gene’s passing to me what is now a bona fide historical artifact: a large bottle of rubber cement, complete with brush. Gene taught me how to conceive issue themes, assign and edit articles, and lay out an issue completely by hand—creating dummy layouts, cutting and pasting, and indicating typefaces, sizes, etc., all in handwritten notes, marking galley proofs, cropping/sizing photos, indicating colors and screens, and sending it all in multiple mailings back and forth to our printer.</p>
<p>I once started developing some TMJ (jaw) issues and realized that I’d been holding pens in my mouth as I was working on the layouts.</p>
<p>Then came—oh, thank you, Lord—the days of computer page-making and QuarkXPress and then Adobe InDesign. The whole thing done on my computer screen. Rubber cement and dummy layouts retired. Almost heaven!</p>
<p>I enjoy creating pages, adjusting fonts and lines (kerning, tracking, and leading), working with photos (Photoshop), and playing with designs. Editing on-screen. I like this even though I’m reminded regularly of how much I don’t know about this craft.</p>
<p>Some simple math reveals that I’ve created around 475 issues over the years. That’s a bunch of deadlines. I’m usually late (in every sense). For some reason, I do most of my editing and layout work in the evenings, often late in the evenings, laptop computer in lap. My family has been understanding.</p>
<p>So here we are. Gene’s tenure, 60 years. Almost 40 for me. It’s been a blessing for us brothers to work together and work well together. It’s been a good thing. But even good things end. So, when? That was a hard question. We’ve wrestled with this, but we think 60 years of publication is a nice number. Our swan song will be the June 2023 issue. At least, that’s our plan.</p>
<p>Do I need to tell you that this is a bit like burying a friend? But that’s where this “discernment of the times” thing comes in. We began to realize that ending on a high note and with a great deal of gratitude to God for writers, donors, readers, and encouragers of all sorts is the best way to end. I won’t bore you with more of our rationale. But this decision, at a good and un-pressured moment, feels right and appropriate.</p>
<p>For all of us, it’s true to say that good things have beginnings, but they also have endings. Knowing “the times” is important. Who knows what amazing new beginnings the Publisher of us all has in mind for you and for me?</p>
<p>“When the time has fully come,” I’m confident that we’ll know.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70832832022-10-17T13:27:49-05:002022-10-24T17:45:19-05:00In General, Americans Don’t Take Enough Time Off<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>A</strong>mericans, in general, are rotten at taking time off. For decades, the statistics have been pretty clear about that.</p>
<p>Factor in the “Great Resignation” of the last couple of years, stupid (and ultimately cruel) government programs that pay folks more to stay home than to work, and “quiet quitting” (bad, I think, if you’re defrauding your employer; good, I think, if you’re establishing some boundaries employers should have to respect) . . . Factor all of this in, and, <em>in general</em>, Americans still don’t take enough time off.</p>
<p>I recently perused a Wikipedia article, “List of Minimum Annual Leave by Country.” It’s fascinating. And a bit depressing if you’re a U.S. citizen. You probably already know this, but we are one of the only industrialized nations in the world with zero “annual minimum leave.” I’m conservative enough politically that I’m not at all sure I want a Nanny State telling employers how much “paid leave” they must provide their employees. Having said that, it seems clear to me that most conscientious and valued employees in our nation deserve a good deal more of it than they get. And giving it, and encouraging its full use, would pay dividends to employers.</p>
<p>Why? Because we all work better if we don’t work all of the time. Most of the folks I know who are employed, or who are employers, work more diligently, harder, and more hours than they probably should. It actually takes more discipline for them to take time off than it does to just keep on shoveling . . . constantly. Working all of the time takes a toll on quality of life, health, productivity, creativity, and, ironically, quality of work. Even our Creator “rested” after creation, and we’re created to function best if we take regular time to rest.</p>
<p>Studies regarding vacations and “time off” are interesting, even if you don’t much factor in the type of vacation—a “let’s do a lot” or “let’s rest a lot” or an anything in-between vacation.</p>
<p>Folks have tried to analyze the number of vacation days it takes to really get rested. No surprise, the estimates vary. Some say five days is perfect, particularly with weekends on each side, and the middle day is the sweet spot. (Most vacationers are not preachers who must consider Sundays on each side.) Some point to a time closer to two weeks, saying that it takes the whole first week just to wind down and that the second week is heaven. I tend to think these folks are right. And I’d think a European-style three-week vacation would be paradise (though I’d likely need to work more hours to be away that long than I’d work if I just stayed home).</p>
<p>By the way, Departure Day and Return Day count in your official “vacation time,” but they do not count toward actual “resting” time away. They are usually brutal days, no matter how long you’re away.</p>
<p>And, yes, it’s quite true that anyone who is a business owner, sole proprietor, or manager, etc., knows that you generally work a ton of hours to get away for half a ton of hours. My younger brother, also a pastor, talks about the “pre-tripulation.” This is not a term regarding some “end of time” theory; this is the description of the exhausting work of getting ready to be away from work. One of the only times that I could wish I worked in a factory making widgets is when I realize it must be very nice to walk out the door knowing that widgets will still be effectively made while you’re gone, with no pre-vacation flurry of extra widget-making necessary.</p>
<p>Ah, well. Even, if before you leave, you find yourself wondering if the trip or vacation could possibly be worth the agony of the “pre-tripulation,” I’d suggest that it most certainly is. Press on. Get prepared. And get out of Dodge. More often than you do. And for longer times than you think you should.</p>
<p>Yes, that’s what the research says.</p>
<p>And, yes, I appeal again to a much Higher Authority and the Sabbath commandment. I think that command is full of meaning and mystery far deeper than just “You need to rest occasionally and you don’t need to work all of the time.” But those lessons are certainly mixed into the recipe. Regularly stopping and allowing God to spin the world without our help for a while means trusting Him in a very practical way. This takes more discipline than we’d think. It’s also worth a lot more than we tend to think.</p>
<p>Why not take a seat and ponder this a bit? It’ll be time well spent.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70777182022-10-08T20:45:44-05:002022-10-09T00:15:10-05:00“Why Do You Call Me ‘Lord’ and Do Not Do What I Say?”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>A</strong> fish out of water. It’s rather amazing how easy it is to be one of those finny creatures.</p>
<p>We’re not talking here about lip injections and a person (I’m avoiding sexism here) who paid good money to look like a largemouth bass.</p>
<p>What I’m talking about is being “out of your element.” That happens to all of us from time to time, maybe right where we live and right where we’re sitting.</p>
<p>You get called on to do something way out of your usual area of expertise or routine. You’re asked to make a speech at a civic club or, worse, a memorial service, and you never have done that before. You get a call from a doctor’s office. Just a few moments ago, you felt fine, but now you’re a cancer patient, and you’re pretty sure either the cancer or medical science is more than capable of making you feel anything but fine. A new world, and you’ve not even left your chair.</p>
<p>But sometimes, the “fish out of water” discomfort does indeed have to do with a change in geography and your place in it.</p>
<p>I remember years ago now (Was it really that long ago?) traveling to Uganda to see sons who were doing mission work there. When I saw bullet holes at the Entebbe airport left from the famous “Raid on Entebbe,” I knew we weren’t in Kansas. The guys weren’t kidding when they said we’d probably be better off keeping our eyes closed on the journey from the airport to Mbale. We didn’t, but, wow.</p>
<p>And then there was the day when I’d been teaching church history in a nearby village, my son was driving me back to home base, and a soldier with an AK-47 motioned for us to stop, and we didn’t. I was simply told, “Don’t look at him. He just wants a bribe, and I don’t want to mess with it. If he was wearing “XYZ” uniform, we’d stop.”</p>
<p>A few days later, I was rafting down Class V rapids in the Nile with another son. I listened really carefully at the “so you don’t drown” briefing.</p>
<p>Years ago, my wife and I spent a few days in New York. Talk about another planet. Interesting place to visit, but I looked out of a hotel window near Times Square and realized that leaving the hotel and joining that mass of humanity also meant leaving my comfort zone and making do with a lot less personal space.</p>
<p>I spent the night at a fire station in Amarillo recently. My son is that shift’s captain at that station. Do I need to tell you I followed his lead? When the “tones dropped” and we headed down to the fire truck, I was excited, but sleepy and completely out of my element.</p>
<p>In some of these cases, and others, my sons and those who knew the “territory” were not only helping guide me, they were keeping me in one piece. I knew that. And I listened. Only a fool wouldn’t. But I don’t need to tell you that fools who are sure they’re the smartest person in the room are not in short supply, a danger to themselves and others. Unable or unwilling to listen to folks smarter or with more experience than they are, and even undercutting the folks they hired or appointed for their expertise, the un-listening dimwit bumps into stuff needlessly. And folks get hurt.</p>
<p>A little (or a lot) more humility is a blessing to us all.</p>
<p>For those of us who say we follow Christ, folks who are citizens of his kingdom first of all, this means asking his help to learn kingdom ways, even if we find that they don’t come naturally.</p>
<p>In humility, we need to listen to our Guide. If he really is our Lord, we need to ask for his help and his power to do what he says.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70737352022-10-03T13:06:30-05:002022-10-03T17:45:02-05:00“Let Us Also Go That We May Die with Him”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>t was in winter, the Apostle John writes (John 10), “at the time of Hanukkah,” when Jesus was at Jerusalem and in the Temple.</p>
<p>“Surrounded” by some really religious folks who demanded that he tell them “plainly” whether or not he was the Messiah, he did. Well, what he really said was, “I’ve already told you, and you didn’t believe me.” But he went on to say some amazing things that all lead to one answer: Yes.</p>
<p>One thing you’ve gotta give Jesus’ detractors here is that they aren’t even close to spouting the oft-spouted modern nonsense popular with non-thinkers, “Jesus was just a great human teacher.” No, they heard him, understood at least this part of what he said, and charged, “You, a mere man, claim to be God.” And then, not for the first time, they “picked up stones to kill him.”</p>
<p>Irony abounds.</p>
<p>The Son of God is standing in God’s “house.” The most religious of the religious are those who hate him so much that they’re picking up stones to use to kill him, and, all the while, they are feeling holy about their actions. Their already high opinion of themselves is becoming higher as their murderous ire grows.</p>
<p>When they try to arrest him—I suppose being arrested is better than being stoned to death—Jesus eludes them, and he and his disciples get out of Dodge. Well, they get out of Judea, crossing the Jordan River into “the region of Perea.”</p>
<p>All of this sets up the events that precede Christ’s raising of his friend Lazarus from the dead. It would also be true to say that the dominoes falling now lead straight to the cross.</p>
<p>The place to go for the full account is John 11. Read it, and picture in your mind the astounding story. I’ll mention just a few of the many interesting points.</p>
<p>Jesus gets word that Lazarus, brother of Mary and Martha, all dear friends of the Lord, is sick. John tells us more than the disciples knew at the time, that Jesus is well aware that Lazarus will die—and then live.</p>
<p>The disciples don’t understand the situation. They would like to send a nice “Get Well” card, but when Jesus finally says plainly, “Lazarus is dead. Let’s go see him,” they know what that means. Crossing back over the Jordan is a high risk move likely to result in arrest and death. They feel bad about Lazarus and sad for his sisters, but they fail to see how going back into the danger zone and adding more deaths to his will do much real good. Yeah, let’s send a card.</p>
<p>It’s good for us to notice at this point one of the greatest actions of faith recorded in the Gospels. Thomas, much maligned as “doubting” Thomas, says, “Let’s go with him [Jesus] that we may die with him.”</p>
<p>They will go. They will head out to the cemetery with the distraught sisters. Jesus will cry with these people that he loves. The Son of God, fully human, fully divine (nothing less than both will suffice) will shed human tears, divine tears. Then he will command that death work backwards and life spring forth. Lazarus will live. Jesus’ detractors will harden their very religious and murderous resolve, and the most innocent of Passover lambs, the best of men, God’s Son, will die on the cross. Then three days later . . .</p>
<p>Thomas, faith-filled, said even more than he knew, and many more disciples than the other eleven still hear in his words a challenge and an encouragement, “Let us go also, that we may die with him.”</p>
<p>Much modern religion is about “sending a card,” maybe attending a meeting of the club once in a while. But when we bow together, more than a few who bow together would truly rather die with the Lord than live without him. And die with him they do. Imperfectly in themselves, but perfectly in him. Daily. And live with him they do. Eternally.</p>
<p>Oh, yes, faithful Thomas said more than he knew and much we do well to heed.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70691292022-09-26T14:33:06-05:002022-09-26T17:00:06-05:00Some Words About Computers and Copyists<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>A</strong>t our church, we recently replaced two old computers. It was time, and it needed to be done, but, as much as I enjoy playing with new technology and was looking forward to being able to boot up a computer without having time to go get coffee while it started, I was dreading the process.</p>
<p>What you’re looking for when you do this is, of course, more productivity. What you know, if you’ve ever done it before, is that the new productivity will likely come, but the change will entail a number of days of much less productivity as you try to adopt the right facial expressions and employ the right incantations needed to get everything to work.</p>
<p>I finally got one of the machines mostly up and running with all of the needed files and software copied and reinstalled. It takes some unbroken (which means rare) time to focus on such, and I was thankful to have some.</p>
<p>So one down, one to go.</p>
<p>I went upstairs. That new computer had been sitting unplugged in and brain dead for several weeks. I’d already taken pics with my smartphone of all the old connections and bought a new cable or a few for the new “plumbing.” So I crawled under the table and started the unhooking and re-hooking process. When I finally pushed the button, it lived.</p>
<p>I got all the files transferred that needed to be moved. And then I installed our new “worship media” program, an update to its predecessor that we were still using after 10-12 years, mostly because I didn’t want to waste time learning the new one. I’d pay them not to issue updates very often. If it works, leave it alone. But it was time for the change. </p>
<p>It’s good in the 2020s to remind oneself that folks have worshiped just fine for two thousand years, no computers or software necessary. I think we could. But, like most modern worshipers, we’ve gotten used to shooting songs and video slides and sermon points and illustrations up on a screen.</p>
<p>I have a friend who also likes skiing who decided to take up snowboarding. He said that it takes two full days of falls, tumbles, and misery—and then, on the third day, something clicks in, and you’ve got it.</p>
<p>I’ve decided that’s true with this updated program. Misery for two full days. And then you begin to see some light.</p>
<p>Again, one of the things this program allows you to do (the old one did, too) is to put song lyrics up on the screen. You can create your own, but, if you’re lucky, you can find most songs in a large database of songs. Handy, right?</p>
<p>Yes, but can you imagine how many hours it took a bunch of folks to enter all of those lyrics? And can you imagine that not all of the scribes were as careful as you might wish? Do these people not proofread? And can you imagine that, if you’re an English major, you might very often quarrel with their punctuation? And can you imagine how many songs have had a word or a few changed down through the years? I ran into some of the latter reality when I found myself researching the lyrics of some great old songs I recently recorded on a new music album. Some of the changes are interesting, but you need to get them all nailed down and choose <em>before</em> you hit the recording studio and the meter is running.</p>
<p>When I run into some occasionally sloppy lyric copying in that song database, I admit to muttering under my breath a sharp critique of the copyist’s skill.</p>
<p>But this week I found myself intensely thankful for some other copyists whose work we take for granted. If you do just a little research into the people who copied manuscripts of our Bible, you will find that, from the Jewish scribes and then Christian monks and others, their work is, for the most part, utterly amazing. As the years have passed and more early manuscripts have been found, we find even more evidence of how incredibly accurately these amazing people did their work. Are there textual “variants”? Yes, but very few very important, and anything significant at all (none of which “affect Christian doctrine”) is now noted and footnoted in most Bibles, something like, “The best manuscripts indicate . . .”</p>
<p>I’m thankful also for the amazing scholarship of highly trained and disciplined experts in evaluating manuscripts and manuscript fragments and doing the pain-staking research to help us have incredibly accurate Bible texts. If you want just a glimpse of some of this, look up the Wikipedia article regarding the <em>Novum Testamentum Graece</em> (The New Testament in Greek, Nestle-Aland edition). This very important edition of the Greek New Testament was first published in 1898 and is now in its 28th edition listing the textual manuscript variants, allowing scholars to evaluate them. It forms the basis of most of our translations of the New Testament. I’ve got an edition, and it’s rather amazing. I’d be happy to show you.</p>
<p>All said to say this: Every now and then, it wouldn’t hurt to look up from your Bible and whisper a prayer of thanks to God for generations of guys (I picture them in in bed sheet or monastic garb) sitting for hours and days on end silently doing their holy work. What they did and their incredible accuracy was and is utterly amazing and faithful service in giving us words inspired by the Author of us all, pointing us not just to holy words but to the very Word himself. And that’s the point.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70635902022-09-19T11:13:08-05:002022-09-19T12:30:37-05:00“In the Year That Queen Elizabeth II Died . . .”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>T</strong>omorrow, as I’m writing, the funeral for Queen Elizabeth II will be held at Westminster Abbey. (My invitation seems to have been lost in the mail.)</p>
<p>Seventy years and 214 days. According to Wikipedia, her reign is “the longest of any British monarch, the longest recorded of any female head of state in history, and the second-longest verified reign of any monarch in history.”</p>
<p>In Isaiah 6, when the prophet Isaiah wants to tell his readers when his amazing vision and his divine commissioning took place, he simply says, “In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord, high and exalted, and seated on a throne . . .”</p>
<p>Isaiah remembered. And he knew his readers of that day would, too. Most scholars seem to think that Judah’s King Uzziah died in about 739 B.C. He had reigned for 52 years, and under his reign, Judah had prospered. His accomplishments, innovations, faithfulness, and even his sad ending (leprosy) are fascinating. It doesn’t take five decades for a ruler to leave an indelible mark, for good or ill, and for people to “set their clocks” by him.</p>
<p>Depending on our years (and even, for those who are younger, on the memories of our predecessors), we remember the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated, the day the World Trade Center towers (and freedom itself) were attacked—and so much more.</p>
<p>“In the year that Queen Elizabeth II died . . .”</p>
<p>Not a bad marker for our times, whether we’re British or not. For many of us, until September 8, 2022, we’d never drawn a breath when Queen Elizabeth was not reigning. And what a fascinating and exemplary reign it was!</p>
<p>Her reign spanned the governments of fifteen prime ministers, beginning with the one man most “indispensable” in winning World War II, Winston Churchill, and ending two days before her death (!) as she met with Liz Truss and officially invited her to form a government. According to the BBC, Truss was born 101 years after Churchill was born. The astounding numbers and statistics of a 70-year reign are unending. </p>
<p>But far more remarkable here than quantity is quality. I make no apology: I am in awe of this incredible individual, and I doubt the world will ever see her like again.</p>
<p>I find myself wondering about the hand of Providence and asking questions that no mortal can answer. “Ifs” abound.</p>
<p>If King Edward VIII, Elizabeth’s uncle, had not abdicated his throne (in 1936) for “love” (the quotes seem richly deserved) and cast aside his duty, his far more honorable brother would not have become King George VI, and, of course, the world would have never known Queen Elizabeth II.</p>
<p>She did her duty and much more than any country, any subject, could possibly ask or expect from a sovereign, and she blessed not just her country, but our world. Honor, integrity, character, and wisdom. She was, I think, filled with them all.</p>
<p>What would our world look like if more world leaders simply and selflessly embraced their duty? What would our families and our communities look like if more of us, not royal at all, simply did the same?</p>
<p>For commoners like me, the etiquette regarding royal titles is a bit baffling. I believe Queen Elizabeth II was properly addressed as “Your Royal Majesty.” (Evidently, “Your Grace,” as the way of addressing the British monarch went out when the graceless Henry VIII decreed otherwise.)</p>
<p>Nonetheless, in this very memorable time, the week that Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral was held at Westminster Abbey, I find myself immensely thankful for . . . her grace.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70587892022-09-12T13:48:10-05:002022-09-19T12:30:38-05:00“Attitudes Are More Important Than Facts”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>K</strong>nowing right from wrong is important; knowing when we’re right but wrong is a fruit of deeper wisdom.</p>
<p>It is, you see, frighteningly easy to be “correct” on an issue but to be very wrong indeed in attitude and thus inflict damage on our own souls and collateral damage on the souls around us.</p>
<p>Being “right” and being “good” are not necessarily the same things, but I like very much the words of the little girl who is purported to have prayed, “Oh, Lord, please make the bad people good and the good people nice.” Out of the mouth of a babe some serious wisdom!</p>
<p>Perhaps we could pray similarly, “Oh, Lord, please help us to learn, when we’re wrong, to recognize what is right, and then, we pray, when we’re right please help us not to be insufferable about it.”</p>
<p>If, by God’s grace and power, our souls are growing in love, humility, and grace—then perhaps we can stand being “correct” and not incur the soul-withering damage that Satan most often inflicts on very correct people.</p>
<p>Of course, the damage the enemy can inflict upon us when we’re wrong is real and consequential, too, but of a far less subtle sort.</p>
<p>A person who knows that a tomato is a fruit may well pass an exam in Botany 101, but if he tosses it into a fruit salad in his Culinary Arts class, he should be tossed out on his ear. Then, if he responds appropriately to the situation, he just might be in a position to actually gain some wisdom that’s worth more than raw knowledge.</p>
<p>All of this leads me to wonder: Does the worst spiritual damage occur when we are correct on the issue and wrong in our attitudes (a very popular approach cherished by Pharisees throughout all ages), or when we are wrong on the issue but still manage to keep mostly healthy attitudes? Or if we just go all in and embrace the wrong view of the issue and pair it with an arrogant, malignant attitude? A wretched trio of choices, these, and all of their attendant mixtures, no better.</p>
<p>Perhaps the answer and the soul-prognosis lie in how completely we surrender ourselves to the tasty and tempting elixir Satan offers regarding issues and attitudes, and how deeply we quaff its poison. We do well to ask for God’s help in guarding our attitudes, most particularly, I think, when we are so confident of our correctness that we allow humility’s guardrails to give way and fail. The only safe course is to be truly surrendered to our Lord’s will, not ours, and thus become each day more like him, free to be our truest and best selves.</p>
<p>This really is serious stuff. Look at our politics. How hard is it to find a politician—or a sycophant follower of said politician—who, whether or not correct on a particular issue, manages to spread his diseased attitude more quickly than a kindergartner spreads chickenpox? Peruse a social issue or two or twenty. Watch as a church or denomination “splits the sheet.” More important, look at your own life—beliefs, actions, and attitudes. Oh, we can be ever so “right” and still be terribly wrong.</p>
<p>No one can snuggle up to a skunk—even one with impeccable views on politics, social issues, and even Scripture—and not end up with a smell that is far more noticeable than any pristine viewpoint perfection.</p>
<p>George MacDonald said it succinctly long ago, and it’s still true: “Attitudes are more important than facts.” And he’s right on both that fact and that attitude.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-text-color" style="color:#791717;"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70513452022-09-01T15:38:01-05:002022-09-12T17:45:25-05:00Why Are These Water-logged Disciples Afraid?<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>T</strong>he Son of God. Utterly exhausted.</p>
<p>Mind-boggling. And directly tied to the most amazing truth in the universe. God is not an impersonal “force.” He is not a Creator who creates, sets in motion, and backs away.</p>
<p>In the Grand Miracle, as C. S. Lewis has called the Incarnation, God sends his “only begotten Son” into this fallen world. A virgin’s womb. A manger. A divine rescue.</p>
<p>Jesus Christ will teach and heal and show us the Father as only the Son could. One amazing day, he will allow himself to be nailed to a cross. Literally take on himself all of our sin and guilt. As only God could do. And die. As only a human could do.</p>
<p>And then, the Resurrection.</p>
<p>But in an amazing scene, on a boat, on a lake turned into a maelstrom of wind and waves and white water, when no one else aboard can see anything at all but looming destruction, we get a glimpse into, well, everything.</p>
<p>The Son of God is exhausted, utterly spent, as only a human could be. He is asleep in the stern of the boat, his head on a cushion. Once that head lay perhaps on a blanket, certainly cradled in a manger. Soon that head will be pierced by a crown of thorns.</p>
<p>But now the storm rages, and Jesus, Son of the One who “never sleeps, never slumbers,” is deep in sleep.</p>
<p>The disciples crewing the boat are far from asleep. Watching the waves breaking over their craft, they know that the boat will soon be swamped. What dreams swirl gently in the Prince of Heaven’s head as his terrified friends are watching their lives sinking away? No one will ever know. But for these sailors, this is nothing less than their worst nightmare. Surely, all is lost! And Jesus sleeps.</p>
<p>Until they shake the Lord awake: “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re about to drown?!”</p>
<p>Roused, he gazes straight into the full fury of the storm and then issues a stern “rebuke.” The word indicates a “chastening,” an “admonishment.” As I believe others have noted, it’s almost as if Christ is correcting an unruly and boisterous child: “Quiet! Be still!”</p>
<p>The Lord of the wind, the waves, and all of creation makes his will known and his power felt. And we’re told that “the wind died down and it was completely calm.”</p>
<p>Imagine the scene just moments earlier. The howling wind. The crashing waves. The screaming disciples.</p>
<p>And now, complete calm. The sudden silence is as loud in its own way as was the storm just moments earlier.</p>
<p>Out of the quietness comes another rebuke. Or maybe that word is too strong? But Jesus’ words are certainly a bit of a chastening as he pointedly asks his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”</p>
<p>Mute, they are still afraid. No longer afraid of the storm, they are “terrified” and awestruck: “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”</p>
<p>Who indeed? No better question was ever asked. None more important. Then and now. For us all.</p>
<p>A near-death experience and straight-up honesty pair well together. While the disciples are drying off, we might as well admit that no answer, even the “non-answer answer,” is available that doesn’t require some sort of “faith.”</p>
<p>Are the water-logged disciples quaking in fear and awe because they don’t know the answer? Or because, more clearly than ever before, they do—or are beginning to? The “baptism” that might well have drowned them has opened the way into a washed off world and a sun shining through so brightly they can hardly stand it.</p>
<p>What’s left is that question.</p>
<p>An utterly exhausted man, so spent that he sleeps through a storm. The Son of God, so powerful that he scolds the mightiest forces of nature, and creation itself cowers and retreats into silence.</p>
<p>Fully human, this Lord. Fully divine, this Lord. The truth will soon be written large as he willingly hangs on a cross, suffers and dies. Creation will darken and wail as the heavens weep torrents of rain. The universe has never seen such a sacrifice.</p>
<p>But that day on the Sea of Galilee is a fitting prelude.</p>
<p>Lessons are more abundant even than the water, but as the storm fades, one thing remains, washed into blinding brilliance and refusing to be ignored. That question.</p>
<p>It will do us good, though it’s not for the faint of heart, to spend some time in that boat with the disciples and their Master.</p>
<p>And answer.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70486352022-08-29T14:27:11-05:002022-08-29T14:30:21-05:00Proper Dish-washing as Hypocrisy Deterrent<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>B</strong>e not deceived! Proper dish-washing matters. At least, Jesus seemed to think so.</p>
<p>In Matthew 23, he scalds the “religious leaders and Pharisees” for their hypocrisy: “You are frauds who scrupulously clean the outside of your cups and make them shine while the inside is full of mold and maggots. You love to look outwardly religious, the most pious of the pious, but your souls are full of greed, rapacity, dishonesty, and extortion.”</p>
<p>Earlier in the same chapter, Jesus warns his disciples: “You should listen to what your religion scholars and Pharisees tell you. They are proficient in their teaching about Moses and religious law. But don’t do what they do! They don’t practice what they preach. Even as they load people down with rules and don’t lift a finger to help carry the load, they do whatever they very well please and bask in the honors accorded them as ‘holy men.’ Their religion is a sham and a show, and they have no real love for or relationship with God at all.”</p>
<p>And that’s the bottom line, isn’t it? For our hearts and our worship to be filled with life.</p>
<p>Jesus warned us about being judgmental. But he seems to be seriously recommending some discernment. Being judgmental makes us arrogantly assume that we’d never fall into the ditch our neighbor has fallen into. Being discerning means asking God to help us see and avoid ditches and recognize folks who’d lead us to jump into one.</p>
<p>Jesus doesn’t say, forsake “the temple” and “organized religion.” He’s not recommending “Jesus and me and the TV.” Or the wildly popular approach, “I’m so spiritual I can hardly stand myself, but, of course, I’m not religious. I am religiously not religious. [Pat self on back.] I’ve had it with religion.” Said, of course, very religiously.</p>
<p>The problem is, you see, we’re human. That means sinful and easily deceived, self-deceived, and Satan-deceived. If we worship at our own church with a membership of one, we needn’t think we’ll get away from human hypocrisy. Our church of one will almost certainly be awash in it.</p>
<p>That argues, I think, for our sincerely praying that our own relationship with our Father is real and honest, though we often fall short. It argues for making the effort to have a real relationship with others who are working to have a real and honest relationship with Christ. The job is too big to tackle alone. And it requires discernment, up and down whatever religious “structure” we’re part of.</p>
<p>Though Christ’s church is his beautiful Bride, we needn’t think we’ll escape some bouts of ugliness and hypocrisy in the human expressions of his church here. All the vessels are leaky, but it’s still far better to be in one helping bail than to be outside by ourselves treading water.</p>
<p>The principle is far-reaching.</p>
<p>Some teachers teach selflessly, love teaching (in spite of the foolishness being continually piled on them by state bureaucracy, clueless politicians, etc.), and bless children immensely. They work within the flawed system to be a far better blessing than the system deserves. Why? They love their students. You couldn’t possibly pay them too much. But a few other teachers within the same school or district or state? Well, their motives are on the opposite end of the scale. You could not possibly pay them too little.</p>
<p>We all see this in so many arenas of life. It may be more starkly apparent with regard to faith and religion, but should we be at all surprised to find in groups of religious leaders, large or small, in whatever religious tradition, some who love their Lord and his people unselfishly, even while some are political schmoozers who’ve glad-handed their way to the “top” and love, as Jesus said, “the best seats” and the praises of their followers more than God’s approval? At every level, we can find those who truly love God. At every level, we can find those who are hypocrites.</p>
<p>I’ve enjoyed over the years a series of mystery novels set in a monastery in 12th-century England. Spend much time reading that series, and it will become clear that a humble monk in that quaint monastery knows and follows his Lord far more intimately than does their land’s archbishop whose religion centers mostly on his religious career and power. But would we be justified in such a situation as painting all lower level monks as truly holy and all bishops as hypocritical scoundrels? Of course not. (Or would we be justified in feeling self-righteous because we’re sure our group gets the organizational chart right, eschews overt hierarchy, and is above the fray and not as tempted by religious show and hypocrisy as others?) Then and now, life is never that simple.</p>
<p>Small church or mega-church, humble pulpit or mega-diocese, those who love Christ and his people far more than they love themselves bless us all. And those more power hungry than pious are a trial and a stumbling block to us all.</p>
<p>No perfect system exists. We do well to ask for discernment. We do well to pray for our Lord’s help to be a blessing wherever we find ourselves trying to serve. And we do well to realize that the only way for us, fallen creatures that we are, to avoid as many snares and as much hypocrisy as possible, is to genuinely love our God with all of our hearts, souls, minds, and strength. We’ll need our Father’s continual “dish-washing” help to get that done. To know how often we do a poor job of it? That’s progress.</p>
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<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70435392022-08-22T13:19:57-05:002022-08-29T14:30:21-05:00It’s Raining Where It Never Rains<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>here I live, it never rains. In the past it did, at least, a little bit. As the old joke used to go, “Our annual rainfall is about 17 inches. You should be here on the day we get it.”</p>
<p>But a few years ago, it pretty much quit. Raining, I mean. Water droplets in the air were never very plentiful here, and wind and dirt have long been far too readily available. When rain chances are near zero, the chance for wind and dirt, accompanied by rodents, chihuahuas, and small children flying by through brown air are depressingly higher.</p>
<p>Gotta be climate change, right? If it doesn’t rain here. If it floods a couple of states away. If my truck’s oil needs changing. If my years-ago-broken toe aches. If it snows. If it doesn’t snow. If the dog seems restless. If Putin wakes up surly, Biden wakes up befuddled, or Trump wakes up with a storm around his noggin more strangely orange than usual. Someone mutters, “Climate change.” Heads bow knowingly in silent and worshipful affirmation.</p>
<p>I do not doubt, by the way, that the world’s climate does change and is changing. I do doubt that the world is on track to end because of it. (Poker metaphor: I’ll “call” your scientist and “raise” you another.) And I very much doubt that ham-stringing our economy, throwing billions skyward, and begging for Middle East fossil fuel rather than using our own will accomplish anything beyond making expensive offerings to a relatively new and incredibly self-righteous green religion.</p>
<p>Pharisees are pharisees, unhappy people who are the center of their own religion and are never happier than when they are making other people unhappy. I fight my own pharisaical tendencies but talking about “saving the world” in the same breath as “electric vehicle” is not the brand of self-righteousness that most tempts me. Besides that, I need to pay a bill or two and have no time, climactically speaking, to save the world this week. Maybe a week from Thursday? It seems to me that we have more pressing potential disasters on the radar.</p>
<p>Ah, but as Paul Harvey used to say, “Wash out your ears with this!”</p>
<p>It never rains here, but it has been raining here now for two days! “Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain.” The notes of that old song play nicely in my head along with the soft patter of gently falling, perfectly soaking, rain. Driving home from church on Sunday, I saw kids out playing in the rain. Some of them may have never seen this before.</p>
<p>A nice recliner, a steaming cup of hot tea or coffee, a good book, a nap, a sleepy dog, a full rain barrel, and plants visibly perking up and taking notice. Heaven!</p>
<p>G. K. Chesterton once wrote about “The Romantic in the Rain”: “It scrubs the sky. Its giant brooms and mops seem to reach the starry rafters and Starless corners of the cosmos; it is a cosmic spring cleaning.” Yes! Right here in late August. Right here where it never rains. Water! Right here!</p>
<p>“Drink more water!” we are incessantly admonished. Normally, I find that difficult. I prefer water as a “mixer,” heated and dancing through a tea bag or strained through a coffee bean. I want liquid when I’m thirsty, but as regards water straight up, I could almost be a teetotaler. When I’m truly parched, I might throw moderation to the wind and guzzle H2O, but, even then, I’d generally prefer it on the rocks with a splash of lemon.</p>
<p>But, as Chesterton says, “The enthusiastic water drinker must regard a rainstorm as a sort of universal banquet . . . Think of the imaginative intoxication of the wine drinker if the crimson clouds sent down claret.” He pictures purple clouds raining port wine and trees clashing boughs “as revelers clash cups” as the rain falls. The trees drink to “the health of the world.”</p>
<p>Ah, yes, he writes, the rain falls and the treetops bow their heads downwards, the pavement and sidewalks become mirrors and “gorgeous skyscapes,” and we get “the sense of Celestial topsy-turvydom,” a “bright, wet, dazzling confusion of shape and shadow, of reality and reflection, . . . and the strange sense of looking down at the skies.”</p>
<p>Strange, but beautiful. A world washed off, clarified, beautified, and enlivened by God’s good gift of rain.</p>
<p>Rain where it never rains. A brief and very welcome climate change for which I am truly thankful.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70383832022-08-15T12:00:43-05:002022-08-22T15:45:15-05:00Consorting with Skunks Carries Consequences<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>e ran over a skunk the other night.</p>
<p>My wife, her former judicial honor who still wields authority in my direction even if she is no longer officially invested with such, would say, “What’s with the ‘we,’ Bucko? You did that, not me.”</p>
<p>Well, she was in the car. Yes, I was driving. But I maintain that since the beast was in the middle of the lane, the middle of <em>my</em> lane, as he waddled across the road, the only proper course for the captain of any automotive ship was to take him out. Dead on. Very bad things happen when you swerve in such a situation. So I, or we (my wife being a startled and quickly wide awake accomplice), nailed him.</p>
<p>We were heading home from a particularly poignant time with dear friends. The highway was long, empty (well, mostly), and dark. Gas prices have meant that I’ve been reduced more often than usual to driving my wife’s minivan. It’s a very utilitarian and useful vehicle, presently in much demand, I hear. But it is not a manly vehicle, such as, for example, my truck. If that’s a sexist comment, I feel terrible about it.</p>
<p>But the practical point is that the minivan is, by design, low to the ground, and skunks, though lowly creatures in many ways, are not low enough to the ground. He or she (I’m not really sexist at all, you see) might have just barely escaped my pickup under-carriage, though I doubt it. But we were in the van. No chance. In the millisecond when I thought a miracle might have happened and the skunk had perhaps done a very un-skunk-like thing and ducked, well, no.</p>
<p><em>Kerthump! Bump! Bumpety-bump!</em> Goodbye skunk.</p>
<p>Then came the smell.</p>
<p>I didn’t have time to take a rear-view look for a carcass. The multiple bumps, rather than one significant <em>thunk! </em>led me to believe that he was not impaled in our vehicle’s grill. (We once had a pheasant as a temporary hood ornament.) I felt no deep need to turn around and officiate at a burial.</p>
<p>I’ve not done the research to know if skunks who die violently automatically spray as their teeny-weeny brains and their sphincters cease communication. I’ll look it up later.</p>
<p>But our association with that skunk was, I assume, as deadly as it was brief. All the ill-fated beast did was to brush up quite quickly and uncomfortably beneath the minivan’s low under-carriage. And that was enough. For death. And for a distinctly skunk-ish odor.</p>
<p>If the skunk actually sprayed, we weren’t around long enough to catch much of it. But just an incredibly speedy brush-up produced a malodorous aroma that took miles to shake off.</p>
<p>There is, dear readers, a lesson in this. In its <em>eau de parfum</em> essence, the moral is “If you don’t wish to stink, don’t snuggle up to skunks!” It really doesn’t take a long association with one before you begin to acquire its odor.</p>
<p>Practical illustrations and warnings abound. You can quickly supply some of your own, but here are a few of mine.</p>
<p>I’m thankful for people of good will who work within to try to improve them, but our two major political parties, especially at the highest levels, seem determined to reward lunacy or cowardice (pick the mix you prefer) and have little place for prominent candidates who display wisdom, courage, and integrity—and don’t leave a distinct aroma in their wake. Non-stinkers in either party’s national arena will pay a heavy political price. Pay it or stink? Sometimes the choice is that stark in politics—and in more than a few other venues.</p>
<p>Surround yourself at work or business with those whose only real desire is for power or “success”? Enthrone as heroes loud “stars” whose “values” are of the lowest sort? Trade integrity for advancement? Ditch good morals for pleasure or just popularity? How much of that stinkiness can we partake in and not begin to exude a tell-tale scent ourselves?</p>
<p>In our homes, our workplaces, our play-places<a>—</a>and our hearts—we need to take care. Our incredibly gracious Lord will help us, forgive us, lead us. What our King desires for us is our highest good. He wants us, in all of the arenas of our lives, to honor him with “the sweet scent,” the “exquisite fragrance,” of those whose lives are quietly but truly devoted to Christ (see 2 Corinthians 2:14-16 and its various translations).</p>
<p>That’s a far higher calling than just not stinking. But asking God for help not to become stinkers is certainly a good start. And, be not deceived, even now many, maybe most, people know a stinker when they smell one.</p>
<p>Full disclosure: One skunk was harmed before the writing of this column.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70332522022-08-08T12:57:06-05:002022-08-15T14:30:32-05:00“The Light Shines in the Darkness”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>f all of our eggs are in this earthly “basket,” how sad.</p>
<p>I find myself thinking of the Apostle Paul’s words written, of course, specifically to Christians: “If for this life only we have hope, we are of all people most to be pitied” (1 Corinthians 15:19).</p>
<p>No pity needed this morning. But I must admit that I’ve lost faith. I’ve lost faith in those who have enough blind faith to claim to believe in nothing and esteem their own blindness as some sort of tragic courage. Fashionable, yes. Popular, yes. Courageous, no.</p>
<p>What nonsense! Nobody believes in nothing. A truly irreligious person will never be born. Everyone bows before something or someone—even if their god is the most pathetic of all, Self. God himself is the One who gives us the ability, even in the face of increasingly staggering evidence, to doubt that he exists. How big of him! How small of us.</p>
<p>We spent several hours yesterday with dear friends at a hospice facility (about 90 miles from our home) as they held vigil around the bed of one of the sweetest ladies I’ve ever known. We got home late last evening and awoke to word that she’d passed away, went truly home, at about 4:00 this morning.</p>
<p>Am I more emotionally tender than usual this morning? Oh, yes. I could easily fill a book with descriptions and anecdotes all about the myriad blessings God has given me and mine via that sweet lady and her amazing husband.</p>
<p>Beautiful, wise, intelligent, loving, kind, dignified but fun, unfailingly gracious. Oh, I could go on.</p>
<p>But then, years ago now, Alzheimer’s. The diagnosis was correct—and so soul-chillingly wrong. Never was there a more inappropriate target for that horrible disease. But when light seems to fade and darkness threatens to rule, stars make their presence more fully known.</p>
<p>Even if these sentient stars would much prefer a completely hidden luminescence, our High King presses the darkness in which evil often does its work into service for the beautiful and the good. And those who would most eschew accolades for heroism, too busy in the midst of the onslaught doing what is needed, to have any thought of self or patience with others who stand in awe of their actions, soldier on and rise like stars to shine in the darkness, oblivious to their own shining.</p>
<p>My friend keeping vigil last evening would say that the breathtaking faithfulness he has shown his amazing wife is not breathtaking at all. He would impatiently and quickly deflect any such praise cast his way by saying that he has only done what he long ago promised. He would say, quite rightly, that she for decades has been unflinchingly faithful to him and blessed him and their family (and so many more) unimaginably. He would say that, had the situation been reversed, her love and devotion to him would have been as dependable and brilliant as the rising of the sun. Yes, oh, yes, it would.</p>
<p>And so, he would use one word for what he’s done. <em>Nothing.</em> Nothing that she wouldn’t have done a thousand times over. Nothing that she didn’t deserve a thousand times over.</p>
<p>Those of us, the many who love them both, will not quarrel with him or gainsay his protestations. We’ve long ago taken his measure. And hers. And been blessed and honored to be their friends.</p>
<p>I’m not sure that dignifying disease by using words to personify it is particularly helpful. Disease is an “it,” a thing in this fallen world which cannot consciously love you, hate you, care a whit about you. Life itself is, of course, an “it.” That life itself cannot care for us, love us, hate us, seek to help us, desire to destroy us—or anything else—should be no more surprising than to discover that our favorite chair doesn’t love us enough to rush to meet us at the door as we arrive home in the evening or hate us enough to laugh when we catch and break our little toe on its wooden chair leg as we make our way through the dark room at night.</p>
<p>But the Author of life is not only “personal,” he is our Father who can and does love us completely. Our hope is in the One who made us. Our hope is real because of our risen Lord. No pity needed.</p>
<p>This morning I’d so like to say, “Alzheimer’s be damned! You wretched creation of Satan, go back to hell where you came from! Did you really think you would win this battle?” But a disease can neither relish our whimpers nor cringe at our taunts.</p>
<p>It might indeed make real sense to curse Satan, “Go back to hell! You’ve lost again what you thought would be a victory. Did the cross teach you nothing? How long will it take you to learn that for Christ’s people, even a cross you wield as a weapon of despair will become death to death and a stake in your own black heart? What a slobbering fool you are! Early this morning, you lost yet again.”</p>
<p>But rather than rail against the darkness or its sniveling prince, I’d much rather bow before the Father of light and thank him for the light that “the darkness will never overcome.” In the midst of darkness, we’ve seen awe-inspiring light reflected from the lives of dear friends.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70287202022-08-01T17:20:31-05:002022-08-01T21:45:01-05:00Gifts Given, Gifts Shared, and Joy
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<p><strong>I</strong>f you know me, you know that I like to sing. I’ll sing when nobody’s listening. I’ll sing when 12 people are listening. I’ll sing when 612 are listening. Give me half a chance, and I will sing.</p>
<p>I’ve sung all of my life. It was not unusual for our family to sing together at home. (I know. Too often, families today can hardly imagine ever being at home. And singing at home? “Are you kidding? Did you grow up on Mars?”)</p>
<p>We really did. Not the Mars part. The singing part.</p>
<p>I also sang at church. I sang at school. At various times, I sang with groups of, as I recall, 4, 25, 35, 100 or so. A quartet. A school ensemble group. A church singing group. A school choir. And so on.</p>
<p>I’ve done some recording. Four of my own albums and a couple or three with other folks.</p>
<p>But I’d sing in the shower, in the back yard, and on a desert island. I’ve never known singing to hurt anything, and it helps almost everything. You don’t have to be good at it for it to be good for you.</p>
<p>“God’s joy is too deep not to sing!” I’ve used that as a kind of motto on cards, stationery, etc., and I think it is deeply true.</p>
<p>I don’t sing as a modern “artiste” whose songs are a way of expressing disgust, despair, and decrying relentless pain in a world devoid of meaning. I don’t believe that this world or my life are devoid of meaning. “Victimhood” and singing, when combined, are off-key.</p>
<p>I don’t feel the need to scald my vocal cords with “explicit lyrics.” If I couldn’t do better than sing songs where I wallow in angst and nihilism and try to drag others in with me, I hope I’d just be mute, and thus do everyone a favor.</p>
<p>If I’m singing, it will be something I find beautiful, something I find filled with hope, something I find pointing to the Source of joy, whether it’s a hymn, a song just for fun, a sentimental old love song, or so many others.</p>
<p>I know there’s very much a place for some sad songs that help us deal with suffering and pain. If you doubt that, just look at the Psalms. But you’ll also notice that even the psalms written in the blackest despair and not disguising anger at what seems a very unjust situation, well, they almost always end with hope. As well they might. The One who splashed the stars across the sky and, you might say, “sang the stars” into existence, is One in whom hope is always available, even in darkness.</p>
<p>I’ve sung for lots of different types of groups. Churches, clubs, special programs, weddings, funerals, etc. Mostly I sing gospel sorts of songs.</p>
<p>But a few years ago, much to my surprise, my song repertoire enlarged to include some of the great old “American Songbook” songs. You know, the “For Sentimental Reasons” sort of songs so beautifully written by folks like Cole Porter and Richard Rodgers (and many others) and sung so well by Nat King Cole, Tony Bennett (and so many others).</p>
<p>I love singing those old jazz tunes. They’ve lived for generations, and I want to do my part to help keep them alive. It seems clear to me that all songs, all music, of whatever style, if it’s beautiful and lifts our souls is all God’s blessing to us and for us and to be enjoyed in the right way in the right times and places.</p>
<p>I’ve never cared much for the term “Christian music” as a genre. I know why the term is handy, but music doesn’t have to have overtly religious words to be well done and a blessing.</p>
<p>So I was singing for a sweet group of about 20 folks at an assisted living home recently. This time around, I was singing mostly the “For Sentimental Reasons” songs. I’d driven about 150 miles, round trip, to sing for those folks. I’d not get a dollar a mile for the “honorarium,” though a couple of folks bought albums. But I felt like a rich man when I’d sung the final note.</p>
<p>Why? Because I got to see some smiles, watch some eyes light up. The joy God gives me in singing became the joy my hearers that day lovingly received.</p>
<p>Early in my concert, an elderly man and woman quietly got up from their chairs and began to dance. I loved that! Then, at the end of the concert, a sweet little lady came up to me and said, through tears, “Thank you for giving me my husband back for just a little while.” Better than a big check, I’d say. If I gave her a gift, she gave me a larger one.</p>
<p>In just a few days, I’ll sing basically the same concert for a sold-out crowd (not primarily because of me, I assure you) far larger and for around ten times the honorarium. (I don’t do many programs that lucrative, but things even out, my “habit” still pays for itself, and I’m thankful!) But whatever size the crowd and whether or not any honorarium at all is involved, it’s hard to put a price on joy.</p>
<p>For me, yes, “God’s joy is too deep not to sing!”</p>
<p>What about you? Oh, it may not be singing. But what fills you with joy, gives you the sense that “this” is what you were created to do?</p>
<p>Maybe it’s just (just!?) being an encourager with the right words at the right moment. Maybe it’s any of a jillion talents or gifts or abilities. Whatever it is, it’s a joy to you and others, and it’s given to you to share. Given by the Source of joy.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70231692022-07-25T11:28:12-05:002022-07-25T12:15:02-05:00Coffee Drinkers “Less Likely to Die”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>A</strong>s a serious lover of coffee, and as a mortal, I read the headline with interest: “People With Daily Intake Of 1.5 to 3.5 Cups Of Coffee Less Likely To Die.”</p>
<p>I find this headline problematic on several levels. First, it’s lousy capitalization. No matter which style manual you use, this title has problems.</p>
<p>But you see the bigger problem, don’t you? I suspect that your experience is the same as mine, and I’m telling no secrets here. But, in my experience, though I find coffee beneficial on many levels, no matter how much of it anyone drinks, everyone dies—100%.</p>
<p>I found the same headline showing up on other news outlets (sometimes with better capitalization), and they added two words, “by 30%.”</p>
<p>That confuses me even more. Does that mean only 30% of the people who are somewhat serious coffee drinkers might not die? Even the lower percentage would be impressive. Sort of like saying that “I’ve had three dogs, but only one of them could speak coherently.” But, sadly, even the lower percentage, both of coffee drinkers and talking dogs, flies in the face of reality.</p>
<p>If you read further, you’ll discover that the study was done in China. The thugs in charge there lie as often as they tell the truth, but I figure this is accurate.</p>
<p>Chinese scientists monitored 171,000 people for seven years. At the beginning of the study, none of the participants had cancer or heart disease. According to Luke Andrews, the “health reporter for DailyMail.com,” the research team “found those who regularly drank coffee were about a third less likely to die than those who did not.”</p>
<p>Does that help explain? Not by much.</p>
<p>The article goes on to tell us that the researchers found that “it didn’t matter whether the coffee was plain or sweetened with sugar.”</p>
<p>Well, at least there’s that. But I still find the explanation lacking.</p>
<p>Reading on, I learn that during the seven-year study, the deaths that occurred numbered 3,177 (“including 1,725 from cancer and 628 from heart disease”).</p>
<p>It seems that simply “drinking hot drinks” lowered mortality somewhat, but the participants who reported at the start of the study that they drank “1.5 to 3.5 cups” of coffee daily, well, they were 30% less likely to die—during the seven years.</p>
<p>The researchers went on to mention (this is my paraphrase) that many health benefits have previously been reported in studies regarding coffee. (I’ve been noting those for years.) But this study was not specifically designed to study coffee consumption. Their “coffee discovery” was just “observational,” a surprise, and they are drawing no major conclusions from it.</p>
<p>If you’re interested, do a web search (plugging in something like “1.5 to 3.5 cups of coffee”), and you can read a lot more.</p>
<p>For my part, I’ll add this information regarding the benefits of coffee to my personal stash of such material. I’ve felt better for a long time now knowing that my love for coffee has been good for me, not that I’d have stopped drinking it if the evidence had pointed in the other direction.</p>
<p>Ever since health “evidence” mistakenly touted margarine’s benefits over butter—and thus robbed me of years of buttery flavor—my policy regarding most “health news” is watchful waiting. I can usually wait out the reports I don’t like. Since they change more easily and quickly than I’m willing to change my habits, this approach has worked well. Folks who worry too much about such are more likely to die early of stress than those of us who don’t. That’s my own study.</p>
<p>With regard to coffee, which I hold in very high regard, I can’t imagine how anyone wakes up, thinks, or writes without it.</p>
<p>But the truth is that my interest in this particular coffee article waned a good bit after I realized that the study is <em>not </em>indicating any sort of immortality connected to coffee consumption.</p>
<p>I’m okay with that. In this present world, enough’s enough. And I am completely convinced that the Author of life has the ultimate immortality thing well in hand.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70173532022-07-18T12:54:26-05:002022-07-18T17:00:15-05:00“Lust for Money Brings Nothing but Trouble”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“I</strong>f a cup of coffee on the patio on a nice morning won’t bring you joy, neither will owning a yacht.”</p>
<p>Or something like that.</p>
<p>I don’t remember the exact quote. I recently read it somewhere. Don’t recall where.</p>
<p>But it seems that someone was interviewing some very wealthy people about happiness and how to find it. And that’s when one of the incredibly rich folks made this incredibly wise statement.</p>
<p>Of course, Jesus said it a long time ago: “Take care! Protect yourself from the least bit of greed. Life is not defined by what you have, even if you have a lot” (Luke 12:15, <em>The Message</em>).</p>
<p>Remember the situation? It’s as modern as tomorrow. A fellow was fussing with his brother over a family inheritance and wanted Jesus to tell his greedy sibling to give him what was rightly his and thus correct this injustice lest the universe implode at the horror of his brother’s greediness. Jesus responded, basically, “Yes, I do think we need to talk about greed. Let’s talk about yours.” Ouch.</p>
<p>Later, when the Apostle Paul writes to his young emissary Timothy, (1 Timothy 6, <em>The Message</em>), he warns him to be careful not to bring into church leadership people who would use their position in the church as a means to acquire riches, who “think religion is a way to make a fast buck.” Some things never change.</p>
<p>But he goes on: “A devout life does bring wealth, but it’s the rich simplicity of being yourself before God. Since we entered the world penniless and will leave it penniless, if we have bread on the table and shoes on our feet, that’s enough.”</p>
<p>Not only is this deeply true, it is deeply practical. “If it’s only money these leaders are after, they’ll self-destruct in no time. Lust for money brings trouble and nothing but trouble. Going down that path, some lose their footing in the faith completely and live to regret it bitterly ever after.”</p>
<p>The warning is good for all of us, isn’t it?</p>
<p>And that brings us back to “contentment.” A number of Bible versions render 1 Timothy 6:6 in this way: “Godliness with contentment is great gain.”</p>
<p>It’s a great recipe! Love God, give your life to him, and then be content, and you’ll discover that you have genuine wealth unimaginable, a kind of happiness that can never be taken away.</p>
<p>It’s not the kind of “happiness” that will ever be had by trading what is truly precious for an eye-popping “net worth.” We all like our financial investments to do well, but if we can’t be happy when the stock market is tanking, we’ll never be truly happy. If we think three houses will make us happier than one . . . If we think that this new pool, or this expensive vehicle, or this club membership, or this big office or title, or [fill in the blank], is what will make us happy, then we can be sure that we will never be happy. “I’ll be happy if” or “I’ll be happy when” are simply ways of saying, “I’ll be happy never.”</p>
<p>Of course, none of the things I’ve mentioned are inherently bad—unless they begin to own us. And they quickly can.</p>
<p>What’s really important to us? Our bank statements <em>do</em> tell the truth about our priorities. If we’ve given our lives to God, then whether we have a lot or a little, we know it’s all God’s, and we are accountable for using it in ways that honor our Lord, ways that will help others and not just ourselves, and ways that will break the hold of what can easily become an idol that will control us—and rob us of real happiness.</p>
<p>I remember very well that when our four sons were little guys, buying a set of tires for the family car (which one friend suggested I drive to a dumpster and leave it there) could be a serious financial hit. I will quickly say that I’m very thankful that, though I don’t like buying them, needing to shell out some shekels for a set of tires is no longer a major disaster. But the fact is that I was happy (though a bit concerned) in those “old days,” and I’m happy now.</p>
<p>God’s counsel to us all is deeply true. Rich people centering on money are slaves. Poor people centering on money are slaves. George MacDonald once wrote that “it is not the rich man only who is under the dominion of things; they too are slaves who, having no money, are unhappy from the lack of it.”</p>
<p>Our Father wants us to know the deep contentment of centering on him and using his gifts wisely and unselfishly, rather than being owned by any of them.</p>
<p>So, yes, if we are unable to find some genuine joy in a cup of coffee on a fine morning, it’s probably wise to wait on the yacht.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70126652022-07-11T19:29:28-05:002022-07-11T22:15:04-05:00“These People Made Me Think, Thank, and Laugh”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>U</strong>sually when a public figure of some sort declares that the latest election or Supreme Court decision was “the last straw,” and they’re seriously considering depriving the United States of their presence and moving to, say, Qatar or Monaco or an island in French Polynesia (Rwanda or Iran rarely make the list), I’m tempted to send them a note and offer to help pay for airfare. I figure we could muddle by without them.</p>
<p>But the much more permanent departure of a few of my favorite public figures leaves me feeling bereft years later. (My favorite public figures are rarely movie stars or politicians.)</p>
<p>Often at 12:00 noon, I still reflexively feel a desire to tune in Paul Harvey: “Hello, Americans! Stand by for news!” He loved this country, and we loved him for loving us. And he was wise: “If we cannot count on ourselves to do the right thing, how can we count on anyone or anything else? Self-government won’t work without self-discipline.”</p>
<p>For years, the very best part of a <em>60 Minutes</em> program was the very last part when the quintessential curmudgeon Andy Rooney closed the show. It wasn’t just our imaginations, Rooney might point out, but we were getting ripped off by much-diminished coffee “cans” and shrinking ice cream “buckets.” He’d have noticed that toilet paper rolls are contracting in width. Along that line, he did comment, “I’ve learned that life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer it gets to the end, the faster it goes.” The fact that Rooney possessed a rather faulty filter regarding political correctness and got in trouble occasionally for telling unpopular truths made me like him even more. And those eyebrows! Yep, worthy of a curmudgeon. Surely their “tips” would brush the frames of a normally-sized door.</p>
<p>Maybe a bit less famous, but always amazing, the late Charles Krauthammer is prominent on my list. He once wrote about the airport security line as a “national homage to political correctness,” noting that “nowhere do more people meekly acquiesce to more useless inconvenience and needless indignity for less purpose.”</p>
<p>He didn’t say, but he might have said, that if aging former psychiatrists turned columnists and using wheelchairs (like himself) started blowing up airplanes, only a very blind and very foolish TSA agent with all of the common sense trained completely out of him wouldn’t engage in some very sensible profiling and halt the wanding of a blue-haired little lady to pay more attention to the frowning guy rolling through.</p>
<p>Krauthammer laughed about a system that subjects an airline pilot (who has full access to airplane controls) to full-body screening, presumably because he might have stuffed explosives in his underwear. “Do you really think I’m a Nigerian nut job preparing for my 73-virgin orgy by blowing my johnson to kingdom come?” (I still laugh. I probably should apologize.) Educated, yes, as an MD specializing in psychiatry, Krauthammer also wrote, regarding a now-former president, “I used to think [he] was an 11-year-old, an undeveloped schoolyard bully. I was off by about 10 years.” (I agree. I probably should apologize.) Death (in 2018) spared Krauthammer from far more grievous evidence.</p>
<p>I’d be surprised if you completely agree with me on my list, but I’d encourage you to make your own. It’s obvious, isn’t it? You don’t have to agree with their every opinion or comment (I don’t even agree with myself on all of my opinions) to be genuinely grateful to God for those who’ve done such a good job making you think, thank, and laugh.</p>
<p>Our Father knows that we need to do a lot more of all three.</p>
<p> P. S. Need I mention that the opinions stated above regarding the opinions of the three folks mentioned above are simply my own? But if someone would like to “cancel” me, turn me off, or tune me out, feel free. I’m feeling a bit tired and, one might say, “curmudgeonly.” After several decades of writing these weekly and weakly, I’m wondering occasionally if cancellation would be a calamity. But thanks for reading!</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70079222022-07-05T11:16:48-05:002022-07-05T12:30:19-05:00Good Luck Signing In!<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I </strong>guess I’m safe.</p>
<p>On my computer, I mean. My passwords for my online accounts are so strong that I can’t even get into half of my own accounts more than half of the time. And it takes <em>so</em> much time.</p>
<p>You need “two-factor authentication,” the computer security experts say. What that means is that even if I manage to remember my password, I still have to go to my mobile phone to get the code that they send, or, for Google, head over to YouTube and tell them, “Yes, I would very much like to sign on to my Google account, or Gmail, or whatever. Please, may I?”</p>
<p>Or, for financial accounts, such as my bank or a credit card company, I might be required also to answer questions about the last name of my first grade teacher, or the best/worst car I ever owned, or the name of my first dog.</p>
<p>Carmody, I remember. I’ll never forget Mrs. Carmody. That amazing fire-headed Irish force of nature was fiercely determined that not only can “all kids learn” (the modern mantra), all kids in her classroom had better learn. Or else! She even checked our fingernails each morning. No dirt allowed. And she wielded a ruler that she might have occasionally used for measuring but was certainly able to use for discipline. I owe that great lady a lot.</p>
<p>The worst car I ever owned? Not hard. An AMC Pacer. It was also the only brand new car we’ve ever bought. It looked like a tick, and it soon failed and deposited my wife in an inside-middle lane of Houston’s Gulf Freeway. You can’t even find those cars in wrecking yards now. But should I answer “AMC Pacer” or just “Pacer”?</p>
<p>The dog? I loved our family’s cocker spaniel, but even I can’t remember if the canine’s name was spelled “Bootsie” or “Bootsy.”</p>
<p>The sad thing is that I chose these questions/answers myself, and I still flunk once or twice on two out of three. Fail too many times, and you’ll be forced to wait for—well, I guess for the planets to align or something. Or, worst of all, you’ll be required to create a new password. (You’re supposed to change those things often anyway. Right.)</p>
<p>When I realized that the password file I stored on my computer (you’re not supposed to do that) was up to thirty pages, I decided to go with “password manager” software. Great, but even my password manager has a “master password.” I forget it. Then I have to change it. Then I forget it again. I make a note of it (you’re really not supposed to do that) and keep it in our pitiful little “fireproof” safe where, after a fire, someone could find it. More likely, its ashes.</p>
<p>Or, my new computer offers, I could use my face or fingerprint to sign in. Fine. If my face and fingerprint are available. (You should read about this. You’ll find that asking a funeral director to save your pickled thumb—maybe in a jar in your safe—won’t work.)</p>
<p>I decided to try a physical digital “key” (mine’s called a YubiKey), but don’t lose that thing! And make sure it will work on your multiple devices. On some, you can just touch them. On others, well, you’ll need the proper key with the proper connection to plug into the proper port. Don’t forget the assortment of dongles you now must carry in your computer bag so that your various PCs, Apple devices, Android devices, etc., can be built with only one type of port each. And be sure to keep an extra key so that your heirs can find it melted in the aforementioned not-so-safe safe.</p>
<p>Yes, but I’m safe. Not safe from needing thirty minutes to access my bank account online. But safe.</p>
<p>Surely some nerd who can’t comb his hair but who can program a super-computer will one day find a better way.</p>
<p>I’m thankful that God’s children are invited to access the very throne room of heaven at any moment. He knows us. Recognizes our voices. Lets us in for a talk anytime. Two- or three- or four-factor authentication is not required.</p>
<p>No angel or door-keeping apostle will be asking, “What was your first car?” And I won’t have to remember if I should reply, “VW Beetle” or just “Bug” or just “VW” or just . . .</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/70031362022-06-27T22:27:17-05:002022-06-28T00:15:28-05:00“See The Good”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“S</strong>ee The Good.”</p>
<p>Large letters on a big billboard. White words on a black background. Caps and lower case, just as rendered here. </p>
<p> I don’t know who paid for the billboard ad. It’s possible there was some fine print at the bottom claiming responsibility or enlarging a bit on the three-word admonition, but I drove by too fast to notice any.</p>
<p>“See The Good.”</p>
<p>Almost immediately, I saw the bad. Or, at least, the wrong. Maybe you did, too.</p>
<p>I think they messed up by capitalizing the “T” in “The.”</p>
<p>Granted, there are more important things to consider here. Like the meaning of the real message. I do indeed want to talk about the meaning of the 10-letter word-forest, but I’ll do that after I take a look at one letter that’s an overly tall tree. Yep, that “T.”</p>
<p>I really can’t help it. If a firefighter drives by a house and sees smoke leaking out of the garage, he won’t notice if the house needs painting.</p>
<p>I’m an English major. I’ve done a little bit of English-teaching. I’ve been editing a little devotional magazine for almost forty years. I’ve done more than my share of copy-editing. May I modestly just tell you the truth: if you toss a paragraph or two of words my way, I can toss it back to you in better shape than it was when I caught it.</p>
<p>That “T” should be “t.”</p>
<p>Unless they capitalized that “T” on purpose for graphic (as in “graphic design”) impact.</p>
<p>Or unless they capped that “T” for an even deeper impact. Maybe the advertiser wants us to see that “The Good” is big enough and important enough that it almost deserves to be personalized as its own entity: “The Good.”</p>
<p>And so, now seems like a good time to talk about “The Good” that we’re being encouraged to see—and why focusing on it is, at least in the mind of whomever bought that ad, worth some expensive rent.</p>
<p>According to the dictionary (Merriam-Webster.com), the “good” is “something that is good.” And that’s not much help. But read on down.</p>
<p>The “good” is “something conforming to the moral order of the universe.” It’s something that contributes to the “advancement of prosperity or well-being.”</p>
<p>Not bad, those definitions. Good, really.</p>
<p>At the heart of the “moral order of the universe” is God. All that is right, beautiful, uplifting, and true deserves those adjectives because it squares with what “is.” It is loving, not hateful. It is right, not wrong. It is straight, not crooked. It is beautiful, not ugly. It is true, not false.</p>
<p>It’s easy, and tempting, to focus on what is bad, wrong, sick, twisted, and hurtful. But much that is very good still exists in this world. How said if we let ourselves become blind to it.</p>
<p>I don’t know the names or the motives of the advertisers or their organization, or whether or not they are accustomed to behaving wisely or foolishly. But the advice itself on that billboard is good. I won’t quibble any longer about the “T.”</p>
<p>We are, after all, told in Scripture that “every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights . . .” (James 1:17).</p>
<p>Yes, let’s keep our eyes on “the good.”</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69979202022-06-20T11:47:53-05:002022-06-20T15:45:21-05:00Father’s Day and Gratitude on Any Day<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>’m writing this on Father’s Day.</p>
<p>About an hour from now, it will be the day after Father’s Day. But I will never have a day when I don’t think about my father. I’ve never lived a single second of any day having to wonder if he loved me.</p>
<p>My father was the best man I have ever known, and I’ve known some incredible men. I don’t say that with arrogance. I’m obviously stating the obvious when I ask, who has any say in whom his or her father will be? Or, for that matter, whether he or she will be born American or a Ukrainian, or black or white, or into a wealthy family or a poor family, or brown-eyed or blue-eyed, or with “good” genes or “bad” ones?</p>
<p>Does it take much thought to realize that anyone who gives in to arrogance or prejudice or haughtiness of any sort regarding his or her birth situation is a fool?</p>
<p>We are all given at birth—at conception, really—an incredibly long list of genes, attributes, and circumstances over which we have exactly zero control. Eventually, the time comes when we begin to realize that, just by being born, just by being given that gift, we have been the passive recipients of both blessings and challenges. As we grow, we begin to be increasingly aware of both. Yes, and then we have some choices to make.</p>
<p>We’re here. What now?</p>
<p>Some people, given at birth a lot that is good, selfishly squander it. Others build on it, and live lives of blessing, gratitude, humility, and mercy.</p>
<p>Some people, given at birth a lot that is challenging, whine through life as victims stunted by resentment. Others choose to courageously build in the midst of difficulty, and live lives of blessing, gratitude, and mercy.</p>
<p>I was born with a boatload of everything good that truly matters. And I don’t for a moment pretend that I really understand the challenges of those born into great difficulty.</p>
<p>But think about it: In the final analysis, does any approach to life for any of us really “work” unless we find ways to embrace gratitude? To someone. For something.</p>
<p>Born into great abundance or born into deep difficulty, you and I had nothing to do with it. What then? Living a life of arrogance is stupid and helps no one. Living a life as a perpetual victim is equally foolish and helps no one.</p>
<p>Only gratitude “works.” I do not say that it is easy.</p>
<p>Nor did the Apostle Paul. Still he urges us to “be thankful in all circumstances.” Are you good at that? I’m not. But that changes the truth, just as real as the law of gravity and just as foolish to deny, not at all. We must deal with it. Gratitude is the only thing that really works and, multiplied out, produces a life direction that leads to growth and not despair.</p>
<p>Applied to fathers, I think it works like this.</p>
<p>If like me, you were given a wonderful father, remember that you did nothing to deserve that blessing. Be grateful to the Father of us all and ask Him for help to pass that blessing on to your children.</p>
<p>If like so many, you never knew your father or had a father who fell far short, remember that you did nothing to bring on that challenge. But be grateful nonetheless that you know now (and, oh, I hope you do!), that you have the best Father of all, and ask Him for help to give your children the blessing you have always longed for.</p>
<p>Here is the truth. All of us, whatever we were given at birth, were born by the will of a Father who could not possibly love us more and who will never choose to love us less.</p>
<p>That <em>is</em> the truth. If we know it, here’s the right response. Gratitude. Humility. Hope. Mercy. Grace.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69932572022-06-13T20:34:57-05:002022-06-13T21:00:03-05:00Thanksgiving in June<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I </strong>feel like I’m writing this particular column about five months early. It’s the kind of thing that I’d normally center on just before Thanksgiving.</p>
<p>As I write, it is not Thanksgiving. It is not November. It is mid-June. We’ve not even reached the summer solstice yet. This year, that astronomic event officially occurs on Tuesday, June 21, at 4:14 a.m. (CDT). Set an alarm on your phone.</p>
<p>But it certainly feels like summer. We hit 108 degrees yesterday. The plants in my yard were drooping into depression and flirting with death. Today we cooled to a high temp of 103. I call that “hellish.”</p>
<p>Not. Even. Officially. Summer.</p>
<p>My heartfelt prayer is simple<em>: Let it snow!</em> Though I may be feeling distinctly bear-ish and grouchy about such ridiculous temperatures, I do agree with them—bears, I mean—about hibernation, but I’d come at it in reverse. I’d try to hibernate somewhere nice and cool during the hottest days of the summer. I’d snooze through the convection oven days blissfully dreaming of civilized temperatures, pristine ski trails, and snowball fights with the grandkids.</p>
<p>Reverse hibernation. Much to commend it, I think.</p>
<p>It’s possible that a significant portion of the ravings above might sound grouchy to you. They sound grouchy to me, too, a fact which, of course, tilts me toward a dive into even deeper grouchiness.</p>
<p>I still remember one occasion when a sweet little granddaughter explained to another sweet little granddaughter: “PawPaw’s cranky today.” I remember because “grouchy” and “grandkids” are rarely in the same universe with me. It was not a great day.</p>
<p>Surely you’ve noticed this. What ticks you off more than realizing how little reason you really have to be ticked off? Griping was meant, by Satan, I suppose, to be momentarily pleasurable. It’s like picking a scab. Squeezing a pimple. Nursing a grudge. We’ll chance an infection, flirt with hardening of the heart, because it feels good at the time.</p>
<p>But a realization that my grouchiness is thin-skinned, dim-witted, and petty messes with its poisonous pleasure. It’s annoying when, with the words of Scripture and the pointed prompting, I think, of the Holy Spirit, our Creator quietly but powerfully piles on. A few pointed Bible verses begin buzzing around your head like benevolent mosquitoes (what a concept!) threatening to sting you back into a better mood. You’d rather just swat them away and enjoy being grouchy, but on they buzz.</p>
<p>“<em>Beeeee </em>thankful.”</p>
<p>Worse: “Be thankful in all circumstances.”</p>
<p>Still worse: “Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”</p>
<p>Worst of all: “Count it all joy when you fall into various trials.”</p>
<p>And that is how I land in a much-needed but not very welcome “Thanksgiving in June.”</p>
<p>I’m griping about the vicious heat and gripping drought. And then I remember the people whose hearts are broken right now in Uvalde. Then I think of Ukraine and the senseless devastation and pain. Schools and hospitals being bombed. An evil and malignant dictator and his thugs.</p>
<p>No bombs are falling on my head or tanks rolling down my street. I’m not devastated over the loss of a little one. </p>
<p>And I am forced to admit (forced is the right word) that my Father is right. A person—even a person like myself, unusually gifted at griping—cannot possibly gripe and give thanks at the same time. No one can pull off that sort of twisted spiritual ambidexterity.</p>
<p>Our Creator, well aware of this truth, makes it pretty clear that we (I’ll pull you into the same boat I’m in) must choose. Be it November, June, Thanksgiving or Ground Hog Day: griping or gratitude. Which will it be?</p>
<p>I’m tempted to get cranky thinking about it.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69878572022-06-06T12:56:13-05:002022-06-06T13:00:07-05:00An Almost Instinctive Urge to Head South<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>E</strong>very year during the second week of June or so, I start feeling an almost instinctive urge to head south.</p>
<p>At first, this might seem surprising to anyone who knows me. It surprises me, too. I’m not usually particularly interested in heading south.</p>
<p>Let me explain.</p>
<p>I was born, and plan to live and die, a Texan. This does not mean that I’m blind to the assets and blessings of other states. I find myself longing right now, for example, for some time in the mountains of New Mexico (and I’m particularly thankful for readers of this column who live there). My soul seems to require regular infusions of mountain air and beauty found there in such plenty. And, if you live as relatively close to the mountains as I live and you don’t get a white Christmas, you’re just not trying hard enough.</p>
<p>I do like where I live. No, not the wind and blowing dirt. But this place does have some seriously strong points (easier to find when a drought is not oppressing us), and ties to people (most of mine are here) are stronger than bullet points on a good tourist brochure. For good or ill, I’m seriously Texan.</p>
<p>But, truth be told, the part of Texas that I actually want to live in (I’m perfectly fine with visiting other parts) is on top of, not below, the Caprock Escarpment. The thing is, if you drop below “the Cap,” as we call it, well, you drop. You lose altitude, and you lose it quickly.</p>
<p>Say, for example, you drive from the Greater Muleplex (I’m talking about Muleshoe, Texas) to Post, Texas. You’ll drive 112 miles. Not that far. But you will lose, since you’re dropping off the Cap, almost 1,200 vertical feet. And with that loss of precious altitude, you will find yourself beginning to lose the cool night air of the Texas high plains. (They are literally “high.”)</p>
<p>If, from where I live, you want to find the ocean, you certainly can. Just drive south with me for over 600 miles (you’ll never leave Texas), and you’ll drop from an altitude of almost 3,800 feet down to, say, about 7 feet, if you’re visiting Galveston. Everybody needs to spend some time sometime at the ocean. And I’m in a wonderful hunt for a kind of seafood that I don’t like. But it doesn’t take me much time in that heat and oppressive humidity to reaffirm my preference for water that is frozen. A lake or ocean person, I am not. If I’m down south for more than a few days (even though we once lived in Houston as I was going to school, and it was good time), I find myself soon longing for cool night air—which is found at civilized altitudes.</p>
<p>So why the urge to go south in June?</p>
<p>Well, June beats August.</p>
<p>But the real reason is that, for all of my growing up years, our family went to Kerrville, Texas, on or about the second week in June. Dad had, years before I was born, started in Kerrville a training school for ministers and church workers. My older siblings remember Kerrville as home. Eventually, the school moved to Amarillo (as the students were having a hard time finding jobs in Kerrville; it was still years away from becoming a booming retirement community). But for decades after the move, the Kerrville “Summer Session,” a number of days of Bible training, singing instruction, and sweet fellowship, took place early in June. We memorized Bible verses, did short “talks,” learned to read Scripture, lead songs, and, along the way, catch fireflies and roll down the hills of green grass out beside the church. The little church had theater-style seating, and Mom always had a few of those old fold-out hand fans. Remember those?</p>
<p>I’ll never forget the wooden water keg on a stand out beside the side door of the church. The keg was tapped at the bottom and filled with ice water. The paper cone cups dispensed nearby were also perfect for catching fireflies. At night, you could see the little lights flickering through the white paper, if you’d caught one or a few. If they were inadvertently squished, they quit flickering, but they still glowed for a while.</p>
<p>We’d almost always stay at the Wagon Wheel Motel. (Shuffleboard, but no pool.)</p>
<p>On an afternoon or two during that time, Dad would take the family over to San Antonio. We’d go to the zoo, the botanical gardens, the museum, an old mission or a few, and even, thanks to my sister, the Lone Star Brewery (purely educational with, for kids and teetotalers, root beer samples). Also during that week, we might paddle around in the “river” at Hunt, Texas, or even go visit the Mooney aircraft plant.</p>
<p>Yep, the Kerrville “Summer Session.” It was in June. It was a big part of my childhood. About as close to being a vacation as anything Dad ever took. But it was a sweet time and a gift from God for some golden days that I will remember all of my days. Those “beginning of summer” days were a bit short on altitude, but they were long on blessing.</p>
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<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69831652022-05-30T19:17:17-05:002022-05-30T23:15:03-05:00When Tears Speak More Loudly Than Words<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>’d promised myself not to write this particular column. But it’s a promise I found that I could not keep.</p>
<p>Like anyone who has a heart and who has heard of the murders at the school in Uvalde, Texas, my heart is breaking. That kind of evil takes our breath away.</p>
<p>Of course, the national media seem to have plenty of breath, plenty of bandwidth, and plenty of ink available. And, of course, they have to report it. But I’m not convinced that wallowing in it is necessary.</p>
<p>Many of them are not shy about crossing over from “reporting” to using this atrocity to further their own political ideas. Both left and right are masters at manipulation. And we, both right and left, are, oh, so, willing to be manipulated. By the national media. By political parties. By our favorite politicians. Both “sides.”</p>
<p>And so, far right or far left, the loudest voices with the least real courage and fewest actual ideas hold sway. Since we’d very much like to live in a world where complex problems have simple answers, we lap up mis-leaders’ lies like a cat chugging antifreeze.</p>
<p>We chug on even when a teenager with a heart already incredibly twisted by evil methodically kills 21 precious people, mostly little folks, the kind whose lives give us light and joy and hope whenever we’re around them. How dark it seems when that light is, at least in this world, extinguished.</p>
<p>Can you imagine the depth of evil necessary to do what the murderer did over and over again? I don’t want to mention his name. (His first name is a sad mockery.) I know that God loved him and will be the One who deals with him, and, honestly, I’m glad we don’t have to. I pray for all of the many—the ripples of this blood-bath are far-extending and certainly include those who loved him—who have been and are being devastated by his wicked decision.</p>
<p>Lessons need to be learned, but I can’t help by adding much to the too many words already being cast about. That part is sadly predictable. Those words—their multitude and their volume—come from all of those you’d expect. For most, their greatest wisdom would be much more silence at this moment. But the parties and politicians now trying hard to out-shout each other are saying almost exactly what they always say. </p>
<p>I find it hard to imagine how a bevy of grand-standing politicians converging on Uvalde will do anything but make an unbelievably horrific situation worse. I could wish they would all be struck suddenly mute for at least enough time to let us weep in heartbroken silence for a while, spared their witless word fog and shameless self-promotion.</p>
<p>Most of us are still in shock, trying to make some sense of the senseless.</p>
<p>If at this moment you can react to this “slaughter of the innocents” in a way that is mostly rational, what is wrong with your heart?</p>
<p>Right now, it doesn’t help much to realize that, as one commentator mentioned, a child is still far more likely to die in a car crash on the way to school than to die in a school shooting. There is a time for such a realization; today is probably not that time.</p>
<p>Statistics are usually face-less. The Uvalde victims and their families are not, but I confess that I really don’t want to see the faces of the victims and their families right now. I’m not sure I have any right to such an intrusion. It feels wrong. It feels like a trespass, even though I can well understand that the families would want us to see how beautiful and amazing their precious ones were, so that perhaps we might share more in their grief and loss.</p>
<p>But I see precious faces already. I see the faces of my grandchildren. Yes, I still have them. But I can all too well imagine . . . and that imagining is more than heartbreaking enough to send me to my knees on behalf of those whose loss is so poignantly real and deep.</p>
<p>So I ask again, who can hear of such an unthinkable atrocity and react rationally?</p>
<p>But the time certainly comes when, even with trails of tears still on our cheeks, we must try.</p>
<p>Can we stop such horror completely? I see no rational reason to think so. But surely we can take some wise steps to try to at least make atrocities such as this one less likely. Can we take more prudent steps with regard to background checks, “red flag” laws, etc.? I don’t know. But we’d better do better. I do know this: Those on both extremes on this issue who just yell at their counterparts on “the other side” make losers of us all. As usual.</p>
<p>We will never turn in all of our guns, nor should we. Did we learn nothing from Prohibition? Many ordinary people became “criminals.” Real criminals became more numerous and richer than ever. (And, though I know the analogy breaks down if taken too far, good luck at curing obesity by taking away forks.)</p>
<p>The societal unraveling evidenced by mass shootings has far deeper roots than anything attached to triggers and firing pins, and I doubt that any “solutions” that only involve triggers and firing pins will ultimately be very helpful.</p>
<p>For now, I pray. Mostly, I pray for those families and all who are hurting.</p>
<p>And, for now, I’ve said too much. Souls in pain need some silence to start healing. Tears speak more wisely than words. And when the time comes to speak, the words will mean more.</p>
<p>God give us the courage and wisdom we need for deep healing, the kind that’s found through repentance, not arrogance and “simple” solutions.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69777382022-05-23T10:37:22-05:002022-05-23T12:00:04-05:00“A Man in Whom There Is No Guile”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>n the first chapter of the Gospel of John, a chapter utterly amazing from its very first verse, we have, among much else, the story of Christ’s calling of his first disciples (apostles).</p>
<p>Two of them did some of the greatest work of their lives right then. Andrew went and told his brother Peter about Jesus and, literally, brought him to Christ, saying, “We have found the Messiah!” And when Jesus, on the next day, himself calls Philip (who was, like Andrew and Peter, from Bethsaida), Philip then summons Nathanael to come and meet Jesus.</p>
<p>Remember Nathanael’s reaction? “Really!? Do you mean to tell me that anything good can come out of Nazareth, that dump of a town?” (My paraphrase.) “Come and see,” replies Philip.</p>
<p>As Nathanael is approaching Jesus, I see Christ looking up, smiling, eyes twinkling, and I’m reminded again why the disciples not only loved the Lord, they liked him intensely.</p>
<p>“Look here,” he grins through the words, “a true son of Israel! A man in whom there is no deceit—not a false bone in his body!” (my paraphrase, along with NIV, <em>The Message</em>, etc.). Many older versions say, “A man in whom there is no guile.”</p>
<p>What a fine compliment from anyone about anyone, but Jesus himself is giving this one: “I tell you, friends, here comes someone who is utterly honest, open, true, trustworthy, and good as gold! What you see is what you get, and what you get is genuinely good.”</p>
<p>That’s what Jesus said long ago about Nathanael. And that’s what I tell you right now about my friend Allen Ketchersid. Anyone who knew Allen would agree.</p>
<p>Many of Allen’s family and friends came together today in Bloomington, Indiana, to thank God for the faith-filled life of our friend, who passed away completely unexpectedly on May 16.</p>
<p>The Ketchersid and Shelburne clans share some amazing ties, deep friendships, and a common allegiance. My dad was Allen’s father’s teacher. Allen’s father, Eddy, was my teacher. Eddy was actually living in our family’s home in Amarillo when my surprising birth (Mom was 42) meant that I needed his room and kicked him out.</p>
<p>Among our two clans, the number of years of professional Christian ministry (beginning with both “patriarchs”) amounts to over 300 years. (I know. At first, I didn’t believe that number myself, but I’ve done the math multiple times.) Add to that many more years of other church leadership, service, and ministry. The parallels and ties between the families are rather astounding, and, no surprise, we are dear friends.</p>
<p>I could go on. Life, real life, is about relationship, as Christ has taught us. What a blessing from God this relationship has been since before I was born.</p>
<p>Allen himself was one of the best men I have ever known—a fellow pastor, an incredibly esteemed colleague, an amazingly astute and wise leader. Utterly devoted to his Lord and his family, he was one of one of the best friends a person could ever have.</p>
<p>As I worked as a ministry “intern” with his father, we rode to college together. We laughed with each other and with each other’s siblings. We grew families, served churches, edited publications, and on I could go.</p>
<p>What a good man!</p>
<p>On the Monday that Allen died (a massive heart attack, it seems), his family and friends were in shock, but my wife and I drove, as planned, to Amarillo to attend a granddaughter’s kindergarten graduation planned for the next morning. (Oh, how Allen loved his grandchildren, too!)</p>
<p>I was driving to a grocery store, and I stopped behind a guy in a black SUV. On each corner of his back window, he’d carefully applied two decals (a matched set, I guess), each proclaiming in lewd words and stick figures (I apologize to you for this) his message to anyone following him: “____ U” and “____ It,” meaning the world, in general, I assume.</p>
<p>I wondered why anyone would go to such pains to show his hatred and disdain for everyone and everything. It angered me. Then saddened me. And I was already sad.</p>
<p>I don’t know what kind of wreckage that pathetic man in that SUV is leaving in his own life and the lives of everyone he touches. I can only imagine. And I guess he continues to spread it.</p>
<p>But I also know that people don’t have to live like that. As weak as we all often are, it is still possible to try every day to share love and friendship, truth and grace and mercy, and to honor the One who gave us the gift of life and hope by sharing that gift in a way that brings blessing and joy.</p>
<p>I know it’s possible. Allen did it.</p>
<p>Yes, you’d have liked him. A man as good as gold, not a false bone in his body.</p>
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<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69756192022-05-20T00:57:04-05:002022-05-20T03:15:01-05:00“There Are Two Ways to Get Enough”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“T</strong>here are two ways to get enough,” writes G.K. Chesterton. “One is to continue to accumulate more and more; the other is to desire less.”</p>
<p>If you look in my garage, you’ll quickly see that I flew past “enough” a good while back. It looks like a very poorly arranged department store. I’ve got sections for automotive, carpentry, plumbing, electrical, and lawn care. I’ve got a special section for stained glass and art glass supplies, a section for sports and leisure, and a few shelves devoted to motorcycle repair and maintenance. Oh, and don’t forget the paint section filled with gallons of probably now-worthless paint.</p>
<p>I’ve got tool upon tool, but I’m still always willing to have a later, better, more efficient type of the type of tool that I already have. I even have a few tools that I’ll never use again and certainly should never plug in again.</p>
<p>I know that Chesterton wasn’t talking specifically about cluttered garages. I suspect he was talking more specifically about houses and lands, money and investments, and luxuries of myriad sorts.</p>
<p>Most of us are inundated in luxuries, even if we don’t think of them as such. Just let your water heater fritz its element. Cold showers are, in my estimation, incredibly unpleasant, but they will wash away dirt. Or what if my cell phone suddenly goes dead, its electronic fingers released from my neck, its call-making ability nixed, and I lose access to several hundred apps, 295 of which are nowhere near “essential”? Once I quit shaking and get out of phone-detox, I suppose it’s possible that I might learn to “desire less.” I might learn that the well-being of my soul is not connected at all with the remaining battery life of the cell phone which owns me and throttles my relationships with people in the same room.</p>
<p>But it’s not just my cell phone that owns me. It’s the mind-set of accumulation.</p>
<p>More and more. More stuff. That’s why the “storage industry” (buildings, containers, etc.) is growing so amazingly quickly. We have too much stuff! And we don’t know how to “desire less” in a way that really culls the stuff and doesn’t just stack it.</p>
<p>Jesus once told a parable to illustrate his previous statement: “A man’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions” (Luke 12). It is called, rather pointedly, “The Parable of the Rich Fool.”</p>
<p>The original parable features a great crop year, surplus grain, and the building of more and bigger barns to store it all up.</p>
<p>Today we might be more likely to say that “a certain guy made out like a bandit as his business and his investments all at once suddenly ballooned in value. Possessing more stuff than he could ever imagine and engaged in a world-class spending spree, this terminally superficial fellow with tons of stuff (but very little real substance) buys more and more stuff as his investments keep ginning. He ends up buying whole blocks of storage facilities in which to store stacks of expensive toys and so much stuff that he’s forgotten that he even owns much of it.</p>
<p>And then . . .</p>
<p>And then suddenly, a blood clot or a popped aneurysm drops him in his self-centered tracks. He “ends up.” Literally.</p>
<p>In the “eulogy” at his service, he’s hailed as quite a businessman. Truth be told, he wasn’t much of a husband or father—not really much of a man at all—but a number of the folks at his funeral (who grudgingly took time from their own “accumulating” to show up) consider him “successful.”</p>
<p>But, in the verdict that trumps all others, God calls him a “rich fool” and posts a question: How much of his stuff was his after he hit the ground and they carried his carcass toward the funeral?</p>
<p>The story sort of makes one wonder. Maybe we really would be wise to try to “have enough” by “desiring less.”</p>
<p>The Apostle Paul once made the same point (as paraphrased in <em>The Message</em>): “A devout life does bring wealth, but it’s the rich simplicity of being yourself before God. Since we entered the world penniless and will leave it penniless, if we have bread on the table and shoes on our feet, that’s enough.”</p>
<p>What’s real contentment worth? Much more than all the stuff in the world.</p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69671552022-05-09T13:24:36-05:002022-05-09T16:15:34-05:00A Time to Talk About Our “Times”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>F</strong>or a long time, I’ve found the study of time—specifically, how we perceive its passing, and how it’s connected to our biological and circadian rhythms—fascinating.</p>
<p>Research rolls on, but it’s quite clear that, whether you’re a morning person, night person, or anywhere in between—a lark, an owl, a “third bird,” of whatever—your preference is not just your preference. It’s far more hard-wired biologically than we’d ever dreamed before this subject was seriously studied.</p>
<p>Oh, you can, and must, force yourself to roll out early, work late, or do whatever your employment or family obligations require, and some factors such as your age and health (of course) will also affect this a bit. The research, for example, is abundantly clear that earlier school starting times for all kids, and especially teenagers, are a terrible idea if you want them to be capable of learning anything. (And “capable” is the right word.)</p>
<p>Yes, you’ll do what you must do—you are a conscientious and responsible person— but the fact is, you’ll never be truly “in the zone” (your best time of productivity, efficiency, and creativity) in the morning if you’re an owl or at night if you’re a lark. And, though this analogy might be a bit overdone (but it might not be, and if it is, it’s very little past the mark), a lark has about as much chance of effectively becoming an owl as a right-handed person has of becoming a left-handed person.</p>
<p>Interestingly enough, since this is biologically wired, genealogical and family studies are also fascinating. You don’t have to be a scientist to look at your own family, and your extended family and the predecessors you knew well, to “plot” where on the chrono-biological continuum (I may have butchered that description, but you know what I mean) each member falls and the various folks in the family who are “birds of a feather.” Heredity is most definitely and seriously involved.</p>
<p>Already interested in this topic, I was glad to find that when I read Claudia Hammond’s <em>Time Warped: Unlocking the Mysteries of Time Perception</em>, I’d boarded a train. The next stop was Till Roenneberg’s <em>Internal Time: Chronotypes, Social Jet Lag, and Why You’re So Tired</em>. Then came Daniel Pink’s When: <em>The Scientific Secrets of Perfect Timing</em>. And I hope not “finally” as in a caboose or a final stop, but a bit related and fun, <em>Daily Rituals: How Artists Work</em>, by Mason Currey. I love trains!</p>
<p>A side point: Those are all non-fiction books. Fine. But I hope it’s also clear that one of the best ways to make our journey through this world worthwhile—and not to let it drive us crazy—is to hop on some book-trains (great fiction and stories) that take us around this world, out of this world, and, most of all, out of ourselves. Why in the world would we want to stay always trapped in our little part of the world and stuck in our own little heads when wonderful journeys are ready to open up all around us as we simply open a book?</p>
<p>Garrison Keillor is right when he says, “One reads books in order to gain the privilege of living more than one life. People who don’t read are trapped in a mine shaft, even if they think the sun is shining.”</p>
<p>Speaking of time—as we recently were—the wise writer of Ecclesiastes tells us that “there is a time for everything, a season for every matter under heaven,” and he lists a bunch of the “times” of our lives. He doesn’t mention “a time to read,” but, as a writer, I’m quite certain he takes that for granted.</p>
<p>One thing I think is sure: Our Creator has the times of our lives—whether we’re larks, owls, or any other bird in between—well in hand. And this thought is worth pondering: God is able to use and redeem all of “the times” of those who trust him.</p>
<p>If this is a rotten column, I offer this excuse: I wrote it in the morning.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69623352022-05-02T23:29:00-05:002022-05-03T03:45:06-05:00Chronological Snobbery: We Can’t Afford It<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“C</strong>hronological snobbery” is the term C. S. Lewis used, in his book <em>Surprised by Joy</em>, to describe “the uncritical acceptance of the intellectual climate common to our own age and the assumption that whatever has gone out of date is on that account discredited.”</p>
<p>My over-simplified description is that it’s the un-examined belief that since we have come along at a later date than our ancestors, we are therefore wiser. “Years ago (and pick any time past) they used to think A, but now (pat ourselves on the backs here for the virtue of having been born more recently) we think B, and have thus arrived at a higher plane of knowledge, wisdom, and even morality.”</p>
<p>Really? I see very little evidence of that. But, if you begin to look for chronological snobbery underlying a vast amount of our era’s thinking, you’ll soon see how pervasive it is.</p>
<p>Of course, one of our largest temptations is to mistake factual knowledge and information for wisdom. I’ve heard varying estimates of how fast our world’s store of information is increasing. No doubt, the advent of computer technology has, by any of the many estimates you’ll find, exponentially increased the speed with which such knowledge accumulates. Warp speed. At a mind-boggling rate.</p>
<p>A nerd at heart, I am fascinated by technology and thankful for a very large part of it. And I love having vast amounts of information as close as my computer.</p>
<p>But, for the life of me, I can’t find any evidence that we are wiser than our ancestors. I see plenty of evidence that we are snobbish about “knowing” more, but no evidence that we are wiser in the use of what we think we know.</p>
<p>Can we “do” more? Yes, in many areas. But do we know more about what is worth doing, what is truly valuable in life, what constitutes a life well-lived, and what really is ultimately the meaning of life? Are we any better at all in understanding and dealing with human nature? If anything (and I may fall prey here to chronological snobbery in reverse of the popular direction), it seems to me that we may know far less than many of our predecessors about what is truly important, and are thus condemned by our own arrogance to the same failures (and maybe worse) than those of our forebears.</p>
<p>I find myself agreeing with writer Lance Morrow who laments that we are living in “the Golden Age of Stupidity.” Among others of abundantly available examples, he mentions the botched Afghanistan withdrawal, the Jan. 6 atrocity, and the “need” for two sexes to divide into 100 genders.</p>
<p>Lewis points to the heart of the problem when he talks about our “uncritical acceptance” of the fact (?) that ours is the age that has finally “arrived” [my term], and so our own era’s assumptions must be valid simply because they are recent, and I’d add: modern, popular, and passionately held.</p>
<p>We tend to easily discard the wisdom of the ages for the findings of the latest opinion poll. An opinion poll may tell us a lot about the respondents and their cultural climate, but it tells us nothing about how well a particular opinion will stand up to serious rational thought.</p>
<p>“Was it [this or that assumption] ever refuted,” Lewis asks, “(and if so by whom, where, and how conclusively) or did it merely die away as fashions do? If the latter, this tells us nothing about its truth or falsehood.”</p>
<p>And then he goes on to say that, as we think about this, we begin to find that every age is filled with its own “characteristic illusions” that are so widely accepted that no one “dares to attack” them or “feels it necessary to defend them.” Ours is no exception.</p>
<p>Look for it, and you’ll find chronological snobbery lurking everywhere.</p>
<p>We point to this or that failure (real or just out of fashion) discovered in the life of a heretofore respected historical figure and adjudge he/she as completely discredited, even as we dance to the whims of our time and disregard the wisdom of the ages.</p>
<p>We gorge ourselves on the latest Internet conspiracy theories and subject ourselves to a drought of wisdom by never reading an actual time-tested and revered (for good reason) book. Even the dead—and maybe particularly the dead—have so much to teach us if we’d just let them. We’ll not invariably find their vision clear, but it will always be nothing short of a miracle to be able to see through their eyes. Casting that miracle aside as we find reading, and thus thinking, far too difficult, we flick our index fingers, and, with the attention span of gnats, scroll on. No wonder we blunder. We’ve poked our own eyes out.</p>
<p>Maybe if we could at least realize how prone we are to chronological snobbery, we might open the door to some humility. To some truth. To some testing of our own biases and assumptions. And who knows? Maybe even to some wisdom.</p>
<p>Here’s a very old proverb that has stood the test of time: “When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom” (Proverbs 11:2).</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em></strong><strong><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69566242022-04-25T14:22:35-05:002022-04-25T16:45:02-05:00Faith and Prayer, Healing and Rain<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong>’ve been thinking some more about this “rain thing.”</p>
<p>I recently wrote about rain—specifically, the heart-breaking, soul-sucking, economically disastrous lack thereof.</p>
<p>And, not long ago, I wrote a column about faith and healing, centering on the wonder-filled account in Mark 2. Jesus is teaching, and a paralyzed man is brought to him, carried on a mat by four friends. The room is so crowded that the only way they can get the man to Jesus is to cut a hole in the roof and lower him down. (A mess, I bet.)</p>
<p>What Jesus does is amazing on every level. First, he sees the faith of the “friends.” And then he says to the paralyzed man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”</p>
<p>The toxically religious leaders, always ready to throw cold water on any spark of joy lest a fire of it break out, immediately begin to grinch and grimace and, ironically, hit the nail on the head: Who does this guy think he is?! “Only God can forgive sins.” Bingo!</p>
<p>Then Jesus raises the ante. I paraphrase for brevity: “Which is easier? To forgive this man’s sins or to heal him and let him dance out of here? So you’ll know that I have authority to do the former, I hereby do the latter.” And he did.</p>
<p>In the column I wrote, I wondered what most folks might choose if we could only pick one: forgiveness or healing. Jesus asked, “Which is harder?” We might well ask, “Which is more important? Which is better?”</p>
<p>I know. So do you. If you think that means for sure that I know which I’d choose, your opinion of me is higher than my opinion of me.</p>
<p>This brings me to a little thought (maybe thin on a point or two) about rain, faith, and healing.</p>
<p>But, in general, it seems clear to me that God has set up the physics and biology of this world to work pretty predictably and well, though not always as I like. If I kick a door frame and break my little toe, both physics and biology are at work. Not God’s fault. But that my toe heals is his blessing and design. And the rain? It “falls on the just and the unjust” and follows the physical laws of creation. Most often, we’re blessed by it. But hail, floods, and such? Not so much.</p>
<p>Most of the time, I think, God chooses to answer our prayers by helping us deal with what is. And that is a very real answer, though I’d usually prefer “what is” to be changed to “what I want.”</p>
<p>But the fact is, Jesus prayed. He taught us to pray about any concern, any need. He taught us that prayer matters. Relationship matters. We’re kids. God is our Father. We can, we should, ask, and trust that our Father will answer by giving us what we need, what is the very best for us, now and forever.</p>
<p>And so, I pray. For others. For myself. For our world.</p>
<p>When I pray about health situations faced by my family, my church family, and others I love, I pray for healing, and I shoot for the moon, assuming that, since God invited me to ask, why not ask big?</p>
<p>And what about “answers”? That term seems subjective, but you know what I mean.</p>
<p>Do I sometimes get the answer I want? Yes. Always? Not even close. What about “flashy” answers? Rarely. The vast majority are, in my opinion, just as real but without obvious fireworks. (If I always need fireworks, is that less faith or more? Less, I think.)</p>
<p>Do I sometimes pray and then watch the health situation deteriorate, and then hate what looks like the end result? Of course.</p>
<p>But that I don’t see the whole picture, and that I too quickly assume that answers must be obvious to me in the “here and now” to be answers—well, that just proves my nearsightedness and that my basic assumptions about “effective” prayer are often quite wrong.</p>
<p>Am I assuming that great health and longevity here are always the best for me and those I love? I probably am. Is that correct? I doubt it.</p>
<p>But is that what I want? Yes! And I can be white-hot-angry when folks I love are hurting and my prayers seem to be bouncing off the ceiling.</p>
<p>God wants us to be honest about our feelings. Read the Psalms! Am I sometimes angry and disappointed? Yes. But I often need to be reminded that the Bible portrays God as the Father who loves us with a ferocity we can hardly imagine and who knows what needs to be built in us that is a much better “end product” than constant doses of health, wealth, and prosperity could ever produce. In my better moments, I know that I can trust him completely, even if I’m shooting up a hot prayer to heaven’s Complaint Department and my eyes are red with angry tears.</p>
<p>And now, let’s pause to pray for rain. Rain. Right now rain. Lots of it. Now. <em>Please!</em> Has it not been dry long enough!? Would rain right now not be among the very best blessings God could give us? Oh, yes!</p>
<p>I hate this drought, as my Father well knows. I’ve shaken my fist in the dirty face of the wind and used words saltier than “Peace! Be still!” To no avail.</p>
<p>But could it be that in the face of some deplorable meteorological physics, God can teach us something and build something in us that “rain on demand” could not? (Not that we’ve been anywhere close to “rain on demand.”)</p>
<p>One day, the rains will come (the real thing and not blowing mud), and I will thank him. But even I know that faith which just shows up when I’m in good health, enjoying a nice annual rainfall, and feeling warm, fuzzy, and (I’m afraid) spiritually a cut above my fellow mortals, is cut-rate faith. Not much faith at all. And not the kind my Father knows I need.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"> </p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69509712022-04-18T13:00:47-05:002022-04-18T14:00:10-05:00Genuine Hope Really Does “Spring Eternal”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>ell, if I doubted that spring has pretty much sprung where I live, all I’d need to do is take a look outside. Or just listen. (Sprung though spring may be, only newcomers here will bow to the temptation to set out plants before Mother’s Day.)</p>
<p>But the calendar says spring. And so, as I’m writing today, does the depressing sound of howling wind. All of this means that I’m right on schedule: I’m tempted to jump the gun with my plants. And I’m sitting here writing my annual “It’s Spring! Humbug!” column.</p>
<p>Oh, I love the changing seasons. I like winter, and I love fireplaces and snow, but enough’s enough, I guess. Autumn can be absolutely gorgeous. Summer’s got its own pull, but a couple or three triple-digit temps for me, and I’m done.</p>
<p>I admit that once I’ve made peace with spring’s arrival, I like to see green stuff growing (though I’m in no hurry for mowing).</p>
<p>But, if you’re looking for a bear to renounce hibernation quickly and joyfully, all bouncy and perky, with spring not just as his favorite season but also enlivening his step, look for another bear. Spring makes this bear surly.</p>
<p>It’s not so much the season itself. It’s not even mostly my bear-ish personality, though I’ve already confessed to being happier in “hibernating bear mode” than in “early bird catching the worm” mode. That bird can have the worm. If he chokes on it, it’s not my fault.</p>
<p>I’m also sure there must be many places where spring is amazingly beautiful and its appearance fills folks with hope.</p>
<p>But here, and I really do like living here . . . Too often here, spring means gale-force wind, blowing dirt, and rodents and small children flying by in the brown air. And in this drought, the even-worse-than-usual wind just depresses the life out of me. I despise it. I figure it’s almost miraculous that our entire area has not been completely blown away yet or burned down by wildfire. We’re ripe for it. (Fires did indeed feature prominently in the news today.)</p>
<p>Do I sound surly to you?</p>
<p>I can hear my wise mother calling me out on this. Out of deference to her, I confess that wind, dirt, and drought cannot <em>make</em> me surly. Nor can the mud spatters on my truck, evidence that mud in the air has been as close as we’ve gotten to rain in a long time. I <em>choose</em> to be surly. But surely Mom would give me this much: conditions like this make surliness much more tempting.</p>
<p>No doubt, she’d give farmers and ranchers much more slack. What they’re dealing with is heartbreaking, and I pray for the many being terribly hurt by this pervasive drought. May this wretched weather pattern change sooner rather than later.</p>
<p>I still hear stuff blowing around out there. It sounds miserable. Was that a ground squirrel that just hit the window?</p>
<p>I’ve thought before that perhaps we should pray in retrospect, pray that our forefathers had shown enough sense not to build in a place prone to impersonating a desert.</p>
<p>But they had lots of sense. And courage. And they could teach us a lot about faithfully enduring difficulty. But I think even they would call this an unusually serious drought (and the records show exactly that).</p>
<p>Of course, I pray for rain. And, of course, I really can’t prove a “cause and effect” relationship with rain and my prayers. (A good thing right now, I suppose.)</p>
<p>But I do know that God sends his blessings to me, to us, continually and amazingly, far more and far more genuine than we could ever ask or imagine, in good times and bad. And I do know that the rain will eventually return, and, for that, I will thank our Father from the bottom of my heart, knowing that it is his blessing.</p>
<p>In the meantime, it’s not bad for me to recall that the words “thank” and “think” have a related “root.” I need to <em>think</em> more about the blessings I have, even in the midst of drought, and be immensely <em>thank</em>ful for them.</p>
<p>It might not hurt me to think a lot more about the folks whose homes and land are presently burning.</p>
<p>It might be very good for me to consider what the folks in Ukraine are going through right now. That abomination is harder to make sense of even than a drought, but a wicked misleader continues to let it burn and rage. I’ll bet Christians, and others, there are more thankful than ever for what they had in January. And I imagine that they are thankful indeed right now for any small comforts and aid. I pray for God’s help for them and for wisdom for our world in the senselessness and tragedy.</p>
<p>So I pray. I don’t want to fail to ask for God’s help in opening my eyes lest I let my soul slip into a drought of gratitude.</p>
<p>Last Sunday was Easter, which means that hope really does spring eternal if it is focused on our “Eternal Father, strong to save.”</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69474392022-04-13T08:31:17-05:002022-04-13T13:00:12-05:00“Good Friday and Easter Free Us to Find Hope”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>“G</strong>ood Friday and Easter free us to think about other things far beyond our own personal fate,” wrote author, pastor, theologian, and modern-day martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer. And he continued, they liberate us to contemplate “the ultimate meaning of life, suffering, and events; and we lay hold of a great hope.”</p>
<p>I am quite sure that when Bonhoeffer spoke of the Cross and the Resurrection as “freeing” us, he did so on purpose. If I’m not mistaken, Bonhoeffer’s words above were written while he was imprisoned by the Nazis. In prison, he alludes to the freedom we can find anywhere as we choose to center on Christ’s sacrifice and power rather than focusing always on “our own fate” and thus living fear-molded lives, enslaved even if we seem to be free.</p>
<p>Sometimes I find myself taken by surprise by a stark contrast as I’m listening to a speech or reading an article or a book, and it occurs to me, “There’s depth and wisdom here. This person has a center, a foundation, a universe that’s larger than self. This person is grounded in truth, and I need to listen.”</p>
<p>And the contrast? It’s unmistakable! It’s between what is genuine and deep, and what is a thin veneer or convenient mask. With regard to faith, it’s faith that genuinely seeks God’s truth and thus enlivens the whole heart, mind, and soul. It’s “sold out” to God and not just seeking favor from a sect or a pet set of superficial and divisive traditions. With regard to public discourse, the contrast is between wise words coming from a grounded truth-seeking soul and poison words “offered” by the type of soul-shriveled politician whose main focus and heart’s desire is to divide us, stoke enmity, and by manipulating us, grasp power.</p>
<p>Through the long centuries, this has always been true.</p>
<p>I was reminded on this Palm Sunday (upon which I am now writing) that it was right after Jesus’ raising of his friend Lazarus that the religious leaders of his day began to firmly plot Christ’s death. Why? Because, they reasoned, if they let Christ continue, “pretty soon everyone will be believing in him and the Romans will come and remove what little power and privilege we still have” (John 11:48, <em>The Message</em>).</p>
<p>That is as modern as tomorrow. Any group with great earthly power can quickly find itself controlled by the deep fear that it’s power might quickly be lost. Frightened people—in their sect or office, family or party, city or state or nation, easily become dangerous people.</p>
<p>What happens when such a person comes into contact with a fellow human who is <em>not</em> frightened? Perhaps the latter is a Christian who actually chooses to live his life in the light of the Cross and the Resurrection and thus is truly free to think more about what life really means and what makes it worth living. Perhaps the latter has a security that is soul-deep and not circumstance-shallow. Perhaps the latter’s life is deeper than whether or not her new car is the latest model or his new house is a good deal larger than his last one.</p>
<p>Is it possible to seriously ponder the truth of the Cross and the Resurrection and still live a largely superficial life?</p>
<p>Bonhoeffer was right. Perhaps it won’t take an actual prison to separate us long enough from our toys and trivial “busy-ness” that we ponder what’s truly important. Good Friday and Easter are particularly suited for that. A well-spent Holy Week just might remind us of how holy are all weeks devoted to following the Lord who willingly lay down his rights, chose mercy over hatred, won by being willing to lose, and, giving up life in death, became the Author of life eternal for all who would believe.</p>
<p>Do we want to learn about the “ultimate meaning of life, suffering, and events”? Good Friday and Easter can free us to do that very thing. We don’t have to drown in superficiality. We can find a weight of truth and substance that can keep us from being blown around by the latest opinion polls or ever-present windbags who are always willing to sell truth for a dime’s worth of power.</p>
<p>We don’t have to fixate on what is terminally shallow.</p>
<p>To truly ponder Good Friday and Easter and give ourselves over to both that sacrifice and that joy is indeed to “lay hold of a great hope.”</p>
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<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website at </em><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a><em>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69400742022-04-04T12:11:30-05:002022-04-04T14:00:06-05:00A Column About a New Old Porch Column<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>A</strong>s I write this morning, I’m sitting in a comfy fold-out rocking chair on the porch of my grandparents’ old home in Robert Lee, Texas. </p>
<p>I love being in Robert Lee. My three pastor brothers and I have been coming to this sweet little place at least twice a year, once in the fall and once in the spring, for over forty years. That hardly seems possible!</p>
<p>I call it the Coke County Pastors’ Conference. Not only is it an incredible amount of relaxation and fun (particularly since for the last bunch of years we’ve done a lot less actual carpentry work here than we once did), it’s also been for us the best ministry conference we ever attend. For more than a few of those years, our pastor father was also here with us. Sweet memories.</p>
<p>At this moment, my two-years-younger brother is actually working; I’m providing valuable input. The big money is in consulting.</p>
<p>Jim is working with concrete. I’ve offered several suggestions. I am close enough to him that I’ve needed to avoid a little of the concrete dust he’s creating. But I’m far enough away that I’ve not broken a sweat. He seems to be doing a passable job, but I have a column deadline to meet as his concrete cures.</p>
<p>In all of our trips to Robert Lee, steaks play a role. We’ve been doing our part for the cattle industry. That’s appropriate as Granddaddy Key raised cattle, trucked cattle—he had the only cattle truck in Coke County for years and hauled cattle to Fort Worth for folks—and he even cowboyed in Arizona some during his younger days. “Beef! It’s what’s for dinner!” (I suppose I could be a vegetarian, perhaps at gunpoint. But, my apologies, I’d rather just quietly pass away.)</p>
<p>As pastors gather, a little incense (in cigar form) is also offered.</p>
<p>What my bro is working on presently (and I actually have helped some in a minor way in previous stages) is recreating a front porch column. Granddaddy built this house in 1928. It surely seemed a lot bigger in my childhood in the 60s.</p>
<p>You can find houses of this vintage all over a wide patch of geography—kind of a “shotgun” style, the simplest of roof-lines, with a front porch and a column (or two) supporting the roof above the porch (one column in our case). The column was supported on a brick stack that went about one-third to one-half of the way up and then, perched on a concrete platform, had 1 x 4 boards angling up to support the eave on the corner.</p>
<p>A few years ago, we noticed that the brick stack had a pretty pronounced crack in its mortar where the bricks had shifted a bit. We figured the seemingly eternal drought (and consequent porch and house settling) was taking its toll. After considering the situation for a couple of years (one doesn’t want to rush into these things), we decided to rebuild the post and, in the Shelburne way of building, decided to over-build incredibly by making the new column completely independent of the porch and foundation.</p>
<p>Oh, it would look just like the old one, without the crack, but it would be built with a fairly massive and deep Sonotube concrete form underneath, newly cleaned ancient brick (from the original), a few new bricks to replace old cracked ones, the original “mid-pedestal,” and new 1 x 4s.</p>
<p>Among the required temporary frame material as we worked were two roof jacks and accompanying hardware used to hold up that corner of the house while we built the new old porch column.</p>
<p>Maybe about halfway through the project, we found an old picture of Grandmother Key sitting on the porch, possibly in the late 1930s or early 1940s. It’s a sweet picture. But . . .</p>
<p>But the crack in the column that we thought was somewhat new? It was clearly already there in the old picture.</p>
<p>Maybe—just maybe—it was a little worse by 2020? I say that to make us feel better about the work. But a few hundred pounds of concrete sacks later, it is now most definitely improved.</p>
<p>My brother requests that I mention that he did indeed do the lion’s share of the work.</p>
<p>And we both are of the opinion that the new column will be here long after the rest of the old place has fallen down beside it.</p>
<p>Is there a point to this? I can think of many.</p>
<p>I’m thankful for decades of time spent with my brothers.</p>
<p>I’m thankful for faith and family foundations that are longer-lasting than concrete and are building materials that are incredibly strong.</p>
<p>And I’m thankful that Jim did the work while I wrote this column.</p>
<p>I have so much for which to be thankful. Yes, indeed.</p>
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<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69336562022-03-27T23:31:00-05:002022-03-28T01:45:04-05:00“In the Beginning Was the Word”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>I</strong> must confess: modern poetry baffles me.</p>
<p>This should not be surprising. I am an English major but of an old, fossilized, and vanishing variety. I prefer a degree plan heavy on Shakespeare and very, very light indeed on Gender & Sexuality Studies.</p>
<p>And here, friends, is the most damning confession of all: I really prefer poetry that rhymes.</p>
<p>No surprise, I am not much of a fan of “modern” art, either. I like colors, but I’m not terribly impressed with water balloon art. I’m fond of some of the work of the “impressionists,” usually their more realistic work. But, in general, if you want to paint an unrecognizable duck—you know, the way the duck makes you feel—paint me an actual “ducky” first that looks like a water foul that might actually quack, and we’ll hang them together.</p>
<p>So I’m not very modern. Or post-modern. And, nope, I don’t care much for modernist architecture either. Or contemporary. Cold, sterile, and ugly most of it is. A fossil I am.</p>
<p>But maybe I’m somewhat consistent. Or boring and predictable. Consistently fossilized.</p>
<p>So this fits the picture: most modern poetry baffles me.</p>
<p>I admit to the occasional exception, but, in general, I like poetry that rhymes. Honestly, I have a hard time figuring out how poetry that does not rhyme is much closer to poetry than it is to prose. Some of it seems to me to be called poetry simply because the lines are stacked, short, and/or indented. Most of it generally strikes me as a rather strange hybrid that looks weird, is filled with angst, rarely ever smiles, and always takes itself incredibly seriously.</p>
<p>In the animal kingdom, it would be a mule, I think, though mules are much less pretentious. In no way do I mean to disparage mules. Indeed, I have more reasons than most folks to hold the lowly mule in high esteem and consider him, yea, verily, a regal beast.</p>
<p>But a mule, you see, is the offspring of a male donkey and a female horse. (If you hail from a large city where provincialism often abounds, you may need to get a rural person to explain this to you. While you’re at it, you might ask the rural person to explain where the chicken in your grocery aisle comes from.)</p>
<p>Now, to extend my metaphor, let’s say that, in the creation of a mule, Daddy the Donkey is prose and Mother the Horse is poetry. I’ve read beautiful prose that is almost poetry, and I’ve read soul-lifting poetry, some of which tends a tad toward prose.</p>
<p>But much of the presently popular stuff seems to me to be a much more serious attempt at amalgamation. And yet . . .</p>
<p><em>The offspring of a</em></p>
<p><em> male donkey and a</em></p>
<p><em> female horse is</em></p>
<p><em> neither</em></p>
<p><em> donkey nor</em></p>
<p><em> horse.</em></p>
<p>And that, friends, says the questionable poet who wrote it, is not poetry, however stacked or indented it may be. It is something weirdly neither. I would say that, like a mule, it is almost always sterile. And not even close to being as useful as a trusty mule.</p>
<p>I’m likely just being mulish about such.</p>
<p>But, in general, words matter. How we use them matters. The words we revere matter.</p>
<p>It matters deeply that when the Apostle John begins his Gospel proclaiming “the Grand Miracle” (as C. S. Lewis calls the Incarnation), he writes, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”</p>
<p>Indent those words as poetry if you wish. I readily admit that they don’t need to rhyme (in English or biblical Greek) to give me goose bumps. They point to meaning and mystery that the most magnificent word pictures of the most wonder-filled poetry or most sublime prose could never adequately paint.</p>
<p>But those words move me and fill me with a deep need to bow, to worship, and, when my breath returns, to praise.</p>
<p></p>
<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69282272022-03-21T15:06:56-05:002022-03-21T16:00:21-05:00“We’ve Done This Gas Thing Before”<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>e’ve done this before, ya know.</p>
<p>I’m talking about having heart palpitations when we pull up beside a gas pump.</p>
<p>My wife and I took a three-day trip to the mountains with friends recently. That was the first time in this present petrol mess that I pumped gas that cost more than $4.00 per gallon. (I couldn’t tell that it performed any better than $2.00 gas.)</p>
<p>But we’ve done this before.</p>
<p>As I was getting my driver’s license back in the 70s, OPEC was jerking us around. “The Imperials” gospel quartet was singing a great song about bad times called “No Shortage (of God’s Love.)” There were, however, shortages of a good many other things, gas being at the top of the list. If someone could have told me then that our nation would have an opportunity to be completely energy independent and would choose<em> not</em> to be, I’d have thought he, and the idiots governing us, were crazy. (If I were told that today, I’d think the same thing.)</p>
<p>By the way, we were pretty worried about the planet, then, too. It was clear, we were told, that over-population would likely starve us all. (Or, at least, generations soon to come.) And many folks felt better about themselves by worrying about that.</p>
<p>The “panic button” is not, in any era, likely to rust from disuse.</p>
<p>But back to the pump. In 2011-12, the average price of gas bumped up very close to $4.00 (and probably hit it, if you adjust for inflation). This is not our first rodeo.</p>
<p>Obviously, world events have been serious catalysts for all of our historically serious gas spikes. But, it seems to me, even before Putin the murderer decided to become Putin the war criminal, our energy policies were almost criminally naive.</p>
<p>But at least we should by now have enough experience, be it hard won or stupidly won, to know a little about how we’ll all respond to the present gas price hike.</p>
<p>1) We will complain. We might alter our grousing a bit depending upon what percentage of the price pain we reckon stems from self-inflicted energy witlessness and how much comes from supporting Ukraine. But we will grumble.</p>
<p>2) Most of us will continue to drive both to all of the places we truly <em>need</em> to go and to all of the places we really <em>want</em> to go. We might as well be honest about it. If financial belt-tightening is required, we’ll consider wasting less of the money we usually waste in other areas. But we <em>will</em> drive.</p>
<p>#1 and #2 will continue throughout, but we now come to #3, a fact that can be filed under “it’s an ill wind indeed that blows no good.”</p>
<p>3) We will use the gas price hike as a conveniently plausible excuse <em>not</em> to go anywhere we do not really want to go.</p>
<p>This, too, is nothing new. Forgive me, but for example . . .</p>
<p>I well understand feeling tired and being tempted to skip church. And what if a pandemic comes along, and it’s a good idea to stay home a few Sundays? It did, and it was. But, unless your health is very precarious indeed (and it may be), that excuse is pretty thin at the moment. It might work just as well to blame the barometric pressure in Bolivia for not being conducive to church attendance. Or the sad fact that the dog really is looking a bit pale.</p>
<p>Jesus said a long time ago that “wisdom” has many children (Luke 7:35). We all claim to be her kids and, thus, on this point or that, wise.</p>
<p>Here’s how this works with sky high gas.</p>
<p>Good husband. Good wife. Good marriage. They even loved each other (and the kids who would come) enough to lock in some vows.</p>
<p>Good wife has a dear friend (was it Kristy or Christi?) who needs another bridesmaid to fill out the twelve (each of whom the bride is pretty sure once said “good morning” to her in college). Since this is a wedding, no matter how far away, attending it is clearly a “need” gas-wise and not merely a “want.” Good hubby is not so sure, but he does genuinely love his wife even more than he dislikes weddings. And he prefers peace and is thus willing to “lose” quickly and file this under “need.”</p>
<p>Ah, but here’s the flip side.</p>
<p>Good husband really, really wants to go hunting with some buddies. Gas is sky high, but he needs to blow off some steam, forego bathing for a few days, eat rare meat, and shoot something. “Honey,” quietly ponders good wife, “do you really think this is a good time?” To which he replies, “Yes, love of my life, oh, yes! This, dear one, is among the very deepest of needs.” He’ll go. She’ll deal with it. And they’ll be just fine.</p>
<p>This, friends, is how we will deal with the current gas mess. You can count on it.</p>
<p>And, as an added bonus, Jesus will, yet again, be proved to be wisest of all as we each, yet again, pay tribute to our dear mother, Wisdom. </p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69244362022-03-16T22:29:17-05:002022-03-16T23:15:20-05:00It’s Tax Time Again<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p> <strong>R</strong>ats! It’s tax time again.</p>
<p> Of course, with all the rules and regulations, payments and estimated payments, pre-payments and governmentally-approved extortion payments (the preceding is the opinion of the writer of this column and should not be construed as to express in any way the opinions of . . .), it’s always tax time in one way or another. Even after you die, it’s quite possible to have your estate pilfered postmortem. Legal? Yes. Wrong? Utterly (but the preceding opinion should not be construed . . . Well, you know).</p>
<p>I know any government needs money to run. I know that no one will ever agree with all of the ways his or her government spends every tax dollar.</p>
<p>Did you hear that some university recently did a study and figured out how to decode some of the various emotions displayed by the various grunts of various pigs? They could have saved that money (surely some of it came in the form of government grants) and let me use the porkers and/or the dollars for bacon. Then I could either grunt my approval, or they could just ask.</p>
<p>Personally, I think our system is ridiculous, ridiculously complicated, and even nefarious. Too many naive people who pay taxes only through “withholding” (that’s the garnishing of your wages) think that their “tax refund” is a gift from the government. Add to that the class struggles politicians exacerbate with tax talk manipulation.</p>
<p>I am not a historian, as will soon be clear, but it seems that the income tax (which didn’t amount to much in 1913 when it was enacted) was turned into a monster after Prohibition. Increased tax on income enabled Prohibition because the government could use the income tax to more than make up for the 11 billion dollars the Eighteenth Amendment cost them. (If you talk about organized crime and a scad of other evils, it was costly indeed.)</p>
<p>Personally, I’m such a fossil that I doubt it should be any of the government’s business how much or how little money any of us make. Yes, I know how much of our system and social programs are built on that. Believe me, I’m learning more about Social Security, Medicare, etc.</p>
<p>But we really have grown and fed an out-sized monster. I’ve got a suggestion or two for reform, most of which would be considered impractical or “regressive.”</p>
<p>I am patriotic. A lot. But enjoying paying taxes or wanting to pay more than is legally necessary does not a patriot make. It’s a taxing task to spend the crazy amounts of time I devote to just getting my tax records ready to go to my tax professional (and friend). Just think how much productivity our whole nation wastes in this effort. Insane.</p>
<p>I found myself watching some episodes of <em>Air Disasters</em> while doing the mind-numbing part. Plane crashes seem to go well with the whole thing.</p>
<p>For sure, I’m incredibly thankful for our nation.</p>
<p>I have a job and financial blessings and <em>can</em> pay taxes. I’m glad; I’m just surly right now.</p>
<p>And, yes, I hear about billionaires who pay almost no taxes. Not right. But just as bad, I think, is that the IRS would allow any citizen’s tax records to be leaked, as recently happened. Not right.</p>
<p>All that said, if it’s possible to legally pay less tax than you do now—I mean, truly legal and skirting no laws at all—is it praiseworthy to pay more than you are required to? I think not. If the laws need to be changed, they need to be changed. Until then, they are what they are, and we all just have to deal with it.</p>
<p>The late Charles Krauthammer (I loved his columns) once wrote, basically, that all you need to know to have a basic understanding of how liberals and conservatives in our country see each other is to realize this truth: conservatives think liberals are dumb and liberals think conservatives are cruel.</p>
<p>So maybe in this column I’ve managed to be both dumb and cruel. Maybe.</p>
<p>I just know that I’d rather be singing or writing or reading—or having a root canal—than doing accounting for the government.</p>
<p>But I know this: Christ made his opinion on taxes quite clear. Take a look at Matthew 22:21. Caesar gets what Caesar gets. Our true King wants his people to be good citizens of their earthly kingdoms.</p>
<p>Now take a look at a very literally fishy tax story. Matthew 17:27.</p>
<p>I would very much like to have more than a few of those fish.</p>
<p></p>
<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69160712022-03-07T13:39:29-06:002022-03-07T14:00:05-06:00A Time for Contrasts and Comparisons<div class="wp-block-image">
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<p><strong>W</strong>hat an astounding contrast!</p>
<p>In the midst of the sights and sounds cascading from Ukraine, I think we’ve all been struck by a stark contrast.</p>
<p>Most of us in this world are not used to being bombarded daily with actual bombs, but we’ve become sadly accustomed to the carpet-bombing of common sense. Everything from gender to the multiplication tables is held to be incredibly fluid (“incredibly” literally means “unbelievably”). It’s as if, esteeming ourselves as gods of our own “personal truth” and universe, we only obey the law of gravity because we choose to do so. But we might suspend it for two hours on a Thursday in May. One wonders how many bruising falls our society has to take before we are cured of the latter conceit and error.</p>
<p>But what it’s taken to bring our mind-numbing and superficial waltz through the tulips to a pause is a slap-up-the-side-of-the-head encounter with reality bearing the name of a country: Ukraine.</p>
<p>I suppose it’s always been easy to find among politicians a significant percentage of light-weights, loud mouths, and stuffed shirts. It may be reverse chronological arrogance to think that the situation has been worse over the last ___ [write in your own number] of years, but it’s certainly not been better.</p>
<p>I don’t know why we insist on scraping the bottom of the barrel, but, forgive me, I guess I thought that if we insisted on it, we might accidentally poke a hole in the bottom. Who knows? Some slime and mold might ooze out. Maybe the top could be opened and a little light and air let in. Maybe.</p>
<p>My own opinion is that, since the world is markedly short of Reagans and Thatchers, and sadly bereft of Gerald Fords who would literally choose for the nation and against himself, well, I could at least personally resolve to try never to vote for anyone at any level incapable of saying three words: “I was wrong.”</p>
<p>I’d not write in “Donald Duck” to express my disdain, but I would write in the name of someone of wisdom, character, intelligence, and integrity (and probably too wise to run for office) who could easily fill three sentences with more real meaning than a long speech by [fill in politician’s name].</p>
<p>And then while I’m thinking such bleak bottom-of-the-barrel thoughts, something happens that I very much wish hadn’t: Ukraine. </p>
<p>What’s happening there is horrible and heartbreaking, an attack and an invasion of senseless and cowardly brutality perpetrated by a very small man with a massive inferiority complex, a murderer quickly morphing into a war criminal.</p>
<p>I pray—I really do—that his heart could somehow be softened. I also pray—I really do—that, if not, the evil he is inflicting on others will soon fall back swiftly on his own head. (I find myself vacillating between Psalm 58 and Matthew 5:38-48, but I’m afraid I tend toward the former.)</p>
<p>But with the invasion comes the contrast between bloody cowardice and incredible courage. Between Vladimir Putin and Volodymyr Zelensky. The latter has reminded us of what real courage, integrity, and self-sacrifice look like.</p>
<p>A malicious misleader sends 19-year-olds to invade a country not their own, to kill people they have no problem with, and to push his malignant agenda. He stays luxuriously holed up but surely paranoid lest he be poisoned. (I wonder why?) A real leader stands with his people and his troops, willing and even expecting to die, but he refuses to abandon his people or slither like his adversary. In the midst of poisonous lies, he speaks what is true, and truth is strong.</p>
<p>What a contrast. Cowardice inadvertently spotlights courage. Despots go pale as heroes stand up. And just maybe, some politicians become less likely to lick boots and more likely to grow backbones as they see one less afraid of death than they are of losing the next election.</p>
<p>I can’t help it. At this point, the English teacher in me almost reflexively sees a good essay-writing assignment: Compare and contrast. Give some thought to cowards and heroes. List some of history’s other contrasting examples. </p>
<p>Then the preacher in me says, why stop down here on earth? Don’t get me wrong. I know that Satan is far worse than Putin. And I know that President Zelensky, though an amazingly courageous man, is a man, and that means mortal and flawed. One of the contrasts I’d personally mention, though, is that I doubt Zelensky, like most heroes, would have any trouble admitting his flaws; I can’t imagine Putin, like all bullies, ever admitting any at all.</p>
<p>Come to think of it, we might consider spending some time comparing and contrasting Satan and Christ, the devil and our King, and thinking seriously about what makes for real strength.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69099752022-02-28T14:51:44-06:002022-02-28T19:15:07-06:00Do Faith Healers Have Specialties?
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<p><strong>D</strong>o faith healers have specialties?</p>
<p>Doctors do, of course. I’d not be surprised to find an LDP specialist available should you need a Left Distal Phalange doctor for your port side little toe.</p>
<p>Not that long ago, I could have used an RDP specialist for my fractured RDP, but my very excellent primary care/GP/family medicine physician and friend), since retired, was more than able to deal deftly with both left and right distal phalanges and anything else from head top to toe bottom. He also knew how my head might affect several different parts of me and when I needed it examined.</p>
<p>Yes, doctors have specialties. But, for some reason, I found myself wondering about faith healers and specialties.</p>
<p>Just so you’ll know, I’d never even consider “hanging out my shingle” as a faith healer. But, if I did, I’m sure I’d be more tempted to work with cancer or heart disease (or maybe headaches or upper respiratory infections) than amputations/prosthetics. If my “cure” rate became troublesome or I were accused of malpractice, I would (forgive me) just blame the patient.</p>
<p>“You have committed sin,” I could charge, and hit the mark since 100% of folks miss the mark.</p>
<p>“You need more faith,” I might say. Well, thanks, a patient who had limped in, crawled in, was carried in, might say. Do you know anyone who doesn’t need more faith?</p>
<p>Or I might say, “You not only need more faith, you need higher quality faith.” Guess what? My patient already knows that, too, and now has the added burden (if he’s not very good at thinking) of thinking that folks with “Grade A” faith don’t get sick, have accidents, lose loved ones, see marriages fail, etc., so his faith must be “Grade B.” Deal with it and take two aspirin. Or not. If you have faith.</p>
<p>Or what if I, the malpracticing faith healer, said or implied, “You just need more faith, better faith, and better prayer technique, by which I mean exactly the right words, phrases, and formulae (incantations?). “Sure is a shame you or your loved one caught this malady, has this difficulty, is dealing with this loss, but if you or they just prayed with enough mental vigor and used exactly the right technique . . .”</p>
<p>Phooey.</p>
<p>Tough things happen. Bad things happen. Good people suffer. Bad people suffer. It’s far too simplistic to say that good people always prosper and bad people always suffer, and, if you’re suffering, you did something evil or wrong and certainly didn’t “do faith right.”</p>
<p>The simplistic—and wrong—answers are nothing new and are always tempting. Take a look at the Book of Job. Old Job and his friends (whom he could have done without) had the usual theories about his suffering—all sounded plausible, and all were wrong. The friends were, as Job called them, “worthless physicians,” but he also failed as a diagnostician, as God makes clear by the end of the book.</p>
<p>By the way, I don’t like suffering. And, by the way, if I am ill, I’d very much like to be healed. If Jesus would like to do an eye-popping miracle to accomplish that, I’m for it, and I know he can. If he chooses to use the “usual” methods which are just as much his blessing, I’m also for that.</p>
<p>I take it for granted that the Lord who sees when a sparrow falls really does care about “all” of us—the hairs on our heads, our left little fingers, livers, legs, kidneys, and all.</p>
<p>But here’s the thing: He seems to care most about our hearts, by which I mean, our souls.</p>
<p>I love the amazing account in Mark 2 where Jesus first heals a man spiritually and, only then, physically. He seems to think that the former is more important.</p>
<p>This fact brings to my mind a hypothetical question, admittedly flawed and one I doubt the Lord would force on the man in Mark 2 or on us, but what if the choice were between one or the other? Spiritual or physical healing? Not both. Hmm.</p>
<p>And, oh, do you need more faith? Me, too. But remember that Jesus seemed to esteem “faith as a grain of mustard seed” to be real faith, albeit quite small. For my part, I think most of us will be spiritually healthier and have greater faith if we avoid those who are sure that their own faith is quite large.</p>
<p>And prayer? It matters immensely, far more than we can imagine. Our Father has promised to hear and give us what we need. Just don’t forget that the best gift by far is the gift of himself.</p>
<p>A lot of these faith, prayer, and healing questions are way above my pay grade. Still, I don’t think our Father minds us asking them. I think he wants us to use our brains more, not less, than we do.</p>
<p>But, as Job found out, God is God, and we are not.</p>
<p>I choose to trust my Father who is completely good, completely powerful, and completely loving. He loves and delights in all of his children. Me, too. As weak and faithless as I often am, I think he likes me a lot. That, my friends, is a miracle!</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><a></a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69034152022-02-21T14:29:49-06:002022-02-21T15:45:12-06:00“Thou Shalt Take Some Time to Rest”
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<p><strong>D</strong>o kindergartners still take rest mats with them to school as the term begins each year?</p>
<p>It was actually first grade for me when I started public school in Amarillo, Texas, at San Jacinto Elementary School. I had already completed kindergarten, diploma in hand. That K for “kindergarten” was the private kind my folks paid for because they thought I could do with the “socialization.” School districts had not at that time signed on to pick up their students at the hospital the moment the birth certificate ink was washed off their itty-bitty feet.</p>
<p>Mrs. Marvine Francis was my kindergarten teacher, and we did fun things like growing beans in soil in little milk cartons. Except for the first day or so, it was great, and she was, all through the year, wonderful.</p>
<p>I do remember, on Day 1, that Mom & Dad had promised me that we were just visiting to check things out and that I didn’t have to stay if I didn’t want to. I can’t imagine that they actually uttered those words, but that’s the message that lodged in my head. The place seemed okay to me, but I had weighed the decision carefully and figured I’d just go home and continue with my life. Nope. My school career had begun, and my life would never be the same.</p>
<p>On the following autumn, my post-kindergarten graduate work commenced at San Jacinto Elementary. I can, and one day will, tell you more stories about an absolutely wonderful principal and some amazing teachers, but what I’m thinking of now is school supplies.</p>
<p>A cigar box. (Sadly, I don’t think it smelled like cigars, but, come to think of it, I do remember you could buy candy cigarettes at the school store.) It held scissors which could hardly cut paper but would certainly not cut your fingers. Your little bottle of Elmer’s Glue (with its orange top) would fit nicely into that box. Throw in a couple of big—I mean <em>really </em>big and fat—pencils. (Large erasers were forbidden at this point, and my impression is that having an ink pen in your cigar box would issue in at least a paddling and probably jail time.)</p>
<p>Also, of course, each student had the obligatory Big Chief ruled tablet. These things wouldn’t fit into your cigar box, but they were impressive. Deep red. With a formidable Indian chief’s visage splashed across the front in bold black. I wonder if you can still find those. Maybe they’re Big Commander tablets now. Big Commies, for short. Idiots.</p>
<p>But the largest and, I thought, perhaps most important item I took with me to first grade was an inch-thick, quarter-folding, “plasticky-smelling,” “rest mat.” Mine was blue and red, foretelling, I’m sure, my destiny to excel six years later when I began seventh grade at Sam Houston Junior High (“Hail the red and blue!” / Honor, love, and true devotion / We will give to you!”).</p>
<p>I went to San Jacinto prepared to learn—and to rest a bit each day. Mrs. Carmody (hair redder than Lucille Ball’s and fiercely determined that her students would succeed) wouldn’t put up with talking out of turn, dirty fingernails, or any funny business at all at any time during the day. And, yes, when it came time to roll out the rest mats for our daily nap, napping was the serious business at hand. No snickering.</p>
<p>I don’t remember being particularly excited about nap time. Now, of course, I’d pay somebody good money to make me take one. Every day. No ifs, ands, or buts. No talking. Dream if you wish. There’s stuff to do later. Cut. Color. Paste. String some letters together. Read some letters other people have lined up.</p>
<p>But, for now, our serious business is rest. Get to it or face a paddling.</p>
<p>Most of us adults are so pig-headed that we’ll resist ever taking any real time to rest even if God orders it in a commandment. Our refusal doesn’t mean that we’ll get away unscathed and avoid the crashes that will come from a lack of rest and the idolatry which says that if we ever stop for a moment, God probably won’t be able to spin the world without us. But we are (forgive me) as dumb and undisciplined as we are arrogant. Stressed-out families pay a high price for such foolishness.</p>
<p>I still think Mrs. Carmody was right. And I still think, on this and many other points, God and Mrs. Carmody were completely agreed.</p>
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<p><a></a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/69016852022-02-18T19:53:18-06:002022-02-18T20:15:17-06:00When Is a Win Not a Win?
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<p><strong>W</strong>hen is a win not a win?</p>
<p>If we don’t care how we win, we won’t ask the question. If a W is a W is a W, and we don’t care how it finds its way into our life’s “win-loss” column, the question above is nonsensical, not worth the breath it takes to be uttered.</p>
<p>But the truth is that a coach, at any level, can win an incredible number of games and still be a loser if he/she cheats to do it. Those Ws won’t mean anything. At least, not anything good. If he turns a blind eye to deplorable conduct by his athletes off of the field or court, he’s complicit in creating losers whose Ws just multiply their shame and bless no one.</p>
<p>If we find ourselves acting as if “winning” and “success” are dependent only upon a person’s bank balance or power or fame, and character and integrity are only an afterthought, the Ws our society awards only show that our culture’s scale of value is woefully inadequate. And we bow before losers who boast about worthless Ws.</p>
<p>The <em>Wall Street Journal</em> recently reported that a Turkish journalist is in jail after quoting a proverb in which the president of Turkey must have recognized himself (though our world is not short of other candidates): “When an ox comes to the palace, he does not become a king, but the palace becomes a barn.” Ouch. Yes, and everyone loses.</p>
<p>Ironically, sometimes a real win looks like a loss. Jesus had much to say about that as he taught us that the only way to truly save our lives is to be willing to lay them down. And then he did precisely that.</p>
<p>Even before the Cross, near the beginning of his earthly ministry, the Lord underwent a long period of temptation in the Judaean wilderness (recorded in the Bible in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke). Satan tempted him to play by Satan’s rules, the world’s rules.</p>
<p>I paraphrase here, but the devil urges, “Ws should be easy for you! Worship and trust in yourself rather than your Father. Turn these rocks into bread and take the easy way out. Win by wowing the crowds. They’ll worship glitz! Jump off the top of the Temple and let the cameras roll and the ratings pile up as angels catch you. Or just worship me, and I’ll have all the crowds and mobs of this world worshiping you and falling at your feet. You’ll own them! I can give you an easy, cheap, and very large W!”</p>
<p>Satan could also have said, “Just watch as I offer made-to-order variations of the roots of each of these same temptations to rulers and despots, politicians and crowd whisperers, business leaders and office oligarchs, trend setters and not a few professionally religious crowd-pleasers. Not all will play my game, but the world will never lack many who’ll always go for the easy W. You, more than anyone else, should, too! It is your right. Take the W!”</p>
<p>Not all in leadership or authority have taken the easy W and sold their souls. Some in high authority honor those “beneath” them and know how to say, “I’m sorry; I was wrong” without choking on the apology or polling to see how these rare words would play to the public.</p>
<p>And, again, reality is not simple. Only the truly naive would think that everyone living in humble circumstances is humble in heart. I suspect it’s no harder to find despots in homeless camps than it is on the world stage. Seventeenth-century English poet John Milton put these words into “his” Satan’s mouth: “Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.”</p>
<p>But in all places, in all circumstances, at various times in our lives, we are called on, quietly or in public, to decide what a real W looks like. The God who has given us the gift and the responsibility of “free will” will never force us to make the right choice. But the consequences of our choices are real, and do well indeed to seek our Lord’s wisdom and follow his example.</p>
<p>Written almost 150 years ago, the words of the wise Scottish minister and author George MacDonald are still deeply true: “[T]here are victories far worse than defeats; and to overcome an angel too gentle to put out all his strength, and ride away in triumph on the back of a devil, is one of the poorest.”</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68976482022-02-14T14:32:15-06:002022-02-14T17:00:05-06:00“We Are So Good Together” Begs a Question
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<p><strong>I</strong> am writing this column on Valentine’s Day.If you know me, you’ll know that few husbands in the history of the celebration of Valentine’s Day are more accomplished, more innovative, more dependably and incredibly devoted to making memories on Valentine’s Day than am I.</p>
<p>And, if you know me, you are now laughing out loud.</p>
<p>I admit it: I have a dicey relationship with Valentine’s Day, and my wife deserves much better in this regard than I am good at giving. The good news is that, though she seems to appreciate my poor attempts with really great cards, gifts, dinners, special events and surprises (maybe I blunder into such success once a decade?), she knows that I know that I am of all men most blessed. She also knows that I know she’d usually rather have cash than flowers, and that’s the truth.</p>
<p>Still, gents, no matter how practically-minded your wives may be, it is a real mistake not to at least make a serious effort with cards, flowers, etc., on special and, from time to time, not-so-special occasions. Even the gals who claim not to care much at all about glitz care more than they think, and they desire and deserve more than you are naturally turned to give. Trust me. I tend to be a romance-challenged clod, but I am a clod who’s been married for 46 years.</p>
<p>I think my all-time low may have come on a work trip with my wife. She was waiting in the car while I ran into a drug store to pick up a couple of items. Realizing that we were a day or two away from a card-requiring holiday, I was shuffling through the greeting card bin when, wondering what was taking me so long, my beloved walked up behind me. In a moment of weakness, I suggested that since the checkout line was long, she might just read the card, consider it my heartfelt sentiment (it was), place it back in the rack, and we could head on down the road. Triple play. Great card. Free card. Feelings sincerely expressed.</p>
<p>This year, I was early in my Valentine’s Day card-shopping—meaning that it was not the “day before” or the “morning of.” The cards were not completely picked over, so I assumed the remaining were more or less representative of the card company’s offerings.</p>
<p>Those cards were not offered cheaply. Even a very average attempt at a card would set you back about seven bucks.</p>
<p>It also became apparent that writing sentimental card-fodder for a day celebrating deep love and devoted commitment is harder in a time where love is “luuuuvvvv” and the general “pool” of commitment is pretty darn shallow.</p>
<p>A dear friend who is a teacher—and truly committed wife and mother of one of my favorite families—was asked by a high school student how long she and her husband had “been together.” My friend replied, “We’ve been married for fourteen years.” The look of utter amazement in the student’s wide eyes told the story of the appalling price our society has paid for cut-rate “love” with no commitment.</p>
<p>So did that card bin. Among cards of the sort I expected to find were some “let’s cover all the bases” cards.</p>
<p>One or a few led out by saying, “You make me feel so [pick any term for warm and fluffy].” I like “warm and fluffy.” But I do wonder if something might be more foundational in a relationship than how “you make ME feel”? Maybe I’m pickily pushing the card too far.</p>
<p>Another card stoked my cynicism more seriously, proclaiming, “We are so good together!” It kinda seemed to me to beg the question, “What happens the moment I decide that we’re not?” I found myself wondering if the couple in mind had been together three days, three months, or a mind-boggling three years?</p>
<p>George MacDonald was not disparaging love—even of the most romantic sort—when he wrote, “It is better to be trusted than to be loved.” Think about it. In most of our day-to-day human relationships, that is true.</p>
<p>And if we want a romantic relationship that lasts, why would we willingly settle for less than someone we can trust completely and who will deeply cherish the gift of our fully-committed love? Our Father wants for us a love that will bless not just us but our kids and, yes, generations (and our whole society).</p>
<p>What sweet irony that the feelings that come from such a love are far deeper and more truly joyful than “hooked on a feeling” warm fuzzies that come and go and flitter and flee depending upon whether or not we’re “good together.”</p>
<p>It’s also a little ironic that this evening I’m singing at a Valentine’s banquet. But, hey, when I croon, “The Very Thought of You,” I know the “you” I have in mind. And I thank God for her.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68912282022-02-07T12:50:37-06:002022-02-07T16:30:06-06:00“Our Father Delights in Us Always”
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<p><strong>I</strong>f you’re interested in watching a bunch of incredibly cute ants race-crawling all over themselves on a basketball court, I’d suggest finding a game featuring teams of mostly six-year-olds. </p>
<p>That’s the entertainment my wife and I sought on a recent Friday evening, and entertained we were! Even the refs were entertaining—and wise. I don’t think either of them ever whistled out a “walking” call, but they regularly reminded the participants that the ball needs to be bounced. And several players, including one we were watching particularly closely, received kind admonition to release their death-grip on the ball once the whistle was blown.</p>
<p>By now you’re realizing, I’m sure, that we weren’t really there for the love of the game; we were there for the love of our six-year-old granddaughter who was playing in the game.</p>
<p>Kendall did a good job. A great job, PawPaw would say. What she might have lacked in finesse, she more than made up for in energy, an item that little whirlwind has never found to be in short supply. She was something to watch!</p>
<p>She did bounce the ball. She did chase the ball. She did grudgingly give the referee the ball once the whistle was blown and the ref pried the ball out of her white-knuckled hands.</p>
<p>She didn’t shoot much. Maybe not at all, as I recall. Everyone kept yelling at her, <em>Shoot!</em> But there’s a surprising amount of difference between the shooting “size” and ability of those cute little pistols. A few shot often and amazingly well. Our gal will get there, but it seemed to me that, at this point in her career, she’d have needed a ladder or a rocket-assisted basketball to get anywhere near the rim. Practice and another inch or a few will take care of that. In the meantime, what she lacks in vertical ability she more than makes up for in horizontal activity.</p>
<p> But the scene that lives in my mind did not happen exactly “on” the court; it happened beside the court. Kendall was not actually “in” the game at that time, but she was “body and soul” involved in it.</p>
<p>We, her family, were standing at court-side when her parents started laughing and pointing down to our team’s “bench” about twenty yards down the line. Kendall was briefly “on the bench” but not on it at all. She was standing up, leaning over the line, her arm extended, and she was pointing at something or someone, and yelling at the top of her lungs. She’d morphed from frenetic player into fully-involved coach. (In reality, the family all laughingly agreed that we’d just seen her turn into her mom!)</p>
<p>We never did find out what coaching advice, counsel, cajoling, or warning she was so loudly offering. But watching her give it was the best part of the whole game!</p>
<p>Was it good advice? I’d bet it was. But I don’t have a clue. The only thing I know for sure is that watching that little girl was a delight. Why? Because we think she is a delight. More specifically, because, at this point, “delight” becomes a verb. PawPaw, and all of her family, <em>delight</em> in her. She and all of her companion ants have a lot to learn about playing basketball. That will come.</p>
<p>What I hope she, and each of them, already feels is that they are loved, just as much when they miss the goal as when they hit it. And, though we love watching them learn and grow, we delight in them always.</p>
<p>Come to think of it, as hard as it sometimes may be to believe, that is exactly what our Father wants each of his children to know. He loves watching us grow and learn. He wants better for us even than what we want for ourselves. But <em>he delights in us always</em>.</p>
<p>That’s a truth, and a word, worth pondering. Really. Stop and think about it. Then, in a few minutes or a few days, stop and think about it some more.</p>
<p> <em>Always.</em> It’s still true. Even if you’ve just realized that you recently ran the wrong way on the court and shot at the wrong goal. Your Father delights in you. Even if what you’ve just done is far from delightful. </p>
<p>Ah, watching that little girl “coach.” A delight, for sure.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68847512022-01-31T13:00:57-06:002022-01-31T15:15:14-06:00“The Years of My Pilgrimage Are . . .”
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<p><strong>N</strong>o surprise, some of the greatest stories the world has ever known are found in the Bible book of Genesis. And one of the best of the best is the story of Jacob (Israel) and Joseph. </p>
<p>My wife was reading in Genesis recently, and she reminded me of something I’d forgotten.</p>
<p>When, after a long series of amazing events in the larger story, we come to Genesis 47, we find that the old patriarch Jacob (show me a life filled with more world-class chapters!) has made the journey to Egypt. Joseph then brings his father into the presence of Pharaoh.</p>
<p>In that amazing scene, the old man blesses Pharaoh (not the other way round) at both the beginning and the end of their time together. As some commentators have noted, the ruler of Egypt is a man who has almost everything his heart could desire, but Jacob gives him a very real gift that he does <em>not</em> have—a most precious patriarchal blessing. (I find myself thinking also of the scene long decades before—when Jacob stood before his father Isaac to steal a blessing.)</p>
<p>Pharaoh seems to recognize the priceless gift, and he certainly senses the greatness, the “blessedness,” and wisdom of the venerable Jacob. This pharaoh, unlike a later pharaoh, knows that Egypt has been blessed—saved, even—through Jacob’s great son. Pharaoh is indeed powerful, but he is also wise enough to know when a giant of a man, wrinkles and wisdom hard won, stands before him</p>
<p>As these two meet, the pharaoh asks the patriarch, “How old are you?” And Jacob answers, “The years of my pilgrimage are a hundred and thirty. My years have been few and difficult, and they do not equal the years of the pilgrimage of my fathers” (47:9).</p>
<p>Twenty days ago, I turned half the age of Jacob as he stood before Pharaoh. I thank God for the gift of life, and I try, most of the time unless I’m in a (somewhat rare, I hope) self-centered snit and behaving idiotically, to value the gift of each day. I tell my kids that I am “late middle-aged,” but I’ve always been challenged by math. (And my grandkids snicker and disagree when I say that my hair is now almost completely blond.) But, truth be told, I have no desire whatsoever to run Jacob any age-related races.</p>
<p>When I read about the latest scientific discoveries purporting to find keys to give us much longer lives, I’m always skeptical. If any of this research becomes a working reality, I hope we read the fine print. If I had no hope for something far richer than even life’s best joys now, I might feel differently and hold on more tightly. If I thought the modern age’s superficial philosophy of staring “courageously” into the dark night of “nothingness” was actually courageous—and not a mostly intellectually lazy kind of cut-rate “faith” sold for free and worth every penny—I might be greedier for a few more years here. </p>
<p>But I doubt it. Enough’s enough.</p>
<p>I think the great Roman statesman and orator Cicero was wise when in his <em>How to Grow Old</em> (written in 44 B.C. and here translated by Philip Freeman), he alluded to Pythagoras as saying that “we should not abandon our sentry post in this life until God, our commander, gives the order.” Yes.</p>
<p>But it also seems to me that, in “this present age,” a “pilgrimage” of anywhere close to 130 years is something I’d very much like to avoid, and I’m sure that I will. In the meantime, to truly and gratefully value each moment here means not holding onto them too tightly. I’m confident that, by his grace, the “ending” for each of my Father’s children is actually the best beginning of all. For that we have our Father’s promise and blessing.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68783792022-01-24T13:31:29-06:002022-01-24T15:30:07-06:00A Pastor at Home on Sunday Morning
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<p><strong>I</strong>t’s a cold Sunday morning, and I’m warm at home, sitting in front of a great fire.</p>
<p>This is weird. At least, for me. As a pastor, I’m usually at church on Sundays a long time before this present hour.</p>
<p>Don’t get me wrong. If you think pastors don’t have Sunday mornings when they’d really like to sleep in, your opinion of the breed is far too high. One of my favorite cartoons shows a dear lady trying to pull the blankets off of her protesting husband as he yells, “I don’t want to go to church this morning, and you can’t make me!” To which she replies, “But, honey, you’ve got to go! You’re the pastor!”</p>
<p>I do wonder sometimes, usually on Sunday mornings, how I’d feel if I were a “civilian.” I know how I grew up. I know what Mom & Dad taught me by word and example. Dad was also a pastor and teacher and mentor of pastors, so my life has never been “normal.” (Make of that what you will.) My siblings and I pretty much grew up in a residential seminary.</p>
<p>But I think, even if that hadn’t been the case, my folks would have been at church every time the door was opened. It would have been more likely on a Sunday morning to hear them debating whether or not they should rob a convenience store (and let G. B. & Wilma give Bonnie & Clyde a run for their money) than whether or not they should go to church that day. They’d made that decision—the one about going to church—once and for all time years before. They probably made the decision like I made the decision—before they were born. Back when their grandparents or great-grandparents made the decision and thus blessed generations.</p>
<p>It didn’t matter if my parents had company at the house. It didn’t matter if the dog looked queasy or not. Or if the barometric pressure in Bolivia was conducive to church attendance. They went. Me, too. Even if I tried to look sick and feverish (which never worked).</p>
<p>That didn’t warp me; it blessed me. As I grew, the blessing increased when I learned to trust in Christ and not in me. (That’s the real gospel.) I realized that my salvation was not in peril if I missed a couple of Sundays; I learned that believers go because we want to honor and praise our Creator and Savior. I learned that we go because our presence is genuinely encouraging to those with whom we worship. I learned that when we go to worship, even when we don’t feel like it, we feel much better once we’ve worshiped. And I learned that if believers make the decision that “going” is our default mode, that one decision is a lot less gut-wrenching than having to make fifty-two decisions a year.</p>
<p>Do we always feel like going to worship? Of course not. Are we always excited about work or school or any of our other commitments?</p>
<p>But believers worship because of our relationship with our Father and his people, and because he is worthy of our praise.</p>
<p>For believers, come to think of it, we can discuss whether or not our “feeling like it” is particularly relevant to the discussion. I never got the feeling that Mom cared much whether I felt like going to church or not. She felt as if a duty could be a privilege, and a privilege a duty, and neither word would suffer much by being used in the same paragraph. Not that she would waste many words explaining.</p>
<p>Having said all of this, I’m very much aware that, if our attitudes are stinky and self-righteous, Satan might rather we go on to church and spread that soul-infection rather than stay home. (This gets complicated. It’s also quite possible to be religiously self-righteous about not being religious or self-righteous.)</p>
<p>Today, my wife and I are at home. We’ve had some “more than usual” COVID-19 exposure this week. Though we’ve already had two vaccinations, the disease itself, and a booster, we just didn’t want to take a chance—slim though it might be—to spread the crud.</p>
<p>So “video me” is leading worship this morning at church. “Real me” is sitting in front of the fire. And “sad me” is missing a great fellowship meal our church folks are enjoying today.</p>
<p>If you are a believer, I hope you can be at worship this morning. In any case, God understands your circumstances. But, in general (may I be blunt?), you need to go. People you love need you to go. God deserves that you go. And you’ll be glad you did.</p>
<p>That’s the truth. But if you hear me say it self-righteously (and I may be getting a little close to that), just “slap me up the side of the head” as a favor.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68717042022-01-17T12:18:48-06:002022-01-17T13:15:08-06:00A Few Words in Praise of the Commonplace
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<p><strong>T</strong>he commonplace. There’s a lot to be said for it, I think.</p>
<p>By the way, if you do an internet search for “commonplace,” you may be surprised to find that, for more than a few centuries, a “commonplace book” or, simply, a “commonplace” was a book or notebook in which people wrote down and kept quotations, sayings, notes of all sorts, little bits of helpful knowledge, poems, recipes, measures, verses, and much more—stuff that just seemed useful to them and worth keeping handy.</p>
<p>Folks usually divided their notes by subject, topic, or use. Many “ordinary” people used such books, as did a great number of writers, scholars, etc. The commonplaces of some well-known folks were eventually published. Again, just look for this on the internet, and you may find the topic of “commonplaces” uncommonly interesting.</p>
<p>But, of course, when I write here about the “commonplace,” I’m thinking of what we might term the “ordinary,” the “run of the mill,” or maybe the “routine.”</p>
<p>Such moments add up. I think, for example, of sharing life with your spouse, the years cascading into decades and splashing into a vast ocean of moments—some heartwarming and joy-filled beyond description and some so poignant and even heartbreaking that your shared tears spilled into a waterfall of sorrow in which you both thought you might drown. But, sweet or bitter or, more often, just present as a gentle stream of trust—oh, there is meaning and mystery, strength and wisdom, that can only be found in such a far-flowing current of moments.</p>
<p>So much of what gives our journeys color and deep beauty are the gentle slow-moving streams and eddies along the way. A lifetime of cool pillows softly becoming warm. Of rich coffee and a comfortable chair. A fire in the hearth. A hand held and hair stroked. A glimpse of a sunrise, color-fired kindling lighting the sun on fire. A moon winking back as stars start popping out at sunset. A deep winter sky and a refreshing breath of crisply cold air. A child or grandchild’s hug and snuggle. A nice chair and a world beckoning you to enter through the pages of a book.</p>
<p>Enjoy. Thank God. Repeat.</p>
<p>Music is not music without some very ordinary silence between the notes. The silence matters. The ordinary filling the gaps between tones that, unbroken by silence, would become noise.</p>
<p>A well-written paragraph moves along doing its job quite nicely as the majority of the word-notes are clicked out in typewriter cadence. And then a pause or a few, at just the right places, and in a few sweet words, the writer lands the paragraph sweetly, or achingly, or with a grin and then a good-hearted explosion of laughter, any of which the author is willing to share. But the little words and spaces between them add up to make the word-crescendo work.</p>
<p>Little things and little words are not little at all. If we catch ourselves focusing just on the “big events” of life, just “busy-ness,” and, worse, just “business,” real life flits by in a wispy fog.</p>
<p>I hope we’ll slow down . . . and pause . . . and think . . . and thank God for weaving into our lives the sweet and often unnoticed moments and spaces where deep joy pools ever so quietly. It’s the gift of the commonplace. The quiet. The ordinary.</p>
<p>Extraordinary! No one whose eyes are open to that precious gift and whose soul is bathed and healed in it is in danger of living a superficial life, acting as if she’s found exactly the right glue to stick a résumé or spreadsheet onto a granite tombstone, or as if his particular crypt in the mausoleum will feature an executive office suite with a view—and maybe even a digital in-box where minions still breathing can send regular reports.</p>
<p>Come to think of it, maybe having a blank “commonplace book” in which we thoughtfully make actual note of some of the most beautiful commonplaces of our lives might be uncommonly good for us.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68648122022-01-10T14:10:04-06:002022-01-10T17:30:06-06:00Launching into 2022 Feels Strange
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<p><strong>H</strong>ere we are, two weeks into 2022, and it still feels weird to me.</p>
<p>“It” is ambiguous both in that first sentence and in my head. It certainly refers to 2022, the year itself. How in the name of creeping chronometers did we get to this . . . point, point, point, point, point?</p>
<p>Well, <em>that’s</em> how. A split second and a clock-click, a pendulum-swing and a heartbeat at a time. Time’s faucet drip, drip, drips. Each drip, no big splash. Barely noticed. Until, one day, treading water (you hadn’t noticed that, either), you find yourself in the midst of a new but really not-new-at-all Great Lake that dribbled in while you weren’t keeping an eye on the faucet.</p>
<p>I remember doing a very little math—a very little is the only kind I’ve ever done—sometime probably in the 1970s, and reckoning that I’d likely be alive to see the year 2000, but that I’d be very old. Well, I was right on the first point and wrong, I now reckon, on the second. Nonetheless, 2000 is fading fast in the rear-view mirror</p>
<p>By the way, if you were much farther along than a human larva age-wise when 2000 dawned, do you remember all of the hand-wringing and Doomsday pandering? If so, you might do well to remember that it all came to naught. We were pretty full of ourselves as we embraced the drama, drama that we mostly created and fixated on ourselves. Remembering the hysterics then, I wonder about some of the presently popular pseudo-dramas playing as we move into 2022.</p>
<p>Granted, and with apologies to math majors, 2000 is a bigger number on the calendar than 2022. But the human race is still full of itself. And we still embrace drama. History shows, though, that we’re pretty poor at choosing the particular drama worthy of concern.</p>
<p>At the dawning of more than a few new years, we were worried about world over-population. Now population scientists seem to worry more about the “under-side.”</p>
<p>For a long time, we’ve known that the world’s climate does change, but how? How quickly? How much can we alter it or affect it? Mostly, it seems to me, we’ve babbled a good bit, releasing a lot of mostly self-important gas about “saving the planet” as we’ve formed committees of gnats to hold solemn convocations on the rear end of the elephant to discuss saving the pachyderm . . . who seems not to notice.</p>
<p>Ah, but what about the various dramas put forward by our world’s bullies as Russian, Chinese, North Korean, and Iranian thugs and mis-leaders continue to hate freedom and foment mayhem whenever and wherever possible?</p>
<p>As 2022 dawns, we can’t know now what history’s later verdict will be regarding our world’s choices of worst worries. Cow flatulence? Iran’s messing around with uranium? (It seems likely that 2022 will bring to the forefront the question of whether or not a good, serious “talking to” will be enough to get Iran to behave.) Delusional politicians? Politicized pandemic pandemonium?</p>
<p>But back to Paragraph One.</p>
<p>Yes, it feels weird to be launching into 2022.</p>
<p>But “it” also feels weird—we might as well admit it—to be “in time” at all. I’m reminded particularly of C. S. Lewis’ remarks that, were we created to be creatures “at home” in time’s confines, it’s odd that living in time so often feels unnatural to us. Presumably, he says, fish don’t feel wet in water; it is their natural environment. But we seem to never feel at home in time. And that may be, he suggests, one of the biggest clues that we were created by an eternal Creator for something different. Something beyond our present understanding. Something far better.</p>
<p>Well, we’ll face some timely decisions in 2022. Perhaps we’ll make the best ones if we are truly looking forward to something better, something that transcends time, something that brings genuine hope for both “now” and “forevermore.”</p>
<p>In any case, for you and yours in 2022, I pray for many blessings that will last longer than forever.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68583242022-01-03T12:58:13-06:002022-01-03T17:00:10-06:00The Calendar Really Does Say “2022”
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<p><strong>T</strong>he calendar says that it’s now 2022. My various electronic devices all agree on that opinion.</p>
<p>What? You say that it’s a fact, actual reality, and not just an opinion? Wow, your thinking is hopelessly dated, by which I mean, <em>out</em>-dated.</p>
<p>In the very advanced—one might say, progressive, enlightened, and “woke” society—objective reality is yesterday’s thinking; reality now is almost completely dependent upon how you feel about “your” reality. Yes, pilgrim, you, too, can now own a parcel of “reality” in a section of the universe designed specifically for you and your feelings regarding “reality” on any given day.</p>
<p>So suppose you wake up on a day when the old multiplication tables seem terribly confining and, well, old? Who’s got the authority to tell you that, regardless of your feelings, two plus two will always and forever equal four (and you’ll be happier if you learn to deal with reality), even if “five” seems to be a more comfortable answer on, say, every third Thursday in months ending in Rs?</p>
<p>Or what if I wake up on a Tuesday in April feeling much like—exactly like, I’d say—a red-spotted toad (specifically “<em>Anaxyrus punctatus</em> in the family Bufonidae found in the southwestern United States and northwestern Mexico”), who, pray tell, are you to tell me that I appear to be quite an ordinary human with, you might say to be courteous if not altogether truthful, a few distinctly toad-like features? And how dare you suggest that “my reality” and objective reality might not be lining up and that perhaps a good counselor and maybe medication might help!?</p>
<p>Of course, these days I’m sure I could easily find a therapist quite willing to help me accept my new “reality” as a heretofore human biological entity now identifying as an amphibian. (Are there pronouns for that? Dunno, but I’m thinking it might be advisable in this new “reality” to avoid kettles, stove tops, and warming water.)</p>
<p><em>One day, it was in May, I’d say, / I woke up feeling in a very particular way / That right was left and left was right / And white was black and black was white, / So, said I, this change, let’s try. / I’ve found the ticket / Right out of the old reality thicket!</em></p>
<p><em>Aye, and a little more sleep and a tad more slumber, / I rose on a Thursday reconnoitering a brave new way, / Pondering a post-post-modern most splendiforous wonder! / What if today, say, / Up would be down and down would be up / Flat would be round and round be flat? / And thus I declared it, and that was that!</em></p>
<p><em>And, while I was at it, blue I pronounced green, / And four, two plus two no more, would be, / I then decreed most solemnly, two plus three! / Says who? Says me! / For henceforth and forevermore, / Or for at least a day, maybe three.</em></p>
<p>All to say that, though I don’t know what I expected 2022 to feel like, I guess reality indicates that <em>this</em> is how it feels. I do distinctly remember thinking, a few decades ago, that I might well live to see 2000, though I would be quite old when it arrived.</p>
<p>And what do I think now? I think I should admit to being pretty darn near the far side of middle age. And then I quickly think that, contrary to the opinion just expressed, I’d probably better adjust to reality; it won’t adjust to me.</p>
<p>And it wouldn’t hurt me to remember that, if I’m making fun of ludicrous ideas that flaunt reality, the best examples of squishy thinking are usually found between my own ears. A little or a lot of humility might not go amiss.</p>
<p>Anyway, no matter how I feel about reality, it really is 2022. Dealing with it wisely means trusting in the Rock of all Ages, even as the paper pages of the calendar flip yet again.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2022 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68532242021-12-27T20:49:13-06:002021-12-28T01:15:25-06:00“The Central Miracle . . . Is the Incarnation”
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<p><strong>“T</strong>he Grand Miracle.”</p>
<p>That’s how C. S. Lewis described the Son of God coming “in the flesh” at Bethlehem. And he writes, “The central miracle asserted by Christians is the Incarnation.”</p>
<p>If anyone had asked me, I might at first have been inclined to say that the “central miracle” is Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross, his Atonement for our sins, and his glorious Resurrection. And it certainly would be hard to over-estimate the centrality of those events. The message of the apostles, the good news that his followers have always proclaimed, has rightly centered on the “death, burial, and resurrection” of our Lord. </p>
<p>If we underestimate the power of the Cross and those amazing events, Christianity quickly dissolves into a human-centered glorified “self-help” religion that focuses on our ability to “pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps” and becomes, at its center, based on our own ability to “achieve” salvation. It can become a “cross-less and bloodless” venture more about our power than God’s. Do a few better things than bad things, work hard enough to “get life right,” follow the right rules and be a member of exactly the right group, and you’ll be okay. That’s what religion tends to be all about, right? Being “right.” Being “good.”</p>
<p>Yes, that’s what so much man-made “religion” is indeed about. But that’s not what genuine Christianity is about.</p>
<p>Part and parcel of the “good news” is that faith centered on Christ, trust focused in him, is not about how good we are, or how bad we are. It’s about Whose we are. It is completely centered on what Christ has done for us and his power at work within us, healing our souls when we fall short, helping us do the “good works” created “in advance” for us to do. Whether we’re doing well, or doing poorly—and, honestly, most days we “do” both—the focus is on the One in whom we trust, not on ourselves at all. Both pardon and power are ours through his saving work, not our own.</p>
<p>But before Christ’s work could be accomplished, the Incarnation had to happen. For God to suffer and die as the perfect sacrifice for humanity, he had to become fully human. For God to truly carry away our sin and guilt, he had to be fully divine. Nothing less than both would do. And nothing less is the message of Christianity. </p>
<p>Hence, the Incarnation. Hence, Immanuel, “God with us.”</p>
<p>For most of this world’s existence, the “gods” were thought to be either too far above humanity to care about us, or too magnificent to lower themselves to have anything to do with us. They were often thought to be at enmity with us.</p>
<p>But central to Christianity is the miracle of the omnipotent God loving us so much that he would literally come into this world to save us, that he would become “God in the flesh.”</p>
<p>And so the Apostle John points us to the Grand Miracle: “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14).</p>
<p>And come our King did. As the great Scottish preacher and writer George MacDonald put it in the first verse of a poem entitled, “A Christmas Carol” (often called “Mary’s Lullaby” to “avoid confusion” with Charles Dickens’ masterpiece), “Babe Jesus lay in Mary’s lap, / The sun shone in his hair; / And this is how she saw, mayhap, / The crown already there.”</p>
<p>The crown of the King of Glory. The crown that would one day be a crown of thorns.</p>
<p>At Bethlehem, God came down to lift us up. The Incarnation. The “Grand Miracle” indeed.</p>
<p>“For thou art the king of men, my son; / Thy crown I see it plain! / And men shall worship thee, every one, / And cry, Glory! Amen!” (“Mary’s Lullaby,” verse three).</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68475622021-12-20T19:52:51-06:002021-12-21T00:00:18-06:00“We Want Christmas to Be Perfect”
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<p><strong>W</strong>e want it to be perfect, you know. Christmas, I mean.</p>
<p>We really do. Something deep within us wants the lights and the trees, the music and the gifts, the family gatherings and candle-lit worship—all of it—to be Christmas card perfect.</p>
<p>Do I claim to be an exception? No, I do not. Truth be told, though, it’s not so much that I hope each new Christmas will be more beautiful than the last, I just want to do a better job each year enjoying the beauty and joy, savoring each moment. Every year it seems to come more quickly (which is fine with me), but it also seems to be over more quickly (which is decidedly <em>not</em> fine with me). Maybe lurking in my brain somewhere really is that idea of the “perfect” Christmas.</p>
<p>Honestly, I’ve felt this year that the Yuletide train left the station without me, that I was running behind it, trying to catch up. Oh, the church is decorated, warm and beautiful. And I managed to get some of the lights up at the house. But “busy-ness” hindered us in getting the tree and decorations up at home as soon as we wished. My family, particularly the grandkids, think I’m the “king of Christmas” (I’m not, of course; there’s only One), so one of my two seven-year-old grandsons expressed amazement that I was a tardy decorator this year. Oh, the shame of it!</p>
<p>But I’m getting there. I’m halfway through my annual re-reading of Dickens’ <em>A Christmas Carol</em>. Old Scrooge is now in the presence of the “Ghost of Christmas Present,” my favorite of the spectres. Oh, that one knows how to laugh a fruity laugh! I try not to press Dickens’ tale too far theologically; I just take it as the sweet story it is. I love it! And it always ends so well!</p>
<p>I admit that, if I’m in the right mood, I can even deal with an occasional Hallmark Christmas movie and willingly “suspend my disbelief.” For a while. The lead couples are always “top of the wedding cake” impressive. But it’s always unwise to do any research into actors’ actual ages, etc. Obviously, the female lead is strikingly beautiful, whether or not she’s actually closer to menopause than a real nativity event. And—not a sexist bone in my body—I hasten to say that the ultra-handsome guy—stubble required—will probably also still be getting soap opera and clothing commercial calls for a good while. The stars are decorative, for sure. But if I catch myself wondering if their characters will still be trying to “find themselves” when they’re in nursing homes, the mood is broken. (Though finding themselves will be easier there. Name cards on the room doors.) Those movies go down better if you don’t push reality too hard.</p>
<p>Oh, and the old Christmas movies? I love them, for sure!</p>
<p>But I suspect that one of the reasons we’re drawn to Christmas movies, the not-so-good ones and the great ones, is, again, that we’re looking for the perfect Christmas, even though we know we’ll never find it here.</p>
<p>No, we won’t, but nonetheless we do find lots of beauty and wonder, light and hope, special blessing, in this season. Why shouldn’t we thank God for it and ask him to help us recognize it and fill up, more and more, on his genuine joy? Oh, we should!</p>
<p>But here’s the snake hiding in the tree. Suffering and pain and tragedy know no season, take no breaks, respect no persons, and seem so very much worse, so much darker, during this time we so want to be bathed in life-affirming light that fully eclipses darkness, admitting no trespassing tragedy.</p>
<p>We never like death, or disease, or bitter disappointment. But how much more despicable and out of place they seem at Christmas.</p>
<p>We never like to hear of “natural” disasters, but how much more “unnatural” and horrible they seem right now.</p>
<p>Of course, we feel that way. Why wouldn’t we? But wait!</p>
<p>Yes, wait, indeed. This season has much to do with waiting. One of the reasons many Christians have for centuries found the observance of Advent (look it up) before Christmas to be a blessing, is that it helps us to “wait” purposefully and pray that God will “prepare the way” into our hearts anew as we celebrate Christ’s coming.</p>
<p>The world waited so long for the Birth. And we await with longing, and often with tears, his Second Coming and the time when all wrongs will be made right, all tears washed away.</p>
<p>So, again this Christmas, we ask him now to come into our hearts anew. And to help us live each day in expectation, even as we wait.</p>
<p>The first Christmas fills us with hope. But even it was not “perfect.” I figure there had to be some manure in the stable. And I know there was a despicable despot in charge with murder being born in his black heart.</p>
<p>But Christ had come! And he would live and teach and die—and live! And now we wait, thanking God for “the light that shines in the darkness,” knowing that the darkness will never “overcome it.”</p>
<p>For God’s people, something far better than a perfect Christmas is coming.</p>
<p>Dear Lord, thank you for coming! Help us to wait in hope for your coming again, and may our hearts be the Bethlehems into which you’re born each day.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68388362021-12-12T22:25:22-06:002021-12-12T22:45:09-06:00“Do Not Be Afraid” of Christmas
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<p><strong>I</strong> don’t know about you; I used to really enjoy celebrating the Fourth of July. But then somebody told me the truth about it.</p>
<p>Somebody who <em>really</em> knows (probably like sore losers on both ends of the political spectrum who “know” that our last two presidential elections were stolen; nefarious Russian “collusion” or magic vote-tampering, take your pick—anything but the more boring truth that the two losers ran rotten campaigns) has figured out the truth. About the Fourth of July, I mean.</p>
<p>One who knows the truth writes, “America’s Independence Day is really a celebration of Britain.” Once you analyze this, it all makes sense. “The national colors, the flag, the music, the fireworks, the food—aspects of all these features are clearly borrowed from British culture.”</p>
<p>So go ahead and celebrate the Fourth of July if you want to. For my part, I like the Brits. I’m a person of British ancestry—one might even say a British-American (why should I be denied a hyphen? God save the Queen!) But don’t say I didn’t warn you about the Fourth’s actual British roots.</p>
<p>Okay. Not really. Most of the above (not my ancestry) is poppycock. (I’d have thought “poppycock” was a word with British roots; turns out, according to my dictionary, it’s from the Dutch dialect <em>pappekak</em>, meaning “soft dung.” Enjoy your popcorn.)</p>
<p>The quotations in paragraph three above are actually from an excellent <em>Christianity Today</em> article written by Timothy Larsen. And he doesn’t believe them, either. He was just making a point in his piece, “No One Took Christ Out of Christmas” (<em>CT</em>, Dec. 2021).</p>
<p>Professor Larsen (Wheaton College) is, quite literally, the “man who wrote the book on Christmas.” A Christian of deep faith and a scholar of serious standing, he spent three years combing through scholars’ research about the origins of our Christmas celebrations, and he read volumes and volumes of historical documents regarding the same, so that he could edit <em>The Oxford Handbook of Christmas</em>. I’d love to have that for Christmas. I thought I’d order it, and then I discovered it costs $130 and (published in Nov. 2020) is almost 700 pages long. Want to know about Christmas trees, Santa, plum puddings, stockings, and much, much more? Bingo.</p>
<p>Do you buy the long-standing “urban legend” that evergreen decorations are pagan? Well, maybe some pagans used evergreens, but, as Larsen writes, pagans didn’t create evergreens, God did. And God commanded the Israelites to celebrate the Festival of Ingathering “by going into the countryside to gather evergreens (Lev. 23:40; Neh. 8:15).”</p>
<p>And guess what? “The real origin of the Christmas tree was medieval European sacred plays performed at Christmastime” that “told the biblical story of redemption and included a decorated evergreen tree, which represented the Tree of Life” and “became a symbol of the season.”</p>
<p>When Larsen, who has done the research to have a truly valuable opinion, writes, “You can be sure Christmas is Christian,” I am more than willing to listen.</p>
<p>As Larsen mentions in his article, we all know that mega-commercialism and excess of all sorts can taint this beautiful season. But because some folks misuse and abuse it, that doesn’t argue for our abandoning it, feeling guilty about genuine joy, and refusing, Scrooge-like, to allow God to bless, use, and redeem our celebrations of the coming of our Redeemer.</p>
<p>I, for one, intend to enjoy all the lights and music and even, at the right time, sleighs and reindeer, and thank God for such blessings. Genuine beauty and joy are always His! And my celebrations, and I hope yours, will be all the more joyful because, at heart, what I’m celebrating is His coming, which gives light and color and meaning, in different ways, to manger scenes and the notes of “chestnuts roasting o’er an open fire.” I suppose an atheist might avoid “Silent Night” and opt for “Jingle Bells” instead; a Christian gets both and much more and thanks God for it all!</p>
<p>I’ve never been convinced that dour “piety” and genuine holiness have much family resemblance. It’s time, as Larsen writes, for Christians to be “released” from misguided (and historically unfounded) holiday “anxieties.” It’s time, he says, to “take a tip from an angel” who gave this Christmas message: “Do not be afraid” (Luke 2:10).</p>
<p>God knows there’s a time for joy and celebration, a time to be so sure of our Father that we lay down the burden of being full of ourselves, give our “dignity” a good kick in the pants, toss worry and fear aside, and dance with the children.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68320012021-12-06T15:34:33-06:002021-12-06T16:15:07-06:00Finding Hope and Joy in the Light
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<p><strong>“The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world”</strong> (John 1:9).</p>
<p><em>It’s the light, you know!</em></p>
<p><em> Twirling, swirling, splash-silvering</em></p>
<p><em> crisp snow below.</em></p>
<p><em> Liquid luminescence and stardust inadvertently shed</em></p>
<p><em> By pirouetting angels in the sky</em></p>
<p><em> above the Christ-child’s head.</em></p>
<p><em> They fly, as has been said,</em></p>
<p><em> by taking themselves lightly!</em></p>
<p><em> Ah, the delight! Such glory and brightness!</em></p>
<p><em> O’er that rude Baby King-sized bed.</em></p>
<p><em> And look! Nestled warm in the hay below,</em></p>
<p><em> As the Christmas angels sing,</em></p>
<p><em> Silver-tipped tongues of light hailing the King,</em></p>
<p><em> He lies slumbering </em><em>̶</em><em> the Truth, the Light, the Way.</em></p>
<p><em> Swaddled against the cold of the night,</em></p>
<p><em> Whiffling and sleeping, the Babe sweetly sighs,</em></p>
<p><em> And on and on the angels dance, and dark gives way to love-light</em></p>
<p><em> And Heaven’s glory shimmers and shines,</em></p>
<p><em> And joy, the angels’ light-essence,</em></p>
<p><em> Washes over all in His sweet Presence.</em></p>
<p><em>Yes, it’s the light, you know!</em></p>
<p>Wow, my poor poem needs a lot of work! But it really is the light, I think, that is one of the most beautiful features of this season. From the time I was old enough to slide under our family Christmas tree, clad in those wonderful old pajamas that came complete with feet, and gaze up through the branches of the tree and drink in the beauty, it was the light that lit me with joy.</p>
<p>I liked it then. I like it now. I knew instinctively then, and I know more overtly and reflectively now, that celebrating Christ’s birth with joy and light is, well, right. (I’m trying not to stay in cut-rate poet mode; I beg pardon.)</p>
<p>With regard to Christmas, it seems to me increasingly clear that we’re in a “if the people are silent, the very stones will cry out” situation (Luke 19:40), and, though I’m no stranger to self-righteousness in myself (it’s a cancer that all too often recurs), I’ve known for a long time now, as surely as I know my own name, that a far bigger mistake than dancing too much before our Lord in joy is to dance too little and force the rocks to praise him because we’re too full of ourselves and toxic “religion” let our joy—God’s joy—loose in our souls.</p>
<p>I’ve heard all of the arguments against Christmas celebration. Too much, too extravagant, too this and too that. Excessive! And with pagan roots, to boot!</p>
<p>Well, because we can go over the top with celebration is not a good enough reason <em>not</em> to celebrate when celebration is called for! It’s not praiseworthy to inconvenience rocks because we’re praise-mute for no good reason.</p>
<p>And the charges of paganism tossed about by folks who want to pour a little cold water on over-much joy is not all the story by any means. Reading some better scholars telling the historical truth about such will make you feel a lot better about feeling really good about the joy of the season. (I can point you to a great article or two well worth reading, if you ask.)</p>
<p>Our God is not worried that we might overdose on joy. The far greater danger is that we remain so hung up on ourselves that we are unable to dance selflessly before our Lord.</p>
<p>Jesus told us clearly (it’s still a very hard lesson) that being his disciples means laying down our very selves so that we focus on him. That’s the way God molds us into the truest versions of ourselves, exactly what our Creator had in mind when he made us for his joy.</p>
<p>G. K. Chesterton, an amazing and faith-filled wordsmith once wrote, “How much larger your life would be if your self could become smaller in it; if you could really look at other men with common curiosity and pleasure; if you could see them walking as they are in their sunny selfishness and their virile indifference! You would begin to be interested in them, because they were not interested in you.”</p>
<p>Too often we stumble around in darkness, always in one way or another taking mental “selfies” to see how what we’re doing is “playing.” But it’s hard to see at all when our universe is bounded north, south, east, and west by self. And how boring!</p>
<p>In his light, we begin to open ourselves up to the lives of others, and we find their lives and stories and personalities, their joys and trials and sheer courage, not boring in the least.</p>
<p>If we would let in the light of Christmas, God’s light, Chesterton writes, “You would break out of this tiny and tawdry theatre in which your own little plot is always played, and you would find yourself under a freer sky, in a street full of splendid strangers.”</p>
<p>God’s light splashing our souls with God’s joy has been known to grow some very large souls indeed.</p>
<p>My Christmas lights won’t add much to the divine light kindled by our Creator, but nonetheless, I plan to join my neighbors in flipping the switch each night and adding my little attempts at glimmers of light to the nuclear reaction of God’s cosmic glory.</p>
<p>All genuine light is God’s light, you know.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68246882021-11-29T13:09:28-06:002021-11-29T17:15:10-06:00A Confession of Unfaithful Behavior
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<p><strong>I</strong> guess I’d better confess.</p>
<p>Before I do, may I just say that I thought I could live with the guilt. I tried to convince myself that the transgression was not particularly serious.</p>
<p>But now I feel unfaithful. I feel dirty. Like I need a shower.</p>
<p>It was Monday afternoon. I’m never at my best on Mondays. I was tired. I was out of town. Temptation is always harder to resist when you’re weary and miles from home.</p>
<p>Those are, of course, poor excuses. Want more? I’ve got plenty. But they all crumble.</p>
<p>Only one Person has ever lived a sinless life. He was, we’re told, “tempted, yet without sin.”</p>
<p>Answering those who charged that resisting temptation must have been easier for our Lord because of his divinity, C. S. Lewis said, basically, “Nonsense!” He explained that, if we want to know how truly strong a temptation is, the only way to find out is by resisting, not by giving in. And he wryly wondered how many of us have been seriously tempted to turn stones into bread. </p>
<p>Nor, come to think of it, have I ever been tempted to toss myself off the top of any temple and expect angels to catch me, though I have changed our church steeple lights a time or a few. I figure I’ve gotten all the joy that job is likely to hold; I’m done. If you see me up there again, you’ll know it’s Satan who tempted me.</p>
<p>With regard to temptation, we are all incredibly ordinary, and I think I could prove it. Maybe this Sunday at church, we could just go around the room and let everyone stand in turn and confess his/her deepest, darkest, most shameful sin. (Be sure and come. You’d hate to miss this, and we’d love for you to have an opportunity to join us.)</p>
<p>I’ll betcha cappuccino to decaf that we’d start off holding our collective breaths in “reality TV” style voyeuristic anticipation, adrenaline sizzling through our veins. A preference for back pew real estate might finally make some sense: we’d likely expect the confessing to start up front. And I’ll bet that, long before the last person got to “share,” the whole thing would end up being pretty boring.</p>
<p>The real lesson we might learn—along with affirming the Apostle Paul’s indictment of humanity, “all have sinned”—is that we each fall prey to the worst (and most ludicrous) sin of all: we are so sinfully proud that we really fancy ourselves to be very advanced and particularly sinful sinners.</p>
<p>No, we’re not. We’re very ordinary people, spiritual rookies of the rankest sort, who fall to temptation stupidly, easily, quickly, often—and to the very same categories of temptation available since our first parents got snake-bit.</p>
<p>Uniquely tempted? Us!? Are you kidding? None of us is uniquely good at being bad.</p>
<p>So why do I feel so dirty? So small and, yes, unfaithful?</p>
<p>I can hardly look at my phone, but I reach over and put my hand on it gently. It has a fingerprint sensor. But, and here’s my sin—oh, the shame of it!—I fell to sin and to family peer pressure by . . . dare I say it? . . . ordering a phone with fruit on it. Why? Oh, why? I felt remorse even as I left the store!</p>
<p>Samsung’s Galaxy phones have never done me wrong. Sleek, svelte, graceful, and completely customizable, I’ve always loved them. But now I avert my eyes from my faithful phone, and I’m reading about and waiting for its replacement.</p>
<p>The new one has a black notch up on its forehead, kind of like an eye patch. I know. I should not make fun of its deformity. Or its boxiness. My old phone had curves; this one has a metal girdle. To silence it, you flip an actual toggle switch. (Will I need to wait for its vacuum tubes to warm up when I turn it on?)</p>
<p>The new phone comes with half the accessories my old phone did and obtaining them costs twice as much. In overt condescension, it assumes that I’m an idiot and hides most of its actual files.</p>
<p>As my eyes drop down to the fine phone I’m casting aside, my heart falls within me. I am a betrayer. Have I sold my soul, abandoned my principles, for that which is less than what I had? Oh, the shame!</p>
<p>Again the truth pierces my consciousness: faithless folks like me rarely trade up. Yes, and this is also true: the faithless are fickle. Would I be surprised to read my own words in, say, a year from now, snobbishly praising fruitish phones? Not at all, wretch that I am.</p>
<p>But stop. Breathe.</p>
<p>At least I’ve been forced to think more deeply (a few paragraphs above are actually quite serious) about the nature of temptation—and thence my need for grace (serious, for sure). That need is deep. The well of my Father’s mercy is infinitely deeper. And we can call on him at any time.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68176012021-11-21T23:39:39-06:002021-11-22T00:45:30-06:00“Count Your Many Blessings”
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<p>By Curtis K. Shelburne</p>
<p><strong>H</strong>ere’s a modernized hymn for Thanksgiving (with apologies to Johnson Oatman, Jr., whose over-a-century-old lyrics I’ve messed with):</p>
<p><em>Count your many blessings;</em></p>
<p><em>Name them one by one!</em></p>
<p><em>Giving thanks for all good things,</em></p>
<p><em>To whom it may concern.</em></p>
<p>As most of you know, the first two lines are the originals; mine are the last two. I like Mr. Oatman’s original words much better. (He wrote lyrics for over 5,000 gospel songs!)</p>
<p>But, as Thanksgiving approaches, I’ve been thinking also of something author Cornelius Plantinga observed years ago as he wrote, “It must be odd to be thankful to no one in particular.” So, having pondered that idea a little, I found myself wondering what sort of song might be appropriate for a “to whom it may concern” approach to Thanksgiving in particular and gratitude in general.</p>
<p>I’m sure “counting” our “many blessings,” as Mr. Oatman counsels in the classic gospel song (music by Mr. E. O. Excell, who wrote over 2,000 songs) is great spiritual medicine for us all. And, for us all, even, amazingly, in some very, very difficult times and hard circumstances, the list will be long.</p>
<p>My counsel would be to make a very real list. Write down a bunch of blessings, and then put it aside, but nearby, so you can add more as they come to mind.</p>
<p>And I’d suggest launching out with no particular order or rank in mind. It’s fine to list “life itself” right beside “my fuzzy slippers.” “My grandkids” are in no way demeaned by listing them alongside “a warm fire in the hearth.” Don’t make this hard; just let the items pile up.</p>
<p>At some point, a page or a few into the exercise, spend a little time focusing on a specific item or a few, large or small, and practice “peeling back the onion” a bit.</p>
<p>The “fire in the hearth” example is more than theoretical. I’m writing this in front of my first fire of the season. The onion-peeling thing means thinking about the layers of blessing inherent in any specific blessing. On paper, depending on how you run with this, some layers of blessing might be “diagrammed” onion-like in concentric circles on the page.</p>
<p>Some blessings might lend themselves more to a sort of family tree-like diagram. “Nice fire” up at the top. Then branching out, fireplace, wood, trees, seasons, etc. I’m soon reminded that, though I built the fireplace and bought the wood, I had financial blessings and a job that made such possible. It won’t take long for me to be reminded that I did not make the trees or fashion the seasons. We get past “me” in the diagram of blessing very quickly. Good lesson, that.</p>
<p>Some folks, of course, peel back the onion and see nothing at the center. Or their “blessing diagram” may indeed lead to some fine folks and good things, but (how to say this?) fairly quickly “thins” out.</p>
<p>But I don’t believe “nothing” is at the center. A seed was there. Life was there. And, I believe, the Author of life gave me my life as well, and all of “my” blessings come, at heart, from His hand. If I keep peeling back the layers, “diagramming” my blessings, it doesn’t take me long to get to my Father at the center of it all.</p>
<p>By the way, the more science tells me about creation, the more I thank the Creator in amazement and awe.</p>
<p>For life itself and for fuzzy, warm slippers, I give thanks to Him.</p>
<p>Have a great Thanksgiving!</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68105652021-11-15T13:17:35-06:002021-11-15T15:00:17-06:00True Love and Love’s Extravagance
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<p><strong>A</strong> brand new washer and dryer. That’s what, as the fervor and devotion of forty-six years of marital bliss burst into full flower, radiant color, and indescribable beauty—such that it could no longer be contained but must be expressed in utter extravagance and proclaimed anew—I recently bought for my wife.</p>
<p>May I hasten to say that I have not shackled my soul-mate to any laundry-room mechanisms. She is absolutely free and completely liberated. If you know us, you know that my wife is not equal to me for the simple reason that equality with me would necessitate a serious descent on her part. I know this. And I do laundry, too. Not well. And with less finesse and fewer rules than she brings to the laundry room, but I do laundry. Poorly, I’m told, but I do it.</p>
<p>Still, my wife feels, with kind equanimity, that I bought the new washer and dryer with her in mind. She is correct, which leads me to another caveat. I know that special occasion gifts for wives are never supposed to have electric plugs. The extravagant purchase of a cutting edge microwave in around 1976 taught me this. But the new washer and dryer were not special occasion gifts, hence not under the “no plug” regulation. They were just gifts of “no special occasion” love, as described in my first paragraph above, though I admit that my words there may be a little over the top.</p>
<p>By the way, one thing we’ve noticed is that the top itself is taller than it used to be. On the washer, I mean. My wife didn’t want a front-loader to stand on her head to get into or to perch on a pedestal. Nor did she want mildew or to have to take precautions against mildew. So, knowing this, I bought a top-loading machine. That’s great, but the massive thing is, mysteriously, ten feet tall and twenty feet deep. A stool or a pair of tongs solve the problem for Her Shortness admirably.</p>
<p>Washers and dryers used to be rather reasonably priced. That has changed. These cost a lot more than my first car. More proof of my devotion.</p>
<p>And more still! Nothing was wrong with our old machines. Over the years, I’d replaced belts, clutches, pumps, rollers, switches, heating elements, etc., and, for a lot longer than the new ones will work, I predict, the old machines worked.</p>
<p>I won’t be working on these. I’d be more likely to work on one of Elon Musk’s rocket ships. I might be able to call one of the machines and ask if there was a problem. For some reason, they have Wi-Fi. For cutting edge laundry apps or self-diagnostics? Or maybe the connectivity is for the convenience of the thugs in power in China should they ever want to hack in and launch a missile from our laundry room.</p>
<p>There’s a lot I don’t understand about these two new tributes of my love. I do know that they are new.</p>
<p>When in Revelation, the Apostle John writes that God will make “all things new,” I’m told that, in Greek, he had two choices for the word “new.” One meant “new” in chronology (in time), but the word that he chose covered not just time but quality. John was sharing God’s promise of life, completely “new” and unimaginably better than the old.</p>
<p>Coming back now to a much lower matter, I should probably just say that the jury is still out regarding our laundry room situation and whether or not “new” is better than the old.</p>
<p>But I personally feel that my unutterable display of unending love and husbandly devotion is beyond question. At least, that’s what I think.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/68021972021-11-08T12:41:15-06:002021-11-08T15:00:26-06:00When Is a Win Not a Win?
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<p><strong>I</strong>f we don’t care how we win, we won’t ask the question. If a W is a W is a W, and we don’t care how it finds its way into our life’s “win-loss” column, the question above is nonsensical, not worth the breath it takes to be uttered.</p>
<p>A coach, at any level, can win an incredible number of games and still be a loser if he/she cheats to do it. Those Ws won’t mean anything. At least, not anything good. If he turns a blind eye to deplorable conduct by his athletes off of the field or court, he’s complicit in creating losers whose Ws just multiply their shame and bless no one.</p>
<p>If we find ourselves acting as if “winning” and “success” are dependent only upon a person’s bank balance or power or fame, and character and integrity are only an afterthought, the Ws society awards only show that our culture’s scale of value is woefully inadequate.</p>
<p>It often is. It’s more than possible that a janitor humming “Amazing Grace” as he mops a floor is far more deserving of our respect than a CEO selling not just his product but his principles on the other side of the door. (And, yes, life is not simple. Poor folks can also be eaten up with greed and resentment and CEOs unselfish and worthy of genuine respect.)</p>
<p>My father-in-law, serving in World War II, earned a number of medals, among them, the Bronze Star. You can buy one online for around twenty-five dollars. Winning one, earning it, will cost a good deal more.</p>
<p>Ironically, sometimes a real win looks like a loss. Jesus had much to say about that as he taught us that the only way to truly save our lives is to be willing to lay them down. And then he did precisely that.</p>
<p>Even before the Cross, near the beginning of his earthly ministry, the Lord underwent a long period of temptation in the Judaean wilderness (recorded in the Bible in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke). Satan tempted him to play by Satan’s rules, the world’s rules.</p>
<p>I paraphrase here, but the devil urges, “Ws should be easy for you! Worship and trust in yourself rather than your Father. Turn these rocks into bread and take the easy way out. Win by wowing the crowds. They’ll worship glitz! Jump off the top of the Temple and let the cameras roll and the ratings pile up as angels catch you. Or just worship me, and I’ll have all the crowds and mobs of this world worshiping you and falling at your feet. You’ll own them! I can give you an easy, cheap, and very large W!”</p>
<p>Satan could also have said, “Just watch as I offer made-to-order variations of the roots of each of these same temptations to rulers and despots, politicians and crowd whisperers, business leaders and office oligarchs, trend setters and not a few professionally religious crowd-pleasers. Not all will play my game, but the world will never lack many who’ll always go for the easy W. You, more than anyone else, should, too! It is your right. Take the W!”</p>
<p>Not all in leadership or authority have taken the easy W and sold their souls. Some in high authority honor those “beneath” them and know how to say, “I’m sorry; I was wrong” without choking on the apology or polling to see how these rare words would play to the public.</p>
<p>And only the truly naive would think that everyone living in humble circumstances is humble in heart. I suspect it’s no harder to find despots in homeless camps than it is on the world stage. Seventeenth-century English poet John Milton put these words into “his” Satan’s mouth: “Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.”</p>
<p>In all places, in all circumstances, at various times in our lives, we are called on, quietly or in public, to decide what a real W looks like. The God who has given us the gift and the responsibility of “free will” will never force us to make the right choice. But the consequences of our choices are very real indeed, and we’re wise to seek our Lord’s wisdom and follow his example.</p>
<p>Written almost 150 years ago, the words of the wise Scottish minister and author George MacDonald are still deeply true: “[T]here are victories far worse than defeats; and to overcome an angel too gentle to put out all his strength, and ride away in triumph on the back of a devil, is one of the poorest.”</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67989362021-11-04T20:09:03-05:002021-11-04T21:15:12-05:00Privacy Settings and Souls
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<p><strong>I</strong>’m about to send $20 as a donation to my granddaughter’s volleyball team. I just thought you’d want to know.</p>
<p>I don’t know why you’d want to know, but evidently people are interested in these kinds of things.</p>
<p>Just so you’ll know, I am also wearing sandals as I am writing this (at home) rather than my other footwear alternatives. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know the moment I change shoes later, lest you be left wondering.</p>
<p>Are you thinking that I’ve had some sort of brain bleed? Writing more incoherently than usual?</p>
<p>I don’t blame you.</p>
<p>But I’ve flown the paragraphs above just to help myself try to figure out why so very many people are flying this sort of stuff around these days.</p>
<p>Please continue to indulge me.</p>
<p>I will send my donation to my sweet granddaughter’s volleyball team via a “mobile payment service” app which makes it possible to pay for things, send money, etc., via your phone.</p>
<p>It’s kinda handy. Once set up, it really is quick and easy to use. Yes, you could (if you’re over 30 or so and still know how to write a check, lick an envelope, and stick on a stamp), just pay the old-fashioned way. But I readily admit that the modern way is faster, more efficient, and has the advantage of letting older folks who know how to do this feel superior to older folks who don’t. We all like to run with the cool kids. Cool marches on. Keeping up is futile. Oh, well.</p>
<p>This payment method works. But what is strange to me is that the default setting on this app is for users’ transactions to be “public.” That means that you can see when one of your friends pays someone for coffee, or a truck, or a voice-over, or fuzzy house shoes, or a rhubarb pie, or . . . anything they care to mention. And mentioning is the default.</p>
<p>That seems weird to me. I don’t really mind my friends knowing that I’m making a donation (because I love my granddaughter) or that I paid somebody to detail my truck (because I’m lazy). But I don’t especially need them to know. It just feels like “too much.” </p>
<p>We’ve become, of course, a nation of voyeurs. Instead of freak shows, we have “reality” TV (freakishly unreal). We just sit glued to our screens watching folks, many of whom, ironically, are so cosmetically pinched, pulled, augmented, dyed, sprayed, botoxed, tatted, plasticized, and lacquered, that if anything genuine is left, it’s purely accidental.</p>
<p>We “share” for all the world to see. Pick a social media outlet and, here ya go. This friend or “friend” or the whole internet can know if you chose a brown pair of shoes over a blue pair, or a blueberry bagel over a plain one. If this catches on with the older crowd, I guess we could let all of our friends know whether we chose unflavored pre-colonoscopy liquid laxative or the lemon flavor.</p>
<p>TMI. At least, it seems so to me. Too much information.</p>
<p>Just so you’ll know, I turned the “Let Everybody and Their Dog Know” default button on that payment app to OFF.</p>
<p>I think it’s sort of funny, what we let/want people to know. I think it’s also kind of sad, in a way. I also think it may be a more serious symptom than we realize.</p>
<p>If we’re awash in that which is incredibly shallow, what are we missing that is genuinely deep? And, when we should be minding our own business (the business of living life wisely and spending the moments of our lives in ways that are a blessing and that matter), how much time have we wasted (or worse) peeping through windows people throw open as they “over-share” and literally waste or trivialize life itself?</p>
<p>If we don’t care about privacy or respect the kind of positive boundaries that make for civility, what have we traded away cheaply? What have we lost that we didn’t realize was precious?</p>
<p>I wonder. Even as I quickly admit that some of the “fun” stuff on social media is just fun. But balance is good.</p>
<p>These are not the words of a closed-in, walled-off person. I talk too much. Get off track. Focus on the frivolous. And that is exactly why some privacy settings turned ON make both the world and me better.</p>
<p>I also know that God knows everything there is to know about me and still loves me completely. To him, I’m an open book. Every day. Every moment.</p>
<p>And that’s good. He’s my Father. Just a prayer, not a tweet, away.</p>
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<p><strong><em> <a></a><a></a><a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67858052021-10-24T22:37:46-05:002021-10-24T23:15:17-05:00“My Cell Phone Has Been Stolen–Again”
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<p><strong>I</strong>’ve just had another cell phone stolen.</p>
<p>It’s not really a big deal; it happens at least once a day. I think the thief who keeps stealing it is one guy working alone. I have no idea why he is so persistent and why he bears me such ill will.</p>
<p>To be accurate, the miscreant is not actually a thief; he’s more of a prankster. Yes, he does take my cell phone, but he just hides it, moves it, buries it, and seems to take pleasure in wasting my time and driving me nuts as I try to find it. Every day. Sometimes twice. Villain! Thief or not.</p>
<p>I’ve thought about having the phone finger-printed. (I’ve just been watching NCIS.) But you already know whose prints they’d find, don’t you? Only mine.</p>
<p>So, humiliated, I confess. Yes, I lose it myself. Repeatedly.</p>
<p>My wife says I need to use my head and be less absent-minded. I maintain that it’s because my head is present and very much in use that I seem absent-minded.</p>
<p>Over-thinking this, I’ve wondered if maybe it’s a passive-aggressive thing. Perhaps my subconscious mind resents an instrument that can reel me in at any moment. It rings, and I behave like Pavlov’s famous dog. Oh, the irony! If this hypothesis is correct, I lose the phone to assert my control over it. Then I search, which sort of sounds like being a bit out of control, doesn’t it?</p>
<p>The hypothesis is overly complicated. I lose my keys, too, and I have no dicey relationship with them. So maybe the “absent-mindedness” thing is all that this is about.</p>
<p>I never lose my phone at night. It sits quietly, brain-dead, on its charger in the other room. That it sleeps as far away from me as is possible in our house is purely coincidental, I’m sure.</p>
<p>At night (I’m afraid this could be another control issue), I punch its lights out. I’ve found that I rest better when it is well and truly OFF.</p>
<p>I’ve asked me about that, too, and I think my reasoning is that bad news will be just as bad in the morning, and good news will be just as good. Good news never comes in the middle of the night. As a pastor, I need to be available in an emergency at whatever hour, and I’m certainly willing to be found at need, but anyone who really needs me (along with a million telemarketers) knows my land line number.</p>
<p>So the phone is safe and secure and quiet at night, tucked in away from me as I’m tucked in myself. Both asleep.</p>
<p>At a decent hour in the morning, I faithfully turn the thing on so as to be able to use it—and to get on with the seemingly obligatory business of losing it yet again.</p>
<p>I confess, the phone would be easier to find if its ringer was turned up. My wife would be happier, too, though I maintain that I do turn it up more than half of the time. I confess again: I could find it more easily if it was never muted. I do have the “Find Me” app, or whatever it’s called, enabled lest it wander off more seriously than usual.</p>
<p>I wonder. If Jesus was speaking to his disciples today, and if he’d just told the parables of the Lost Coin, Lost Sheep, and Lost Son, would he possibly add one about the Lost Cell Phone?</p>
<p>Or would he even get through a parable or two before Peter or John’s cell phone went off and momentarily took center stage? “I’m sorry,” Matthew sheepishly apologizes, “I’ve got to take this.” And Thomas shoots him a look and quietly growls something that might be mistaken for “Idiot!” Andrew reflexively checks for his phone, can’t find it, and wonders if Judas took it.</p>
<p>No, just lost. Misplaced. Andrew finds it near the nets back in the boat.</p>
<p>Cell phones can be nice blessings or harsh masters. And they won’t reach the One we need to be calling a lot more often than we do. But our Father really is in control, really loves us, and is always willing and ready to listen.</p>
<p>No phone required.</p>
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<p><strong><em> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67798632021-10-18T14:30:31-05:002021-10-18T18:45:07-05:00“I Wonder What They Were Fussing About”
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<p><strong>B</strong>efore I pondered the possibilities, I began wondering if that first sentence needed to end with a question mark. Come to think of it, same question regarding the one I just wrote.</p>
<p>I’d answer, no and no. Both of my questions are technically “indirect questions” which, punctuation-wise, are more akin to statements than to questions. No question marks.</p>
<p>As an English major, editor, and sometime copy-editor, I easily fall prey to “analysis paralysis.” Even before the question mark question, I was questioning my first sentence’s structure. You see, I ended it with a preposition, and that, you probably remember from a mouldy old English class, is a no-no, unless you know you’re doing so for a very good reason, so I gave the alternative a test drive.</p>
<p>“I wonder about what they were fussing” crashed immediately, so I quit wasting time dealing with questions no one but finicky grammarians worry about. Better make that “dealing with questions about which no one but finicky grammarians worry.”</p>
<p>I then went back to the original question, one in which the pronoun “they” languishes in desperate need of an antecedent. I hereby supply that need: Euodia and Syntyche. In “I wonder what they were fussing about,” “they” is them. And woe is me! If I keep playing this game, we’ll never get out of the grammatical quicksand.</p>
<p>Save me, please! Just give me your guess. What do you think was bugging Euodia and Syntyche?</p>
<p>First, do the names ring any bells? Hint: Those are two ladies whose names are immortalized by the Apostle Paul in the Bible, specifically in his “Letter to the Philippians.”</p>
<p>“I plead with Euodia and I plead with Syntyche to stop arguing with each other and agree in the Lord” (4:2).</p>
<p>A very little deduction (reading the surrounding verses, and maybe even all four chapters of the Bible book) will make a few things relatively clear.</p>
<p>The apostle writes the letter to folks with whom he had a heartwarming history and more-than-ordinary friendship.</p>
<p>Euodia and Syntyche were among those who had worked hard alongside Paul in helping further the good news of Christ.</p>
<p>The apostle is in prison (actually, house arrest in Rome), but in the midst of the mostly good news he’s had from Philippi is the bad news that these two valued Christian workers are in a fuss, and it’s become at least a hindrance and a nuisance, if not worse. Though each one surely thought she was right and the continued spread of the Christian faith was dependent upon everyone agreeing with her regarding the color of the carpet in the sanctuary, both were wrong in bowing to the temptation to fuss.</p>
<p>Okay, maybe it wasn’t decorating preferences, but here’s the point. Paul doesn’t tell us if either one was right, just that they were both wrong to fight. As all-consuming as they’d allowed their issue to become, all that we know now is that they fussed, and it’s easy to infer that the Apostle Paul thought their fuss was worse than dumb. In fact, he is forced to tell the two “fussers” to “get over it and get along,” and he enlists the aid of a mediator to drive the point home.</p>
<p>Sadly, Euodia and Syntyche, who had been among the apostle’s valued helpers, had become, as one preacher later christened them, Odious and Soon-touchy.</p>
<p>The scenario is as modern as tomorrow, and irony abounds.</p>
<p>The danger was that the division between the two could spread, and that had become an issue far more dangerous than their “presenting” issue. (Again, we don’t even know what it was.)</p>
<p>The two might not have been willing, at that moment, to drink coffee (or eucalyptus tea or whatever) at the same table, but the fuss coupled the “fussers” names firmly together forever.</p>
<p>Count on it. If we bow to the same temptation that nailed these two together, people will remember that we were “fussers” a lot longer than they’ll remember our fuss.</p>
<p>I hope they grew up and got over it. I’m confident that they were both better folks than their fight might indicate. However you wish to phrase it, the answer to my initial question regarding the topic of their fuss is that no one knows or cares. And that’s the point.</p>
<p>The real answer to their fuss, and any future fusses we might ourselves foment, comes a couple of chapters earlier in the amazing Chapter Two: “Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus who, being in very nature God, gave up his divine privileges, took the position of a servant,” and died for us “on a cross.”</p>
<p>Sometimes losing is the only way to win.</p>
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<p><strong><em> <a></a><a></a><a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67727982021-10-11T13:01:36-05:002021-10-11T16:00:02-05:00In a “Deepfake” World, Who Can We Trust?
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<p><strong>I</strong> never thought this could happen, but I know now that it could. Imagine for a moment.</p>
<p>Imagine the losers of our last two presidential elections calling a joint press conference and apologizing to the American people. First of all, you’ll have to imagine politicians sincerely apologizing for anything, but stay with me on this.</p>
<p>Imagine words expressed with deep feeling: “We lost. We just flat lost. We ran lousy campaigns and failed miserably to add to our voter bases. Behaving shamefully, we [they take turns here] blamed nefarious Russian hackers or election fraudsters with superpowers. We are sorry. We sincerely apologize for all of the time, money, and damage to the Constitution our post-election delusions have cost.” </p>
<p>Personally (and, for my part, we’re still fine if you disagree), I’ve long thought that a couple of moderately priced mirrors given to each of those two after, four years apart, they lost their elections, could have spared our nation a lot of unnecessary expense, trouble, and turmoil. They could just chant in turn: “Mirror, mirror, on the wall / Since in this universe / the culprit I could never ever be / Tell me truly, I pray thee, / O thou wise panel of reflection / The answer to this question: / Who cost me my election?”</p>
<p>The wall-mounted mirror flips around, and the non-mystery mystery is solved. Times two.</p>
<p>That won’t happen. But we know now that the video of the press conference I mentioned really could be released. Alas, real is what it would <em>not</em> be. But it would <em>look</em> real—incredibly real—because it would be a well-crafted “deepfake.”</p>
<p>Have you seen the recent news regarding “deepfakes”? Particularly famous right now are the deepfakes of Tom Cruise that have received millions of TikTok views. I just watched a <em>60 Minutes</em> news segment pointing to the recent deepfake videos and their creator. The report focused on the ways that artificial intelligence and computer/software technology make it possible to create high-quality videos of people, famous or otherwise, saying and doing things that they have never said or done. It looks so real! The possibilities are actually as frightening as they are mind-boggling.</p>
<p>I’m astounded at the internet conspiracy rot that people willingly consume already. But what if we can’t even believe that the person in the video we’re watching is the person he or she claims to be (or a real person at all), much less that what is being said is in the same universe as “accurate”?! Oh, we’ve long known that technology is a two-edged sword, but, wow!</p>
<p>Recently, even before I started reading about deepfakes, I was rocked on my heels a bit by technology. I’d tried to copy something on our church’s copy machine and evidently pushed down a bit too hard on the glass. The scanner that moves down under the glass (when the “copy” button is pushed) was caught in a bind, I later suspected, because it quit moving, rendering the copier useless. I was afraid that I’d need to call the repair guy, but I figured I could take a few screws out, remove the glass, and maybe free up the scanner light. And that’s what I did. Happy ending, right?</p>
<p>Yes, but I was just re-installing the glass when I got a call from the repair guy, the gentleman I had <em>not</em> called. The machine had called him to report, I suppose, that it was being assaulted by a non-repair guy. It evidently forgot to say that I had indeed fixed it. Still, I was impressed—and somewhat shocked. If my copy machine is capable of tattling on me, can I trust my electric toothbrush or my waffle iron?</p>
<p>Who, and what, you trust in this life is a very big deal. Who can I really count on? What’s the truth? Of course, we’ve always had to make those decisions, but in a “deepfake” world, we need to be increasingly wary of “what I just saw” on the internet. The manipulation of social media, political operatives, our nation’s enemies, and the list goes on, is growing, not decreasing.</p>
<p>I do know this: God’s people have been commanded to love him with “all of our hearts, souls, minds, and strength.” We ignore the “minds” part at our own peril.</p>
<p>Who do we trust? The One who loves us, whose promises never fail, whose message of good news is absolutely true, and who wants for us only our highest good.</p>
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<p><strong><em> <a></a><a></a><a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67658422021-10-04T13:05:59-05:002021-10-04T13:45:12-05:00“You Kids Close the Door!”
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<p><strong>I</strong> confess.</p>
<p>I just committed three killings, and I enjoyed each one. Even as I write, I’m planning another. Maybe more. [Update: Yes, now four. Make that five.]</p>
<p>It’s barely 10:00 a.m. Murder and mayhem before lunch. And I’m still far short of Friday’s serial killing count: almost 100 shot and killed while I was grilling burgers.</p>
<p>When I stop to think about it, I have to admit that the creatures I delight in killing are as amazing as they are disgusting. Their design is utterly incredible, particularly considering the miniaturization involved. They walk, crawl, run, and loiter, equally at home whether they’re doing so right side up, upside down, or sideways. Most amazing of all, the little creatures fly.</p>
<p>Why, pray tell, if flies are called “flies,” are roaches not called “crawls”? I’ve long wondered. But I digress.</p>
<p>Yes, of course, I’m writing about the common fly. All too common. But amazing. Can you imagine the covert intelligence coup it would be if the CIA could create an artificial fly to use as a “bug”!?</p>
<p>I love the changing seasons, and, as I write, we’re enjoying the beginning of a really nice autumn (fall). Yesterday was one of the most beautiful days I’ve ever seen. Completely comfortable temperature. The closest thing to “no wind” that we ever see here. Remarkable! As my wife enjoyed a nice cigar, the smoke went—this is amazing in our country—almost directly <em>up</em>! (Some, maybe most, of the details in that last sentence have been changed to protect the guilty.)</p>
<p>The only problem: flies. And until we get our first freeze, they will be increasingly problematic as they sense their impending demise.</p>
<p>I don’t feel sorry for them. I despise them. I refuse to coexist with them in the same house or room. I will drop everything to kill one. Could I accomplish their complete destruction with one word of cursing, I would utter it.</p>
<p>If it worked, I’d try cursing and eliminating mosquitoes and grackles next. And, of course, I’d probably somehow foul up the ecosystem in the process. Maybe before I wiped out those pests, I could submit an inquiry regarding potential consequences. Maybe at a climate change conference, they could take up the issue. Perhaps for a moment, gnats conducting meetings on the rear end of an elephant and regularly issuing solemn and grandiose statements about their plans to “save the elephant” could spare a little time. I doubt the elephant would notice.</p>
<p>You say that this is all excessive? Maybe so. Look at some magnified photos of a fly and try warming up to such a creature. Ramp up your research and do a little investigation of “Beelzebub, lord of the flies” and tell me you don’t see at least a hint of the demonic. Or just try preaching or singing with a kamikaze fly aiming at your throat. Then see if you don’t think that an exorcism or a mass killing is not in order. (I recommend a “Bug-a-Salt” gun. Look it up. Fine and fun killing machine.)</p>
<p>And here’s a fun fact for you from the University of Florida: “The potential reproductive capacity of flies is tremendous, but fortunately can never be realized. Scientists have calculated that a pair of flies beginning reproduction in April may be progenitors, under optimal conditions and if all were to live, of 191,010,000,000,000,000,000 flies by August.”</p>
<p>Swat away, my friends.</p>
<p>Make sure the grandkids close the door behind themselves.</p>
<p>Repeat after me: Suffer not a fly to live.</p>
<p>For my part, I intend to keep on preaching and singing the truly Good News (but with a flyswatter cocked and loaded nearby). God’s blessing of a fine fall will also soon bring a very excellent “killing” freeze, and we’ll have yet another reason to be thankful before Thanksgiving.</p>
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<p><strong><em> <a></a><a></a><a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67588602021-09-27T11:29:34-05:002021-09-27T12:30:28-05:00“Our Father Wants to Give Us the Best”
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<p><strong>“M</strong>an finds it hard to get what he wants, because he does not want the best; God finds it hard to give, because He would give the best, and man will not take it.”</p>
<p>So writes the wise old Scottish preacher and author George MacDonald.</p>
<p>It’s true, isn’t it?</p>
<p>Our Father tells us that happiness lies in learning to be content with what we have, whether we have a little or a lot. He tells us to “seek first his kingdom and his righteousness” (Matthew 6:33), and “all these things”—things like what we need to eat, drink and wear—will be ours as well. Do we believe him?</p>
<p>Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase in <em>The Message</em> gets to the heart of this. It’s more than possible for us to be “so preoccupied with getting” that we’re unable to “respond to God’s giving.”</p>
<p>Ironically, as we max out our stress levels to grasp for “bigger, better, and more,” we often settle for far too little—little, less, and counterfeit. Assuming that having “stuff,” and a lot of it, will make us happy, we fill our hands with trinkets and become unable to open our hands to receive the real wealth our Father wants to give us.</p>
<p>We make the same mistake with closed hearts. Our God would fill them, were they open to filling, with the genuine joy he wants to give. It’s a gift beyond price. But too often we choke our own hearts, occluding them with rock-hard resentment. Christ offers to nurture our souls with food that fulfills; we choose to chew a cud of bitterness that poisons our hearts and sickens our relationships.</p>
<p>Our Father tells us to love our spouses with Christlike love, selflessly putting their good above our own so that they live knowing that we cherish them and their trust. United in love and deliciously liberated from fear by vows freely taken and sincere, real love flowers and two become one in soul-filling joy, and the children that come never have to live a single day wondering if they are loved. Ah, God would always give us the best, and this gift is priceless.</p>
<p>But our world, in the name of “free love,” rushes to embrace slavery like an illicit lover. It settles for lust and self-serving lies, a parody of love that takes rather than gives, uses rather than cherishes, and runs from one loveless bed to another. Usually, it’s the women who are cast aside, the children forgotten as the poor excuses for men move on to “father” more fatherless children. Oh, for all of his children, our Father wants so much better! </p>
<p>God made us. He knows us, and he knows what makes for our genuine happiness and contentment. God knows that if we live our lives, hands and hearts closed, always grasping and struggling to “get ahead” by this world’s standards, we’ll never know peace. God knows that shallow lives are storm-tossed lives with no safe harbor, and so he challenges us to trust him instead by choosing to live joyful, gentle, prayerful lives and thus find a “peace that transcends all understanding” (Philippians 4:7).</p>
<p>Our Father knows that to center on him as our Pole Star is to chart the right course in life. He knows that lives lived in his love, mercy, and grace are lives able to go down deep where real contentment is found, rich and full and forever.</p>
<p>Do we really want the very best for our lives? We have a Father who really wants to give it.</p>
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<p><em><strong>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
<p><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, <a href="http://www.CurtisS" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisS</a><span class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color">helburne.com, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67519912021-09-20T13:22:46-05:002021-09-20T13:30:13-05:00Sniffing Out Real News from the Garbage
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<p class="has-black-color has-text-color">I’ve <a>never considered myself to be much of a prophet—not in the popular sense of the word.</a> </p>
<p>If you read the Bible books that bear the names of the prophets of old, you’ll find, as my Old Testament professor was fond of saying, “The Old Testament prophets were more ‘forth-tellers’ than foretellers.”</p>
<p>Yes, indeed, some amazing foretelling, by God’s power, is certainly there. But much more involved was “forth-telling,” proclaiming whatever message God gave them to preach, and the forth-telling often caused these amazing God-servants a very high price. It was rarely much fun to be a prophet.</p>
<p>No, I’ve never been much of a prophet, not in the foretelling department. And probably not all that great in the forth-telling department either.</p>
<p>So, recently, I’ve been more surprised than anyone to discover in myself some hitherto unrecognized powers of prediction.</p>
<p>It works like this: if I’m perusing what claims to be news on my iPad or cell phone, and I see a headline, I’m often able to predict fairly accurately what particular news media organization is behind it. Alas, this is no proof of my “predictive” ability; it is a sign of rotten journalism.</p>
<p>I’m not sure that any of us, years ago, knew whether news anchor (and now news legend) Walter Cronkite leaned left or right politically. We just trusted him to give us the basic facts of the news and then let us decide what to make of that information.</p>
<p>But these days, just read the headline, and it’s not hard to figure out with just a couple or three guesses which media outlet is behind it. And I’ll bet my “powers” in this regard are not better than yours. Anyone who sifts through a compilation of media “reports” does this all of the time. We know that most of the “news” reports we hear are at least a little—and often, a lot—skewed by the political perspective of the organizations putting them forward. Unless we possess the mental capacity of an eggplant or just enjoy being manipulated, we’ve had to develop the good sense to know which way slanted news needs to be nudged to be more “bubble in the center” believable—and which needs to be tossed out with the garbage.</p>
<p>That, friends, points to a sorry state of affairs regarding journalism. Add in a social media-fed willingness to seek out and gorge ourselves with the slants and the flavors of the partial or total falsehoods we and “our bunch” most enjoy believing, and it’s a downhill spiral.</p>
<p>Peruse the compiled “news” stories on, say, Apple News or Flipboard or any other such compilation, and you’ll see some serious news items (but watch the bias), some frivolous news items about the latest celebrity marriages, failed marriages, and meltdowns, and more than a few “stories” so silly that they’d sully the National Enquirer. They’re all tossed in there together. And we must make a choice as to what matters and what is just salacious, stupid, voyeuristic, foolish, and insulting to the intelligence of the average 10-year-old. Only a very foolish person indeed would believe that it all is real, that it all matters, and that it all is equally important.</p>
<p>The media need to do a better job. We need to push for it and expect it. And we need to grow up, occasionally try thinking a rational thought, and be less willing to dance puppet-like as idea-barren politicians and loud media pundits derive power and ratings by pulling our strings.</p>
<p>It’s a wretched mess; allowing myself to “feed” on it can make me sick and cynical. I think a prescription for better spiritual health for me is this one: I need to spend more time bathing my soul in the written word of the One who “changes not,” no matter the day’s latest headlines. I need to spend more time talking to the One who knows us completely, who knows our every need, and who is always ready and willing to truly quench the thirst of parched souls.</p>
<p>His message is real news, good news, and filled to the brim with truth that we’ll never find on MSNBC, CNN, or FOX. I’m no prophet, but I predict that, focusing on our Father’s good news, we’ll find real joy. And the subscription is free.</p>
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<p><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></p>
<p><em><strong>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67447982021-09-13T12:50:09-05:002021-09-13T13:45:17-05:00“Step Out of the Traffic!”
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<p><a><span class="has-inline-color has-black-color">“<strong>B</strong>e still, and know that I am God!” says our Father through the psalmist’s words in Psalm 46. And he continues, “I will be honored by every nation. I will be honored throughout the world” (46:10).</span></a></p>
<p>As usual, I love the way Eugene Peterson captures the feel of this in his Bible paraphrase <em>The Message</em>: “Step out of the traffic! Take a long, loving look at me, your High God, above politics, above everything.”</p>
<p>If I’m never still, I’m never fully honoring God as God; I’m trying to <em>be</em> him (and running myself and those around me into the ground). I’m acting as if, feeling as if, scurrying about as if, were I to stop scurrying, the world itself would stop spinning.</p>
<p>God knows us so well!</p>
<p>Why does he tell us to be generous with our money? Because our souls prosper when we acknowledge in practical ways that our money is not ours; we are simply stewards of blessings given by the Father who owns “the cattle on a thousand hills.” We’re to hold onto money loosely lest it hold onto us mercilessly. We break the hold of this potential idol by giving away, in ways that honor our King, more of it than we can easily afford to give. And our checkbooks (or debit or credit card receipts) write the story of our priorities.</p>
<p>It’s the same, you see, with our time. It is no accident that one of the Big Ten commandments is that we “remember the Sabbath.” (And to those who say this commandment no longer applies, I’d say, show me another of the Ten we can break without doing real harm to ourselves or others. In this universe, the principles behind them all are as unbreakable as the law of gravity.)</p>
<p>A lot is going on in this commandment that tests our priorities and reveals who or what we worship. Yet again, it’s part of the exam the Great Physician performs on our hearts. More is at work here than I begin to understand, but part of it surely is telling us that our regularly slowing down to rest and honor God reminds us that our trust—and our real worth—is in him, not in our ability to “produce,” though, ironically, we’ll find that we do our work far better if we’re not doing our work all of the time. </p>
<p>“Work is not always required,” wrote the wise old Scottish preacher and writer George MacDonald. “There is such a thing as sacred idleness.” Oh, yes! And it honors God. But, oddly enough, taking time for regular rest almost always requires from us more discipline than refusing to rest. We too often take the easy way out. We hurry and scurry and run, along with the rest of the rats, a race that often seems devoid of much lasting purpose. Accolades can be genuine honors. They don’t always mean that we’re becoming strangers to our families and trading our most precious relationships for trinkets. But they easily can. And they’re poor but ruthless gods. </p>
<p>Too often we find ourselves mindlessly rushing along “in the traffic.” Maybe if we run fast enough, we won’t have time to think about the troubling reality that we don’t know where we’re going. Maybe we won’t have to ponder the high price we’re paying—and forcing our loved ones to pay—as we live life so badly out of balance that a wheel or two is bound to eventually come off.</p>
<p>Our Father knows that we desperately need to take some regular time (a little daily, weekly, etc.) to breathe eternity into our souls.</p>
<p>And when we have an option to take longer times off, sometimes we need weeks (or more) that are richer and deeper than just expensive opportunities to run faster in our play than we normally run in our work. Surely they occasionally need to be times intentionally devoted not just to diversion, but to real rest.</p>
<p>It was also George MacDonald who so wisely wrote: “The lightning and thunder / They go and they come: / But the stars and the stillness / Are always at home.”</p>
<p>Most of us have lightning and thunder aplenty. Let’s learn to honor God by regularly allowing him to spin the world without our help. Let’s trust him enough to bask occasionally in the glow and beauty, the rich meaning and deep well of wisdom, found in “the stars and the stillness.”</p>
<p>Seeking that kind of rest is, ironically, often as difficult as it is necessary, but it is deeply rewarding. And we can be sure that our God who himself “rested” after his work of creation, will bless us as we seek to honor him in rest.</p>
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<p><em><strong><span class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color">You’re invited to visit my website, <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></strong></em></p>
<p><em><strong>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67369112021-09-05T21:53:09-05:002021-09-05T23:45:23-05:00Red River Rocking and the Community House Porch
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<p><strong>I</strong>t’s so good to be back!</p>
<p>I’m sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch of the Red River Community House, Red River, New Mexico. It’s a Sunday evening, Labor Day weekend. This morning I sang and preached at the RRCH. Usually we’d do a concert in the afternoon, but COVID-19 resurgence concerns made that probably unwise this year. I’m just glad to be back at all. No surprise, Labor Day weekend 2020 was pretty much completely cancelled.</p>
<p>I’ve tried to look back a bit. If my calculations are correct, my wife and I have been coming here, generally to sing, preach, and sing some more, for eight years, minus the better-forgotten 2020. And for most of those years, we’ve been back to lead the Christmas Eve candlelight service at RRCH.</p>
<p>And more. The older bunch of our grandchildren learned to ski here. Watching their daddies teach them, I remembered teaching their daddies. But their daddies are better skiers than I am, and they became pretty good at skiing backwards (the daddies). I never did that. Not on purpose.</p>
<p>I remember getting ready for a sweet ski day. At the rented cabin (we graduated from mid-sized chalets to large houses as “we” grew), pandemonium would reign as we geared up for the day and got the little guys all buttoned up and weather-proofed.</p>
<p>“Ski school!” I always suggested to my sons. You’ll get to actually ski while they get expert training. You’ll get plenty of time teaching them anyway. I know you love them. It will drive you crazy, though, not to point it down the hill at speed. But the teaching will pay big dividends one day. It’s worth it!</p>
<p>“PawPaw,” the voices would implore, “will you ski with me?” “Oh, yes!”</p>
<p>One day I was about twenty yards behind one of the sweet grand-girls heading down the hill. We were moving kinda fast. “You okay, Brenley!?” I yelled. No reply. Just a happy dance on the skis, and on she flew.</p>
<p>I’m afraid I’d hurt my back if I tried to do a happy dance, on skis or off. I knew then, though, what was going to happen. One year, in a few down the line, I’d be gearing up, and I’d hear one of the grandkids quietly say to another, “Ya know, we ought to ask PawPaw to ski with us today.” A “pity” vote. That kinda hurts. But a “love” vote, too. And that’s what matters.</p>
<p>I’m rocking on the RRCH porch this evening. It’s still, and the sun’s going down. Here comes the wonderful coolness. Earlier a deer loped down the middle of the main street. The mountain above town is green and lush with vegetation. I admit, I tend to like it better when it’s white. But that will come.</p>
<p>And that’s sort of the point. I’ve sat on this porch in Red River time and time again. In seasons of joy and, yes, seasons of sadness in our own lives. I’ve not found many truly hard times yet that the mountains didn’t make just a little more bearable, but I’ve shed some tears right here. More times, I’ve smiled sweet smiles here with dear people that I love, and in these mountains, my soul sings.</p>
<p>I love mountains. I love porches. And I particularly love this one. Since 1940, this place has been a meeting place to share in, yes, community, and family, and faith, and worship.</p>
<p>God bless the wise people who conceived and built this good place. I don’t know a tenth of the names and a hundredth of the faces, but, as I sit here, sweet faces flash through my mind. My family. My brothers and sisters in Christ who carry on the great work of this place and have blessed me by allowing me to share along with them our deepest hope.</p>
<p>I think “place” matters to God. And in this place my heart smiles.</p>
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<p><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></p>
<p><em><strong>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67312592021-08-30T12:59:57-05:002021-08-30T15:15:31-05:00“That’s Good, But Let Me Help You Make It Better!”
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<p><strong>M</strong>y good friend Darrell Bledsoe, whose list of incredible accomplishments as a music producer, musician, choral director, songwriter, arranger (and the list could go on) is more than impressive, was my friend before he was the producer of my own four albums of music.</p>
<p>Early on in our really enjoyable journey together, as we were beginning work on the first album, Darrell smiled and said, “Curtis, I’ll have a lot of suggestions along the way in this project, but I’ll always bear in mind that this is <em>your</em> album, and you’ve got the final say. If we disagree, I will fully support your right to be wrong.”</p>
<p>Well, four albums later, we’ve never disagreed on much. If your feelings are easily hurt, you’d better not step into a recording booth expecting to produce anything of much quality. If you have a great producer, he’s a great one for a reason.</p>
<p>So if you’re singing into the studio microphone and the music in your headphones stops for the tenth—or twentieth—time, and the producer’s voice says, “That’s okay, but there’s a better ‘take’ in you. You’re singing about joy here, so let’s hear it with more joy!” Or “Stop! You’re pitchy on that phrase! One more time.” Or “No! You’re singing that on the beat; this is jazz, and right here you need to swing it!” Or “Let’s do this phrase again. More emphasis on this word. Remember the dotted quarter note here. Did you realize you’re not putting the “-ing” on the word in this verse, but you did in the last one? Do it again! But have fun with this, too! Your smile will show in the recording!”</p>
<p>Yeah. Be natural. Smile. And think of all of the above all at the same time.</p>
<p>Recording an album is the hardest, most fun work I’ve ever done. It takes so many folks working together to make the music you want to make—the beautiful kind that you’ll all be proud of. A good producer, one who knows how to get more out of you than you know to get out of yourself, is an incredible blessing. Darrell and I have had so much fun!</p>
<p>It was also fun when Darrell called me and said he was just putting the finishing touches on his autobiography, and he asked if I’d be willing to do the copy editing. Well, of course, I would! And I was grinning when I said, “Darrell, I’ll have a lot of suggestions along the way in this project, but I’ll always bear in mind that this is <em>your</em> book, and you’ve got the final say. If we disagree, I will fully support your right to be wrong.”</p>
<p>Ah, it was fun, too. And fun to work together.</p>
<p>To have someone in your corner who knows about notes and words and all the little tweaks that make good work excellent work is a blessing. But it’s true in all of life, isn’t it? I’ll bet names come up in your mind immediately. Teachers and mentors who cared not just about quality work but who cared enough about you to help you do better, be better, than you ever could have without their molding, shaping, and, yes, insistence: “Let’s do that again. That’s good; you can do better!”</p>
<p>What a wonderful picture George MacDonald paints of our God, our Father, our great Mentor, as MacDonald says, “God is easy to please, but hard to satisfy.”</p>
<p>I love that. God loves us, delights in us, and completely accepts us already. It’s vital that we know that. But we can also know that he loves us too much not to help us be better, more than we ever dreamed that we could be.</p>
<p>God is our Creator, our Father, our Author. And, yes, on so many levels, our Producer.</p>
<p>“Oh, you did well on that! But let’s try it again, and this time . . .</p>
<p>“I’m proud of you, my child. Let’s make some more music together!”</p>
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<p><em><strong><span class="has-inline-color has-black-color">You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></strong></em></p>
<p><em><strong>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67249552021-08-23T12:27:12-05:002021-08-23T16:30:11-05:00Compound Interest and the Health of Souls
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<p><strong>I</strong>’ve got a fascinating fact for you, but first, a question. (Stop me if you’ve heard this.)</p>
<p>If someone (with money to burn or semi-truck loads of pennies) were to give you the choice of taking either one million dollars in cash right now, or a penny, one cent, that would be doubled every day for one month (30 days), which would you choose?</p>
<p>Let’s stipulate that no calculators are allowed. Take all the time you want, as long as it’s not more than 30 seconds.</p>
<p>The fact that I’m asking alerts you to a twist in the tale, doesn’t it? Maybe that would be enough to prompt you to opt for the penny.</p>
<p>I hope so. Because I’m told that the “penny option” works out to . . . wait for it . . . $5,368,709!</p>
<p>And that, friends, illustrates the wonder and beauty, if you’re on the receiving end, of compound interest. I’m sure more than a few financial planners have used this rather amazing mathematical truth to encourage their clients. I’m also sure that it’s far better to be on the receiving, rather than the paying, end of compound interest. Credit cards come to mind. Thus the practical financial truth behind this mathematical truth is not hard to grasp.</p>
<p>What I’d like to ponder now is not as easily proven, but I’m betting that it is every bit as true. I do know for sure that my mother thought it was true and acted accordingly.</p>
<p>Rule Number One in Mom’s house was this: “You Do Not Lie.” She put it more positively at times: “You Do Tell the Truth.” But even our Creator went with the former version in one of the Big Ten Commandments: “Thou shalt not bear false witness.” <em>Do not lie.</em></p>
<p>Why not? Because lying is against the very nature of God who is the embodiment of all that is true. He will not lie. He literally cannot lie or be false to his own nature in any way. And his children cannot become liars without also becoming hurt and hurtful.</p>
<p>So you could count on the fact that my mother would never put up with anything that smelled of falsehood. Her nose told her the truth with incredible accuracy.</p>
<p>In a tight spot because of a transgression? Better just confess it and fall on the mercy of my mother’s court. All of her five children learned at a very early age that honest confession brought much less trouble and far less severe punishment than trying to worm your way out with a lie. I don’t think I ever tried it more than once. Maybe twice. Punishment was quick and sure. (As was forgiveness following the pain.) And if that little woman ever dreamed of saying, “Just wait until your father gets home,” I assure you, I don’t remember. Mom handled the situation.</p>
<p>My mother believed in compound interest regarding souls. She loved us fiercely and was not willing for her children to learn to twist their souls with lies and thus grow up to be Liars.</p>
<p>We can do the spiritual math by acknowledging the honest truth that this works with lying, unfaithfulness, bitterness, resentment, hatred, greed, arrogance, etc. If we begin by playing with such and allowing them into our souls, we can end up “compounding” the problem, shriveling our souls and, yes, we become hurt and hurtful.</p>
<p>Ah, but let’s end on a high note. Spiritual compound interest can also make us rich in the only ways that really matter. If we choose to ask for our Father’s help to be loving, merciful, forgiving, honest, faithful, generous, etc., trusting our souls to the Lord of all joy and beauty and real life, you can bet your eternal life that his Spirit working within can “compound” the health of our souls in amazing ways.</p>
<p>We’ll never make a better investment than to trust our souls to the One who wants more genuine spiritual blessing for us than we could ever imagine.</p>
<p>That’s the truth. Count on it.</p>
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<p><strong><em> <a></a><a></a><a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67189422021-08-16T20:05:42-05:002021-08-16T22:30:10-05:00The Fraternity of the Furrowed Brow
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<p><strong>W</strong>hat does it mean when you lose your smile?</p>
<p>I once heard a “face reader,” a fellow who works with jury consultants, businesses (hiring personnel), and large corporations say that 40% of our facial “terrain” is inherited but 60% is what we’ve unconsciously made of it. He and his colleagues claim to be able to tell a fair amount about personalities and character traits by “reading” faces.</p>
<p>Oh, I know. Part of this sounds a little hokey. But I figure there’s also something really in play with part of it. (I won’t guess as to the percentage of truth versus moonshine.) But before we knock it too much, we should admit that we all “read faces” regularly and often. Consciously or not, we pick up on laugh lines, worry lines, stress lines, vertical “freight train” focus lines, “burnout” lines (whether we use those terms or not), and we make a quick evaluation. If we’re wise, we’ll change what were our initial impressions if more time and info support an alteration, but most of us aren’t such fools that we ignore our first impressions altogether. Yes, it can be judgmental; but it can also be wise discernment. And we all do it—or suffer unpleasant consequences. </p>
<p>This is interesting stuff. But back to that smile. The lost one.</p>
<p>I believe what the wise man (Proverbs 17:22) tells us: “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.”</p>
<p>The loss of a smile can be temporary, of course, as our faces and lives are assailed by a particular grief, pain, illness, tragedy, anxiety, or difficult patch in the road.</p>
<p>But sadly, our smiles can also fade more permanently. And the harsh and stark truth we’d better acknowledge is that we have more choice in this than we tend to think. The reality that won’t give any of us a “pass” is that everyone occasionally faces the hardships I mention above, but not everyone loses their smile forever. Ironically, we face a choice as to what we do with our faces. Some of our various troubles and miseries we cannot choose (some we can), but we can choose our attitudes. That is both a hopeful truth and one that, when I’m wallowing in self-pity, I despise. But a truth it is.</p>
<p>It’s true in all of life, but one of the areas lately where I tend to “lose my smile” has to do with politics and world events. I need to unplug regularly and quit scrolling through the varied and often slanted news “reports.” I get focused on the mess as our politicians, for example, hand blood-bought territory back to terrorists for free and foolishly send terrible messages to friends and foes. Or since neither side politically will work with the other and make needed compromises to at least do something constructive about our borders, we do nothing. I’ve never been more disappointed in the majority of our politicians who only have ideas about how to be re-elected. No other real ideas at all as they pander to dimwits on both far ends of the spectrum and seem to consider character, integrity, and wisdom disqualifiers for any hope of winning high office. They hold in disdain their few colleagues who try to show such.</p>
<p>If I spend a good bit of time focusing on what I see as incredibly foolish failures, what do you think happens to my smile? How long until I lose it permanently? And what would that say about who I’m ultimately trusting in my life?</p>
<p>I wrote what follows a good while back poking fun at “progressives,” but it has a much larger application.</p>
<p><em>Strange to say,</em></p>
<p><em>Surpassingly weird in its own unsmiling way . . .</em></p>
<p><em>You never saw dark, stark Puritan folks ages ago,</em></p>
<p><em>Darker, starker, than “woke” blokes eight minutes ago.</em></p>
<p><em>Whaddaya say we nonetheless live life and smile?</em></p>
<p><em>And let them all marinate in their own bile,</em></p>
<p><em>Those lifelong members (with apologies to general genderocity)</em></p>
<p><em>Of that sad fraternity of the furrowed brow.</em></p>
<p>I hasten to say that the “fraternity of the furrowed brow” has club house chapters for both the left, the right, and even in-between.</p>
<p>I think that anyone can join it. Just focus on what is messed up in this world (it’s much easier to find than a smile) and forget who the King is. God’s people always have a reason for hope. The victory is his—and thus ours. It’s bought. It’s paid for. It’s won. Whatever happens here that is a matter for genuine tears.</p>
<p>If we lose our smiles for long or forever, we’ve lost our focus for far too long. I often need to be reminded of that.</p>
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<p><strong><em> <a></a><a></a><a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67118312021-08-09T19:45:51-05:002021-08-09T23:30:09-05:00“Back in the Saddle Again”?
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<p><a><span class="has-inline-color has-black-color"><strong>“I</strong>’m back in the saddle again!”</span></a></p>
<p>Sometime during the COVID-19 pandemic (first edition, 2020), once we got back to in-person worship at our church, I started singing a “special” song each morning as sort of a “call to worship.” Last Sunday, I found the “saddle song” quite tempting (but no).</p>
<p>As I mentioned in my last column, even though we’d taken prudent precautions, my wife and I managed to jump the line and get in right at the first of the COVID-19 (Delta variant) edition.</p>
<p>The first time around, in spring 2020, our church took seven weeks off from worship in person. That was strange, but this time, the recess was odd in its own way. It was precautionary, but it was more than that. My wife was sick. Not wanting her to be miserable alone, I soon jumped into the virus pool myself.</p>
<p>We ended up canceling in-person worship one Sunday, and I did a video. For the next two Sundays, my wife and I stayed home, but the rest of our folks were at worship in person. I had one worship video ready that I’d created “just in case” a thousand years or so ago when the pandemic began in 2020. And I recorded another one upstairs at home in my study/recording studio/all-purpose spare room. Once I tested plague positive and my voice started changing, I decided that I’d better get a video recorded early on while I still felt like it and could. (This was correct.)</p>
<p>By the way, in a multi-staff church, much of this would have been handled differently. But that is <em>not</em> our situation. If you’ve always been part of fairly large churches, forget about understanding this. It’s nice of you to try, but you won’t get it. (The difference between small churches and large churches is not the difference between big apples and little apples, it’s apples and tangerines. Or maybe apples and fried chicken.)</p>
<p>We had such good help in the midst of four days in the hospital for my wife and two or three weeks all a blur for both of us. The last part of July somehow vanished, but I could write paragraphs about the sweet ways folks took care of us with food, shopping, etc.</p>
<p>I discovered my serious limitations as audio-video tech support (via phone). But my friend and ever-faithful a/v volunteer at church, Jack, in conjunction with some other willing and valuable help as needed made it work well.</p>
<p>Yes, I know they worshiped decades ago just fine without technological resources. Yes, it’s still perfectly possible. But the technology is incredibly handy if your preacher needs to preach (and everyone else at church would pay big bucks <em>not</em> to preach) even while he’s at home in bed groaning, moaning, sweating, “chilling,” coughing, aching, and doing his very best to sleep for days at a time. Yep, in that situation, technology helps.</p>
<p>And so, by the way, does Christian unity—a thing not only dear to the heart of Christ but truly his fervent prayer (John 17) and one his followers have too often worked diligently to religiously ignore.</p>
<p>One of the things I love most about my little community—and a huge reason we’ve chosen to stay here for 36 years—is that, by and large, Christ’s people here from different Christian traditions have long loved and respected each other and worked unusually well together.</p>
<p>Our churches here are not so large that we think we can afford to ignore each other. We’re not mega-churches who can mostly pretend, at least in practicality, that we’re the only church in town. And we don’t have fifteen or twenty congregations, same denomination with slightly different flavors barely acknowledging each other, much less the corresponding churches in six or ten other major brands.</p>
<p>I am as comfortable preaching in a number of pulpits in our little town as I am in my own. An incredible blessing never to be taken for granted.</p>
<p>And so, folks in our little church were not at all surprised when a dear friend and colleague from another tradition led off by preaching at our church on one of those Sundays, and then went and preached in his own pulpit while “video me” finished our service. He and I had agreed long ago to pinch hit for each other if either one of us got sick—and we’ve done that many times before at funerals, etc., when the need arose. This unity stuff not only honors our Lord, it is intensely practical.</p>
<p>Yes, it was good on Sunday to be “back in the saddle.” The virus is a bear. You don’t want it. Having said that, I realize more than ever that, if you catch this thing and your experience doesn’t involve blood clots, ventilators, and funeral directors, well, you have a lot to be thankful for. I hope you’ll do what you can to avoid this thing—not just for yourself but also for others. I pray that this latest edition doesn’t continue to ramp up. One time around was more than enough, and we don’t need to let this thing get ahead of us and morph into a much bigger, “badder,” incredibly resistant variant. I guess we’ll see.</p>
<p>“Back in the saddle”? Well, for me, almost, I think. I managed to get Facebook Live going to live-stream our service on Sunday, but I got the whole thing live-streamed sideways. That was oddly appropriate. I think I have a foot in a stirrup and my hands on the saddle horn. But that’s movement at least toward the saddle.</p>
<p>And I’m thankful.</p>
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<p><em><strong> <a></a><a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/67047512021-08-02T13:11:29-05:002021-08-02T14:30:30-05:00A Column Written in COVID-19 Isolation
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<p><strong>T</strong>he past week or two have been, for my wife and me, surreal.</p>
<p>Having done everything we prudently could do <em>not</em> to contract COVID-19, we managed to welcome the little beastie aboard. Delta variant. Nasty guest.</p>
<p>“Prudence,” I think, involves a needle times two (and, if a booster, Needle #3, is offered, yes, please, ASAP!). I’m glad most of my friends are happily inoculated. I love deeply more than a few who have chosen differently. I wish they’d reconsider. I’m happier when my motorcycle buddies are wearing helmets. But arguing won’t help.</p>
<p>For a number of times during this lovely experience, my inspired and inspiring attitude toward most of “normal” life could be summed up in surly tones muttered through an air passage crafted to reach my nose under sweat-dampened bed covers, “Frankly, my dear . . .” (“My dear” here is Scarlett, not my personal “dear.” I refer you to the movie.)</p>
<p>But now I do. Uh, care. And I sincerely tell you, <em>you do not want this</em>.</p>
<p>“Break-through,” as a noun, can mean, “Aha! An answer! A cure! A sudden advance!”</p>
<p>But as an adjective, most usually these days, it refers to “break-through” COVID-19 infections, mostly “delta variant,” that partially defeat the vaccine’s protection and make folks sick.</p>
<p>My wife ended up spending four days in a big hospital after an eternal evening (I hear Charlton Heston’s booming biblical tones, “And there was evening, and there was morning, a second day”) we spent in their vastly over-worked Emergency Dept. </p>
<p>At the time, they’d had 63 new COVID-19 patients in the hospital in three weeks (as I recall the report). My wife was one of only two who had been vaccinated (I like those odds), and her “break-through” was in a known category; no fun, but not mysterious.</p>
<p>Why I fell, too, is another question. Deceptively young, healthy, robust . . . Yeah, right. (But the real “control” person in the “test” is a vaccinated son who spent a lot of time with us and embodies the incredibly encouraging odds. Just fine.)</p>
<p>I’m grateful to our Father for the folks he’s put around us who have been amazing. I am immensely grateful my wife and I are on the mend.</p>
<p>More than ever, I feel deep sympathy for the many whose pain and grief in this has been so much worse.</p>
<p>Yet again, I discover that the “spiritual Big League” is not my league but that the minors and I are better suited. I trust God’s counsel regarding blessings and growth in suffering. I also know that he loves us, understands us, and is not shocked when in the midst of fever-induced aches, sweats, chills, coughing fits, pressurized heads, and COVID confusion, he might hear an utterance or two proceeding from under my blanket less akin to “Praise the Lord” than to a teeth-clenched “Aw, shucks!” It is God who is at work in us when faith grows even a little, and faith, “the size of a mustard seed” is literally larger than Mount Everest compared to a virus particle.</p>
<p>I thank God that we’ve been able to deal with decisions regarding re-entering “life” and work, when a nudge in the wrong direction could have changed the question in her case: Will you consider going on a ventilator? We thank God for the needles that spared her that, me the hospital, and our loved ones, unnecessary pain.</p>
<p>“You can’t know that,” someone says. I think we can. I’ll betcha the odds our illnesses would’ve gone that way are much better than 50/50. At 50/50, I’d take the odds and not even break a sweat. You’re welcome to bet on your own pestilence.</p>
<p>Quick points: I don’t do biblical curses except on really bad days, but for those who most want to politicize all of this (far left, far right, and loudly condescending toward any sense to be found in the middle), well, I hope it backfires. You hurt people and don’t help. “Wish ya could’ve come to the house last week for cake, coffee, and a good bit of handshaking.” (Kidding.)</p>
<p>But a hopeful note! I read a good article last week by a fellow whose work makes his opinion weighty to me. He didn’t downplay the pain and suffering wrought by this pandemic. But he reckons that the “break-throughs” genuine science is already reaping and will continue to reap, motivated by necessity, will be integral in saving an incredible number of lives and alleviating a lot of suffering in the not-at-all-distant future. I bet he’s right.</p>
<p>Side note: I’ll personally be surprised if at least a very few of the “edgy” treatments being kicked around now don’t become surprisingly mainstream. (I’m steering clear of anything involving lizard droppings and fly wings) But my money is still on my doctor’s counsel: the needle.)</p>
<p>I do hope that optimistic columnist is on target. And why wouldn’t we all?</p>
<p>I do know that I’m tired of this topic and thankful no missing spot at the table brings it up again each morning. I hope the variant is a blip. We’ll see.</p>
<p>I think I can “almost pretty certainly say with somewhat reasonable confidence” that I’ll write a lot less on this topic once I’m out of isolation. In the meantime, I’m feeling better, less surly, more thankful. If you think I’m full of prunes and completely mistaken, I hope you’ll be quite thankful for being less mentally foggy than yours truly. Gratitude all around.</p>
<p>Win. Win.</p>
<p>And whatever approach you take, my sincere prayer is that you and yours stay well.</p>
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<p><strong><em> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66986032021-07-26T12:43:41-05:002021-07-26T15:15:09-05:00“Time for Bed, Child! Go to Sleep!”
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<p><strong>W</strong>hen I learned that CBS’ <em>60 Minutes</em> news program was doing a story on sleep, I was interested. Sleeping is one thing I’ve always been really good at. But if anyone has pointers to help my technique . . . So I made sure to watch what was a fascinating program, and I learned a lot.</p>
<p>In 1980, a study was done using rats who were kept awake indefinitely. After five days, they began dying. They needed sleep as badly as they needed food. All mammals do.</p>
<p>Modern folks in our society have been a little snooty and dismissive about sleep, as if needing to snooze at all is something of an embarrassment, a luxury we could likely do without if we weren’t lazy and unmotivated.</p>
<p>Not so.</p>
<p>Recent studies show that sleep is every bit as important to our health as diet and exercise, and that we need 7 1/2 to 8 hours of it each day. The lack thereof seriously impacts our memory, our metabolism, our appetite, and how we age. A recent study at the University of Chicago School of Medicine restricted the sleep of young, healthy test subjects to four hours a night for six consecutive nights. At the end of that time, tests showed that each of the subjects was already in a pre-diabetic state (which would be naturally reversed when they resumed sleeping normally).</p>
<p>They were also hungry. Lack of sleep caused a drop in levels of leptin, a hormone that tells our brains when we’re not hungry.</p>
<p>A lack of sleep? No problem. If you don’t mind being fat and sick. One researcher said that sleep deprivation should definitely be considered a risk factor for Type II diabetes. The program host went on to mention studies done all over the world linking lack of sleep to obesity, heart disease, high blood pressure, and stroke—not to mention the mood swings that make sleep-deprived people “hell on wheels” to harmony in their homes and workplaces, and whose brain activity on MRIs mimics that of the severely psychiatrically disturbed.</p>
<p>To those who say they have trained themselves to do fine with little sleep, the researchers reply, “Nonsense.” For a day or two, artificial “counter measures” such as caffeine or physical activity may mask the problem, but it is cumulative and real, and can’t be hidden for long.</p>
<p>“People who are chronically sleep-deprived, like people who have had too much to drink, often have no sense of their limitations,” said Dr. David Dinges at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine. “It’s a convenient belief,” he says. But he issues a standing invitation for “any CEO or anyone else in the world” to come to his laboratory and prove it.</p>
<p>We easily adopt society’s lie that our true worth is in what we produce. We’re so impressed with ourselves, our indispensability, our strategies and plans. We quit “wasting time” by sleeping much. Then the wheels come off even as we slog on physically and emotionally as if through molasses. And the God who is real Rest and Peace but who himself never needs to sleep, chuckles and says, “Time for bed, child. Go to sleep and let me do within you what you can’t do for yourself.”</p>
<p>I think there is a lesson in that, but right now I need a nap.</p>
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<p><em><strong> <a></a><a></a><a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66925672021-07-19T15:44:44-05:002021-07-19T19:00:22-05:00“The Face They Deserve”
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="alignright size-large is-resized"><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2021/07/granddaddy_cs.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2021/07/granddaddy_cs.jpg?w=368" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="284" width="211" /></a><figcaption>Granddaddy Key, Curtis.ver.02,Curtis.ver.01, unknown puppy (clockwise)</figcaption></figure></div>
<p><a><span class="has-inline-color has-black-color"><strong>“A</strong>t [the age of] 50,” writes George Orwell, “everyone has the face he deserves.” Well, that kinda hurts, largely because I suspect it’s true.</span></a></p>
<p>Not that long ago, I happened to rush past a mirror at church, shot it a quick glance, and then almost broke my neck in the subsequent double-take. Somebody else was looking back from that mirror!</p>
<p>I might not have been particularly surprised to see one of my brothers staring back. A couple of us have been told many times that we look alike. What I didn’t expect, though, was to see my Granddaddy Key looking at me out of that glass. Good grief! When did that happen!?</p>
<p>On one hand, the experience is all the more pointed because it was so utterly unexpected. Such completely unbidden “lightning strike” impressions are usually accurate impressions.</p>
<p>On the other hand, I take a little comfort in the fact that I’ve looked in the mirror since then, and all I’ve seen is some obvious resemblance, not the dear man himself. Character-wise, I’ll never be that good. Physically speaking, I’m sure that reflection was indeed a sign of things to come. I’m just hoping that maybe I was really tired that day. Sixty is a few clicks back in my rearview mirror, and my grandfather in that mirror was, well, I thought he was older than that. Was he? Oh, boy. Back to the gym, Curt, for gerbil activity. Not likely. Maybe a little hair color. Nope. Gray is a color. Okay, I’m heading toward mostly white, I admit. Oh, well. It looked good on Granddaddy.</p>
<p>I’ll never forget a fascinating seminar I attended one day in which the subject was “face-reading.” The presenter was supposedly an expert in “reading” the physical characteristics of the human face. He purported to be able to look at facial features and come up with a fairly accurate description of at least some important characteristics of the person behind it. To some extent, we all do that, whether we realize it or not. (By the way, the factors I now mention are not faces, just near them, but my personal policy is that I don’t fully trust a guy with a squirrel perched on his head or a Bluetooth phone stuck in his ear until my first impression has been proven wrong.)</p>
<p>I was fairly skeptical when the seminar began, but I was interested. I knew that the guy was regularly paid well by lawyers to read the faces of jurors. And I admit that the longer I listened to him and the more examples of his craft that I perused, the more convinced I became of at least some validity in what he claims to do.</p>
<p>It probably follows, by the way, that faces over 50 are easier canvases to “read” than younger faces not yet as painted by life and all the experiences and attitudes that come with years.</p>
<p>You don’t have to be an expert to engage in a little bit of face reading. All humans do it all the time. We recognize laugh lines, furrows of worry, scars of bitterness, or the cold tell-tale marks of hatred. The terrain of faces that are good at smiling or given to scowling paint quite an accurate picture of human hearts. Consciously or not, we react to what we see. If we take it too far and refuse to alter our first impression, we’re being judgmental. But taking our impression into proper account is discernment, and we live in danger without that.</p>
<p>Right now, I’m remembering “reading” the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen. They’re the faces of my grandchildren the first times I looked into their eyes. I hope they liked the face they saw as well. I was enthralled by theirs, captivated by love at first sight. I won’t be around to see their faces at 50 to see what they’ve made of them. But God grant that those fine faces are etched unmistakably with their Creator’s love and joy.</p>
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<p><em><strong> <a></a><a></a><a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66859152021-07-12T13:16:51-05:002021-07-12T18:15:06-05:00“Trapped on a Ledge, a Guy Prayed, and…”
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<p><a><span class="has-inline-color has-black-color"><strong>Q</strong>uestion: What is the proper attire for a person attending a mask-burning event?</span></a></p>
<p>Answer: a smile.</p>
<p>I laughed when I learned that our local senior citizens’ center was hosting a “mask-burning” a few weeks ago. It was partly “tongue in cheek.” Ditching your mask is very helpful if you’d like folks to know that your tongue is in your cheek.</p>
<p>Those good folks really weren’t engaging in civil disobedience, thumbing their noses, or extending lengthy middle fingers toward anyone—except the blasted COVID-19 virus. Though they did burn some of those annoying masks (good riddance!), their meeting was mainly an opportunity to get together (getting together, we now realize, is a fine blessing) and get a report on our community’s latest virus statistics. (Unfortunately, I was out of town, or my lighter and I would’ve joined in.)</p>
<p>The short version is—here’s my take on it—in our community right now, you’d have to be pretty serious about catching the virus even if you wanted it. For weeks now, our case numbers have been from none to a handful.</p>
<p>Why? No surprise, mostly because of vaccinations. In conjunction with our local medical and other authorities, our senior center was instrumental in helping get vaccinations to around 3,000 folks. For us, that’s a big bunch.</p>
<p>I wondered how they could possibly get computer chips in that many doses. I was quite concerned about one of the known side effects, that pregnant women who were vaccinated had a high likelihood of giving birth to naked babies.</p>
<p>Okay, the last paragraph is tongue in cheek. But, seriously, I’m button-bustin’ proud of how our community handled the vaccinations.</p>
<p>Remember the old joke about the fellow trapped on a ledge who prayed to God for help? It’s told in a hundred varied versions, but, in most, help arrives, in turn, on a jeep, a boat, and a helicopter with proffered rope ladders, and the guy waves them all off, shouting that he’s waiting on God to save him. After he falls and dies, he complains to the Lord about the Almighty’s absence. And God says, “What do you mean? I sent a jeep, a boat, and a helicopter!”</p>
<p>The vaccine is a rope.</p>
<p>I know. It’s virtually impossible to convince folks whose minds are made up. For me, getting the vaccine brought an incredible sense of relief and no lasting arm harm. I admit that now I can’t bench press 300 pounds. But I never could. A little fever and a day or a few at home would have been a small price to pay.</p>
<p>Everybody I know who has had symptomatic COVID-19 says, usually with deep feeling, “Get the shot!” I don’t personally know anyone—not one person—who has had truly serious side effects from the shots even a smidgeon (medical term) as consequential as those from the real deal virus. (A few years ago, I had a friend who died from the flu vaccine. Sad story. The decision to get it is for me still an easy one. It’s stats, folks, it’s stats.)</p>
<p>But I do know folks who have died from the virus. I’m thinking of yet another one right now hanging on by a thread. And I recently talked to a good friend and pastoral colleague who said he wasn’t sure if he was “madder or sadder” as he’d done a series of funerals for friends and members who thought it wise to wait on or take a pass on the vaccines. Bad enough if they’d just died, but they and their families went through weeks of needless but very real misery before they arrived at the cemetery. Then their families got to continue the grief. For. No. Reason.</p>
<p>I’m told that, across the U.S., 67% of adults are at least partially vaccinated, 47%, fully. I hope those numbers grow quickly.</p>
<p>Life in my community is becoming wonderfully close to “normal.” I like it that way. I still occasionally see someone walking masked in the wide open outdoors. Why? Neurosis?</p>
<p>Still, it’s no time for complacency. The “delta variant” is becoming the dominant strain of the virus, showing increasing numbers in many areas (among the unvaccinated). It’s more contagious and—mark this—connected to worse illness in young adults (who really are not bullet proof). I could give you a list right now of friends I know who have the virus and very much wish they’d taken the vaccine. Is there any good reason to doubt, with the new variant, that our nation will almost certainly see, at the very least, an uptick in cases this fall? To me, this says, roll up your sleeve. Your kids and grandkids need you here and intact. Lots of us love you. And I don’t want to be ticked off at your funeral.</p>
<p>If you choose not to be vaccinated, that is most certainly your right. But you might consider taking a vaccinated person out to lunch or sending them a nice card. You’re counting on them.</p>
<p>Personally, I think I know where the rope is coming from, and I hope you’ll grab on. Your choice. But not just your consequences.</p>
<p>I’d put my chances of being right on this at about 93.5%. But I could be wrong. And, for my part, we’re still friends.</p>
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<p><strong><em><span class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color">You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66794572021-07-05T12:15:47-05:002021-07-05T12:45:14-05:00Mercy Received Should Also Be Mercy Given
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<p> <strong>S</strong>ome things never change. Most things, in fact. “In times like these,” said one wise man, “it helps to remember that there have always been times like these.” Yes, and people, too.</p>
<p> While no one is absolutely one or the other, people here will always be by default basically cold people or warm people, institution people or “people” people, and, at heart, grace people or “law” people.</p>
<p> I remember a Bible study at our church when we found ourselves discussing Jesus’ “Parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector” (Luke 18:9-14). It’s short, pithy, and to the pointed point. A “respectable” toxically religious man stands praying “about himself,” thanking God that he is “not like other men,” sinners who fall far short of God’s mark. But a nearby (despised) tax collector won’t even lift his eyes to heaven but prays, “God have mercy on me, a sinner.” Jesus indicates that the latter pray-er is the one God approves.</p>
<p> This was fresh on my mind as I was reading another of Ellis Peters’ delightful <em>Cadfael Chronicles</em>.</p>
<p> Brother Cadfael is an old soldier/seafarer turned Benedictine monk in 12th-century England who often finds himself acting as a sort of ancient detective/CSI operative solving mysteries in the village of Shrewsbury and surrounding Shropshire. (Hmm. My Grandmother Key’s maiden name was Shropshire.)</p>
<p> In one Cadfael story, a new parish priest has just been welcomed, but the welcome turns out to be premature. The fellow turns out to be a “law” person of the most ultra-conscientious, unbending, meticulously scrupulous—and odious—sort.</p>
<p> I disagree pretty completely with the theology in the examples that follow, but that’s not the point; the attitude is the point.</p>
<p> A child is born but so sickly that death is certainly coming soon. The priest is quickly sent for lest the child die unbaptized, but the priest is busy saying his prayers and refuses to be interrupted until he is finished with his holy observances. The child does die, unbaptized, and the priest then refuses to bury him in consecrated ground. He believes that he has no choice. (“Law” people never do.) He felt some sadness about it, but, no, no choice.</p>
<p> A weak and pitiable woman makes another in a sad line of mistaken alliances, bears a child, and asks for absolution. The same priest refuses, won’t admit her to mass. She despairs and ends her life. What else could he have done? No choice, he thinks. She had choices and made the wrong ones all down the line. A shame, but . . .</p>
<p> This priest stands not with his parishioners as a fellow struggler making his way through life and seeking to honor God even in the midst of human weakness. He is sure he is “not like other men,” completely dependent upon God’s grace. Sure that he needs little mercy, he has little to dispense. Too much grace and God’s holiness and justice will surely suffer, after all. (And if you think this man’s self-righteous arrogance is the property of any one religious group and not easy to find among any “flavor,” I think you’d be mistaken.)</p>
<p> Some things never change. We meet this fellow and his kinsmen every day, maybe even under our own hats. Those who choose to live by “law” will die by it, religiously cruel. We would do well to ponder Jesus’ words: God desires “mercy and not sacrifice.” And when our Lord says that “the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath,” I’m betting he’s telling us not just about a law or two but teaching us an incredibly important principle about living meaningful lives, lives filled with blessing.</p>
<p> When God walked this earth, he walked with us, full of grace.</p>
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<p><a><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66732292021-06-28T13:03:53-05:002021-06-28T16:46:03-05:00Freedom Must Be Cherished–or Lost
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<p><strong>F</strong>reedom. It is not a gift any government benevolently bestows upon its citizens; freedom is the gift of God to everyone created in his image. It is a serious blessing to live in a land founded by those who believed that the responsibility of our nation’s leaders was to recognize and protect the freedom that is already the birthright of those given life by their Creator.</p>
<p>It’s a blessing to be able to celebrate on July 4th the birthday of a nation “conceived in liberty.” And, whatever our national citizenship, it is worthwhile at any time for citizens of God’s kingdom to spend some time reflecting upon the nature of genuine freedom.</p>
<p>How important is freedom for Christians? So important that the Apostle Paul writes in Galatians 5:1, “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.”</p>
<p>Freedom carries with it both deep privilege and deep responsibility. If we twist it into license to be as selfish and self-centered as we wish, how long will we as individuals, as families, as any group, as a nation, as God’s church, still be truly free?</p>
<p>Because it is “for freedom that Christ has set us free,” the apostle proceeds to issue a serious warning: “Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.”</p>
<p>In this context, St. Paul was warning the Galatians not to allow themselves to be misled by those who trusted in what they could do by human effort (and thus boast about) rather than humbly accepting what Christ had fully accomplished by divine strength and love. A needed warning still!</p>
<p>Freedom is easily lost. Ironically, if we loudly claim our “rights,” all the while allowing most of our relationships to be ripped apart by our own selfishness, meanness, pettiness . . . If we allow ourselves to be enslaved by our own worst attitudes, addictions, and base instincts, we can yell and demand and whine continually about our freedom even as we are the ones throwing it away. No one is free who chooses to live like a slave.</p>
<p>As a Christian, I need to remember the price Christ paid for my freedom with his own blood. Whatever my earthly citizenship, whatever the nation in which I live, my highest citizenship by far is in Christ’s kingdom. I can and should thank the Lord for all that is good and best about the earthly land in which I live, and, wherever I live, in a land governed by those whose heritage is a love of freedom or in a land governed by brutes and despots whose deepest fear is that citizens might speak truth and develop a taste for freedom, I should live to honor my King. Wherever I live, if I don’t cherish and honor the Giver of genuine freedom, I easily become enslaved by my own worst passions. Then, whatever else I am, the one thing I am <em>not</em> is truly free.</p>
<p>As July 4 approaches, what, I ask, about my citizenship in America? Oh, my deepest allegiance by far is to Christ as the highest King. Still, I think it very true to say that for me a lifetime of love and devotion to America and all that is best about this grand experiment in self-government is not enough even to begin to pay back the debt of gratitude every citizen of this land owes. </p>
<p>We don’t have to be blind to our nation’s flaws; we don’t have to agree with the domestic or foreign policy of a particular administration of government or to have voted for this or that governor or president or particular politician, to begin to pay back that debt. We just need to be immensely thankful to live in a land where the voices of the people are heard—even if we sometimes wish they spoke with deeper wisdom and the loudest weren’t so often the ones whose voices we should listen to the least.</p>
<p>We’re free not to acknowledge the gift of freedom. Free not to appreciate it. Free not to cherish it. We’re free to be selfish and self-seeking, ignorant and arrogant, ungrateful and blind, even as we take advantage of what we don’t appreciate. And, at least as long as enough better people still love this land unselfishly, our nation will still be free.</p>
<p>But we won’t be. And the prison of our unhappiness will be one of our own making and our slavery, self-imposed. Freedom must be cherished—or lost.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color" id="block-4cf2c6fc-6af7-4cd1-9b71-db50d0e6efc4"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></p>
<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color" id="block-ac055f59-45c7-444f-9566-295807b5d852"><a><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></a></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66662432021-06-21T13:28:05-05:002021-06-21T18:15:05-05:00Riding the Rails
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<p><strong>I</strong> like trains. I always have.</p>
<p>I’m not sure what it is that particularly fascinates me about them; maybe it’s the whole package. I like the sounds of their whistles. I like the sounds of their various linkages and mechanisms. I like the look and sounds of steam locomotives. (They seem magical to me, even if you don’t bump into Harry Potter and his friends on one.)</p>
<p>I like the deep guttural roar from diesel locomotive engines. I like the massive “clang” when train cars are coupled. I like what is to me a mystery and a wonder that so many incredibly heavy train cars of so many sorts can be linked together and pulled by locomotives whose power boggles my mind.</p>
<p>From the time I was a boy old enough to know what a train was, I was fascinated by them. (Oh, how I wish I still had the old Lionel model train we played with when I was a kid!)</p>
<p>I remember our family taking Dad to the train station in Amarillo where he would board a very real and very large train to travel to all sorts of places to preach the good news of Christ Jesus. The places were interesting to me, but the idea of riding a train that far was enthralling. (Book idea: <em>Trains, Plains, and Automobiles and Fulfilling Christ’s Great Commission</em>. Hmm.)</p>
<p>And so, no surprise, I loved the late spring semester outing when kids like me from Amarillo’s San Jacinto Elementary School got some real life education added to their schooling, and Mrs. Faulkner’s third grade was ferried by bus to a passenger train in Amarillo to board and take a wonderful trip all the way to Canyon, Texas, a bit less than 20 miles away.</p>
<p>We never left this planet; we were boarding a train, not a spaceship. But we seemed to ascend into a brand new world as we climbed up those steps and were conducted into a fascinating adventure. The door closed, the whistle whistled, the engine roared, and that steel monster began to pick up speed. I loved the clickety-clacks and soporific rocking motion as the old world outside our windows slid by.</p>
<p>Years later, when I was traveling to Indiana myself to preach—trips to Indiana were some of Dad’s most oft-repeated travels—I checked into booking passage on a train for myself and a son. I never could make it work.</p>
<p>But I did manage to take a granddaughter on the Polar Express once (out of snow-poor Lubbock, Texas). And I later bought a new Lionel train to make trips, for many years now, around our Christmas tree many times every year.</p>
<p>I like train stories. I like train mystery stories. I like train Christmas stories.</p>
<p>Maybe, if I may wax a bit philosophical here, trains fascinate me and many other folks because they are their own microcosmic worlds. Like stories, they ferry us to exotic locales, all the while reminding us that the journey itself is an adventure. They carry us with fascinating people. Unless we’re dull as dust, a train trip surely might even tempt us to get our faces out of our phones long enough to quit phubbing (phone snubbing) life’s fellow passengers and find out that all people are fascinating if you just listen awhile. A train trip is a great time for that and a fine time to learn some important life lessons about the life journey we’re on.</p>
<p>Lessons abound, but let me mention just a couple.</p>
<p>If you want our society to go off the rails, the easiest way is to convince as many people as possible that there are no rails. Or that what the rails are made of is of no importance. Or that how far apart you place the rails is unimportant and simply a matter of personal preference.</p>
<p>You see, if we want to go on a successful and rewarding journey via rail, we need to pick a good destination, ride the right train, and be sure the rails are strong and trustworthy and consistent.</p>
<p>I figure it’s also vital on our journey through life to make the trip on rails that are good, true, solid, and trustworthy. Not everything is good. Not everything is true. Not everything is right. Not everything from the multiplication tables to gender to the law of gravity is up for grabs. Not if you want to avoid derailment or being squashed like a bug by a locomotive you try to ignore rather than to ride.</p>
<p>One of the verses in the Bible that scares me the most is found in Judges 17:6 where we’re told that in Israel in those days, “[E]veryone did whatever he wanted to—whatever seemed right in his own eyes.”</p>
<p>That is chaos, a terrible train wreck just about to happen. I like trains; train wrecks are another matter entirely. In our journey it’s more than a little important to listen to the Conductor who knows the train, the rails, and our journey perfectly. And, above all, there is this: he loves the passengers with all of his heart.</p>
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<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em><strong><em></em></strong></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66590832021-06-14T11:20:12-05:002021-06-14T12:15:08-05:00Bowling, Physics, and Fatherhood
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<p class="has-black-color has-text-color"><a><strong>“I</strong> didn’t remember it being quite that far down. I don’t remember being so tempted to ‘loft’ the ball. And what in the world is wrong with these rented shoes? Or maybe it’s the lane surface? This just doesn’t feel right; in fact, it feels kinda terrible.”</a></p>
<p>“It” was a recent attempt at bowling. I’d taken maybe a 15-year break. (Probably more like 25.)</p>
<p>When my dad was in his 80s, one of my brothers asked him what age he thought of himself as being. He said, “Oh, probably about 38.” I’m not 80. But if asked the same question, I’d probably say, “Maybe 42 or so.”</p>
<p>This is a good thing. It is possible to fool oneself in ways that are ill-advised and even dangerous. But, within reason, not worrying much about what you <em>can’t</em> do, and assuming, until proven otherwise, that you still can do what you always have, is more often than not, fairly harmless. (But exceptions are noteworthy.)</p>
<p>On rare occasions, I used to climb up to mess with the lights on our church steeple. One of our church elders, older than me, did the same thing fairly regularly. (Thank the Lord for better lights!) Both of us are pretty sure we still could. And he probably would. I would, too, at great need. But we’d not tell our wives. And, for my part, I now can hardly imagine a need great enough. But I’m confident that I could; I’m just feeling no need now for that particular type of exhilaration.</p>
<p>I used to really enjoy playing racquetball and tennis. It’s been too long now since I’ve played either. But I feel like I could, and I plan to continue feeling like I could until a grandchild shows me otherwise. You see, it just wouldn’t occur to me that I’d lost those skills until it was proven.</p>
<p>So when MawMaw and I took our just-turned-10 grandson out to the play place he recommended—too many people in one place, folks of many different ages but mostly young, loud, and prone to writing on themselves (I’m eternally grateful that I didn’t get the styles of the 70s tattooed on)—we went. He’s such a great kid, and we had such a great time.</p>
<p>My favorite thing was the bowling. I’ve always liked bowling. But, as I said, it’s been a while. I did sort of okay. A few strikes. But it felt funny. It felt bad. And . . .</p>
<p>Bingo! I figured out the physics. (I’m reminded of figuring out the physics of a too-large life preserver after I was tossed out of a raft into Grade 5 rapids of the Nile River a few times a decade or more ago. It went too far up as I went too far down. This bowling “Aha!” experience was less consequential but real.)</p>
<p>Physics, I say. I was not sliding properly. The “approach” felt awkward because at its end, my used-to-be-usual slide wasn’t happening. The release felt terrible. And so did my spine.</p>
<p>But physics became a self-esteem preserver. The years mattered some, but the slide, or lack thereof, mattered more! Shoes? Lane surface? Both? In my old bowling days, the shoes always slid quite nicely. And now, after an internet search, I see that bowlers seriously debate slide preference and control methods. (No surprise, it seems to be like skiing. You need your own stuff. Buying my own ski boots, and then adding other equipment fit to me, has been a wonderful gift to my feet.) But back to bowling.</p>
<p>I do like bowling, and I want to give it a try again soon with some properly sliding shoes. But the fact is that I like a boy named Mickade a lot more than I like bowling. If bowling, which I like, and a loud arcade, which I do not much like, make him smile, then I smile, too.</p>
<p>Living life with some sweet grandkids often brings back, fresher than ever, memories of my own young life. Yes, when I was growing up, our family would go bowling. I thought my “Uncle” Curtis was a thousand years old, but he could destroy those pins! Talk about a slide! And spin!</p>
<p>And Dad? What I really think of now is that, yes, Dad enjoyed bowling with the family. But pretty regularly, just with me or my younger brother and me. Even then, that almost surprised me because Dad was incredibly busy and committed to important work. But he still took time to take me bowling.</p>
<p>Of course, I know why now. Dad didn’t at all dislike bowling. But he absolutely loved me.</p>
<p>I hope you’ve had that kind of priceless blessing. Dads, I hope you’re being sure that your kids have that kind of blessing.</p>
<p>And, whatever your situation, I hope you know right now that you <em>do</em> have a Father who absolutely loves you.</p>
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<p class="has-vivid-cyan-blue-color has-text-color"><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66521702021-06-07T12:24:02-05:002021-06-07T16:30:20-05:00“Courage Is Almost a Contradiction in Terms”
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<p><strong>“C</strong>ourage is almost a contradiction in terms,” writes G. K. Chesterton. “It means a strong desire to live taking the form of a readiness to die.”</p>
<p>Yes, and we wonder, don’t we? We always wonder how much courage we really have, for how can we know until we’re tested?</p>
<p>I still have my draft card. I remember when I was still in high school, Amarillo’s Tascosa High, being required to make the short trip over to an office in the even-then historic Herring Hotel (est. 1927) to register for the draft. As I recall, I made the trip in my old VW beetle. Considering that the Vietnam War was winding down, it was a bit of a somber trip, but not nearly as bad as the trip a number of upper classmen had already made to the hotel, and thence to Vietnam. Guys my age were among the last in that era who had to register at all.</p>
<p>A friend who is nine years older tells me of being in college during that war. He remembers that two groups of guys got drunk on the evening of the lottery: those whose numbers were called, and those whose numbers were not. I’m against drunkenness, but if you want to find someone who blames either group, you’ll need to shop elsewhere.</p>
<p>Had my number been called, and had I been shipped to a jungle on the other side of the world, I can’t help but wonder how successfully I’d have faced, well, whatever I’d have faced. I don’t know. I’m glad I don’t know. But I wonder.</p>
<p>My father-in-law was tested many times in the long years he served in World War II. He led men, fought battles, lay wounded in the snow in Normandy, and came home with medals—and shrapnel. He had “a strong desire to live,” but so did many who died. We’ve got the letter an officer wrote to him in the hospital in England expressing relief that he’d learned that Mick had survived: “That hole in your right chest had me really worried.”</p>
<p>We owe more than we could ever repay to those who made such sacrifices—and to those who still are. We see a bunch of courage still “in the DNA” of those who serve. And, yes, I’m afraid we’ve also seen more prominent in our culture a genetic propensity to selfishness and whining. It’s not really in the genes; a sinful nature is common to us all, but we seem to be uncommonly willing to let ours run loose and be perversely proud of it. Did I mention that we whine a lot? Me, too. I hope we can at least muster enough courage, if that’s what it takes, to be a lot more grateful to folks who didn’t—and folks who don’t—whine. A lot of whining and a lot of gratitude rarely mingle much in the same soul.</p>
<p>Ironic, isn’t it? Sometimes courage means “a readiness to die.” But sometimes it means a readiness to live during the times when it would be easier to die, times when breathing and consciousness bring deep pain, physical or emotional.</p>
<p>A fellow pastor told me recently about preparing a funeral service for a sweet elderly church member he’d known for years. Only after her passing did he learn a number of stories from her earlier life detailing tragedy upon tragedy, any one of which would have been enough to throw most people into lifelong despair. Death would have been easier than life, but she chose life, and hope, and faith.</p>
<p>When my father-in-law died, I watched my mother-in-law and realized how well-matched they were. She went through some very hard years, harder than we realized. But no one who knew her would use the word “whine” in the same paragraph with her name. “If I were the only one this had ever happened to,” she’d say, “maybe I’d have something to complain about.” Oh, I’d have complained long and hard. But she chose life, and hope, and faith.</p>
<p>Do you want to see real courage? Some stories are written on battlefields across the ocean. Some stories are written in police cruisers and fire trucks.</p>
<p>But for some of the best stories, just look around you. How many “ordinary” people are showing extraordinary courage simply by getting out of bed in the face of pain and struggle and heartache? They’re heading to a cancer treatment. Every day they’re caring for a spouse being lost to Alzheimer’s. They’re carrying the grief of the loss of a spouse or the death of dreams for a child.</p>
<p>So many people could easily play the victim, embrace that role, and be defined by it. Almost everyone qualifies on some level. I’m awed by those who quietly choose instead for life, and hope, and faith.</p>
<p>You won’t need a large room with many people in it to be surrounded by more than a few heroes. Just look around. You may not see the medals, but just open your eyes. You’ll see a great deal of courage. Thank God for it. Honor it.</p>
<p>And, by the way, thank you for <em>your</em> courage.</p>
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<p><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66451552021-05-31T14:07:56-05:002021-05-31T17:45:17-05:00A Cat, Some Kittens, and Some Surprising Joy
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<p><strong>T</strong>rue confession #1: I don’t feel the least bit guilty about my next true confession.</p>
<p>True confession #2: I have never been much of a cat person. I’ll pick a slobbering dog over a condescending cat every time.</p>
<p>I do admit that those types are not necessarily the only choices. But enough truth lies in the stereotypes that we all chuckle knowingly at Winston Churchill’s variously-quoted truth: “Cats look down on you, dogs look up to you. Give me a pig! He looks you in the eye and treats you as an equal.”</p>
<p>I’ll take his word about the pigs (though the feral ones I’ve seen are improved only with a bullet), but we all know he’s right about the canines and felines.</p>
<p>So I was a bit surprised to find myself—and more surprised to find my wife who likes animals “over there” but not “over here”—consorting with a cat. A black one. Technically, I’m sure, a feral one.</p>
<p>Bella or Runt, as she is called, depending upon which of two yards she’s scavenging or mooching in, is at least a two-family cat. She may even have more names and homes; I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t swear to it. A dog is an open book; cats are secretive, close-mouthed, shifty-eyed creatures that tend toward duplicity.</p>
<p>I’ll give her this: she’s a gentle cat, especially for one of the feral variety. I warned a granddaughter not to try to pick her up; the next thing I knew, the three-year-old was wagging the cat around. No bites. No scratches. And an older granddaughter was naming her.</p>
<p>About that same time, Bella (if I may use her Shelburneshire name) and I started “mousing” together. I have some birds—doves, a pheasant, etc. —in a rustic aviary I built out in our back yard. Bird seed on the ground means the occasional mouse <em>under</em> the ground. The cat and I discovered that if I turn on the hose, open the door a bit, and shoot water down a mouse hole, a half-drowned mouse or a few will likely scamper out. And she’s ready. Oh, yes, quite ready. She likes to play with her food. She should chew it more. But she enjoys it a great deal.</p>
<p>A few weeks ago, Runt/Bella gave birth to two kittens behind a couple of fenced in rain barrels I have in the back yard. I’m not sure about her morals, but I’m quite sure about her reproductive capacity.</p>
<p>I will admit that watching the little ones grow has been a lot of fun. One is black and white; one is gray. One, my pet-skeptical wife has named Sweetie Pie; the other, she has named Sugar Plum. Whatever you think about cats and dogs, I suppose everybody loves kittens and puppies.</p>
<p>Cats rarely ever condescend to coming when whistled at or called, even by name. And we’re not very sure yet if these are girl cats or boy cats. Maybe the other human grandparents next door could come up with a couple of boy cat names for use if needed. I’d hate to throw these kittens into unnecessary confusion. But these days, if one wakes up feeling distinctly like a dog trapped in a cat’s body, I suppose we may have to call it Fido or be considered brutish and cruel. (I still doubt it would come when called.)</p>
<p>But, seriously, ya know what’s been most amazing to me? The joy. I know some biologically necessary reasons exist for some of the romping and playing, rolling and chasing, frolicking and jumping (both fur-balls have amazing “verticals”) these kittens engage in between themselves and their mom. But you’ll not get me to believe that it’s all just zoology.</p>
<p>It’s too much. But it’s just right. It’s a smiling Creator’s gift. It’s joy. Deep. Real. Joy. And he gives it to us, too, when we open our souls to it.</p>
<p>I’ll wager that he’s always willing to help us do that. If we just ask.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66387932021-05-24T11:02:15-05:002021-05-24T13:15:20-05:00Real Joy Never Runs Out, Never Runs Down
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<p><strong>E</strong>ntropy.</p>
<p>What pops into your head when you hear that word?</p>
<p>Well, just to prove that I listened some in a science class forty-plus years ago, here ya go: “The tendency of a body in motion to remain in motion and a body at rest to remain at rest.”</p>
<p>Impressive, right?</p>
<p>Not so much. Because, I’m now reminded, that is the definition of “inertia,” not “entropy.”</p>
<p>Okay. Let me think. “Entropy” is “a wasting away or progressive decline due to disuse or disease—for example, a muscle due to neurological disease or trauma.”</p>
<p>Nope. That’s “atrophy.”</p>
<p>So I should look it up?</p>
<p>Yes, I should, and, overcoming inertia on my couch, I did, and it, like life, is much, much, much more complicated than one might think. Just read a little of even the Wikipedia article, and you’ll find that the concept is integral to classical thermodynamics, statistical physics, information theory, chemistry, etc.</p>
<p>But then I looked the word up in my favorite online dictionary. Yep, thermodynamics is there. But jump on down to definition 2b: “a process of degradation or running down or a trend to disorder.” Bingo!</p>
<p>Inertia may keep me on the couch, but entropy just might be behind my inertia. Yes, and I suppose all of this could be connected to mental atrophy.</p>
<p>Stuff, as a rule, just runs down. “Downer” examples are depressingly easy to find.</p>
<p>I drive past what was once a beautiful lawn, one the previous owner was justly proud of. New owner. Grass is already history. A car or two parked on what was the yard.</p>
<p>Even really nice hotels have a shelf life. Without a lot of continual work and many dollars, what-a-great-place quickly becomes what-a-dive.</p>
<p>Didn’t we just have the house painted? Rats! It’s already peeling and begging for more paint.</p>
<p>Most cool cars don’t stay cool; they start to creak and rattle. Like their owners.</p>
<p>Didn’t I just drop ten pounds about ten minutes ago? So why am I now up fifteen?</p>
<p>Once-respected media outlets degenerate into <em>National Enquirer</em> wannabees.</p>
<p>Joe Cool thought the tattoo on his chest looked, well, cool. I wonder if he likes it now that it’s a lot nearer to his stomach?</p>
<p>Great tans turn into not so great skin damage and wrinkles. </p>
<p>Cosmetic work can put off the inevitable, but when raising a left eyebrow causes a right pinkie toe to wiggle, that’s entropy, not progress.</p>
<p>And can I still list “gray” as my hair color or has entropy robbed me of even that?</p>
<p>Entropy. Harsh reality. So much around us seems to be running down.</p>
<p>But, amazingly enough, some things don’t have to.</p>
<p>My attitude might actually get better! Long shot, but it’s possible.</p>
<p>I might even lose a little weight but, better, I might lose a chip off my shoulder.</p>
<p>I might pray for, and find, God’s help to heal a relationship.</p>
<p>With the Lord’s help, my spirit might actually grow faster than my waistline.</p>
<p>Yes, a person’s hair might be turning white or loose, but maybe some wisdom is accruing in his cranium.</p>
<p>Maybe her heart is becoming younger and more vibrant. Maybe laughter is making laugh lines much more than worth their downside.</p>
<p>Entropy may be as pervasive as the law of gravity, but even if our backs hurt worse with time, our souls can learn to dance longer, better, and with more joy.</p>
<p>Real joy never runs out, never runs down.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66326532021-05-17T12:34:24-05:002021-05-17T13:45:10-05:00“In Times Like These, It Helps to Recall…”
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<p></p>
<p><strong>“I</strong>n times like these, it helps to recall that there have always been times like these.”</p>
<p>Yep.</p>
<p>I’m not sure where I first heard that statement, but I’ve always thought that its truth packs a punch. I did a little “search engine” research and found it attributed to Paul Harvey or Will Harvey. Some versions say “remember” instead of “recall.” I don’t know Will Harvey, but I certainly remember Paul, and he said a great many things well worth recalling.</p>
<p>I know. Lots of things look bad. Lots of things <em>are</em> bad. In more than a few arenas, we are forced to wonder how long things can go on like this.</p>
<p>But hasn’t that always been the case (though we surely do well to remember that blessings not gratefully cherished can be squandered)?</p>
<p>The cave guys sitting around the campfire in the evening, passing around a wineskin and discussing the day’s hunt, also talked about how things had gone south since the “old” days and how this new pre-pre-pre-millennial bunch are lazy, self-centered, dumb as granite boulders, couldn’t find their own foot if they were hunting for it, and couldn’t hit it with their own spit, much less a bow and arrow, even if they did find it.</p>
<p>Haven’t there always been questionable “prophets” who, either self-deluded or biblically illiterate, actively spread delusions or naively pass them along? Not understanding “apocalyptic,” highly symbolic, literature such as Revelation, they pull out their newspapers or, more likely today, ransack the internet for news, and think they’ve somehow lined up all the clues, and write books, sell books, read questionable books (without understanding the questions), and think the “answers” are all there: Here’s when Christ is coming back!</p>
<p>Never mind that Jesus himself said in Matthew 24 that no one knows the hour or day—not even the angels, or the Son (!), but “only the Father.” And I’ll betcha dollars to donuts he was talking specifically in that context about the coming fall of Jerusalem to the Romans and not the “end of time,” though some important “be ready for the end” principles are surely there.</p>
<p>Is Christ coming back? Oh, yes, I absolutely believe that he is! Does anybody know when? Nope, I absolutely believe Christ when he says that they do not. (I surely wish I could figure out an ethical way to sell a few million books discussing heart-palpitating theories, though. I’d love for my present bank balance to be “left behind” with many more zeroes.)</p>
<p>But what about all the natural disasters, plagues and pandemics, wars and fighting, demagogues and despots, disgusting and stupid (and vile and/or terminally dim-witted) pompous politicians? What about morals spiraling downward, addictions and pernicious predilections proliferating, poor-pitiful-woe-is-me-and-it’s-all-your-fault “victims” pathetically and ceaselessly posturing?</p>
<p>More specifically, what about truly current events? Hey, Israel fired a bunch of missiles recently. Does that mean we’re closer to the Second Coming? I very much doubt it. (How much the nation of Israel has to do with spiritual Israel is another question and one Bible scholars and theologians with hard-earned clout reasonably disagree about.) I’m pretty sure it means that organizations with terrorist ties, folks who would lose power if peace broke out, should think twice about starting a fight with Israel.</p>
<p>Oh, you can count on about as many books as missiles coming out in the coming weeks claiming to explain all of this biblically. They’ll likely sell well. And they’ll be equal parts of moonshine and hogwash.</p>
<p> Count on it. Times like these can be hard. Really hard. But all generations have had their own cave writing, smoke signals, newspapers, or internet convincing them that their times were the absolute worst ever. And they could each make a pretty tempting case.</p>
<p>It’s that last fact that bolsters my own case: “In times like these, it helps to recall that there have always been times like these.”</p>
<p>So pray before your head hits the pillow and then sleep well. Our Father’s got this. Always has. Always will.</p>
<p>Oh, yes, in times like these.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66267282021-05-10T11:44:16-05:002021-05-10T14:45:15-05:00“Talking Dog for Sale: Five Dollars”
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<p><strong>I</strong>’ve long ago forgotten where I found the tale I’m about to relate, but I like it. Personally, I very much doubt that it’s factual; it does, however, hold a lesson or two that are true indeed.</p>
<p>As the story goes, a fellow was walking down the street one day when he saw a hand-lettered sign in a yard: “Talking Dog: Five Dollars.”</p>
<p>Quite curious, the man walked up to the front door of the house and knocked. When an ordinary-looking fellow answered, the guy standing on the porch said, “Pardon me, sir, but I saw your sign. Are you kidding? You’ve got a <em>talking</em> dog? A dog you want to sell for five dollars!?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” the answer came back, “I do have a talking dog that I’d sell cheap. In fact, he’s out in his doghouse now. If you’d like, feel free to go on back and have a chat with him.”</p>
<p>So the fellow went out to the back yard, found the canine sitting calmly in the dog house, and rather sheepishly bent down and asked, “So . . . so you’re a talking dog?”</p>
<p>“That’s right,” came back the quick answer. “Yep, started talking when I was just a pup. Been talking ever since.”</p>
<p>“Wow, that’s something!” said the amazed man. “You must have had quite a life!”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” replied the dog in excellent, even cultured, English. “Yes, indeed. You see, when people discovered that I could talk, they made over me a great deal. In fact, at one point, years ago now, I spent several years as a CIA field operative. You can imagine what a great tool a talking dog would be in the spy game. Why, a talking dog who knows when to keep his mouth shut is better than the best electronic bug money could buy! Hard hours, though, and a tough element to work with. I was once on assignment for such a long time that I ended up losing my wife. She nuzzled up to a Basset hound and ran off with him while I was gone.”</p>
<p>After closing what had been a very interesting conversation and thanking the dog for his time, the man walked back to the porch and spoke again to the amazing beast’s owner.</p>
<p>“I still can hardly believe my ears. You’re right! He talks! That’s mystery enough, but why in the world would you be willing to part with a talking dog for just five dollars? Are you crazy!? You’d really sell that dog for five bucks?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, he talks,” the owner answered, “but I’d sell him. Why, you can’t believe half of what that dog says!”</p>
<p>Sometimes we expect too much. Sometimes, critical to a (very serious) fault, we focus too much on the flaws of those around us and fail to be properly grateful for the blessings they bring.</p>
<p>God’s children already have the Father’s love. Fully. Completely. Through his Son, we receive pardon. We are completely accepted, just as we are. Through his Spirit, we receive power and healing. It is our Father’s joy to help us become the best and truest selves he has created us to be and, yes, to become better than we are. But he could not possibly love us more than he already does, and he will never choose to love us less. And having received his grace, we become ever more gracious to those around us.</p>
<p>How sad and dangerous if we forget how much grace we’ve received! Then our spirits shrivel, we live in fear, and we morph into tyrants so hard to please that nothing and no one can meet our “standards.” Then what we breed in our families, coworkers, and associates (I don’t say “friends” because we won’t have any real friends) is not hope but despair.</p>
<p>When you hear a dog speaking the King’s English, you don’t waste time criticizing his grammar or running a background check to make sure he has his facts straight. You just thank God for such a wonder! Come to think of it, the humans God has put around us don’t have to be even nearly that wonder-<em>full</em> to bless us. If we’ve received grace ourselves, we might seriously consider passing some of it along.</p>
<p>I surely would like to talk to that dog.</p>
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<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66204792021-05-03T14:04:49-05:002021-05-03T16:15:16-05:00When Love Fails and Christ’s People Fuss
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<p><strong>I</strong>f heaven were not already Paradise, the mere fact that no misunderstanding will mar its joy would make it heavenly.</p>
<p>Drat it! I got word recently of yet another misunderstanding and its sad fruit: broken relationships, deep hurt, and the waste of precious energy that could be put to far better use.</p>
<p>Careful now, lest you think I’m writing about anyone we might both know.</p>
<p>Remember the story about the fellow in England who sent a note as a joke to his prominent acquaintances saying, “Flee! All is discovered!”? Within a week, they’d almost all left the country!</p>
<p>Broken relationships are so common that almost anyone who reads this might think, “Goodness gracious! He’s writing about me and . . .”</p>
<p>No, I’m not. But the lesson will fit us all.</p>
<p>As I understand the situation, a man—an exceptionally good man—got his feelings hurt. He was disappointed by something that happened in his church (a Presbyterian church, not that the brand makes an atom’s worth of difference) with which he disagreed seriously. His disappointment turned to anger when he realized that his pastor and most of the folks in the church felt he’d over-reacted. He responded by over-reacting, effectively cutting himself off from those who thought he’d loved them as family. He had, but this time, his love failed, and the ground became fertile for a crop of bitterness.</p>
<p>Nope, I won’t tell you about the presenting issue behind the fuss and the fracture. I’ve long thought that the best lesson from the two good sisters’ fuss the Apostle Paul mentions in Philippians 4 is that nobody remembers or cares why they fussed; the point is that they did, and they shouldn’t have.</p>
<p>Even if the offended man I’m thinking of here was right, he was wrong. That he allowed his scruples to fracture the fellowship was far worse than the issue at hand.</p>
<p>In this case, almost no one else at his church thought the issue as serious as did he, and it’s a good church (not one given to regular in-fighting) which warns me that even a fine person can be beset by carnal pride that says, aloud or not, “I’m wiser, more scrupulous, more committed, than all of you; I can even turn my back on you and feel holy.”</p>
<p>How desperately Christians need to read one of the most practical chapters in all of the Bible: Romans 14. Gray areas in which equally committed Christians make different decisions have always been difficult for the church to handle. But St. Paul and God’s Spirit in Romans 14 point to the way to deal with precisely such matters, and say plainly: Love each other. Don’t judge each other. You are all saved by grace and grace alone. Uniformity of practice is not required. Love is.</p>
<p>Life is too short and the Christian family too precious to be fractured by the pious piffle Satan builds up in our minds as being all-important. How much of it is really more important than our unity in Christ?</p>
<p>God can use people with strong personalities. Thank God when they’re right. Watch out when they’re wrong. “Those readiest to die for a cause easily become those readiest to kill for it.”</p>
<p>And it might do us good to ponder the fact that, ever since Christ died, the first folks to show up with hammer and nails at any crucifixion are the “spiritual” folks who consider themselves more righteous than the believers at the other end of the pew.</p>
<p>When we fuss, unbelievers see it and Christ is dishonored. Is the fight worth it? In my experience, almost never.</p>
<p>Oh, Lord, why would you want petty humans like us in your church? Wouldn’t angels have caused a lot less turmoil?</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66147702021-04-26T22:15:34-05:002021-04-26T23:00:13-05:00A Conversation With the Apostle Thomas
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<p><strong>A</strong>h, Thomas, I hate to mention this, but you could have saved yourself a great deal of trouble if you’d have just hung with the rest of the disciples on that first Easter evening.</p>
<p>You wouldn’t believe the spin lots of folks have put on the fact that you weren’t there that night. Yes, I know one would think that people would give an apostle of Christ the benefit of the doubt, so to speak. What? Oh, yes, a rather bad choice of words. Sorry.</p>
<p>But you would be the first to admit, I’m sure, that you apostles as a whole didn’t look too shiny for a while there. I mean, Judas . . . Well, you know. And Peter pretty much threw in the towel. Three times. Cussing like a sailor. Or maybe a fisherman. Most of the guys scattered like quail. And then you sort of skip church. I know it wasn’t to sleep in, take out the boat or RV, or [fill in the blank with] bounce, pass, putt, throw, toss, hit, volley, kick, lob, or otherwise play with a ball, or even to nurse the dog who looked maybe a bit pale that morning.</p>
<p>You know what I mean when I say that the Bible only says that you weren’t there when the risen Lord amazed your apostolic compadres. The madres, the gals, had already tried to tell your friends that they’d seen Jesus, and he was alive again! But the macho guys wouldn’t believe them. “Silly women,” they said, until Jesus appeared in the room with them and scared them silly. Then, “giddy as schoolgirls” themselves, bubbling with joy, they almost bowl you over with the news when you show up.</p>
<p>And again, by the way, where were you?</p>
<p>The folks who call you “doubting Thomas” imply that . . . Oh, you didn’t know about that? Sorry, but I’m afraid that’s the title you’ve been stuck with. Those folks seem to take it for granted that you were off doing something you shouldn’t have been doing just then. Sitting on a bar stool or playing golf or something, I guess. And your reaction when your drunk with joy companions assail you with the almost-too-good-to-be-true news—“Unless I put my finger where the nails were, . . .” really hasn’t played very well.</p>
<p>Yes, I know you’ve always been a low key sort, a non-pep-rally type whose turn of personality is to focus more on holes than donuts. But, yes, I also know that you’re a good man in a pinch. You’ll be glad to know that John remembered to record in his Gospel the fact that you were the only one who said, “Let’s go with him!” when all of you thought going back to Bethany with Jesus would mean sure death. And I guess it did. Christ’s death.</p>
<p>Maybe I’m wrong, but I like the idea my brother once shared with me. He thinks you weren’t with the guys that night because you loved him so much and his death had so broken you that you couldn’t stand to be with anybody as they prattled and rattled on. You needed to be by yourself.</p>
<p>I know for sure that I’m right when I say your statement of faith when you did see Christ—“You are my Lord and my God!”—is incredibly strong, one of the most noteworthy statements of faith ever uttered, and I’m with you as you’re with Christ. To draw breath is to put faith in something or someone, even if just ourselves (and that’s sad—and naïve). To live takes faith, and if faith in Christ is a mistake, I think it’s far less a mistake than the alternatives.</p>
<p>So just between us, I guess I’m glad you weren’t there at first, because, well, when the evidence comes in for you, it comes in for me, too. </p>
<p>Don’t broadcast this, but I’ve had some doubts myself.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66088372021-04-19T22:59:26-05:002021-04-20T00:15:12-05:00“We’re Still Friends If You Disagree”
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<p><strong>S</strong>ince this column has my name on it, this should be obvious: The opinions expressed herein are simply my own to own.</p>
<p>G. K. Chesterton died far too long ago for me to tell him, in this life anyway, how much I love his writing. I do indeed love his way with words and his wit regarding politics (and everything else).</p>
<p>Regarding government in general, he writes, “All government is an ugly necessity.”</p>
<p>Regarding politics, he recommends, “What we should try to do is make politics as local as possible. Keep the politicians near enough to kick them.”</p>
<p>And he continues, deciding that a kick may be inadequate: “It is terrible to contemplate how few politicians are hanged.”</p>
<p>His only error, I think, is in giving politicians too much slack.</p>
<p>I’ve taken a few of those online “political typology” quizzes, and I invariably fall into the “Core Conservative” category, a group that accounts for only about 13% of the general population. I’m an even rarer species if you take into account a couple of big elections in which 95% of the 13% and I aren’t exactly on the same page. (Being hard to categorize is fine with me.)</p>
<p>“Core conservatives” have fallen on hard times, but I guess I am one. I’d like to see us actually try free enterprise sometime. I believe that capitalism with its many faults has far fewer faults than any alternatives. It seems clear to me that most governmental attempts to “end poverty” perpetuate the problem and end up being incredibly cruel even as they salve the consciences of well-off elites who need the help to feel good about themselves. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to me that to vote, folks need to provide the same I.D. they’d need to buy beer or write on themselves with tattoos. I confess: I’ve never been sure why our nation is in any way blessed by “Motor Voter” registration. I don’t think registering should be hard, but if I don’t care enough about voting to at least <em>actively</em> register, maybe I should bless our republic and my fellow citizens by staying home.</p>
<p>So I guess the surveys have me correctly “filed.” No wonder I chuckle with Chesterton about politicians. I am, I admit, a tad squeamish about hangings. A worse fate for politicians these days might be to hang them only if they break out of the luxury hotel we lock them into for a forced vacation where they’re required to actually talk to each other. (Personally, I’d still vote to hang the ones, either party, whose now customary post-election whining about “stolen elections” is equally annoying.)</p>
<p>I do mean a “luxurious” hotel or resort. Make it nice. Beyond comfortable. (But no hiding in rooms. Conversation between political enemies is required.) Feed them well, even lavishly. If we could get them to really talk, human to human (a few may have some humanity left and not be entirely plastic), this would be an incredibly worthwhile use of taxpayer dollars.</p>
<p>Political talk would be off-limits. (Shock collars?) Talk about families, kids, grandkids, and pets, encouraged. No lectures, just maybe board games and conversation over jigsaw puzzles or even cigars, by those not offended by such incense. (Ya know, peace has often broken out over a little legal smoke. <em>Peace</em> pipes.)</p>
<p>I wondered about offering bowling or darts, but overt competition and sharp objects probably should be avoided. Cornhole?</p>
<p>Two weeks, I’d say. On the second, they could be ferried to another fine resort for a change in scenery. Cheap at any price.</p>
<p>During the whole time, no phones. No staff. No calls to staff. No media. No mail, in or out. No grandstanding for fawning followers. No fund-raising letters disguised as surveys written for dunces who can’t spot a rigged question, who can’t wait to be manipulated, and who can’t wait to send checks.</p>
<p>I think my proposal would help us all. Some among “us all” are surely equally committed Christians who hold a wide variety of political viewpoints. We need to remember who our King is and, as one wise person said, realize that “salvation does not arrive on Air Force One.”</p>
<p>The Apostle Paul commands us (1 Timothy 2) to pray for our rulers (one of his was the Emperor Nero who would later kill him) so that we may live “peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness.” I like the sound of that.</p>
<p>Anyway, don’t you think that folks from both the ultra-left and the ultra-right have more in common than they like to think? Looking for “salvation” in politics, they take themselves far too seriously to be able to laugh healthy, good-hearted, face-fully-involved laughs, and they almost never utter five syllables: “But I could be wrong.”</p>
<p>Well, I could be wrong. But, for my part, we’re still friends if you disagree.</p>
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<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/66030112021-04-13T11:56:46-05:002021-04-13T14:30:23-05:00Won’t It Be Nice to Be Out of Time?
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<p><strong>W</strong>on’t it be nice to be out of time?</p>
<p>Say what?</p>
<p>I’m serious, and I repeat: Won’t it be nice to be out of time?</p>
<p>I don’t wonder that you’re confused. You’re probably thinking: Whaddaya mean? “Nice” to be out of time? I find myself “out of time” innumerable times every week, and running out of time may be many things, but “nice” is not one of them. Try another word, Bucko!</p>
<p>How about “frustrating”?</p>
<p>Maddening? Depressing? Infuriating?</p>
<p>I think all of those words well describe how most of us feel when we “run out of time.”</p>
<p>A job to do.</p>
<p>A test to take.</p>
<p>A vacation to enjoy.</p>
<p>A conversation to savor.</p>
<p>A flavor to savor.</p>
<p>A letter to write.</p>
<p>A book to write.</p>
<p>A book to read.</p>
<p>A race to run.</p>
<p>A game to play.</p>
<p>A nap to nap.</p>
<p>A puppy to hug.</p>
<p>A marriage to delight in.</p>
<p>A child to raise.</p>
<p>A grandchild to snuggle with.</p>
<p>A laugh to laugh again.</p>
<p>A friendship to nurture.</p>
<p>A story to tell.</p>
<p>A time to say, “I love you.”</p>
<p>A life to live.</p>
<p>And you can add plenty of items to my list. But don’t take too long, or . . . you’ll run out of time.</p>
<p>The bell will ring.</p>
<p>The alarm will go off.</p>
<p>The vacation will end.</p>
<p>The job will lose its joy.</p>
<p>The time for the laughter will be lost.</p>
<p>The strength you need to play the game will vanish.</p>
<p>The friendship will be fractured or the friend long gone.</p>
<p>The marriage, still cherished, will be over because marriage takes two and one has stopped breathing.</p>
<p>The marriage, now bitter, will be over because marriage takes two and one has run away and trampled on vows.</p>
<p>Ah, we’re always running out of time—until the day we really run out of time when the “grim reaper” visits and . . .</p>
<p>I was bemoaning to my brother the other day that I had one week in which to do the work of two. It’s so hard to get ready to be out of town; you almost wonder if it’s worth the effort. It is. But my email to him ended, “It’s always so hard to get off [on a trip]!”</p>
<p>His reply: “Not if you have a heart attack, like the guy I’m burying this afternoon. He’s off! Too bad that’s what it takes to finally stop the race.”</p>
<p>Hmm. So we run, and run, and run. I sometimes wonder if we run so hard lest we ever have to slow down . . . and think . . . and ask ourselves if what we’re running after is really worth the race. We can’t even seem to rustle up the courage and the discipline necessary to turn our cell phones off for one whole meal and be fully present with our companions, much less the courage to stop and consider why we’re always running.</p>
<p>Do we ever give any thought to taking a vacation of a different sort occasionally that is actually designed for rest and not just diversion (by which I mean just a different sort of fast-paced busy-ness than our usual business)?</p>
<p>We tend to just run. And run. And then the time comes when we run “out of time.” Sad.</p>
<p>But this is also true: For those who’ve taken the time to center their faith on the eternal God of Heaven, surely one of Heaven’s best blessings will be to be “out of time.” Truly. And to have all eternity to drink in God’s joy and do, well, anything that brings Him glory and magnifies His—and your—eternal joy forever.</p>
<p>No tears there, we’re told. No clock-watching, either.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65948982021-04-05T12:38:06-05:002021-04-05T15:30:15-05:00Resurrection Power Transforms the Ordinary
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<p><strong>“H</strong>e is risen!”</p>
<p>“He is risen indeed!”</p>
<p>Such power is difficult to imagine. We read the Gospel accounts and try to view the scenes in our mind’s eye. Mind-boggling.</p>
<p>Pick any of the events of that first Holy Week. Some are obviously filled with meaning and mystery. Some seem rather mundane, almost commonplace for that time and place, until the Gospel writers and Christ himself pull back the curtain just a bit. Any Passover meal is already deeply meaningful and symbolic, but listen to Jesus’ words at that Last Supper, watch him wash the disciples’ feet, break the bread, drink the cup, and infuse it all with a depth of meaning and mystery that, yes, boggles the mind.</p>
<p>As Jesus walks through that week, time seems to slow as God himself invests each moment with eternal meaning. It’s as if the passing moments of our ordinary weeks hold the water we need for our lives and our journeys, but the Lord of all transforms the moments of that week of weeks into vessels filled with the most exquisite wine.</p>
<p>Yes, time slows.</p>
<p>Christ Jesus, fully human, does what divinity could never do: he dies. Christ Jesus, fully divine, does what no human could never do: he takes on himself, quite literally (oh, don’t ask me how!) all of the sin and guilt of the world.</p>
<p>Every moment of that week is mind-boggling and mystery-infused. Filled with God-chosen donkeys, adoring crowds crying loud “Hosannas,” curse-hurling mobs shouting themselves hoarse begging for blood, the Passover Lamb leading the meal and lifting the cup and pronouncing, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood” (Luke 22:20).</p>
<p>And so much more.</p>
<p>The moments of that week shimmer and glow, charged with God-glory and Spirit-mystery, holiness and power. Amazing, how the ordinary becomes truly extraordinary that week, every cup a Holy Grail. </p>
<p> And so our minds are boggled, our wits overwhelmed, as we try to take all of this in. What is God doing at that moment? Oh, did you see that!? Why would he do that? How could he possibly make that happen? Can you imagine the power it took for even God to accomplish that?”</p>
<p>How? Why? Wow!</p>
<p>In the midst of it all—all the holiness and divinity, all the power, all the wonder and majesty, the meaning and the mystery—I keep coming back also to . . .</p>
<p>Well, I find myself fascinated by what Christ’s power does in the lives of the weak and ordinary. People like me.</p>
<p>The apostles Jesus says in Matthew 19:28 will one day sit on glorious thrones (ah, there’s some mystery for you!) were looking pretty ordinary during that first Holy Week. As a young person, I admit that I found it rather extraordinary that Peter and James and John could fall asleep when their Lord, wrestling in agony in the Garden of Gethsemane, so needed them to “watch and pray” with him. Now, perhaps less full of myself and more aware of God’s grace for ordinary people and our deep need for his grace and power every moment, I look back at the events leading up to their eye-drooping, and I’m right with them. I’d have slept, too. Of that I’m sure. I couldn’t have helped it.</p>
<p>But our extraordinary Lord is more than able to redeem even our weakest moments and our worst and most human failures.</p>
<p>Perhaps that’s the most amazing thing of all, what Christ’s Resurrection does to transform even the most seemingly ordinary people and events and moments of our lives into the truly extraordinary.</p>
<p>The mundane becomes the vessel for mystery. Water becomes wine. Wine becomes blood. Blood becomes salvation.</p>
<p> And Jesus Christ, betrayed and murdered and lifted up on a cross, becomes the exalted Lord of all. Even a tomb becomes an incubator for glory.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65876612021-03-28T22:19:51-05:002021-03-28T22:30:06-05:00“Then Simon Peter Drew His Sword”
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<p><strong>“I</strong> could be wrong to swing this sword, but swing it I will! Try to arrest my Lord, if you will, but this sword says that there will be blood!”</p>
<p>Was something like that going through the Apostle Peter’s head when, in the Garden of Gethsemane, he drew his sword and swung it to defend his Lord?</p>
<p>An armed “detachment of soldiers and some officials from the chief priests and the Pharisees” (John 18:3), lit with torches and adrenaline, had come to arrest Jesus. It seemed clear to Peter that this was the time to cock his sword, take it off “safety,” and swing. Or something like that.</p>
<p>I don’t think he was thinking much, just taking what seemed like a natural and reasonable defensive action. If he’d been more soldier than fisherman, would he have swung harder and taken better aim? Would Malchus, the chief priest’s servant, have been headless instead of just shorn of his starboard ear? Was the swing half-hearted? Or full-out but ham-handed?</p>
<p>I don’t know. I do know that Jesus quickly told the big fisherman to put away his sword: “Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?” (18:11). And then the Lord miraculously, graciously, reattached the whomper-eared servant’s outer auditory apparatus. And that’s pretty much the last we hear about Malchus, his ear, and Peter’s sword.</p>
<p>I doubt that Malchus was a particularly bad guy. He was following the wrong leaders, but he had lots of company in that. He’d evidently done his job well enough that he’d risen to a position of responsibility. He must have been right amongst the front line of the arresters to have been such a readily available target for Peter’s blade.</p>
<p>I must admit that, from my childhood, I’ve always been glad that at least somebody that night did something that made some sense. Jesus will go quietly. He’ll let his enemies take him. He’ll be mostly mute while they lie about him, beat him, and taunt him. He’ll let them nail him to a cross and kill him. Before he dies, he’ll even ask his Father to forgive them.</p>
<p>I can’t imagine doing any of that. What I can imagine is joining Peter and adding to his sword any weapon at my disposal.</p>
<p>I can imagine feeling just as the disciples did. What we need is firepower! More swords! Jesus had entered Jerusalem to shouts of “Hosanna!” Wasn’t it time now for the revolution to begin in earnest, time for Christ to publicly establish his kingdom?</p>
<p>But they didn’t understand. And, admit it, it’s hard to understand even now.</p>
<p>Swords and their modern equivalents are quite necessary in this fallen world. One day, swords will be “beaten into plowshares” (and tanks turned into tractors?), but not yet.</p>
<p>And it still takes something called faith, as we wait for God’s kingdom to come in all its fullness and “every tongue confess that Jesus is Lord,” for us to realize that the “rule and the reign” of Christ in our hearts can begin for any one of us at any moment. Right here. Right now. We can experience his peace and his presence whether we are treated fairly, or get all of our rights, or are healthy and wealthy and comfortable, and in charge.</p>
<p>Though I’m immensely thankful for the nation in which I live, Christ’s peace can be full and rich in the hearts of his children regardless of their earthly citizenship or any external circumstances. His kingdom is far more powerful, more real, and infinitely longer lasting than the best, or the most evil, of earthly kingdoms. His peace transcends any time, any place, any circumstance.</p>
<p>Oh, we want justice and truth, and, yes, mercy and fair play, all to hold sway. One eternal day, they will.</p>
<p>Until then, I need to think a lot more about what it means for Christ’s kingdom to come—already, yet again, each day—in my heart.</p>
<p>It seems to me that right now, especially during this Holy Week, some more thinking about that dark night in Gethsemane, focusing on our Lord, and, yes, even pondering a bit more about Peter and Malchus, might be my Lord’s way to teach me how to be a better citizen of his eternal kingdom.</p>
<p>My ear is fine. It’s my heart that needs healing.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65818482021-03-22T18:24:25-05:002021-03-22T19:30:19-05:00“Lord, I Believe; Help My Unbelief!”
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<p><strong>T</strong>he people of faith who impress me the most are the people who are the least impressed with their own faith.</p>
<p>Folks like this are slow to throw down glib and easy answers to life’s hardest questions. They’re quick to be present, mostly in silence, as they put an arm around a friend facing one of life’s genuine tragedies and offer real tears, but they’re slow to show up to add verbal drizzle and plastic platitudes that, well-meant or not, make a horrible situation even worse.</p>
<p>One of the most impressive people of faith in the New Testament is the father in Mark 9 who is completely unimpressed with his own faith. He’s not one of those self-confidently “spiritual” folks who have all the answers, rock-solid “faith,” and are always the first to show up religiously with more nails at the site of any opponent’s crucifixion.</p>
<p>No, this guy is just an ordinary guy, and he knows it. (Oh, how much extraordinary courage we can see daily in the lives of ordinary people, if we just look!) But he’s long dealt with serious heartache as he’s had to helplessly watch his son being victimized by terrible affliction. His hope is almost gone; he’s just about down to empty, running on fumes.</p>
<p>And then Jesus comes.</p>
<p>Truth be told, Christ’s disciples had shown up first, attempted a healing, and failed so miserably that they had just about exhausted the patience of their Lord (read about it in Mark 9).</p>
<p>But this ordinary man bypasses the failed apostles and goes right to the top, desperate: “Lord, if you can do anything . . .”</p>
<p>“‘If I can do anything?’” Jesus replies. “Everything is possible to him who believes.”</p>
<p>Then comes from this ordinary man a statement, a pattern, I think, of real faith: “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!” He humbly asks, and Jesus heals.</p>
<p>I like this guy. I like his “lack.” He knows that his faith is lacking, but I like his lack of pretense. I like his lack of whatever were then the popular pious phrases of the “spiritual” folks. I like his lack of guile. I like his lack of reliance on the self-help “mental gymnastics” some folks equate with faith as they try to snooker themselves into “belief” that if they work hard enough to believe enough, the Lord will give them just the answer they want. I love this man’s simple request. And, yes, I love the Lord’s answer, the Son’s healing of the son.</p>
<p>It’s rather amazing how little of what we hear about faith describes the real thing. Skeptics are religious about charging that it’s devoid of reason. That simply is not true.</p>
<p>And, far too often, believers twist it into something more akin to magic than real faith. Say the right words in the properly worked up frame of mind and we can manipulate the Almighty? I doubt it. Real faith means allowing God’s love and power to act on us; it is not a tool we can use to act on him.</p>
<p>I have a great deal to learn about faith. I need more faith to pray for more wisdom. I need more faith to pray for more patience when my prayers are not answered as quickly as I like or in the ways that I like. I need more faith to pray that the Lord will help me to understand that often what I ask for is not what I need. I need more faith to pray to be less impatient and less angry when the answer seems not to come at all or comes in a package I’d very much like to “return to sender.” And I need more faith to pray for eyes to see the memercy-filled answers that have already come and a heart to be filled with gratitude for the wonderful answers that will come.</p>
<p>Even when faith questions and prayer perplexities drive me nuts, I need to remember what my Father has done, that he is always good, that he is always loving, and that I am always his. I need more faith to know that, while I may be in a difficult chapter, the end of the story the Author has in mind is utterly delightful.</p>
<p>But, yes, what a great prayer for a father at the end of his rope and a child like me: “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!”</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65746502021-03-15T13:14:13-05:002021-03-15T17:15:09-05:00“Roused, Am I Waked, Woken, or Woke?”
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<p><strong>I</strong> am a self-confessed English major. And I’m choosing words carefully here, words that in our present cultural climate serve as—take your pick—solemn and grim warnings, red stop signs surrounded by flashing lights, cease and desist orders complete with dire penalties lawyer-littered in pages of small print.</p>
<p>I am [pause here for display of deep emotion as a substitute for rational thinking] <em>concerned</em>.</p>
<p>I am [pause here for display of deep emotion as a substitute for rational thinking] <em>troubled</em>.</p>
<p>I am, yea, verily [pause here, well, you know, but wait for the ominous pronouncement by which I stop you in your tracks and transport you into self-loathing, guilt, and endless soul-searching for ways to make some small, ineffectual atonement for your general wretchedness and that of your horrid ancestors] <em>offended</em>.</p>
<p>As an English major, what offends me at this very moment, though goodness knows the whole universe is too small to contain the list of items and ideas sensitive people like myself might be offended by these days . . .</p>
<p>What offends me presently is yet another attack by “progressives” on an upstanding and honorable word that has done nothing to merit such sullying, such besmirching. I won’t list many examples, lest anyone else become more concerned, troubled, or offended than a tender human soul could, these days, be expected to bear. But how long ago is it now that we could sing on a fine Yuletide that phrase in “Deck the Halls” about donning “lively and exuberant” apparel and not snicker? I snicker not, that sweet little word deserved better before it was plucked and had its primary definition plundered.</p>
<p>By contrast, the word I’m thinking of now, I must admit, has long been something of a problem child. The conjugation of the English verb “wake” has always confused me. Add “up” to it, and it gets worse. Throw in English usage versus American usage. Even worse. (Google it, if you want your brain to bleed.)</p>
<p>The “simple indicative past” conjugation is simple: I woke; you woke; he, she, or it (or whatever gender said entity woke up feeling like today) woke; etc. But get much past that and you’ll soon find yourself amongst a head-boggling variety of forms: “waked,” “woke,” “wakened,” etc. Whoa! No, woe.</p>
<p>Already complicated, the poor word has been twisted dreadfully by the incredibly religious self-righteous fundamentalists of political correctness (IRSRFPC?). Trampling roughshod over the English language and this poor word, they call themselves “woke.” Why not “the awakened”? They’re an incredibly loud lot to be so hazy and sleepy intellectually, albeit completely confident in their wokeness, waked-up-ness, awakedness. Of all generations, wisdom and virtue have finally found a home in them. The woke. The waked. The awakened. They’re—sing it to an Elvis tune—“all waked up, oh, yeah!”</p>
<p>What an odd religion. A faith all “woked” up but with eyes sewed tightly shut.</p>
<p>It’s nothing new. Just the latest iteration of the idol worship and the chanting worshipers the Apostle Paul wrote about who “claiming to be wise, became fools” (Romans 1:22).</p>
<p>I need a nap. Wokeness (who knows these days if that’s a word?) is not only tedious, mind-numbing, ignorant, boring, and tiresome, it’s incredibly tiring.</p>
<p>Please wake me up in thirty minutes, and I’ll jump up singing, “I’m all waked up!” Or is that “all woke up”? Let me sleep on it.</p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65684642021-03-08T17:43:37-06:002021-03-08T19:30:24-06:00“True Confession: I Am an English Major”
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<p><strong>I</strong> am an English major.</p>
<p>I am an English major who wears many hats in my work and the various aspects of it, but most of them are colored by the fact that, as I mention yet again just before I step off a verbal cliff and fall into triple redundancy, I am an English major.</p>
<p>My wife married me anyway. She says that as a young lass she’d always thought she’d marry a preacher or a farmer. I’ve long wondered why a girl would dream of a life almost guaranteed to produce very modest financial gain. And to set those last four words in boldface type, she chose a preacher/English major. For a wise woman who is now a judge, this choice seems evidence of a serious lack of judgment, but I am eternally thankful for it.</p>
<p>I love words. I like working with them, choosing them, hunting them, bagging them, and lining them up. Except for working with foul and voracious deadlines always hounding, drooling hot-breathed down my neck, I like living a life where I write sermons, columns, essays, devotional magazine copy, and an occasional book. I write them, edit them, proofread them, stack them, lay them out in lines of print copy, design pages for them, and live with them. When words are not driving me crazy, eluding me, mocking me, and making my brain bleed, I am in awe of them, their friendship, and their magic.</p>
<p>I often wonder why so many people who seem bored or perplexed or tired don’t open a book and look for the words that will launch them into a great story, soul-growing refreshment, and even impart a little, or a lot, of wisdom. Such words are readily available. Yes, I know that it’s easy to fall into a cesspool of verbal sewage. Just as you can join very foolish people poisoning their souls with “music” boasting “explicit lyrics” and a nihilistic view of life leading, predictably, to despair, you can choose worthless and/or vile words. But you don’t have to. Music infused with beauty and joy is still available.</p>
<p>Likewise, many wonderful word-streams, sweetly teeming with life, still flow. Yet too often we blindly trudge on, heads down, eyes glued to the phones that own us. We are twits tweeting and texting on, parched with thirst, complaining that we live in a desert when water is everywhere; we are making such good time on the road to nowhere that we just won’t stop to drink.</p>
<p>Words, to change the metaphor, are a time machine to jail-break us from the tyranny of living always blinded by the foolishness of our own era; they are a highway to the wisdom of the ages. They are a view through the eyes of the most amazing people who have ever lived and whose innermost ideas still speak; we do well to listen. </p>
<p>But back to the earthly for a moment. Are you tired of this world? For heaven’s sake, then, why spend all of your time in it? Feeling locked up in, say, a funk or maybe the occasional pandemic? Pick the lock with a book! Go to Middle Earth, or Narnia, or any of a million marvelous places. Want to go to Mars? Why wait for NASA or for Elon Musk to build (as he will, I think) a starship that doesn’t explode? I’ve been to Mars many times with paper and ink or an e-book as the only launch vehicles. No astronaut training required. No English degree, either. Just the ability and desire to read and launch.</p>
<p>I do admit that English majors can be an eccentric lot. I have a t-shirt emblazoned with the words: “The Oxford Comma: Fighting ambiguity, confusion, and bad grammar since 1853.” I love that shirt and feel deeply about its message. You, too, can order one. Amazon lists it under the sub-category “nerd shirts.” But how one handles commas used in words in a series matters. (Just do an internet search for “Oxford Comma.”)</p>
<p>English majors have strong feelings about such issues. I’m sure bar fights have ensued. The stakes are crucial: “Let’s eat Grandma” versus “Let’s eat, Grandma.” You see? Commas can save lives.</p>
<p>It is no accident that God’s Son himself is the Word incarnate and that the Father chose the written word as an amazing way to reveal to us his Son, his will, and his deep joy in his children and in all of his creation.</p>
<p>Yes, I love words. Most amazing, though, is that the Word loves us.</p>
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<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65613082021-02-28T18:33:17-06:002021-02-28T18:45:04-06:00God Has No Problem Identifying His Children
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<p><strong>D</strong>uring one of the most famous battles ever fought, the World War II “Battle of the Bulge,” the Germans made use of a battalion of men commanded by Major Otto Skorzeny, “the most daring commando in the German army.”</p>
<p>According to author Stephen Ambrose in his book <em>Citizen Soldier</em>, 500 or so volunteers from that battalion were dressed in American uniforms and dispatched across the lines to wreak havoc and confusion, perpetrate mischief, and cause misery and mayhem in any way possible. They spread misinformation about German strength and troop movements to lower morale among the American troops, misdirect the Allies, and generally spread seeds of panic. They shifted directional signposts to wrong directions to cause further confusion.</p>
<p>Ambrose writes that once the American troops realized what was happening, the word spread amazingly quickly: “Trust no one!” American soldiers, particularly Military Police, began to quiz anyone who looked suspicious or who was crossing a barricade, with such questions as, “Who plays center field for the Yankees?” (I’d have been shot as a spy if they’d asked me that one.) “Who is Mickey Mouse’s wife?” (I know; I’ve got granddaughters.) “What is the capital of Illinois?” (Ambrose says that even General Omar Bradley was detained for answering correctly, “Springfield.” The MP was sure it was Chicago.)</p>
<p>But the spy-detection gambit that most caught my interest had to do with a proofreading mistake (and proofreading mistakes are the bane of this minister/writer/editor’s existence!).</p>
<p>It seems that a German in an American officer’s uniform was stopped at a roadblock. The man’s English was flawless. In fact, many of Skorzeny’s men had spent some time living in America or Britain; one wonders how much trouble we could save ourselves if we’d just quit training our enemies.</p>
<p>This guy’s identification papers were also perfect. In fact, it was the perfection of the German forger who produced his papers that cost this man his life as he was later shot as a spy.</p>
<p>Ambrose says that the authentic Adjutant General’s I.D. card that all American soldiers carried had at its top these printed words: “NOT A PASS. FOR INDENTIFICATION ONLY.” But the German forger had corrected the typically efficient bureaucratic spelling mistake and taken out the offending “N” so that the spy’s card read, correctly but fatally, “IDENTIFICATION.”</p>
<p>I am thankful that God the Father has no problem at all correctly identifying his children. We may get our bloomers all bunched up and fuss about various rituals and rites, some of which are beautiful, meaningful, and God-prescribed (but not for arguing about).</p>
<p>But the Apostle Paul makes it quite clear (read his letter to the Galatians) that the real proof that we’re God’s children is not ritual-based (as beautiful and meaningful as rituals can be): it is centered on God’s Spirit living in our hearts, giving us life, and producing wonderful fruit, proof positive that we’re God’s people.</p>
<p>Oops! Did I say God has no trouble “identifying” his children? Maybe you’d better make that “indentifying.”</p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65561182021-02-22T21:21:15-06:002021-02-23T00:00:18-06:00“Lord, Even If Everyone Fails You, I Never Will!”
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="alignright size-large"><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2021/02/apostles_asleep.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2021/02/apostles_asleep.jpg?w=201" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></figure></div>
<p><strong>S</strong>irens. Lots of them.</p>
<p>I might not have heard them, but one of my sons and I were engaged in a dart game or a few out in the garage. The recent blizzard had receded. We had the garage door open. And we started hearing sirens.</p>
<p>I didn’t know exactly what had happened, but it was pretty certainly something pretty bad. I still don’t know, but some other friends who were outside that evening told me the next day that they’d actually heard the sounds of a massive crash, metal into metal, vehicle into vehicle, that preceded the sirens. The highway intersection is a couple of miles away and has for years offered regular and plentiful opportunities for wrecks.</p>
<p>Oh, there’s a stop sign or two on one of the roads. But you’ve been driving for miles and miles of nothing. You start out in a state where the authorities don’t think you can manage more than 55 mph. Were it not for cruise control, I don’t know many mortals who can possibly keep their craft at 55. I’d be impressed if you could set it at 60 and manage keep your foot from nudging the accelerator.</p>
<p>Then you crawl across the state line and are welcomed to 75 mph. That, honestly, may be a little fast, but it feels like somebody just took the practice weights off your bat and you can finally swing. You’ve been slogging through snow uphill in your boots (to pick up a lost glove?), but now you’ve got your skis on again, and . . . yes!</p>
<p>But even at that speed, the miles add up slowly, the scenery is nondescript, pretty much nonexistent, and boring. The hum of the road, the swaying of your craft, and the weight of your eyelids all conspire against you. And suddenly, stop signs and a T into a bigger and busier highway. If all goes as it should, you stop. But too often, “it” doesn’t, and folks don’t. And bad things happen. </p>
<p>The Apostle Peter wasn’t the only one at the wreck. He wasn’t the only one who blew past more than a few warning signs. But he was the apostle who flew right on past the first crash into an even bigger one.</p>
<p>It had been a crazy and mind-boggling week. They’d just eaten the Passover meal in that “upper room.” Their Lord had been saying some incredibly perplexing, and now troubling, things—even more often than usual.</p>
<p>They’d gone out to the Mount of Olives, and Jesus had predicted, and I’m paraphrasing, “Before this is over (and it won’t be over when you think it is), you’ll all desert me.”</p>
<p>Peter had bristled, “Lord, even if the rest of this crew fails you, I never will! I’ll die first!”</p>
<p>With tired but loving eyes, Jesus says, “No, a rooster will crow twice first, and you’ll deny—thrice.”</p>
<p>They trudge to Gethsemane. And Jesus asks Peter, James, and John to “keep watch and pray” as, a little way away, he struggles in poignant prayer. And three times he returns to find that no one, including Peter who’d blustered, “I’ll die rather than deny!” has even been able to stay awake.</p>
<p>Lessons abound. But maybe one of the most important is that we need to be careful not to blow past the warning signs the Lord always give us, particularly perhaps when we are feeling quite “spiritual,” certainly a cut above the rest, and a bit impressed with our own deep devotion.</p>
<p>Lulled into complacency, we can easily doze off, blast past the signs, and right into a wreck.</p>
<p>You know, of course, that Jesus would pick up the pieces. Peter would do great work and, yes, die for his Lord.</p>
<p>But on this night, Peter the Rock crumbled, slept, and then denied.</p>
<p>If that can happen to the Apostle Peter when he is, not coincidentally, feeling spiritually strong and full of himself, I’m thinking I need nothing less than Christ’s power to stay awake and keep my eyes open to stop signs, my ears open to sirens, and my heart open to humility.</p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65490722021-02-15T12:00:29-06:002021-02-15T13:00:26-06:00“This Router Is Not Rated for Dental Work
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="alignright size-large"><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2021/02/caution_hot.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2021/02/caution_hot.jpg?w=276" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></figure></div>
<p><strong>I</strong> don’t wish to be indelicate (gotcha; those words guarantee an audience as surely as “Viewer Discretion Advised”), but it’s increasingly difficult to venture out of your house and not step into a pile of . . . lawyer droppings.</p>
<p>Neither can you drink a cup of coffee; buy a garden hose, wheelbarrow, or power tool; install a computer program; take a pill; or breathe—without encountering what might more politely be called “lawyer litter.”</p>
<p>Maybe it could just as easily be called “jury junk.”</p>
<p>Don’t you find it desirable that your McDonald’s coffee be hot? Good. Me, too. But, famously, that most fatuous of juries awarded a pile of fool’s gold to a woman who should have taken her coffee cold. Now every cup of McDonald’s java, and most other brands, has lawyer droppings on its side.</p>
<p>It never occurred to me when I bought a garden hose months ago that it might be invigorating to jam that thing down my throat and turn the water on full blast. No, but the lawyer litter printed on the tag seemed to indicate that somebody must have done just that—and then won a lawsuit. What’s more dangerous? A hose or a fool?</p>
<p>And surely you’ve heard the recent story about the stylish dingbat who ran out of hair spray and decided to use Gorilla Glue® spray adhesive—with predictable results. Could anyone be so dim-witted? Oh, yes! And I hear that she’s considering suing the company. Everyone’s a victim; even if we’re our own victims, somebody should pay, right? Don’t count the jury out; they may turn out to be more dense than the adhesive in the dimwit’s hair.</p>
<p>Journalist—and attorney— Catherine Crier once wrote an entire book about this sort of idiocy: “The law must be fair,” she writes. “It is not. A cigarette smoker gets cancer then collects billions of dollars because he can’t kick the habit while some pathetic drug addict goes to prison.”</p>
<p>She goes on: “The law must be reasonable. It is not.” And she mentions the label on a 13-inch wheelbarrow wheel: “Not intended for highway use.” Hmm. Or even crazier, the label on an electric router: “This product not intended for use as a dental drill.” Hmm. Dewalt® toothpaste?</p>
<p>To install a computer program, you’ve got to click “I accept,” referring to lawyer litter nobody reads and everybody, with a single mouse click, lies about reading.</p>
<p>I’d love to be able to watch TV and not spend half of the time enduring commercials about drugs designed to fight, well, some alphabet malady like PBL (Persistent Belly-button Lint). Moderate to severe. I guess I’m supposed to rush to my doctor to beg for anti-PBL drugs. I liked it better when he just prescribed what he thought best. But at least I’m warned about side effects such as itching, rash, oily discharge (my favorite), etc. I’m that under no circumstances should I take a drug I’m allergic to, though I’m left wondering how I can initially find that out. And I might die a terrible death because of this stuff, but the folks in the commercial seem incredibly happy—yea, verily, perky—in the midst of their maladies and the medicines that sound even worse.</p>
<p>I don’t wish to make fun of misery, but is anyone’s life complete these days without some three-letter-abbreviated malady and its corresponding and incredibly expensive medication, usually with three syllables, usually with the em-pha’-sis on the second? A book I recently read said that we have enough rare diseases—I think it said about 117 well-catalogued maladies, at least on that particular pernicious list—that any individual’s sad chances of coming up with a rare disease are actually pretty darn good. Or bad. And I figure the chances are about 90 percent that if I get a rare disease, it’ll be an XYZ three-letter malady.</p>
<p>Anyway, I once made a list of 25-30 trendy drug names from those annoying commercials (it didn’t take long to hear about dozens, along with their ghastly side effects), wrote them on cards, cut up the cards, divided them into three piles of first, second, and third syllables, and then reassembled them at random. They still all sound the same. Sensdistra. Litavtor. Alvanpril. Eljanztix. Trexlicort. Viliquin. Remdaxia. (Apologies if I’ve actually appropriated some company’s actual snake oil name.)</p>
<p>I have some great friends and family members who are lawyers. Good ones are great. I like them. And when you need one, you really need one. But not the litter.</p>
<p>Ah, well. We might as well admit to having more in common with our news-making dim-witted fellow humans than we’d care to recognize. Still, it’s probably best for us not to waste much time shaking our heads at pandemic-level MBF (mind-boggling foolishness) and the attendant lawyer litter.</p>
<p>Instead, let’s focus on that which is good and true and beautiful. God’s love and joy and delight are everywhere if we’ll keep our eyes open to look.</p>
<p></p>
<p><em>Lawyer Litter: Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65433272021-02-08T19:26:58-06:002021-02-08T21:45:14-06:00A Fine Winter Night Is a Wonderful Time to Look Up
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<p><strong>I</strong> love winter.</p>
<p>Plenty there is to love about each of the four seasons. The best features of each one are incredibly amazing and delightful and might tempt you to cast your vote once and for all: This season is my favorite!</p>
<p>Truth be told, each also comes with its own failings. Be ye frozen or boiled or dried out or almost blown away as the wind howls and rodents, small children, and acres of dirt fly across the landscape, it’s not fair to judge any of them—the seasons, I mean—by their worst failings. Each one is capable of gross misbehavior, but their very wildness, their predictable unpredictability, is part and parcel of what makes them amazing.</p>
<p>I tend to feel about them as I tend to feel about my grandchildren: Each of them has plenty of opportunities to be my favorite at any given moment—it all works out admirably—because my favorite at any given moment is the one I’m with. The season I’m with now is winter, and it is now my favorite.</p>
<p>Why do I feel mildly apologetic about that? I suppose because most of my fellow human beings are prone to disagree. But regarding this oft-slandered season, hear me out. (If you have cattle, just quit reading; I won’t convince you, nor would I try.)</p>
<p>Say what you may, winter has snow. I could rest my case here. Nothing in God’s good creation is more beautiful. Head to the mountains. Strap on sticks and play in it. Or just gaze out of the cabin window and watch the snowflakes gently falling.</p>
<p>And winter has fireplaces and cups of steaming coffee or tea and good books and old movies and warm homes or cabins to stay in. And Christmas. Oh, don’t forget Christmas!</p>
<p>So I hold before you—and now is the time to stand and applaud and exclaim “Hear, hear!”—the exemplary and time-honored season of winter.</p>
<p>Winter, may I also mention, is an incredibly fine time to step out onto your front porch at night, breathe in the wonderfully crisp air that reminds you that you’re still alive, and just look up. No sky is sharper, clearer, more beautiful than a winter sky. And the stars? Oh, they never shine more brightly.</p>
<p>As the story goes, told by naturalist William Beebe, he and Teddy Roosevelt, shared a ritual forty or fifty times over the years. After an evening of conversation, they’d step out onto the lawn and look up at “the faint, heavenly spot of light-mist beyond the lower left-hand corner of the Great Square of Pegasus,” when “one or the other of us would then recite” the lines of their familiar litany: “‘That is the Spiral Galaxy in Andromeda. It is as large as our Milky Way. It is one of a hundred million galaxies. It is 750,000 light-years away. It consists of one hundred billion suns, each larger than our sun.’”</p>
<p>Then, Beebe writes, “After an interval, Colonel Roosevelt would grin at me and say, ‘Now I think we are small enough! Let’s go to bed.’”</p>
<p>Contemplating the night sky is good medicine for mortals. Even old Job wrote, wounded and wide-eyed in the oldest book of the Bible, but feeling healthily small, about the God who “is the Maker of the Bear and Orion, the Pleiades and the constellations of the south” (9:9).</p>
<p>What a fine exercise and what deep and celestial truth for even earth-bound mortal minds to contemplate. It’s wise indeed to look up and be big enough to feel small—in any season. If your head doesn’t explode by taking in the universe, your heart will be quite healthily enlarged.</p>
<p>Yes, a good thing to do in any season. But maybe best of all when God sets before you a fine winter night and a sparkling sky. Even better if below, in a blanket of snow, ice crystals are twinkling out reflections from the diamond light drifting downward and washing over you. And around you. And into you. From galaxies far light-years away but as close as your own soul.</p>
<p>Look up. Just breathe. Close your eyes as stars tickle your nose. And give thanks.</p>
<p>After all, isn’t that what a wonderful winter night is for? </p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65366632021-02-01T14:16:35-06:002021-02-01T17:15:17-06:00“Update Is Installing Now: Don’t Touch That Plug!”
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<p><strong>S</strong>oftware update.</p>
<p>I love those, don’t you? Doesn’t it make you feel good to know that the folks who created your computer’s operating system are so completely on top of things that they’ve issued yet another update?</p>
<p>You were hoping to quit for the day. You were in the process of punching your computer’s lights out. And then that screen screams at you: “Stop! Whatever you do, don’t turn this thing off or unplug it! Incredibly important updates will now be downloaded and installed. Just wait! You had nothing else important to do, did you?”</p>
<p>Of course not. And now you have ample time for fervent prayer. You pray that the machine will work the next time you turn it on. (I find special comfort in the notifications that it is now “configuring” something I thought I’d configured “way back when.”)</p>
<p>I confess that my initial—well, maybe my second—reaction is always the same: If you people had built this right in the first place you wouldn’t have to update it constantly. That’s the same reaction I have when my wife wants to rearrange the furniture or mess much with our decor. I thought we worked hard to do it right the first time. So now why don’t we just leave well enough alone and get on with life and “the next thing”?</p>
<p>My wife is a patient lady, but she almost nailed me with a Christmas ornament the year I proposed taking pictures of our decorations so we could put them up in exactly the same way the next time around. I thought it was a compliment. After all, she’d done an excellent job. Why wouldn’t a pic help us just do it again more simply? She didn’t seem to think so.</p>
<p>But you and I were talking about computers.</p>
<p>I admit that in a world with constantly evolving computer threats—viruses, malware, etc.—some regular security updates must be necessary. Still, I’ve set my machine to update as infrequently as possible. “Never” is probably a bad idea. But it’s tempting. (I still think it’s a good idea with regard to furniture.)</p>
<p>“Software update available,” said my phone this morning. “Let me do that, okay?” If it had been “man’s best friend,” it would have been jumping up and down, panting, and running in circles. “C’mon, c’mon, please! Now, okay? Now?”</p>
<p>But I was two minutes from the time I would really need that hyperactive device to do something else for which it would need its brain. I didn’t have time for it to be comatose while its brain reloaded. So I did what I always do: I said No. Eventually, you know, it will disobey, even if you say No. But I like to say No about three times to maintain my illusion of control.</p>
<p>This afternoon, I said Yes, and now it’s back on. It still works. Some things look just a tad different in ways I can’t put my finger on. Putting my finger on it to get it to open up still works—about a quarter of the time. Like usual. No change in the fact that it likes my mask even less than I do.</p>
<p>All I’ve noticed so far is that the volume slider on the screen is now vertical instead of horizontal. Boy, that’s a relief! I wasn’t sure how much longer I could live with a horizontal volume slider.</p>
<p>Just kidding. I’ll stumble onto a few other changes in the next few days. Most won’t matter as much as that slider.</p>
<p>But surely the phone is way more secure now, right? And maybe even smarter, too? Maybe its predictive text feature will know that when you text a saxophone player, “Sax on Monday?” vowels matter.</p>
<p>Some changes in life really qualify as UP-dates, actual improvements. Some are just annoying and tempt me to grimace and mutter misappropriated Bible verses: “Vanity of vanities, it’s all vanity!” What’s the real difference anyway? Probably not much. (If you can avoid me on a day when I’m given to quoting Ecclesiastes, you probably should.)</p>
<p>I’m sure of this, though. The Changeless One’s love, goodness, mercy, grace, and faithfulness will never change. We do well to listen when James tells us that the One who created the heavenly lights—sun, moon, stars, and all—isn’t like the changing shadows that even those celestial giants cast, as steadfast as they are. The Giver of all “good and perfect gifts” never changes at all (James 1:17).</p>
<p>I will, however, suggest that you unplug now for a few moments. Turn over maybe to James 1, Romans 8, or a good psalm or two, and let God’s Spirit update your software.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65297842021-01-24T23:12:23-06:002021-01-25T03:30:24-06:00Dual Citizenship Requires Maturity–and God’s Help
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<p><em>Note: This column was written on January 19, 2021.</em></p>
<p>Tomorrow is Inauguration Day. It’s a particularly good time to think about our citizenship, I think. And I think it’s a particularly good time for me to stay off of Facebook and other social media for at least a day or two. Even as I think social media companies’ increasing censorship of free speech is unwise, I think my increasing censorship of my own speech is a responsibility of my citizenship. Whatever rants from whatever blusterers (and I can be a blusterer) do show up on Facebook are posts I do well to scroll past on Facebook’s best day. And I doubt Inauguration Day will be its best day.</p>
<p>As a citizen of the United States, I desire to be neither “an unloving critic or an uncritical lover,” and I refuse to believe those are the only options open to me or to you. This is not the only nation justly worthy of her citizens’ love, but I am not a citizen of other nations; I am a citizen of this one. I see no more virtue in being willfully blind to her flaws than I do to being willfully blind to her virtues. This nation has both, but I cannot imagine how anyone could be so blind as to say that the world would have been better off had this nation not been born. The debt of gratitude that I owe this land of my birth is so deep as to be far beyond any sacrifice I could ever make.</p>
<p>That said, my baptism proclaims that my primary citizenship is in the kingdom of God, and my citizenship in any earthly kingdom is vastly beneath it. It must always be that first allegiance to the kingdom of God that colors and informs my citizenship in any nation of this world. My King has told His people that allegiance to Him must outweigh even family relationships, relationships with father, mother, husband, wife, and children. If I must choose, I must choose for Him. But loving Him most will usually mean loving them more wisely and better than I do now, not less. My King has told me in Scripture to pray for my earthly king, for leaders and authorities, and to obey them whenever possible. I suspect that loving Him most will usually mean that I must love them more wisely and better than I do now, not less.</p>
<p>When the Apostle Paul tells us, commands us, in 1 Timothy 2 to pray for “kings and those in authority” and the Apostle Peter tells us, commands us, in 1 Peter 2 to “submit” ourselves to “the king” and “honor” him, we do well to listen and obey. We do well to remember the poignant and pointed truth that the Emperor then was crazy and bloodthirsty Nero, the very man who would put both apostles to death. And I doubt that either apostle as he wrote would have been surprised by that or changed his words.</p>
<p>So the commands to “pray for,” “submit to,” and “honor” are not contingent upon our having voted for the “king” or feeling warmly kind, soft-hearted, and generous toward him. The Apostle Paul says specifically in 1 Timothy 2 that we are to pray for our governmental leaders “in order that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness” (2:2) and he says “this pleases God our Savior.”</p>
<p>I’ll go out on a limb here and say that, if I’m as serious about my heavenly citizenship as I should be, and if I’m serious about “pleasing God our Savior,” and if I’m listening to what two martyred apostles (and the Holy Spirit, I think) command us, Facebook rants on Inauguration Day are probably out of bounds for me. And if the Apostles Peter and Paul can urge citizens of God’s kingdom to pray even for Nero, I’m probably not going to get a pass if I refuse to pray for whoever is inaugurated on whatever Inauguration Day here whether it makes me happy or not.</p>
<p>Dual citizenship is hard. My citizenship in this earthly land should require me at least to try to act like an adult. But my citizenship in God’s kingdom requires me to try to act like His Son. I need His grace to try to do any of that.</p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</em></strong></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65241452021-01-18T12:23:55-06:002021-01-18T13:30:24-06:00What Kind of Change Is Positive?
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<p><strong>C</strong>hange. I love it.</p>
<p>Yes, and I also love each morning to throw open the blinds immediately to retina-scorching sunlight and then to jump into pep-rally-volume conversation.</p>
<p>If you believe any of the wretched falsehoods above, you surely don’t know me at all. If you think I love “change” . . .</p>
<p>Evidently, to be a “progressive,” not a label I love, desire, trust, or in any way covet, one must accept the notion that change itself is always change for the better.</p>
<p>“What we need is change! Vote for change! CHANGE!”</p>
<p>Don’t folks realize that, by definition, change can go in two basic directions? When my appendix went bad, my body recorded a significant change, but I’d never happily vote for such.</p>
<p>And I would think that “progress,” as in “<em>progress</em>ive,” implies change in a positive direction. How is change in a backwards direction progress? If it is, well, forgive me for referring yet again to my appendix, but, as I recall, the more progressive it became, the less I appreciated the change. The various members of my body soon voted unanimously that it be cast out to progress on its own as best it could. </p>
<p>So, no; I’ve got some serious opinions about the kind of “change” I’d like to see. I just prefer real progress to the moonshine in the fruit juice being served by today’s self-styled “progressives.”</p>
<p>And I’ve long been wary of the kind of change/progress that proceeds from those bone-chilling words, “I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you.”</p>
<p>Politician X or Politician Y from Political Party A or Political Party B yells out a message: “I’ve got this great idea for change!” But what doesn’t seem to change these days is that whichever party wins, the country loses as we’re assailed with years of conspiracy theories and whining. It’s remarkable how similar whining always sounds. Have you noticed? When you’re trying to watch a movie and a baby is yowling, it’s awfully hard to tell whether the kid is a Democrat or a Republican.</p>
<p>“Change” in big business is rarely any more heartwarming. I’m always aware of a “hold onto your wallet and back away slowly” feeling when I get the letters we all get, fairly regularly, written in corporate-speak: “In our never-ending and tireless efforts to serve you better, . . .”</p>
<p>No. Please. I beg you. Go tirelessly serve somebody else. Just leave me alone.</p>
<p>My wife recently shared a quote from a book she was reading (by Alexander McCall Smith) in which a wise African man explains to his daughter: “That is the problem with governments these days. They want to do things all the time; they are always very busy thinking of what things they can do next. That is not what people want. People want to be left alone to look after their cattle.”</p>
<p>That reminds me of the prophet Micah’s description of God-brought peace—a time when “every man will sit under his own vine and under his own fig tree, and no one will make them afraid” (4:4).</p>
<p>That kind of change sounds like progress. We happily mind our own business. No one makes us afraid. And no one profits from making us afraid.</p>
<p>I suspect that the only way to vote for that kind of change is to trust the Changeless One. And we get to vote on that every day.</p>
<p></p>
<p><strong><em> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65182772021-01-11T12:52:33-06:002021-01-11T13:45:22-06:00January 6, 2021: “A Date Which Will Live in Infamy”
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<p><strong>I</strong>’m writing this column on Thursday, January 7, 2021.</p>
<p>That matters. I don’t know if henceforth all one will have to do is say “1/6” to bring forth images of a terrible assault on our nation; probably not, but I hope we never forget the assault and its lessons.</p>
<p>“December 7, 1941: a date which will live in infamy,” does that for many of us. For many more of us, “9/11” does the same thing.</p>
<p>I wasn’t alive in 1941, but I can imagine how Dec. 7 and 8 must have felt. I’ve seen videos of the USS Arizona in flames, and I’ve stood reverently at the spot.</p>
<p>I remember watching the images of the 9/11 assault on the Twin Towers, a despicable attack on America. I remember going to bed in shock and with deep sadness that evening in 2001 and waking up the next morning, still reeling but knowing instinctively that our world would never be exactly the same.</p>
<p>Yesterday and this morning, January 6-7, 2021, felt to me uncomfortably similar to September 11-12, 2001. Sadly indeed, and with no intent to diminish 9/11, I say that to me yesterday’s assault almost feels worse. Why? Because we did it to ourselves. Tears from self-induced pain are a very different sort.</p>
<p>Finding perspective takes time, and we are still very close to this self-defeat and its appalling images. But it seems to me that a mob is a mob is a mob, be they a percentage of far left protesters turned rioters (last summer) or a percentage of far right protesters turned rioters (yesterday). People who incite them, pour out gasoline and then play with matches, watch the fire, and act surprised at the burning are far from any moral high ground. </p>
<p>The images of hoodlums scaling the walls and breaking into the halls of Congress are heartbreaking. One of the most revolting images of all (and that’s saying something) is the picture of a United States senator raising his clenched fist toward protestors in solidarity and affirmation. Granted, he did that before the scum had scaled the walls; the image is still revolting. Clenched fists are exactly what we cannot afford, whatever our political perspective.</p>
<p>“Make no mistake: this is not a matter of politics but of biblical morality!” So I once heard a preacher proclaiming from a pulpit just before he went on to preach a “far left” politically-charged sermon. Ironically, a preacher across the street, preaching a “far right” sermon could have used exactly the same introduction, word for word. And each one, sincerely believing every word he said, diminished the gospel of Christ to politics.</p>
<p>What we’re seeing is a matter for tears; it’s a time for silence, repentance, and reflection, and not a time for self-righteousness or “virtue-signaling.”</p>
<p>The Apostle Paul warned warring Christians, “If you keep on biting and devouring each other, watch out or you may be destroyed by each other” (Galatians 5:15). When hate-filled beasts who were once human die with their fangs locked in each other’s bodies, neither wins and both become corpses, decaying and abhorrent.</p>
<p>I wonder if Christians will step up? The One we claim as Lord has told us that loving those who look just like us is not impressive: “Even the pagans do that.” But unclenching our fists and, in the name of Christ, hugging someone whose politics or lifestyle we find disgusting and never plan to condone, is, well, Christlike and impressive indeed.</p>
<p>Of course, zealots (from whatever perspective) with clenched fists will try to portray such as a spineless betrayal and lack of conviction. They will never understand; they’ll just run for more gas cans and matches. They always have; they always will.</p>
<p>But the Savior who refused to play power games by the world’s rules and died with forgiveness on his lips? He will understand.</p>
<p>Oh, yes, Christ will understand.</p>
<p></p>
<p><strong><em> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65134972021-01-04T13:34:34-06:002021-01-04T16:45:12-06:00An Old Hymn Brings New Comfort
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<p><strong>Y</strong>ears ago, when my oldest brother and his wife left for almost 20 years of mission work in Malawi, Africa, I was barely a pup. I was too small then to remember now much of the early time of their service there, but I well remember that then and always, whenever our family gathered, we sang. (I know. Tell that to most modern families and you might as well tell them you grew up on Mars.)</p>
<p>I learned many good, and even great, songs at church as I was growing up. Many were beautiful and rich with meaning. Some were pretty but of questionable musical/theological quality. Some were toe-tappers with great alto and bass “leads.” Those were fun to sing but even then (once I matured a bit) I thought they were better suited to a Sunday afternoon “singing” than worship. (A “singing” is another Martian thing we did on some Sunday afternoons instead of practicing playing with various shapes of balls.)</p>
<p>But I actually learned the most beautiful hymns of the Christian faith not at church but at home singing with my family. I remember thinking of that as, years ago, I was watching on TV the funeral service at the National Cathedral for President Gerald Ford. What a beautiful service! What magnificent hymns! I listened to one of the Ford family’s favorite hymns, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past” and the beautiful “God of Our Fathers” and realized that those were among my own family’s favorite hymns, sung often at home. (Oh, and what a statesman that man was! He had character and integrity to spare and a kind of selfless love for our country that should make the majority of our loudest modern politicians, both sides of the aisle, blush with shame, were their small and shriveled souls capable of such lofty emotion. There’s not much room in a tiny universe bounded north, south, east, and west by self, certainly no room for shame.)</p>
<p>I also learned early that our family had so many favorite hymns that if we were singing and you wanted some hope of getting your favorite song in the line-up, you’d best not be timid about calling out the song number really quickly.</p>
<p>One of our family’s best-loved hymns was “Father and Friend, Thy Light, Thy Love” [lyrics, John Bowring (1792-1872); music, Henry Baker (1835-1910)]. Once my brother and sister-in-law had gone to Africa, it became especially dear. Short but full of meaning, it particularly captured our hope and our prayer as we were separated from loved ones by an ocean and half a world:</p>
<p><em>(Vs. 1) Father and Friend, Thy light, Thy love, / Beaming thro’ all Thy works we see; / Thy glory gilds the heav’ns above, / And all the earth is full of Thee.</em></p>
<p><em>(Vs. 2) Thy voice we hear, Thy presence feel, / While Thou too pure for mortal sight, / Enwrapped in clouds, invisible, / Reignest the Lord of life and light.</em></p>
<p><em>(Vs. 3) Thy children shall not faint nor fear, / Sustained by this delightful thought; / Since Thou, their God, art ev’rywhere, / They cannot be where Thou art not.</em></p>
<p>I love it still and think of it often. It came reassuringly to mind as, years ago, sons of my own were “across the pond” doing mission work. I realize also, and this is itself genuine comfort, that some distances between people can be more difficult to bridge than oceans and miles. When our loved ones are apart from us for any reason and the gap seems large and frightening, this song’s truth is strong and real and a great blessing.</p>
<p>Wherever God’s children are—around the world, hard to reach across the table, or even having passed beyond this world—we can praise our Father: “They cannot be where Thou art not.”</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><strong><em> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2021 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65088082020-12-27T19:45:03-06:002020-12-27T20:15:10-06:00God Comes To Us Not as We Wish We Were but as We Are
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<p><strong>A</strong>t first, the quotation I’m about to share may sound a bit cynical, but when you have a little time to think about it, I think you’ll agree with me that it is not only realistic and true, it is filled with hope.</p>
<p>You see, when God came into this world “in the flesh,” he was laid in a manger, a feed trough, in a stable surrounded by everything anyone in first century Palestine would expect to find in such a place—including the very thing you can find in ample supply in almost all stables today—a serious and almost unending supply of manure.</p>
<p>So a gentleman named Morse has written, “That the treasure of God’s grace reaches us surrounded by garbage will not seem surprising to anyone who is personally familiar with life in the church. . . . Grace comes to us, so Martin Luther argues, hidden <em>sub contrario</em>, beneath its opposite. From this perspective, any idealized view of the church as only treasure is as faulty a vision of reality as any cynical view that the church is only garbage. Mangers, by definition, are found where there is manure.”</p>
<p>You see, God comes to us “while we were yet sinners”—while we are as we always are—not what we wish we were, but what we are.</p>
<p>God comes to us as the angels sing “Glory to God in the highest!”</p>
<p>God comes to us as those shining and mighty heralds proclaim the amazing message that the Savior has been born—and with that wonderful news comes the accompanying note that is almost as surprising—that we common mortals whom God’s Son has been born to save are those “on whom his favor rests.”</p>
<p>When the God of the universe comes to us, the amazing paradox is most fitting: He comes as the heavenly hosts sing, as heavens lit up with splendor declare the glory of God, but he comes in a tiny helpless form, lying in a manger, God in a most unlikely situation and shape, but having entered that situation and taken that shape, most likely crying just like any other of a thousand little babies, even those lying in far more appropriate cribs. And he comes surrounded by manure that smells, I think you can be sure, just like the manure in any of a thousand other stables.</p>
<p>In that manner of coming, we see God’s grace shining even more brightly than the Christmas star, and in that paradox of his coming, we find our best, our truest, our only, our highest hope.</p>
<p>God comes to us not as we wish we were, but as we are.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>Curtis Shelburne’s podcast, “Focus on Faith with Curtis Shelburne” is now available for streaming free of charge on most Podcast apps and at </em></strong></a><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com"><strong><em>www.CurtisShelburne.com</em></strong></a><strong><em>.</em></strong><strong><em></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/65049622020-12-21T12:34:30-06:002020-12-21T17:00:03-06:00“The True Light . . . Was Coming Into the World”
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<p><strong>“T</strong>he true light that gives light to everyone,” writes the Apostle John, “was coming into the world” (John 1:9).</p>
<p>And so each year at this time, we drape our trees, our homes, our churches, our cities and towns and villages, with innumerable lights. Every one of them, even if it’s nothing more than a glowing red light on Rudolph’s nose, is silent testimony to the bright truth that “the light shines” even “in the darkness.” Not only has the darkness “failed to put it out” (<em>The Message</em>), it’s precisely when darkness deepens that the light seems to blaze ever more brightly.</p>
<p>Ah, it must be maddening indeed for the prince of darkness and his joyless slaves to see their night-shrouded malevolence so quickly burned into oblivion by even a little light from the Son. One word of truth and dictators tremble. One word of hope and fears melt away. One great laugh from a good face lit up by a warm living heart and stuffed shirt politicians go pale, atrophied hearts too calcified to allow the flow of humility’s mirth or mirth’s humility. One word of joy and sowers of dissension are struck mute. Even the slightest current of light’s warmth spells approaching and certain defeat for a cold ocean of darkness. The light always triumphs.</p>
<p>Whether we live largely oblivious to that truth, or whether we embrace it with all of our hearts, every light we hang burns in silent tribute to the reality that the light seeping into the darkness surrounding a Bethlehem stable that amazing night is the light of the victory of the Father of Lights.</p>
<p>That little trickle of light would become a wave of luminescence, and that wave would surge inexorably into a tsunami of brightest joy. Even the worst that Satan could do with a cross would three days later be brilliantly overcome by the light of life blazing forth from a vacated tomb.</p>
<p>So we hang the lights at Christmas. Call them Christmas lights. Call them holy-day lights. Call them whatever you wish; all of them are His.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s just me (I bet it’s you, too!), but I can’t walk into the quiet church sanctuary, the living room at home, or even out onto the porch in the chill of night—any place where Christmas lights and electricity are available—and not plug them in so as to bask in the glow. Were I embarrassed (and I’m not) about being childish, I might say we’ve hung all these lights at the house mostly for the grandkids—and I do indeed love seeing the light reflected in those beautiful eyes—but I’d hang the lights and trim the tree if I was the only kid in the room.</p>
<p>One might say that it’s all basically illusory, artificial and pretty pathetic, just light we ourselves engineer and string and plug in to lift our own spirits and make ourselves feel better as we and all of humanity muddle through life mostly in the dark. Many say that whatever small glimmers of light we get here will be what we strain to create.</p>
<p>All I have to do is glance at our Christmas tree and see the little cross hanging in its branches, completely surrounded by light, and I know better. I plug in these little lights not in a pathetic attempt to defeat this world’s night but as a proclamation that darkness has already been mortally pierced and that even the smallest glimmers and twinkles of joy proceed from the brilliance of God’s grace, God’s truth, God’s Son.</p>
<p>All light is our Father’s.</p>
<p><a><strong><em>Curtis Shelburne’s podcast, “Focus on Faith with Curtis Shelburne” is now available for streaming free of charge on most Podcast apps and at </em></strong></a><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com"><strong><em>www.CurtisShelburne.com</em></strong></a><strong><em>.</em></strong><strong><em></em></strong></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64994632020-12-14T15:35:33-06:002020-12-14T19:15:17-06:00God’s Servant Comes in Quiet Strength, Asleep in a Manger
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<p><strong>F</strong>or sixteen years now, during the second and third weeks of Advent (the word has to do with “coming”), a centuries-old traditional time of “preparing our hearts” before Christmas, I’ve led some brief morning devotions with readings and prayers for a little group gathering briefly to bow in our little church sanctuary.</p>
<p>It’s not a large thing and certainly not a large crowd, but that’s one of Advent’s main lessons: little and quiet can accompany the most magnificent meaning, and meek and lowly are very often God’s exact descriptions of the truly mighty and strong.</p>
<p>On this year of plague and pestilence (so to speak), it was time to punt. It didn’t seem like a good time to go on with many “extra” in-person activities, but it also seemed to me like a time when our hearts and souls probably need some moments for quiet reflection even more than usual.</p>
<p>So, what to do? Facebook Live. My personal page. Mornings, 10:00, for about ten minutes. Pros and cons, but at least, it’s happening. And it just did.</p>
<p>Quiet now, I’m sitting in front of the fellowship hall fireplace drinking the post-devotional coffee that goes well with a post-devotional cookie. I’ve got a jillion things to do, but finding the discipline myself to sit still for just a moment needs to be for now #1. It’s time to simply “be” for a moment so that when the time to “do” rushes in a few heartbeats from now, the doing might possibly mean something.</p>
<p>The fire crackles.</p>
<p>The clock ticks.</p>
<p>My eyelids want to close, and I want to let them.</p>
<p>But the words of this morning’s Old Testament reading are quietly echoing in my ears. They’re from Isaiah 42:1-4, the first of the four “Servant Song” passages Bible scholars point to in the Book of Isaiah where the prophet focuses our attention on God’s “suffering servant” who will come to save God’s people. Christians have almost always identified the “Servant” in those “songs” with Jesus Christ.</p>
<p>This particular passage is quoted by Matthew in his Gospel as he points to “God’s chosen Servant,” Jesus the Messiah.</p>
<p>Of the much that is amazing in these verses, what most amazes me is the gentleness of this “Servant.” The King of the universe has chosen him, loved him, in-filled him with the power of the Spirit, and yet . . . Yet he is described as being so very gentle that in his coming to bring salvation and justice, he won’t shout or even raise his voice. Were a sparrow to land on a half-broken “reed” in the marshland, it would break, but the Servant will not break it in his coming. The merest whisper of a breath, a single flap of a gnat’s wing, would blow out the flickering candle. But the Servant’s coming will not.</p>
<p>He is God’s chosen One. No one is his equal. But he comes with no fanfare. No parades or processions. No loud speeches. No pronouncements of power or lawless riots or tweets or desperate or vindictive or pitiful whining from the far left or the far right or sad Sadducees or equally sad Pharisees whose souls are joyless and whose faces are too paralyzed by pride and bitterness to move into the shapes necessary for real unselfish smiles and even healthy-hearted laughter. None of the poisonous fear and violence and strife spreading like a virus from those whose trust is in their power and whose souls are atrophied and twisted. </p>
<p>God’s Servant is the most powerful Ruler of all, and yet he comes most gently of all.</p>
<p>He comes . . . oh, imagine this! He comes, eyes closed, quietly drawing baby breaths, asleep in a manger. Gentle, completely. But strong, unimaginably.</p>
<p>The world sleeps also. Lowing oxen barely take notice, but angels look on and bow, utterly astounded.</p>
<p>God’s Servant has come.</p>
<p></p>
<p><a><strong><em>Curtis Shelburne’s podcast, “Focus on Faith with Curtis Shelburne” is now available for streaming free of charge on most Podcast apps and at </em></strong></a><a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com"><strong><em>www.CurtisShelburne.com</em></strong></a><strong><em>.</em></strong></p>
<p><em><strong>And Curtis’ Christmas album, One Christmas Night, is available at the website and also on Amazon, iTunes, Apple Music, etc.</strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64939452020-12-07T19:59:57-06:002020-12-07T22:30:07-06:00“Wherever We Are at Christmas, We Can Count on Going Home”
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<p><strong>I</strong>n a sense, we’re all born into this world looking for our real home. This season reminds us of where to look.</p>
<p>I suppose Caesar Augustus might have been home one night when he rolled over in bed, probably sleeping fitfully due to acid reflux, snored in and muttered, “Ta-a-axes,” snored out and sputtered, “Mo-o-ore.” He didn’t really remember much about it in the morning; he just felt that he’d awakened with a plan.</p>
<p>More taxes. Maybe his many wars devoted to further promoting his vast imperial aspirations were becoming expensive. America is often referred to as an imperialist nation by its enemies. Phooey. As columnist Charles Krauthammer once observed, it’s a strange sort of imperialism that no sooner enters a struggle in a foreign country than in the next breath it’s looking for an exit strategy (sensible or not).</p>
<p>America, imperial? Nuts. Rome, imperial? Oh, yes.</p>
<p>And, yeah, being serious about expanding an empire is expensive. Was that why Rome’s emperor was dreaming of more denarii? Or was he just a flashier than usual politician but, at his heart, still the ordinary kind who has very few original ideas but has this very unoriginal one regularly? More taxes.</p>
<p>A real historian could probably tell you. I am not a real historian and am thus speaking, as usual, off the cuff and likely out of my head.</p>
<p>In any case, Caesar Augustus needed to count heads to fatten the tax rolls and thus filch more shekels from the populace.</p>
<p>So some serious counting was already underway when Joseph and Mary found themselves in Bethlehem waiting to be counted. They’d already counted to nine months. No obstetrician required for that.</p>
<p>Mary needed to avoid sharp objects. It didn’t take our presently popular skin tight pregnancy fashions (“Oh, this makes me look so fat!” Duh. Donchathink pregnancy and plumping up in the midsection kinda go together? And did you really think that shrink wrap as a fashion statement would be slimming?) . . . No, it didn’t take modern fashions to make it clear that Mary and Joseph were now counting hours (just a few) and minutes, not days, to launch.</p>
<p>Counting heads. Counting tax money. Counting contractions.</p>
<p>Maybe it should be no surprise when we find that at least one Bethlehem innkeeper was counting rooms available. The math was easy. None. He’d punched the button and the neon NO in front of VACANCY on his sign was glowing gloomily.</p>
<p>And that’s how Mary and Joseph ended up in a stable, and a manger became the crib of the little King whose universe dwarfed Caesar’s empire.</p>
<p>And that’s how, as wordsmith G. K. Chesterton poemed, to go really home, we ourselves go “[T]o an older place than Eden / And a taller town than Rome. . . . / To the place where God was homeless / And all men are at home.”</p>
<p></p>
<p><em><strong> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64890192020-11-30T21:34:09-06:002020-11-30T22:45:06-06:00“I’m Pretty Sure I Can Wire Around That”
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<p><strong>“I</strong>’m pretty sure I can wire around that.”</p>
<p>Right.</p>
<p>That’s the sort of statement that fits in very well with other Famous Last Word pronouncements of the Tim “the Toolman” Taylor variety.</p>
<p>“Nah, don’t flip the breaker; I’ll work it hot.”</p>
<p>“The can says it’s flammable, but this stuff almost never explodes.”</p>
<p>“Forget the extra jack; I’ll just crawl in under there.”</p>
<p>“Just put in a bigger fuse.”</p>
<p>I’ll admit that a light in my head flipped from green to yellow when I heard myself say those words: “I think I can wire around that.”</p>
<p>The weather was turning cold. We’d already had a few freezes. The plants I cared about were already tucked into my shed/greenhouse.</p>
<p>When I built that edifice, I didn’t know how versatile it would be. It doubles, triples, quadruples as a man cave and occasional magic fairy princess/powerful elf prince castle. During the current pandemic it also serves as a medical test facility. If you enter and don’t smell paint or other aromas from a recent grandchild/PawPaw project finished in the castle, or cigar smoke from . . . well, if you don’t smell some such aroma, you better get a COVID-19 test.</p>
<p>I do love that facility, and, yes, we’ve put it to very good use.</p>
<p>To do its job, though, during this time of year, it needs a little temperature adjustment. Plants freeze without heat. Occupants freeze out without heat.</p>
<p>To be sure I could answer that need, I built the place with a circuit/wiring that will handle more than one heater, etc., along with some power tools. The best heaters I’ve been able to find thus far are of the “milk house” variety.</p>
<p>And. They. Are. Lousy.</p>
<p>But they’re cheap. In every way. You can get one for just a bit over twenty bucks. And I admit, you’ll get a season or two or maybe even a few out of it. The same Chinese (I think) company makes almost exactly the same heater for a dozen (at least) brands.</p>
<p>I need to research this. I think I’ll find that these “milk house heaters” look very much like older, much more expensive, much more durable “milk house heaters” that, perhaps, dairies and farms once actually used.</p>
<p>Did I mention that the new ones are really cheap?</p>
<p>That’s how I ended up with a “milk house heater” bone pile in my garage. Over a few years, I’d stacked up about six dead or dying and utterly undependable units. They’d passed the “bang it hard on the floor and it might turn on” stage and could only be trusted to let your greenhouse plants freeze and then thaw into jelly.</p>
<p>Time for heater postmortems. Conclusion? Every one succumbed to the failure of an incredibly wimpy “thermostat/safety switch.” Good luck fixing one of those that’s fried. Good luck finding a replacement part for a twenty dollar heater. I tried.</p>
<p>Right after the postmortem. That’s when many guys will hear the words coming out of their mouths: “I’m pretty sure I could wire around that.”</p>
<p>Me, too. And, yes, you could. But stop. Wait a few seconds for the safety device in your head to kick in with two words: Bad Idea. Or maybe a name: Tim Taylor.</p>
<p>Sometimes we get away with wiring past safety features. Sometimes it’s fine to laugh at and skip over “lawyer litter” warnings written for fools.</p>
<p>But when our Creator has plainly written words of warning, we’d better read and heed. When the caution light in our souls goes from green to yellow (and even red), we wire past it at great peril to ourselves and others.</p>
<p>Out in my dumpster. Six heaters. All dead. Not parts enough for one Frankenstein heater. I admit it: I tried.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><a><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64840092020-11-23T12:43:29-06:002020-11-23T13:30:17-06:00“Give Thanks in All Circumstances”
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<p><strong>“O</strong> most gracious God,” wrote the eloquent sufferer, “on this sickbed I feel under your correction, and I taste of humiliation, but let me taste of consolation, too.”</p>
<p>John Donne, poet and priest, so wrote in one of his “devotions” in 1623. In <em>Christianity Today</em> over twenty years ago, Philip Yancey shared a brief edited, somewhat modernized, excerpt of Donne’s “Devotions.”</p>
<p>As Yancey explains, Donne had fallen seriously ill. Not unreasonably, he assumed he had contracted the bubonic plague, the scourge filling graves with masses of people during those dark days. The “Black Death” had made its presence unmistakable. London’s church bells tolled “dolefully,” and Donne wrote his famous poem, “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” reminding his readers that the loss of anyone is a loss to us all. So, do not ask “for whom the bell tolls,” he penned, “it tolls for thee.”</p>
<p>In his “Devotions” (as Yancey shares them), Donne writes of all the blessings God has given.</p>
<p>“Nature reaches out her hand and offers corn, and wine, and oil, and milk; but it was you [God] who filled the hand of nature with such bounty.”</p>
<p>Donne thanks God for the blessings that come from fruitful labor, and he acknowledges that, no matter how hard and well the laborer has worked, it is God who guides and “gives the increase.”</p>
<p>He thanks the Lord for friends who “reach out their hands to support us,” even as he acknowledges, “but your hand supports the hand we lean on.”</p>
<p>I’m continually amazed at how suffering is used by some as Exhibit A against God, at the very same time as others, passing “through the fire,” eventually come out with faith strengthened and “tempered.”</p>
<p>On his sickbed, Donne writes, “Once this scourge has persuaded us that we are nothing of ourselves, may it also persuade us that you are all things unto us.”</p>
<p>In striking contrast to the verbal drizzle of those who promise health and wealth to the faithful, or to those whose “faith” is in consumer religion as long as it “meets their [most shallow] needs,” Donne reminds us that when God’s own Son on the cross “cried out, ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ you reached out your hand [Lord,] not to heal his sad soul, but to receive his holy soul.” And Jesus surrendered his soul to his Father in trust. </p>
<p>Donne would recover. His sickness was not the plague. But before he knew the certainty of the outcome, he was certain of his hope: “Whether you will bid my soul to stay in this body for some time, or meet you this day in paradise, I ask not.”</p>
<p>But he wrote his confidence: “I can have no greater proof of your mercy than to die in you and by that death be united in him who died for me.”</p>
<p>With Donne, we can be confident, not in ourselves but in our Lord all along the journey. As the Apostle Paul writes in Romans 6, God’s children have already experienced a death and resurrection. I’ve been reading theologian Thomas Long’s excellent book <em>Accompany Them with Singing: The Christian Funeral</em>. He urges us to remember that, just as the community of faith gathered at our baptisms as we were “buried with Christ by baptism into death” and then been raised to “walk in newness of life” as we begin our journey with our Lord, the community of faith will gather once again in faith and with singing as we are eventually “buried with Christ” again in “the sure confidence that [we] will be raised to new life.” And so Donne believed. And so we believe, as Long writes, “In the Christian faith, the dead are going somewhere. That is [literally] the gospel truth” and, though our relationship with them has changed, it has not ended.</p>
<p>If even death itself cannot cut us off from Christ and all who have died with him to be raised with him, how could we be severed from our Lord’s love and power even during the most difficult circumstances? Donne wrote during the unspeakable horror of the Black Plague, but his confidence was in the Author of life. Surely, even during terribly difficult times like, say, a pandemic, our Lord is the same Lord.</p>
<p>Following the Apostle Paul’s admonition to “give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:18) is not even a little easy. But if we’ve already died with Christ and been raised, our faith is in God—not in luck or our own power or circumstances. We often need to be reminded, but it is nonetheless deeply true: easy lives and blessed lives are not the same thing.</p>
<p>Let’s give thanks and trust the Giver of all blessings. And not just our own faith will strengthened and affirmed. And not just our own lives will be blessed by that trust and gratitude.</p>
<p></p>
<p><em><strong><span class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color">You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64814142020-11-19T10:18:30-06:002020-11-19T14:00:17-06:00Living Wisely Is Not the Same Thing as Living Fearfully
<p class="has-text-align-right"><a> </a></p>
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<p><a><span class="has-inline-color has-black-color"><strong>W</strong>e can be safe, or we can be truly alive. Not both. Opting for “safety” is an illusion both unsafe and pathetic, a gag gift all wrapped up with three bedraggled ribbons: fear, arrogance, and control.</span></a></p>
<p> When safety is our highest goal, we betray a fear of life and, deeper still, a lack of trust in the God of life. Then we’re well on our way to becoming our own gods. Why? So we can control our own lives and the lives of those around us. (Note: I’m talking about life in general here, and not mainly at all thinking about the present mess of a pandemic. Most of this was originally written pre-pandemic. You’ll recognize what’s more recent.)</p>
<p> Law-based religion is wrapped up in those three constricting ribbons. Fear that if we don’t keep all the right laws, we’ll be lost. An unwillingness to trust the God who through his Son has done the work of salvation. An arrogance so blinding that we actually think that we can save ourselves. A deep desire for the control we’d gain if we could demand what we’ve earned rather praising God for what we’ve been given. A longing for control over others we think we’ve bested in religious rule-keeping. To trust in God’s grace means to stand alongside all who hope only in grace–shoulder to shoulder, above no one. Ah, a bitter pill, God’s grace. Amazing indeed. But it’s not safe. It’s deadly to pride.</p>
<p> We long for the “safe” way. The one-talent man in Jesus’ Parable of the Talents (Matthew 25) should be our patron saint. Afraid of his master and desiring above all to be “safe,” he buried what his master gave him. We’d call him smart and conservative. We’d honor him for being careful in his ritual, fastidious in his life, flawless in his law-keeping. Jesus called him a “worthless servant.” He made God sick.</p>
<p> The illusion of safety, along with its three ribbons, shows up everywhere. Full of ourselves, we’re sure that if we follow the right books on child-raising, eat the right stuff, adhere to the right exercise program, be afraid of all the right things (Twinkies and cigars, for example), adopt exactly the right strategy to control our business, our families, our lives . . . If we do it all right, well, then we’ll live to be a prosperous and healthy 120. Seeing our own deaths as largely theoretical, we deep down think we could live forever right here–if we did everything right. No one has yet, but we just might. With complete confidence in our ability to plan, control, and execute, we trust ourselves with a faith dwarfing the magnificence of the finest cathedral.</p>
<p> Oh, and have you noticed? If dealing with the present pandemic doesn’t make folks more insufferably arrogant, it tends to make them more gracious and, may I say on the eve of this Thanksgiving, more grateful. On one hand, it’s wise to be appropriately cautious. Masks at the right time? Yes. Distancing? Yes. But could we work to find a little common sense as we’re looking for reasonable safety?</p>
<p> I’m not wearing my mask in the shower. (I don’t think I know anyone who does, but sometimes I wonder.) Outside on a walk? Not me, thanks. Unless I’m running shoulder to shoulder with folks in a marathon (and I most certainly do not plan to), I refuse to sniff mask-sweat instead of the great outdoors. If you jog up to me for a visit, let’s follow the rules. We can stay apart or pull up our masks to have the unique enjoyment of missing more than half of what we each say. (And fault me if you will, you’ll have to make your own decision about what to do when your grandchild runs toward you and launches into the air, but I plan to catch mine.)</p>
<p> I really have been trying to be careful. I bet you have, too. But folks who think or seem to think that anyone COVID catches or who catches COVID just hasn’t been careful enough—ya know, like <em>them</em>—is likely a self-righteous twit who would do us all a favor by quarantining a lot, even if the virus disappeared tomorrow. Jerks are more dangerous to the common good than viruses. (And, I’m tempted to say, if there’s any justice, more likely to get sick.) </p>
<p> Living wisely surely means often exercising some caution and care, but Eileen Guder’s words are also well taken into account; stodgy by nature and “default safe” to a fault, I need to hear them, and they make me smile: “You can live on bland food so as to avoid an ulcer, drink no tea, coffee, or other stimulants in the name of health; go to bed early; stay away from night life; you can stay off the freeway, avoid all controversial subjects so as never to give or take offense; mind your own business; avoid involvement in other people’s problems; spend money only on necessities and save all you can. You can do everything the safe way and still you can break your neck in the bathtub, and it will serve you right.”</p>
<p> Apart from God safety is a myth. Real faith is soul-deep and joy-filled; it’s not a makeup veneer slathered on to disguise a face—and a life—filled in fear. Living life focused on never making a mistake just might be one of the biggest mistakes of all.</p>
<p><em><strong> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64735772020-11-09T12:03:25-06:002020-11-09T14:15:07-06:00A Clock, a Deadline, a Caterpillar, a Train, and Living Hope
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<p><strong>W</strong>ell, here we go again. </p>
<p>It’s a normal Monday morning. At least, as close to normal as anything gets in 2020.</p>
<p>Our clock just chimed 9:00 a.m. I know that because it chimed nine times in the key of G, <em>ante meridiem</em>, and not D, <em>post meridiem</em>.</p>
<p>Not really. Well, nine times, really. Different morning and evening keys? No. </p>
<p>But I really am three hours away from my column deadline for a couple or three newspapers (a “hard” deadline) and a blog (a “soft” deadline). Aided by coffee (a hot shower usually has to wait on Mondays), I generally manage to hit “Send” at about 11:57 (key of G) as I’m sitting in our living room recliner in my sweats, lap laden with laptop computer.</p>
<p>Mondays are my day off, which means I usually write my column in the morning and maybe mess with recording podcasts or some such fun work in the afternoons.</p>
<p>That is, by the way, dumb. A disciplined (and, ironically, probably more productive) person would have a much better definition of “off,” and I’m not kidding. Nor was our Creator being anything but serious (and loving) when he gave as one commandment out of the Big Ten, “You kids be still for one day out of seven, and I mean it. No fussing about it. Hush, I said! It’ll be good for you.”</p>
<p>My younger brother Jim, also a pastor, generally takes Fridays off. He won’t take Mondays because he says they follow Sundays and he’d hate to feel that bad on his day off. </p>
<p>Rocking and writing on Mondays, I’m a caterpillar on a railroad track watching the 12:00 noon express train roaring towards me. You’d think that grotesque images of green and yellow goo and a closed casket caterpillar funeral would come to mind, but this situation is, I admit, pretty normal; I almost always manage to creep off the track a full three minutes early, and the train rumbles by.</p>
<p>My brother Gene, a disciplined person, writes columns weeks ahead of deadlines—even years, in the case of holidays, lest he find himself playing Christmas music in the background in July 2020 to help set the mood as he writes Christmas columns for December 2020. Or maybe December 2021. (Hey, Sammy Cahn, lyrics, and Jule Styne, music, wrote “Let It Snow” in Hollywood, California, in July 1945, during a heat wave. The actual title is “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” It was a plea for mercy.)</p>
<p>Anyway, I find Gene’s column-writing discipline repugnant, appalling, incomprehensible, and completely elusive. If I’m writing Christmas columns, it’s a good bet a tree’s lit behind me. And it’s probably a Monday.</p>
<p>I’m way early on this particular Monday. It is now just 10:41 CST, and I’ve been saved by these meandering musings, of questionable value though they may be.</p>
<p>You see, I’d been tempted, on the heels of the recent election, to try to find words to write in a nice way that either made nobody mad or made everybody mad (the former would be my first choice but the latter is at least non-partisan) that four years of whining and conspiracy theories are a waste of time and unhelpful to our nation whether they come from the political left or the political right. I was also thinking about saying, in some way, that our King is still our King and if the Emperor Nero couldn’t steal the genuine hope of God’s people “way back when,” I’m pretty sure I know where we should be placing our genuine hope during any ruler’s “reign” now or four years from now or 400 years from now. I was tempted to mention Charles Colson’s very wise words, “Salvation does not come riding in on Air Force One.”</p>
<p>Yeah, I was thinking about saying all of that in politically neutral sorts of terms but trying to point to real faith in the real King and his very real kingdom, and that God’s people can and should live in genuine hope, come what may, and that a failure to do so is, in fact, a denial of the gospel.</p>
<p>Alas, I’m out of space and out of time. That’s probably for the best. I’m not at all sure I could have said most of that without writing poorly and being misunderstood.</p>
<p>Good grief! How’d it get to be 11:57 a.m.?</p>
<p>Send.</p>
<p><em><strong> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64687482020-11-02T13:08:13-06:002020-11-02T15:15:24-06:00Election Day 2020: Some Thoughts for Dual Citizens
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<p><strong>H</strong>ere we go. Election Day 2020. Tomorrow, as I write.</p>
<p>I’m not sure I remember ever dreading one, an election day, more (though the 2016 experience was very close).</p>
<p>It’s not the day I dread so much as the very real possibility of an Election Month or months or, maybe worse still, an “election in the courts.”</p>
<p>Maybe as you’re reading this you’ll know a good deal more than I possibly can (as I’m writing) about the outcome. Maybe it’s done and decided. Maybe <em>really</em> decided. Maybe—this is a long shot—most folks acted like adults and behaved. I hope so. I doubt it, but I hope so.</p>
<p>It would be nice to avoid the spectacle of inner city Democrats in a rage going through scads of pencils blistering their fingers and frying computer keyboards by writing hot letters to legislators decrying the horrid result of the election. Or the spectacle of roving bands of crazed Republicans in golf shirts or pin-striped suits burning police cars, setting fires in dumpsters, and looting neighborhood stores.</p>
<p>Maybe the exact scenarios above are somewhat unlikely, but others more likely and just as unpleasant are exactly the kinds we’d do very well to avoid.</p>
<p>I hope we can. We’ll soon know.</p>
<p>For me, and for many, our dual citizenship makes all of this both better and worse.</p>
<p>Citizens of God’s kingdom know who our real Lord, our real King, is. Our deep desire is to follow Christ and be true to his will, whatever the dictates of the rulers of the earthly kingdoms in which we’re also citizens.</p>
<p>We also are aware, or, at least, should be, that one of the rules of Christ’s kingdom is that we try to be among the very best citizens of the earthly nations in which we find ourselves. Sometimes and in some places, that is relatively easy; in others, very difficult indeed.</p>
<p>This I know: My citizenship in the United States of America pales compared to my citizenship in God’s kingdom. That higher citizenship trumps my earthly citizenship in every way. (No pun intended. Well, not much.)</p>
<p>But I also know that my earthly citizenship, even in a land that is far from perfect, has been for me, and for most of my fellow citizens, filled with blessing. I know that I owe a very real debt to my fellow citizens who have been willing to put their lives on the line and even to die to preserve the blessings of citizenship in this land and to try to make our world a better place. Only in nightmares can I imagine living in a land where I’m a virtual prisoner and starving so my mis-leaders can flirt with nuclear power. And, as much as my earthly citizenship pales in comparison to my allegiance to my citizenship in God’s kingdom, it is still precious enough that I hope I would be willing to die for it.</p>
<p>And, yes, I’ve already voted in this election. I find little comfort to be found in the main choices. It seems to me that this great nation should be able to do vastly better. But to have a choice at all is a very real blessing.</p>
<p>So here we go. For good, for ill, for what will certainly be, whoever wins, a varied and frustrating combination of both, citizens of God’s kingdom have an immense consolation and hope.</p>
<p>Our King is our King. Come what may here and into eternity, our King and our victory is sure.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><em><strong><span class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color">You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></strong></em></p>
<p><em><strong>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</strong></em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64637432020-10-26T12:10:17-05:002020-10-26T16:30:12-05:00“A Little Varmint Hunting Always Makes Me Feel Better”
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<p><strong>F</strong>air warning this is, given to protect your eyes and general psyche from sudden and perhaps overwhelming shock: If you open the door at our house that leads five steps down into the garage, you will find bodies everywhere. You will have literally stepped into a killing zone.</p>
<p>So, there. You have been warned.</p>
<p>A couple or three years ago, a dear friend gave me for Christmas one of the best gifts I have ever received: it’s an a-salt gun.</p>
<p>I didn’t say, “an assault rifle.” This particular type of weapon is almost certainly going to remain completely legal no matter which candidate wins the upcoming election. Absolutely no background check is required to purchase one. No questions regarding a buyer’s mental health. (But get one, and I promise that your mental health will improve.)</p>
<p>Gun and ammunition sales generally increase before elections, but before this political contest, the increase in sales is off the chart, prompting high prices and supply shortages. But ammunition for the weapon I’m discussing here is plentiful and incredibly cheap.</p>
<p>I’ve fired this thing so many times in the last couple of days that my left arm is sore from pumping ammo into the chamber, and my right thumb is sporting a painful blister. The safety switch on this weapon has to be toggled after every pump, every shot. Pump the gun, flip off the safety, and fire! Repeat. I’m getting pretty fast at the whole cycle, but my thumb hurts.</p>
<p>I’ve had a good time shooting during this present dove hunting season; I won’t be bragging too much about my shell to bagged bird ratio, but it could be worse.</p>
<p>But my kill ratio with my a-salt gun is much better. <em>Much</em> better.</p>
<p>This weapon, you see, is literally a “Bug-a-Salt” gun, and I love it. What a great product! What a fantastic gift!</p>
<p>This thing shoots salt. Really well. Pretty safe, it’s got the usual lawyer litter: “Don’t be a brainless fool and shoot yourself in the eye.” But if you shoot yourself in your bare foot, it’ll likely only sting and maybe make a red mark.</p>
<p>But what it will indeed do is massacre flies. Even on a normal day, say, a Saturday such as the Lord intended in which you sit outside and smoke meat, you’ll find having this weapon by your side a genuine comfort and help.</p>
<p>Even in the house, it’s much, much better than a fly swatter, and you’ll hardly notice a little salt on the counter.</p>
<p>I despise flies. I’m willing to stop anything I’m doing to kill just one. “Suffer not a fly to live” is my motto. But right now, right as the first deep freeze is coming and flies rush through any open door—say, an open garage door—in biblical plague numbers, desperately seeking life-extending warmth, this weapon makes doing battle with them and watching the disgusting little bodies pile up an absolute pleasure.</p>
<p>Before I write my next column, the looming election will be over. At least, I pray it will. Election Day, in any case, will be over. I hope we won’t be cast into weeks and months of election limbo, interminable court cases, and high-pitched whining from losers.</p>
<p>If I start feeling stressed (I personally don’t expect the results, whatever they are, to bring much joy), I plan to take my gun into the garage and kill some despicable creatures. It’ll make me feel better.</p>
<p>But what will really make me feel better is realizing that, no matter who “wins,” the gospel, the truly good news of genuine hope in this and in all times for God’s people, is that the victory that truly matters is in Christ, and he will win. Our King, our Lord, will be on the throne long after the present pompous politicians are dust, historical footnotes, long gone and almost completely forgotten.</p>
<p>My vote is cast. The one is this election. And the one long ago that matters much more. My real hope is secure.</p>
<p>Now back to the hunt.</p>
<p></p>
<p><em><strong><span class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color">You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64593892020-10-19T20:07:00-05:002020-10-19T21:45:03-05:00The Pandemic, Statistics, and Perspective
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<p><strong>D</strong>eath. There seems to have been a lot of it lately, at least in my experience. Funerals have been the order of the day.</p>
<p>I know. Your first thought will likely be of COVID-19 deaths. According to Johns Hopkins University, the United States, at this point, has suffered 219,282 deaths.</p>
<p>Of course, we’re awash in numbers as we try to get a perspective on this mess. I found some particularly interesting. (But check me on them. Statistics are slippery.)</p>
<p>On an average year, between 34,000 and 43,000 people die due to the flu. According to an Associate Press article, the average of recent years was bumped up by the 2017-18 flu season, the “worst in forty years,” in which 80,000 people died. Half of that number would have counted as “an unusually bad year.” Mix together an unusually strong flu virus and an unusually ineffective flu vaccine, and you have a recipe for nothing good.</p>
<p>Even more recently, the CDC (US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention) estimates that, before April 4, 2020, between 24,000 and 62,000 people had died in the 2019-2020 flu season.</p>
<p>You probably already know that the 1918 flu pandemic was epic and very deadly indeed. It actually lasted two years and estimates are that it killed 500,000 Americans.</p>
<p>What we generally see from the seasonal flu, notes Dr. Anthony Fauci, is a mortality rate of 0.1%. He also says, and this is probably what we’re most interested in right now (though dead is 100% dead), that the coronavirus is “ten times more lethal” than the flu.</p>
<p>And here’s a number for you. The worst pandemic in human history was the Black Death (the Plague) in the mid-fourteenth century that killed between 75 and 200 million people, a very significant portion of an estimated 450 million worldwide population.</p>
<p>But, the Big One aside, I’m not even sure how to evaluate the scads of other more recent numbers regularly tossed at us. A lot of estimating must be required. The CDC is well aware that many folks with relatively light cases of the flu never see a doctor during their manageable misery. My own opinion, almost completely worthless, I’m sure, is that many, many more folks have had COVID-19 than the official numbers indicate, and that affects the true mortality rate.</p>
<p>Some numbers may not surprise you, but they say a lot. As of early September, a total of 38,500 U.S. military personnel had contracted the virus; seven had died. A single nursing home in Brooklyn had 55 deaths and many states report that over half their pandemic deaths are in assisted living and nursing home facilities.</p>
<p>It’s become quite clear that, though we see mostly the same data, we filter it through our own political and social lenses. I don’t want anyone to die from flu or COVID-19, but I must confess that the flu’s 0.1% mortality rate doesn’t worry me much. Nor, if I’m honest, for me personally, does COVID-19’s higher number. I figure it’s good to be prudent, and I’ve long thought that, for a guy who likes to sing for people, a little germophobia and the consequent frequent hand-washing, etc., is not so much a phobia as it is good common sense, pandemic or not.</p>
<p>And yet all of our views on this are skewed in so many ways for so many reasons. Do you know someone—do you love someone—who has died from COVID-19? Do you know someone left with serious health issues? Then one is far too many.</p>
<p>Statistics are crazy. What to make of them?</p>
<p>Here’s one. In the United States, we have 331,002,651 people and have had 8,390,547 COVID-19 cases.</p>
<p>Here’s another statistic that presently frightens me. Out of those 331 million folks, a bunch (that’s a seriously technical statistical term) belong to two political parties who have chosen the two candidates for president—presumably, their best options, which I find 100% statistically horrifying. One now has no logical need at all to wear a mask, though a mask with a mute button or a filter would help him garner more votes. The other is likely to drown in his shower as he waterboards himself. I figure he wears his mask even under running water.</p>
<p>In the midst of all this barrage of statistics, one stat gives me comfort. I’m 100% sure I know the One who brings us from death to life and breathes into us the only health that ultimately matters. I have 100% confidence in our real King.</p>
<p></p>
<p><em><strong> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64539822020-10-12T11:21:03-05:002020-10-12T12:45:13-05:00“Tolerance” Is a Plastic Idol, But “God Is Love”
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<p><strong>T</strong>olerance.</p>
<p>I find myself wondering if the word, these days a sickly, anemic, anorexic wraith of a word barely staggering around on its wobbly feet—and yet incredibly loud despite its weakness—has always carried with it a genetic predisposition toward infirmity and decay, or if the present-day virulence of political correctness has fed its malignant bone rot.</p>
<p>“Just give tolerance a chance.” Let’s hold our candles high and sway to the music as we stand in front of our university’s Office of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion, hoping that the wind whistling through our ears doesn’t extinguish our flickering flames. Still, it’s quite a moving experience, this worship of tolerance. All the more heady, issuing in tear-streaked cheeks and spirits utterly astonished at the depth of our own virtue, if we’ve just managed to “cancel” a speaker whose speech we’re frightened we might not agree with. And the music plays, we sway, wind whistles, candles flicker, minds atrophy.</p>
<p>Forgive me, but “tolerance,” oft-mistaken in our society these days as the highest of virtues, seems sickly, wobbly, and unequal to the task its worshipers have thrust upon it, even as it tries to do what they demand. Not see. Not care. Have no strong opinions, except those most popular, plastic, and unencumbered by anything as morally or dreadfully confining as reality or physics. You believe two plus two equals five; I believe the answer is four. Oh, well. Be tolerant. Light a candle. What difference does it make as long as we’re all happy and on the right—better make that, the correct—side of the latest opinion polls?</p>
<p>Strange, though, how tolerance, as generally practiced in the ever-constricting PC world, stretches only one direction and how utterly intolerant it is in the other. Flirt with a politically incorrect opinion and feel your career flame out as diversity seems suddenly unappreciated. </p>
<p>In his <em>Wall Street Journal</em> article (10/10/2020), Joseph Epstein lists five views among many “the tolerant absolutely won’t tolerate.”</p>
<p>*That abortion “is, somehow, anti-life and thus just might be wrong.”</p>
<p>*That “the final word isn’t in on climate change, let alone what, if it exists, ought to be done about it.”</p>
<p>*That “racism isn’t systemic but the absence of fathers in African-American families is, with 70% of black births being out of wedlock.”</p>
<p>*That “sexual reassignment surgery and transgendering generally is a ghastly solution to what possibly isn’t a problem.”</p>
<p>*That “most government programs for the improvement of the human condition are unlikely to be effective and in many cases exacerbate the illnesses they set out to cure.”</p>
<p>What a strange virtue tolerance is, especially if it tries to lay claim to being the highest of all virtues. Long before we get even through the list of five items above, let alone to hundreds of others, the high priests of Tolerance have covered their ears, shredding their vocal cords belting out, “All that we’re asking is give tolerance a chance . . .” all the while completely unwilling to ever really try.</p>
<p>We’d do well to remember that Jesus named and crowned the highest of virtues long ago: love. Love is completely up to the task our society has futilely entrusted to tolerance.</p>
<p>Just not caring much. That’s the highest win “tolerance” can manage. Love cares deeply. Love may have very strong opinions indeed. But love loves anyway, even those with whom it most strongly disagrees.</p>
<p>I could blather on. But I’d rather offer examples of love’s strength as opposed to insipid “tolerance.” Think Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Antonin Scalia. Think George W. Bush and Michelle Obama. And think—I hope you can—of someone you love deeply, someone you’d die for, whose politics, opinions, and even choices, you abhor.</p>
<p>Tolerance will never be up to that task. For love, such strength is simply what it’s all about. Tolerance is a plastic idol. “God is love.”</p>
<p></p>
<p><a><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64497482020-10-05T13:03:53-05:002020-10-05T17:30:08-05:00Question: “I Wonder What Would Happen If . . .”
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<p><strong>I</strong> wonder.</p>
<p>I wonder what would happen . . .</p>
<p>Well, it probably wouldn’t happen, at least, not with the folks I’m thinking of, though I think there’s a pretty good chance it could happen, would happen, and does happen with you or me or anybody you really want to spend much time around, folks who don’t suck the air out of any room they enter, people you can honestly say that you like, but I wonder . . .</p>
<p>I wonder what would happen if the loud politicians (and most of them are loud) presently enjoying their fifteen minutes of this world’s fame, would do what they almost never do, find very difficult to do, and maybe literally can’t do: what would it look like if one of them just occasionally laughed at himself, herself, or itself (to be inclusive here)?</p>
<p>What would happen? I can think of a few who’ve done it. Not many. But, thank the Lord, a few.</p>
<p>Can you imagine, though, Russia’s chest-baring narcissist, China’s fake-smiling bully, North Korea’s puffed up toad, Iraq’s . . . well, you get my drift—those guys who might well be termed “deplorables” . . . Can you imagine a genuine, good-hearted laugh from any of them, much less a laugh at <em>themselves</em>?</p>
<p>And, though I’ll try to be reasonable here—I really don’t think it’s fair to lump “our” present pols into that sorry wad of bottom-feeders—hang with me here and think about this.</p>
<p>Wouldn’t it be a great sign if our political leaders were truly better at laughing in general and laughing at themselves in particular?</p>
<p>I’m talking about a real laugh. Not a smirk from the nose down. Not a grimace. Nothing aimed at an opponent or critic. Nothing at all sardonic, cynical, withering, bitter, resentful, supercilious, ignorant, arrogant, rude, condescending, or fake. No.</p>
<p>But a genuine full-involvement-of-the-face laugh. The real deal. A good-natured roar. A guffaw. An explosion of deep mirth accompanied by a flash of eye-twinkle that confirms it.</p>
<p>That’s probably far too much to hope for all at once. I think even a teeny, tiny joke about one’s own foibles and inconsistencies issuing in a real and spontaneous, unscripted and unguarded smile would be refreshing and a good start. And it could and should cross all political lines.</p>
<p>Maybe if Trump laughed a bit about his own Twitter propensity and Biden grinned about his own gaffe-ability, we’d feel better and late night comics would have a little less ammunition.</p>
<p>I think I’d nominate George W. Bush and Michelle Obama to give lessons. Whatever I may like or dislike about the politics of either, I like this about them very much: those two could pull this off.</p>
<p>Ya know what? Upon reflection, I really do think I could name a handful of other political sorts we have seen, or can imagine, doing this without straining any facial muscles at all. I’d gladly vote for one of them.</p>
<p>I’m serious about this. It’s a much bigger deal than we might at first imagine. What kind of heart, what kind of soul, does it take to be able to laugh at oneself? For all of us, not just politicians, it takes a heart with something still warm and beating in it and a soul with something still alive in it. Something still genuinely good. Something that knows itself well enough to be able to get out of self and not be locked up—north, south, east, and west—in a cell with bars fashioned by self as its own tyrannical jailer.</p>
<p>Sadly, that kind of self-imposed prison is not just common to egotistical politicians, it can lock up the hearts of any of us who take ourselves too seriously and our God not seriously enough. If we really trust our Father, we’ll have plenty of time, many good reasons, and ample occasion not only to love but to laugh, often at ourselves.</p>
<p>Personally, I think it’s foolish and dangerous to put much trust in anyone who doesn’t.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><a><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></a></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64446812020-09-28T12:46:21-05:002020-09-28T15:15:27-05:00“Wow! That Person Really Knows the Bible!”
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<p><a><span class="has-inline-color has-black-color"><strong>“W</strong>ow! That person really knows the Bible!” I hear that comment made fairly often, and I always wonder what the speaker means.</span></a></p>
<p>Usually they mean that someone is quite familiar with the words of the Bible, its many facts and wonderful stories, etc. On one level, that’s great, since most studies these days show that the general level of factual Bible knowledge among even Christians is appalling.</p>
<p>But then I wonder, how much does that person whose Bible knowledge is being touted really understand about God’s written revelation? For example, how much does he understand about the various types of literature that are contained in the Scriptures? Does she realize that being serious about learning what a particular book of the Bible has to teach means being serious enough to learn something about its context and setting? And on we could go.</p>
<p>I don’t doubt for a moment that one doesn’t have to have credentials as a Bible scholar to derive great blessing from simply reading the Bible and learning about the amazingly Good News of God’s love; but neither do I doubt that biblical “malpractice” and mistaken “theories” that sound good on the surface are most easily promulgated by folks who haven’t had the training truly needed to swim in the deeper ends of the pool; they are easily misled and often mislead others whether they have great intentions or not.</p>
<p>Interestingly, those who have worked the hardest and studied the longest to truly know the most about the facts, the message, and the meaning of the Bible are the very last to ever claim to know much about it at all. You might as well claim to truly know every “corner” of the Milky Way, and only the most foolish and blind astronomer would ever make that claim.</p>
<p>I’ve been enjoying Dr. Eugene Peterson’s memoir <em>The Pastor</em>. One of Peterson’s most truly wise and learned teachers at the Johns Hopkins University was Professor William Albright, then perhaps the world’s leading scholar in biblical archaeology and Semitic studies.</p>
<p>Peterson says that one day Dr. Albright walked into the classroom greatly excited. For years scholars had been debating the exact location (and meaning) of Mount Moriah, where Abraham had “bound Isaac for sacrifice.” Dr. Albright had awakened that morning to suddenly realize that he had discovered some very important answers. He stood before his doctoral students and laid it all out, filling the chalkboard with Ugaritic, Arabic, Assyrian, Aramaic, and Hebrew words pertinent to the issue. He’d gone on for twenty minutes when one of his best students raised his hand and asked, “But Dr. Albright, what about . . .”</p>
<p>Peterson says that the Professor stopped, considered for twenty seconds, and said, “Mr. Williams is right—forget everything I have said.” Amazing humility! And true humility is always impressive.</p>
<p>Most folks don’t even begin to realize how much we are blessed by those like the good professor and so many others who have devoted their lives to helping us better understand God’s written word.</p>
<p>May we never forget that the real purpose of God’s written revelation—every page—is to help us know and become like the Lord behind it. Knowing its facts but not its Author would be sad indeed. The more we truly know of Him the more truly humble we will become.</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
<p><em><strong> <a>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</a></strong></em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64334832020-09-14T13:20:33-05:002020-09-14T16:30:16-05:00“What Might Be Filed in a ‘Column Seed’ Folder?”
<p>Two or three folders stuffed with little pieces of paper covered in scrawled notes. A computer file folder named “ColumnSeed” with files named “ColSeed0001” and on up, presently, to “ColSeed0334.” What each of those folders holds, of course, are ideas for newspaper columns/blogs and now, podcasts.</p>
<p>The column-starter ideas submerged in them (though most are relatively benevolent) are a bit like the nuclear missiles resting in submarines and silos: they are usually out of sight, but I feel better knowing they are there.</p>
<p>I almost never look at them. When I do, I am reminded of why I almost never look at them.</p>
<p>Most of them seemed good to me at the time, but now seem weak, at best, and completely unneeded and uninteresting, at worst.</p>
<p>More than a few of them seemed timely at the time. That time is not now. The week I handed a diploma to a son, a few of those ideas were fresh, and I wrote about one of them. The week each of my grandchildren was born, I was overflowing with gratitude. Still am. But it’s another time in those sweet lives. Even the “bug emergency” a granddaughter brought to my attention regarding bugs adrift at sea in our backyard wading pool, well, was an emergency then. And I wrote about it, and I’m glad. But a few such noted moments are notes past their “sell by” date now.</p>
<p>Most of my column-starter notes, as I mentioned, are benevolent in tone, but not all. [Note the preceding sentence. Notice how much can be done with differing combinations of N O T E S in just one sentence. Are words not wonderful?]</p>
<p>Some of my not-so-benevolent notes are actually complete columns that I wrote while ticked off. Writing them delivered me of a gut-load of fury—righteous, self-righteous, or otherwise—but they never needed to see the light of day. I am not, you understand, saying that they were untrue. But Scripture tells us that truth-speaking should be done “in love.” Even if your point is ever so true and desperately needs to be made, skewering someone with pointed truth heated by blistering anger is much more “aggression” than it is “love.” It never helps.</p>
<p>So the angry columns—and, I’m pleased to say that they are few in number—helped me at the time but will help others only by staying where they are. All of which, by the way, is a good reminder that anything you write quickly as a text, a social media “shot” or reply, etc., should be allowed to marinate a bit before you fire it off. Many people, I’m told, even some national leaders and famous folks, don’t have enough discipline to just wait a couple of minutes for their blistering note and hot head to cool off; they just launch the missile. Almost always a mistake. Most mature third-graders know better than to behave that way.</p>
<p>Some of my notes seemed funny or witty at the time, I guess; they are not now.</p>
<p>Some were written in a crisis time. Crisis times are nothing I enjoy, but the shock sometimes lights off brain cells. Some of those (few) notes seem to have come from a scorched brain; others, more worthwhile, are more interesting but the fizz has gone out of the soda. (And I’m glad.)</p>
<p>So, there. Looking for something to write about, I just shared some thoughts on “column seed” and am saved from having to scratch out on a note to stick in a folder: “Write about how to keep ideas available on stuff to write about.” Whatever ColSeed0335 turns out to be, it won’t be that one.</p>
<p>I probably wouldn’t look at it anyway. In my experience, ideas for stuff worth writing about don’t come out of a dusty file; they come from the story the Author of life is always busy writing all around us. I just need to be still long enough to open my eyes and notice.</p>
<p>He’s not called “the Word” for nothing.</p>
<p></p>
<p><em><span class="has-inline-color has-vivid-red-color">You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></em></p>
<p><a><em><span class="has-inline-color has-vivid-red-color">Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</span></em></a></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64332402020-09-14T10:35:19-05:002021-04-01T04:40:40-05:00“Why Didn’t I See That Wreck Coming?”
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<p><strong>S</strong>ome wrecks you simply cannot see coming; others, well, it’s almost criminal negligence not to see them heading your way. The latter can and should be avoided.</p>
<p>If you are busy minding your own business as a good citizen when you are suddenly dispatched (tragically, for sure) by falling space junk, or perhaps by a less flashy but nonetheless spectacular, garden variety meteorite, I don’t see how anyone could rationally criticize you for not seeing the danger coming.</p>
<p>Of course, we’re so incredibly enlightened now that we can’t criticize anyone for anything. If we’re nailed on the noggin and nullified by a statue we’re busy pulling down, say, of a Confederate general or Mother Theresa (ours is not to reason why), and we are not city workers doing our job after a legal city council vote or city-wide “Does This Statue Offend Us?” referendum . . .</p>
<p>If we’re just short of other things to do, enjoy a good protest or riot, are full of ourselves and our victim-hood (whatever the issue and whatever our color, economic class, intelligence or lack thereof), and relish mayhem, and the statue we’re destroying accidentally destroys us, I don’t know that we’d have a lot to complain about. Vandalizing public property carries with it inherent risks that should not surprise us. Once upon a time, one of those risks was being arrested.</p>
<p>Some problems can’t be avoided, but others? Is it really necessary to light a cigarette while filling a gasoline can? Or why not just get out of the way of the speeding train? You saw it coming, right? Loud whistle. Bright light. In the name of all that still makes sense in this crazy world, why did you stand there and wait for its kiss—and then expect others to clean up and mourn the mess as being unpredictable?</p>
<p>And now, in the midst of an already crazy time comes Election Day rumbling down the track. If you’d be ecstatic over the choice between a proctological exam or a root canal, you’ll love this one. Even more lovely is the serious possibility that it will be Election Month (or worse).</p>
<p>In a recent issue of <em>The Wall Street Journal</em>, Daniel Henninger writes that looking ahead at the coming election is like sitting in a boat about to plunge over Niagara Falls: any fool can see trouble coming.</p>
<p>He’s specifically talking about the mail-in ballots. Fraud possibilities aside (which seem very real to me), he’s talking about the widely varying state to state post-marking, acceptance, and verification rules for mail-in ballots. <em>WSJ</em> polling, he says, suggests that 66% of Trump voters plan to vote in person, and 75% of Biden voters say they’ll vote by mail. Interesting. But it means, basically, “parallel elections for the same office.”</p>
<p>I recently received four of the same item in the mail. Why? Because of mail delays—“item presumed lost”—the store tried three different times to mail me the same product. All of their tries finally, but very tardily, succeeded. I really don’t blame the USPS. The pandemic has their boat loaded. One might say that they are paddling near Niagara Falls. Already. And obviously.</p>
<p>So, writes Henninger, we see the problem coming. It’s headed our way. The wreck is completely predictable. Some states (wisely) require mail-in ballots to be received by Election Day (by close of polls) to be counted. So mail it very early; if you don’t, and it’s not counted, no whining. Some states say ballots must be postmarked by Nov. 2 or 3, but we’ll count them until X days after the election (or if they arrive before Easter in years when the big rodent saw his shadow on the previous Groundhog Day; just kidding on that last). Most states require that the voter have a pulse when he/she marks the mail-in ballot. (Kidding again. I’m not sure California or New Jersey require a pulse.)</p>
<p>Anyway, we’re just gonna watch this happen, singing “Row, row, row your boat merrily down the stream” as the thunder of the falls resounds and the spray hits us in the face? Really?</p>
<p>Such idiocy is breathtaking. We better work on fixing this now.</p>
<p>But before I get too haughty, perhaps I should recall how many times I’ve ignored my Father’s clear warnings and wise counsel, been utterly foolish or rebelliously disobedient, “sowed the wind” and “reaped the whirlwind.” Yes, and then acted surprised by the wreck!?</p>
<p><em><strong><span class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color"> You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></strong></em></p>
<p><a><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></a></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64260202020-09-05T12:22:15-05:002020-09-05T15:45:08-05:00“A Good Door-knocker, I Am Not!”
<p></p>
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<p><strong>I</strong> might as well just admit it: I am not a good door-knocker.</p>
<p>Knock, knock. Who’s there? Probably not me, or you’d not have heard the clatter.</p>
<p>I don’t like to make noise. I like peace and quiet and assume that others do, too, so I tend to knock too quietly. Nor do I enjoy having to stand outside a door as I realize that I knocked too tentatively and that it’s probably my own fault that I’m standing there, waiting, wondering if anyone is home, if anybody heard my wimpy knock, and how long I should wait before knocking (apologetically) again.</p>
<p>Knocking, by its very nature, seems intrusive. I don’t like to bother people. I’d starve as a door-to-door salesman, religious pamphlet passer-outer, etc., for all of the reasons above—and more. If, when the door-knocker knocks, he’s praying that no one is home, he is not well-suited for door-knocking.</p>
<p>But some people are.</p>
<p>Like the guy in Jesus’ parable in Luke 11.</p>
<p>It seems to me the fellow is a few slices short of a loaf. Actually, he’s three loaves short of “enough for company.” Oh, and he’s “you.”</p>
<p>Don’t be offended, but “you” are a little clueless in this parable. It is, however, Jesus’ story and not mine. And the Lord calls him “you.”</p>
<p>You show up at a friend’s house at midnight. Unannounced. You shouldn’t have. Granted, you’d have had to wait about two thousand years to call or text ahead, but you shouldn’t have done that, either. No way to shine this up.</p>
<p>You knocked. Loudly. With authority. (Even though you have none.) I’m sorry, but, if this is you, I figure “you” stand in people’s personal space and talk too loudly even at decent hours. Spittle sputter. Buzzard breath. You may be a tad short of friends.</p>
<p>But you’ve rattled the timbers around this particular soon-to-be-former friend’s door. At midnight.</p>
<p>Three-quarters asleep, he stumbles over and manages to raise the bedroom window: “Hey, fool, we’re trying to sleep here! The lights are out, the door’s locked, and my kids are finally asleep—or at least they were. Go away!” Where I live, we’re more civilized. We might just forgo the filibuster, cock the .45, and growl, “Git!”</p>
<p>But “you” plead your case. Another friend has shown up for a visit, and you don’t have a morsel or crumb anywhere in the house. You figure a loan of three loaves of bread will be enough. Wheat, not white. Mind wrapping it up?</p>
<p>“Are you daft? No!” Please? “No!” You sure? “For heaven’s sake, let me sleep!” Just this once?</p>
<p>The window slams shut. Curtains pulled. Unprintable snarls. A baby’s yowling.</p>
<p>Louder unprintable growls. Heavy steps. Bolts sliding. A door flung open. More snarls. A package of, presumably, three loaves shoved in your chest. A door slammed in your face.</p>
<p>You probably won’t be doing a garage sale together anytime soon. But you got the bread.</p>
<p>Why? Jesus says it’s because you’re a loud jerk. Well, he calls you “shamelessly persistent.”</p>
<p>The Lord tells this story in the midst of some of his most amazing teaching on prayer. And he is telling us something important about our Father. Above all, notice that this is <em>not</em> a comparison, it’s a contrast. </p>
<p>We’re not obnoxious neighbors who get on God’s nerves; we’re the sons and daughters in whom he delights.</p>
<p>So keep asking, seeking, knocking. It’s your Father’s deepest joy to open the door to his children.</p>
<p>Anytime. <em>Any</em> time. Any time at all.</p>
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<p><em><strong><span style="color:#540623;" class="has-inline-color">You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></strong></em></p>
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<p><a><em><span style="color:#5a062e;" class="has-inline-color">Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</span></em></a></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64213412020-08-31T12:33:17-05:002020-08-31T15:45:10-05:00“My Grandchildren Have Each Come Equipped with GPS”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/08/braid.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/08/braid.jpg?w=300&h=150" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="150" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>W</strong>hen my first grandchild, a beautiful little girl, was born, I was surprised to learn that grandchildren are born with an integrated GPS. All of mine have come thus equipped.</p>
<p>The Grandpa Positioning System can be initiated with a simple smile aimed at the old guy, a pudgy little finger pointing PawPaw in a specific direction, or a cute giggle triggering Granddaddy Gymnastics (which—let grandpas beware—may lead to lumbar consequences).</p>
<p>At one point a few years into my grandfathering career, led by the aforementioned GPS, I found myself, a father of four sons, in the strange position of perusing YouTube videos trying to learn how to French braid a little granddaughter’s silken hair. A major goal, of course, was to do a good braiding job. For an amateur, I did okay. (May I strongly suggest a good comb and dampened hair?) The over-riding goal, however, was to elicit smiles and giggles and hugs. On that score, I did better than okay!</p>
<p>The tricky part of French-braiding hair comes because the good Lord saw fit to give most grandfathers only two hands. The process requires holding at least three strands of hair and a comb, all at the same time while juggling a spray bottle, and not fumbling hair strands, comb, or water sprayer in the process. PawPaw’s fingers found the multitasking to be a bit challenging. But the giggles were wonderful compensation!</p>
<p>“All at the same time” can be a challenge—and not just for grandfathers.</p>
<p>When Jesus came into this world at Bethlehem, the Apostle John describes him as being “full of grace and truth.” In his ministry, Jesus himself makes it clear that those who love and follow him are to be people whose lives are filled with love, grace, compassion, hope, joy, and so much more—all at the same time. What a beautiful braid! But what a challenge!</p>
<p>In that “braid,” so many wonderful qualities are, by the power of God’s Spirit, woven together beautifully. But integral in that lovely weave, a special strand intermingles with the others lending a deeper tone, a richer sheen, and producing in the whole braid a magnificent beauty, lush and lustrous and, at the same time, providing a marvelous strength. That strand is truth.</p>
<p>“Grace and truth.” Our world is in desperate need of both. Real grace. Real truth. Together. Grace separated from truth becomes an anorexic wraith. Or change the image. “Cheap grace” is no more real grace than those pathetic globs of “poultry” Gary Larson once drew in his “Far Side” cartoon under the caption “Boneless Chicken Ranch” were real chickens!</p>
<p>And truth separated from grace? It is cold and hard and brittle, quickly lost as our society tries to force truth to be anything at all that anyone at all might find useful at any given moment at all. Hurling a rabbit off a mountaintop and calling him an eagle won’t help with the landing. Truth matters. But our self-destructive culture is often unwilling to admit that objective truth even exists. Many people don’t want it to exist. And many, because of their approach to life, can’t afford for it to. No wonder Pontius Pilate’s cynical sneer is as modern as tomorrow: “What is truth?” (John 18:38).</p>
<p>But truth does exist, and all genuine truth is God’s truth. The real thing is no chameleon or shape-shifter changing hue or form to fit the latest opinion poll or fashion. We might as well talk about “my gravity” or “my multiplication table” as to spout nonsense about “my truth.”</p>
<p>Accepting the truth about ourselves, our world, our Creator, is the way to life and healing and joy because in our Father, grace and truth are beautifully braided together with love.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64161422020-08-24T12:49:29-05:002020-08-24T15:00:04-05:00“I Will Soon Be Taking Orders for MAMA Caps”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/08/mama.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/08/mama.jpg?w=225&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="225" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>’ve been thinking about ordering some hats. Caps, really. Baseball-style caps. Something like those famous red ones that are emblazoned “MAGA.”</p>
<p>But those won’t work for me. Oh, we can discuss the message, but I don’t plan to. Not here. I’m just talking about the style.</p>
<p>The fact is, I’m not a big hat person. I sometimes wish I was. Nothing looks better than a nice cowboy hat on a guy who was made for a nice cowboy hat. But I just can’t seem to pull that look off.</p>
<p>I’ve recently found a couple of Irish caps. Dunno if, occasionally, I can pull that look off. Some guys make fun of them. I don’t care. But if you want a hat to do billboard duty, forget the newsboy/Irish caps. You’d have to put your message on the top. It’d look like a tilted helipad, and vertically challenged folks would never see your ad/slogan.</p>
<p>So we’re back to some variation of baseball cap. Yeah, like the MAGA caps. But I repeat: I don’t care for that exact style. I don’t like straight-up billboard caps, even if they’re best for billboards. I don’t like flat brim caps; I want curved. I don’t like mesh hats; I want softish fabric. I don’t like cardboard or starched almost-90-degree angles; I like fitted or, at least, aerodynamic or what some folks call “dad” style. Soft. Well-broken in. A clasp, if it’s not fitted. No plastic.</p>
<p>Not a serious hat person, I seriously know what I want in a hat.</p>
<p>Now we’re ready for color. This will be hard.</p>
<p>I’m a sucker for blue or maroon. Or black. But ya gotta be careful these days. You can’t say “good morning” without sending the wrong message. “You’re a racist! You’re a homophobe! You’re a . . .”</p>
<p>What?! All I said was, “Good morning”!?</p>
<p>“It was your inflection. I’ve heard it before. It is systemic. You need to read this book or a few. Bathe appropriately in abject guilt. Then come back and try saying ‘Good morning’ to me again in the morning.”</p>
<p>So color matters. Red’s out. And blue. (Both appropriated by political parties.) White? (You dastardly bigot!) Black? (Better, but still . . .) Same with brown. Green? (It seems to elicit gaseous emissions.) So, rainbow? (Nope. Even “all colors fit all” has been sadly sullied and co-opted.) This is difficult. Okay. I vote to table the color discussion and move on to “message.”</p>
<p>Well, why not wear just a plain ol’ non-messaged cap to keep your head warm or salvage a bad hair day? Just a possibility. No? My mistake.</p>
<p>So . . . I vote for MAMA. I like it. You already feel warm hugs, right? Even before you know that it stands for “Make America Mature Again.” I could have said MAP(olite)A or MAC(ivil)A or MAN(ot)A(s)D(umb)A(s)AP(ost)A. All of the above are good messages for both political parties, whether, on any given day, they are engaging in self-righteousness, preening, virtue-signalling, busily shooting themselves in the foot, or perpetrating any idiocy anywhere in between. Yep, I vote for MAMA.</p>
<p>Somebody with an “in your face” cap of any sort comes toward me. I just turn toward them, and my MAMA cap says it all silently.</p>
<p>It says, for example, in the midst of this virus mess, if you’re not wearing a mask and I am, I’ll not scowl at you; I don’t know your reasons. The scowl would be wasted anyway because you couldn’t see it unless I frown all the way up past my eyebrows. That’s hard on a face, and mine’s showing some wear.</p>
<p>And if I’m not wearing a mask and you are, I won’t scowl because I’ll assume the best, that you don’t want to infect me. I’ll just figure you think it’s all hooey and that, if you’re a Christian, you sincerely believe you have very good reasons for not “submitting” to “governmental authorities” (Romans 13) in this case.</p>
<p>I find myself in the middle on this discussion. Not unusual. But to my friends, both sides, who want to actively politicize this “issue,” may I just say that I don’t plan to join in.</p>
<p>It’s ironic. Intemperate alcoholics and intemperately loud teetotallers share the same problem—way too much focus on alcohol. Loud maskers and loud non-maskers are the same. There’s more to life, even in the pandemic, than to mask or not to mask. Decide. Don’t filibuster about it. And be nice to the rest of us who just want to get through this thing.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: If you <em>force</em> a hand at me, trying to make a point, not just because you forgot and have been doing handshakes courteously forever, I’ll take my hat off and tip it to you. What I’m really doing is looking at those letters, MAMA, to remind myself of why I shouldn’t extend my balled up hand into your teeth, which you deserve if you’re trying to <em>force</em> me to help you make your point. But you’re probably not. So I’ll probably shake it and later use hand sanitizer. Or I’ll fist-bump. Maybe hug. If I like you, and I probably do, I’ll risk a hug if you will. But your move first. And not in a crowd; I shouldn’t hug everyone.</p>
<p>But, you see, my MAMA cap covers even that. It says wordlessly to kids who should know this already, especially if they claim to be our Father’s kids (and our Father has always been maddeningly apolitical on this sort of issue, no matter what those who claim to speak for Him say), “Do you fussing little brats just need a hug? There ya go. I love ya. Now, go play. And straighten up. And get over yourself. Come back if you need your shoe tied. Or if you need another hug. Johnnie! Janie! I mean it!”</p>
<p>MAMA says it all. Caps, $12.99. A steal, I say.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></span></p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
<p> </p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64114322020-08-17T12:40:09-05:002020-08-17T14:45:19-05:00“May I Say Just a Few Words in Favor of Mondays?”<p><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/08/mondayhello.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="MondayHello" /></p>
<p><strong>W</strong>ell, here we are again. Monday morning. At least, in my corner of the universe. I mean, of course, as I’m writing this. I don’t know when you’re reading it. Whenever it is, I do very much appreciate your discerning and impeccable literary tastes. (And, I beg you, please give me at least one more chance after you read this particular column. I’m thinking it will be a little thin.) But onward . . .</p>
<p>This is probably not news to you, upon reflection, but most barbers and a good many pastors share a “general population” minority view of Mondays; we are <em>very</em> fond of them.</p>
<p>Please understand, I genuinely love what happens in my life on Sundays. At least, I love it once I’ve pried myself out of bed, and caffeine and hot running water have done their vital work.</p>
<p>And may I say, since COVID-19 shut down so many of our churches for real, in-life, in-person, flesh-and-blood worship times, I value Sundays now more than ever. I admit that I didn’t mind sleeping in for a Sunday or a few. That whole experience has been exhausting and involved harder work than ever, but having done Sunday’s video early, I did find a few positives in the general mess. And less than ever am I tempted to count myself as some other species who cannot imagine sleeping in on Sundays. On balance, it’s a sad and hurtful choice, I think, but I quickly admit it: I understand those whose church attendance good intentions are derailed by every “gnat’s eyelash and mosquito’s wing that falls on the rails” and who come faithfully—whenever the barometric pressure in Bolivia is conducive to church attendance. Hey, I’m human, too. (And some of you, for very good reasons, really should not come right now. But let’s also get real: more of you than are, wherever you attend, should. If not for you, for others; I’d say, for both.)</p>
<p>All of that said, just about any pastor worthy of any trust, pandemic times or not, will also understand me when I say that the best thing about Mondays is that they are as far as you can get from Sundays. A few of my breed may not admit such. They are probably also the ones who say they enjoy weddings.</p>
<p>Regarding weddings . . . Honored to have done them. A privilege to be asked. Love the families I get to share life with. Incredibly proud of and delighted by those weddings that inaugurated heart-warming marriages. But more convinced than ever that a great marriage has less than nothing to do with a big wedding where every gal the bride ever said “Good morning” to is a bridesmaid and the groom is suckin’ air to think of that many friends.</p>
<p>I do know a preacher or two that I trust who claims to like weddings. But it still tends to be, maybe just to me, a red flag. “Judge not.” I know. But a little discernment doesn’t always cross that line and recognizing a red flag can be a valuable life skill. For example, not everyone who wears a bluetooth phone earpiece habitually for no work-related reason is an idiot and well worth avoiding; in my estimation, for what it’s worth, which is nothing, two perfectly good strikes remain. And I’m glad to have been proven wrong here more than once. What’s on your red flag list? I find such lists interesting.</p>
<p>Okay, I was going to say something profound to wrap this up and salvage my space this week. I don’t think this is redeemable. May I just ask that you come back next week? It’ll be profound, I’m sure.</p>
<p>In the meantime, I’ll say with real thanksgiving, I am immensely thankful to the Giver of all good gifts. Please forgive me for thinking that one of those great gifts is called Monday.</p>
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<p><em><strong> <span style="color:#800000;"> You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</span></strong></em></p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64069862020-08-10T20:49:22-05:002020-08-11T00:30:10-05:00Lazarus Was Dead, But Hope Had the Last Word<p><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/08/jesuswept.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="JesusWept" /></p>
<p><strong>L</strong>azarus was dead. Of that sad fact everyone was now absolutely sure.</p>
<p>He had been barely breathing when Mary and Martha, his sisters, had sent the urgent message to Jesus to beg the Lord to return to help the desperate friends.</p>
<p>They needed Jesus badly, and quickly. Yesterday, if possible, and it wasn’t possible. Even for the Lord. But the odd truth is that after he’d received the message from these dearly loved friends, Jesus had not hurried.</p>
<p>When he finally arrives back near Bethany, the funeral wreath, so to speak, is on the door. The “sign-in” register for friends and family who come to pay their respects is on its little stand just inside the front door of the house. And death has very effectively wrapped the whole household in its icy grip.</p>
<p>As is often the case at a time of grief, along with the mourners is arriving also a sad troop of dreary thoughts I’ll just call the “if only’s.” Those thoughts are popping into everybody’s heads and springing out of some lips.</p>
<p>Martha greets Jesus first, and she does so with tears and an “if only”: “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”</p>
<p>Then Martha goes to get Mary to come out and see Jesus, and what are the first words from Mary’s lips? “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”</p>
<p>Even when others nearby, seeing Jesus’ tears, are moved to say, “Behold how he loved him!” some of them say, basically, “He opened the eyes of a blind man! If only he had been here, could he not have kept this man from dying?”</p>
<p>Notice that another statement logically follows these “if only’s.” It is this: “But it’s too late now, of course.” If only Jesus had been here, there could have been a healing, a celebration, and a feast, but it’s too late now, of course. Now there’s only a trip to the cemetery and a sad viewing of the grave.</p>
<p>We understand the thinking.</p>
<p>“Ah, Lord, if only you’d been here,” we’re tempted to say, “when in my life this terrible thing happened, when I failed so completely, when I was hurt so terribly, when . . . If you’d only been here, but it’s too late now, of course.”</p>
<p>Now I’ve already fallen into sin, betrayed my friend, stumbled into addiction, blundered into bitterness, embraced resentment, or embarrassed my Lord. It’s too late now that ______ has happened. (Fill in the blank with any failure, sin, or tragedy.)</p>
<p>“No,” God says, “it is never too late.” If death can be swallowed up in victory by the power of the One who is “the resurrection and the life,” nothing else in all creation can separate us from his love, his power, and the genuine hope that points to new life, new joy, new laughter.</p>
<p>Lazarus was “dead as a doornail,” but that wasn’t the end of the story, and it’s not the end of your story or mine.</p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!</strong></em></span></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/64018512020-08-04T10:19:56-05:002020-08-04T14:00:15-05:00“I Think I Made a Mistake”<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="alignright size-large is-resized"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/08/impatient.jpg?w=225" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="228" width="228" /></figure></div>
<p><strong>“I</strong> think I made a mistake.”</p>
<p>Those, I’m told, were the words on a note a dying 20-something-year-old wrote to his nurse before he expired. He was referring to his, as it turns out, suicidal decision to attend a “COVID party.”</p>
<p>I’m tempted to write, “Duh.” But it’s bad form to “duh” a guy who admits his own unforced error and pays such a high price for his own idiocy. And it’s not like the rest of us are immune to occasional stupidity and subsequent pain.</p>
<p>I write those words with a grimace. Well, with a computer, grimacing. Not a grimacing computer. A grimace on my face facing the computer. I am, at present, not writing or thinking very well.</p>
<p>I’m about an hour and a half away from a root canal, my first brush with that particular sort of dental calamity. At this point, I am ready to embrace the experience with the excitement of male and female lead lovers in a movie rushing toward each other on a “meadow run.”</p>
<p>Yes, right now, I am more than prepared to endure that worse than fingernails down the chalkboard, worse than boot on a cat’s tail caterwauling, worse than the latest poor-pitiful-me screams of society’s professional victims, worse than the hole-in-the-radiator hose agonizing whistle, worse than the bullet in the helicopter gear-box wailing high-pitched death-grind . . . I’m more than ready to endure all of that—and add in some delightful burning smells, some tasty chemical flavors, some tuchus pucker dental chair dancing, and more delights . . .</p>
<p>I’m ready for all of it, and will, yea, verily, write a check for the fun of enduring such multifaceted pleasure, if I can just get my dentist, my friend, to stab needles into my gums and inject a gallon or so of deadening juice, embalming fluid, or whatever the crud it is that they use to render one’s gums, teeth, jaw, and mouth numb and insensate. I’d prefer to be totally knocked out and sleep for a week, but it’s not an option.</p>
<p>I went in for a simple tooth-cleaning a couple of weeks ago but mentioned a tooth that was becoming a tad hot/cold testy. My friend and dental professional gave me the good news. Probably a root canal. But give it a few days. See how it feels.</p>
<p>A few days was all it took. So I called and scheduled an appointment. Next Monday, 10:20 a.m. Not an emergency, right? You’re not hurting badly, right? Right. We’ll call if we get an earlier opening. Okay.</p>
<p>So, last week, I officiated at a big funeral on Tuesday. Big funeral on Wednesday. (Two really good guys.) Wednesday, the tooth folks call. They could make a slot for me and my rebellious tooth on Thursday. When? 8:00 a.m.</p>
<p>Not much of a morning person ever, I know that I will be toast on that particular Thursday at 8:00 a.m. Funeral. Funeral. Root canal. Bam. Bam. Bam. No. No. No.</p>
<p>It’s not hurting that bad. Thanks, but I’ll wait until Monday.</p>
<p>Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.</p>
<p>I’m now an hour away from the anaesthetizing goop. Bring it on!</p>
<p>And I’m wiser.</p>
<p>“The right time is now; today is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6:2). On most days, I’d tell you that the Apostle Paul is most certainly saying nothing at all about dental work. Today? I’m quite sure that he is.</p>
<p>To the palace of dental delights, I am ready to go. And I resolve never to put the trip off again. Bring on the joyful sounds. The merciful needles.</p>
<p>Now, please.</p>
<p>With apologies to the Apostle Paul, “Behold, now is the day of dental salvation.”</p>
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<p class="has-text-color" style="color:#6c1140;"><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website–and especially to check out my new podcast, <a style="color:#800000;" href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com/podcast">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com/podcast</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
<p> </p>Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63979842020-07-30T20:55:19-05:002020-07-30T21:45:17-05:00“Sure Am Glad No Microphone Is Open in My Head!”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/07/microphone.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/07/microphone.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p>Wow, it’s a good thing nobody can hear what I’m thinking right now. An “open mike” transmitting from my brain might show how incredibly jumbled it is today! I’m sure the funeral directors’ and, of course, the families’ minds are every bit as jumbled. It’s been a flood. But it’s never easy. And multiple services this week.</p>
<p>I’m thinkin’ . . .</p>
<p>The trick with anybody’s job, I guess, is that, if you do it right, it looks simple, and even if it’s “game on” in your head, thoughts are careening everywhere, and mental and real notes are stacking up.</p>
<p>Two funerals to officiate at. Two great guys. One of them my opposite number as we’ve grandfathered the same sweet granddaughters. I sure wanted those girls to have us both a lot longer. I hurt for the grieving families. With the families, sure am thankful the suffering is over. But these losses are gonna hurt us all a lot. But I can’t spare the luxury of dwelling on that right now.</p>
<p>Seen the families. Got great help from both. Great stories. Sweet, not bitter, tears. I judge the wounds to be very clean. No doofus fussing about somebody’s rocking chair or throttling their own shrivelled souls money-grubbing. These guys were both rich in what matters. Their families know it. Any inheritance that matters, they already have. Priceless.</p>
<p>Small in the whole scope, but my job’s a bunch easier since both families are the sort to stay in their lanes, let funeral directors, officiants, know clearly what they want, and let us do our job. (And everybody’s job, like it or not, is harder now with the COVID-19 mess. Sure would be nice if nobody got sick! All we can do is all we can do. Sure would be nice if everybody tried to be kinda careful, mainly to try to take care of everybody else.)</p>
<p>Both funeral homes are home-owned, top-notch, and have already coordinated scheduling together. So good!</p>
<p>Now to put the stories together. Both such good guys. So much good to say. Try to say for all the family/friends what each would like to say. But pick carefully. You don’t have forever. Don’t filibuster. Most of all, try to give God’s word of comfort. What are good Scripture texts, one for each of these good men? Lord, if you’ve got a preference, I don’t expect a note attached to a rock, but could you please . . . ?</p>
<p>Both men of faith. The real deal. Such good guys! So easy to love. So easy to like. Such real fathers, just like their Father. James was a talker and you were his friend even if you just met him. Dewey was a fixer and could make anything run right and run better and would do anything for you. One main Scripture each. What should I pick? What would the Father who delighted in them say? Try to say it. Better start lining up some words. Focus.</p>
<p>Do obituaries first. Obits always take the most work and time, even after the family has done a good job. NEVER just read names/dates. Use what the family gives as framework.</p>
<p>Before doing obits, nail down orders of service. One two nights ago. One last night. Get songs/music rounded up. Downloaded. Talk to music leaders. Talk to singer me.) Make sure songs and tracks are rounded up and lined up. Make sure sound system is ready. Don’t forget a cord or you’ll be sorry. Talk to audio/video folks at two churches. Communicate with three folks who will be speaking at one service. Line up a “line of defense” song on playlist just in case needed. Bring tripod if needed for Facebook Live. Get pics. Make sure dinner at our church is progressing. (Those gals are amazing.) Help set up tables. Replace ice maker filter and buy ice if that doesn’t work. Get slide show DVD.</p>
<p>Did I say it already? Focus! For once in your life, even though the night is peacefully quiet, try to write a funeral message during daylight. Or you could just do what you always do, fool, and stay up half the night so it’s fresh on your mushy mind.</p>
<p>Man, I’m glad nobody can hear these thoughts. But God’s blessing is going to come in all of this. It will.</p>
<p>Now, let’s just love each other like these two guys taught us to. Like our Father taught us to.</p>
<p>Now, park your rear in the chair and write.</p>
<p>Oh, did I remember to get the song lyrics?</p>
<p>Now, really. I mean it. Write.</p>
<p>Oh, crud! Did I leave this mike on!?</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#800000;"> <em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website–and especially to check out my new podcast, <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com/podcast" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com/podcast</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63887652020-07-20T19:39:45-05:002020-07-21T17:15:13-05:00Embracing Tunnel Vision Means Losing Vision<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/07/tunnelvision.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/07/tunnelvision.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>dealists, and, specifically, idealists who are also zealots, scare me. Laser-like focus not only cuts, it blinds. Even if a person is “correct” on an issue, tunnel vision is by definition partial loss of vision.</p>
<p>Idealistic zealots think that the only way to get what they really want—and what they really want is the only result they’ll accept—is by getting all of what they really want. And a significant percentage of them believe or act as if reaching their goal justifies any means of getting there.</p>
<p>It does not. We can “win” at all costs, trample on what is precious, adopt wicked and slimy methods, rationalizing that the result will be something good—and lose miserably even as we scrawl a “W” in the win column.</p>
<p>Zealots generally pigeon-hole the people they deal with as either enemies or friends, nothing in between. In older days, and still in some cultures, an enemy would simply be knifed and removed as a problem; in “civilized” society today, an enemy is just “cancelled.” A friend is expected to help in the knifing or cancelling, and everyone else is ignored.</p>
<p>What that means in practicality is, surprisingly, that those on opposite sides of an “issue,” but those who realize they must settle for some middle ground in order to make any progress at all, may actually be closer to each other than zealots on both far ends. At least, they don’t reach for knives or make every effort conceivable to “cancel” each other. They realize they must talk and, yes, compromise, to get anything done. They might even be able eat an occasional meal together, learn something from each other, and inquire about each other’s families—even as they roundly disagree on many issues, and yes, remarkably, issues that matter deeply to them.</p>
<p>In the above context, “compromise” is a very positive word. But a zealot, wearing his “all or nothing” blinders, will always see compromise as cowardice and treachery. He’ll often get “nothing,” which in a (like it or not) pluralistic society like ours is probably what, I’m tempted to say, he deserves. Even if I agree with him on the issue.</p>
<p>Months ago now, we got word that the member of Congress from our district was coming to my town to meet and speak to his constituents. I actually like him. I trust him more than most politicians. But politics, politicians, and parties have seemed to me increasingly pathetic and, along with many folks, I’ve become increasingly tired of the whole thing and, yes, cynical. In the interest of mental and spiritual health, I almost just stayed home.</p>
<p>But I went. And I’m glad.</p>
<p>I got to ask one question. And I got to see one glimmer of hope.</p>
<p>I don’t recall the exact words, but I asked him privately, “I’ve never met our president; you have. Sooner or later, every president faces a crisis that tests his character, integrity, and wisdom. When the test comes, will our current president have what it takes?” He answered and, I think, meant it. The crisis has come, and we’ll all be answering in November. If you think you know my answer, I’ve written this poorly. I will only say that I expect November to be every bit as much fun as a colonoscopy sans anesthesia. Cynical, right?</p>
<p>But the glimmer of hope? It came during an otherwise pretty predictable speech as our congressman told us that among his little family’s closest friends in Washington is the family of another congressman on the other side. They almost always vote differently, but, personally, they enjoy warm friendship and respect.</p>
<p>That, my friends, is a glimmer of hope, the kind “zealots” will never be able to embrace. The kind that might actually accomplish something when coming together as fellow humans, as different as we are, is the only way to really stand.</p>
<p>Oh, I care about issues, and I care deeply about voting in ways that I believe most likely to honor my King. But hasn’t Christ always cared much more about hearts than issues? Yes, oh, yes.</p>
<p>A zealot will never understand that. His heart won’t let him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong><span style="color:#800000;"> You’re invited to visit my website, and I especially hope you’ll check out my new podcast at</span> <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com/podcast" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com/podcast</a>!</strong></p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63846942020-07-13T12:21:10-05:002020-07-13T13:45:24-05:00Dealing with Drips, Crickets, and a Pandemic<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/07/dripdripdrip.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/07/dripdripdrip.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>“T</strong>he drips and the crickets.”</p>
<p>My brother Jim has long said that those are the sorts of things that finally drive you “over the edge” when you’re already under stress.</p>
<p>Along the same line, we might recall an agricultural metaphor: “Well, that was just the straw that broke it!” The old wagon or cart or trailer or pickup was handling the load of straw pretty well, maybe just showing a little stress as the weight was piled on, and then someone dropped on one more straw. Just one. A little thing. But one straw too many. And that’s when the axle broke and the whole thing crashed down.</p>
<p><em>Crrrraaaaash!</em></p>
<p>Or drip, drip, drip . . .</p>
<p>Or chirp, chirp, chrip . . .</p>
<p>“Stridulating,” by the way. That, I’ve discovered, is what crickets are doing when they make that “chirping” sound.</p>
<p>I almost wrote, “chirp, chirp, chirp.” Yes, with a period at the end. The Brits call a period a “full stop.”</p>
<p>But there’s the point. There’s no “full stop” to it! The maddening sound doesn’t stop; it just goes on and on and . . .</p>
<p>I suppose the aforementioned “crash” is a sort of stop. Just not the sort you want.</p>
<p>The crashes come in different forms and severities.</p>
<p>The kids are playing, really as they pretty much always do, but the noise just seems to get louder and louder, and that’s when you blow up.</p>
<p>Your spouse didn’t mean to say anything to tick you off, but suddenly and seriously ticked off you were, and you felt like your head blew up just before you shot your mouth off, thereby shooting yourself in the foot. Shots fired.</p>
<p>Your aging auto fleet has been needing regular patches and fixes and $100 bills plugged into leaks and rattles for months, but finally one rattle trap needs fifteen C-notes shoved into its transmission. That’s when your fuse blew.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s just a rough stretch for your family. Or rough sailing at work. Or maybe it’s a more than bumpy patch for the whole country and beyond.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s been one of those days, or one of those weeks, or, just maybe, a particularly long stretch like a year—say, 2020—that shall “live in infamy.”</p>
<p>We’ve all had bad days when we found ourselves needing most of the next day to retrace our steps and apologize to the folks we ran into, or across, or over the day before. We’d used harsh words. Skewered someone with sharp tongues.</p>
<p>And our world sees way too many incidents all of the time where tempers flare and fists fly—or a trigger gets pulled. Road rage. Physical abuse. Workplace violence. Relational dysfunction and mayhem.</p>
<p>What happens when a pandemic is added to the mix? And when people who rightly think they have “free speech” wrongly choose to become mobs who loot and vandals who tear down statues (and ought to be in jail)? When dealing with real social problems becomes venting rage rather than seeking solutions? When, in one way or another, whether it’s a “slight” or a mask (or a loud opinion about a mask) or a bump or a word or a smirk or a good law or a stupid law or a text or a tweet or a load of self-righteousness or a wad of “virtue signaling” or any of a million ways to try to exert some control over what we’re having precious little success controlling as our whole world seems out of control, or . . .</p>
<p>Well, it doesn’t take many drips or crickets to lead to a crash. Burn-outs. Burn-ups. Blow-ups.</p>
<p>And people get hurt. They end up wounded and wounding. Bleeding and drawing blood. Hurting and hurtful. Sad and angry.</p>
<p>What to do? You tell me. Right now! Because I’m fed up! Okay. Breathe.</p>
<p>I might suggest a stroll. Some silence. Some deep breaths. Even a little time doing something you love even if you can only find a few minutes each day.</p>
<p>I’d suggest remembering very specifically <em>who</em> you love.</p>
<p>A hug. (Virus be hanged.) A prayer. A walk. A talk with someone who builds you up.</p>
<p>Think about what’s still good. Tell someone thanks. Take a nap. Turn off a screen. Watch a sunrise or sunset. Pet a dog. Or a cat if you’re desperate.</p>
<p>Read what God says about being “quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger” and ask for his help to be sure you “do not let the sun go down on your wrath.” That means, don’t go to bed mad. But did I mention your spouse? Should I mention or apologize for mentioning that you’ve got a license for stress relief?</p>
<p>Give some grace. Right now might be good. Receive some grace.</p>
<p>God is not short of grace, of power, of peace, of love, of comfort. We need it, and our God promises to give it. Yes, in the midst of drips and crickets, frustrations and fears, and even the occasional pandemic.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong> You’re invited to visit my website, and I especially hope you’ll check out my new podcast at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com/podcast" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com/podcast</a>!</strong></span></p>
<p> </p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63775082020-07-06T13:09:27-05:002020-07-06T13:15:20-05:00“I Guess the Turtle Was Right”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/07/turtle.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/07/turtle.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>W</strong>ell, I guess the turtle was right, and rain was on the way. If you can’t trust a turtle, the epitome of slow, faithful plodding, who can you trust? Not flighty or flitting, manic or depressive, just one step at a time dependability—that’s the ticket, turtle!</p>
<p>But I’m getting ahead of myself.</p>
<p>A couple of days ago, I looked through a window at the back of our house and spied, trudging across the property in a generally southerly direction, a fine example of <em>Terrapene ornata</em>, otherwise known as an “ornate box turtle.” Better yet known in “these here parts” simply as a turtle because, “ornate” or not, this species of turtle is the only kind I’ve ever seen here. Confirmation came when iNaturalist, a great “app” you can get for your phone to help easily identify all sorts of flora and fauna, nailed this guy as a “North American box turtle sometimes referred to as the <strong>western box turtle</strong> or <strong>ornate box turtle</strong>.” Yep. <em>Terrapene ornata</em>.</p>
<p>A little more reading and I’m kinda thinking “this guy” may be a gal and, very likely, no spring chicken. These creatures can easily live for decades. Who knows? This may be the same individual my grandkids saw lumbering across the same terrain almost a year ago. Turtles “all look alike to me,” says me, betraying shocking species-specific prejudice and appalling insensitivity.</p>
<p>Ah, but you can’t expect too much from me. I’m no genealogist, but what I’ve read strongly hints that my Shelburne ancestors were fiercely true to the British crown, and maybe even that some of the bunch who’d made their way to this side of the Pond chose to be “Loyalists” who went to Canada rather than lift a sword or musket against King George III a couple of years after all that fine tea was dumped into Boston Harbor. So I’m tainted. If I could find a statue of me, I’d pull it down in shame.</p>
<p>But the sackcloth and ashes, statuary graffiti and soul-grinding guilt will have to wait for another day. (Maybe Thursday, 2:00 p.m.?) The topic now is turtular weather prognosticating. And, honestly, I’m not sure if the turtle deserves bragging rights or not. From what I’ve read, this kind of turtle is quite fond of rain and tends to be more active after a good reptile-washing downpour (which may wash amphibians, too, but a turtle is not one, I may confidently proclaim as I feel all “woke” now regarding turtles).</p>
<p>Obviously, the turtle knows he’s wet after a rain, but what I’m investigating now is whether or not turtles are among the creatures who know instinctively that a frog-washer is coming. I’ve been told by at least one farmer that when he sees turtles out turtling about, he figures rain is likely on the way.</p>
<p>Thus, I say, I guess the turtle was right. If my farmer friend is right. We’ve had, for two sweet days in a row now, at least a little bit of rain each day. Turtles are not the only folks who feel better after rain, and I thank the Lord for it.</p>
<p>Back to our ancestors. Maybe some of them should have thought more about it before they chose to build in what is basically a desert. Still, it’s mostly been a good life here, even if the water’s always been short above ground and is getting a lot sparser below ground. And these days, goodness knows, our ancestors could use a little slack and some appreciation. The kind we’re all, whoever we are, if our “species” is “human,” sure to need ourselves down the line.</p>
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<p style="text-align:left;"> <span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> Hey, folks! My new “Focus on Faith with Curtis Shelburne” podcast is now available! I’d love for you to check it out and, if you’d be so kind, subscribe! Episodes are available for the “clicking” over to the right, right here on my WordPress site, also at CurtisShelburne.com, and on most podcast players!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63702532020-06-29T11:46:27-05:002020-06-29T14:15:22-05:00“Time for Bed, Child! Go to Sleep!”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/timetosleep.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/timetosleep.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>T</strong>he segment actually aired several years ago, but I still remember a fascinating piece <em>60 Minutes</em> produced on sleep. (About sleep. Not while sleeping.)</p>
<p>Since sleeping is one thing I’ve always been particularly good at, I was immediately interested. Even professionals can hone their technique, so I was happy to tune in. May I share a bit of what I learned?</p>
<p>In 1980, a study was done using rats who were kept awake indefinitely. After five days, they began dying. They needed sleep as badly as they needed food. All mammals do.</p>
<p>Modern folks in our society have been a little snooty and dismissive about sleep, as if needing to snooze at all is something of an embarrassment, a luxury we could likely do without if we weren’t lazy and unmotivated.</p>
<p>Not so. Not even close.</p>
<p>Recent studies show that sleep is every bit as important to our health as diet and exercise, and that we need 7 1/2 to 8 hours of it each day. The lack thereof seriously impacts our memory, our metabolism, our appetite, and how we age. A study at the University of Chicago School of Medicine restricted the sleep of young, healthy test subjects to four hours a night for six consecutive nights. At the end of that time, tests showed that each subject was already in a prediabetic state (which would be naturally reversed when they resumed sleeping normally).</p>
<p>The same test subjects were also hungry. Lack of sleep caused a drop in levels of leptin, a hormone that tells our brains when we’re not hungry.</p>
<p>A lack of sleep? No problem. If you don’t mind being fat and sick. One researcher said that sleep deprivation should definitely be considered a risk factor for Type II diabetes.</p>
<p>The program host went on to mention studies done all over the world linking lack of sleep to obesity, heart disease, high blood pressure, and stroke—not to mention the mood swings that make sleep-deprived people “hell on wheels” to harmony in their homes and workplaces and whose brain activity on MRIs mimics that of the severely psychiatrically disturbed.</p>
<p>To those who say they have trained themselves to do fine with little sleep, the researchers simply reply, “Nonsense.” For a day or two, artificial “counter measures” such as caffeine or physical activity may mask the problem, but it is cumulative and real, and it can’t be hidden for long.</p>
<p>“People who are chronically sleep-deprived, like people who have had too much to drink, often have no sense of their limitations,” says Dr. David Dinges at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine. “It’s a convenient belief,” he says. But he issues a standing invitation for “any CEO or anyone else in the world” to come to his laboratory and prove it.</p>
<p>We easily adopt society’s lie that our true worth is in what we produce. We’re so impressed with ourselves, our indispensability, our strategies and plans. We quit “wasting time” by sleeping much. Then the wheels come off even as we slog on physically and emotionally as if through molasses. And the God who is real Rest and Peace but who Himself never needs to sleep, chuckles and says, “Time for bed, child. Go to sleep and let me do within you what you can’t do for yourself.”</p>
<p>I think there is a lesson in that, but right now I need a nap.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>! A link to my NEW PODCAST is there, and also right here on my WordPress site. Why not check it out?</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644662020-06-22T12:40:21-05:002020-06-24T00:03:15-05:00“Please Join Me for a Walk Through a Mine Field”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/06/mine-field.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/06/mine-field.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>B</strong>y writing today’s column, I am breaking a promise, one that I made to myself. I didn’t make myself take an oath aloud or sign anything. I suppose it was less a promise than a mental warning not to stroll into any mine fields.</p>
<p>The topic is difficult and highly-charged, a tough one for any of us to deal with wisely and rationally and one where many folks seem to opt quickly for foolishness and irrationality. The best of writers could be easily misunderstood on this subject. I am nowhere near the best of writers. Add to this the fact that loud folks who want to misunderstand in order to be louder and angrier almost always succeed.</p>
<p>But I hereby invite you along for a stroll into a mine field. I really hope we’re seeking understanding, respect, and peace. The Lord promises great blessing to peacemakers, but they can also expect flying shrapnel and subsequent wounding from both “sides.”</p>
<p>What, you might ask, could make a pandemic even less pleasant? And now we know: social and racial unrest.</p>
<p>I suspect that most of us also know that, enjoyable or not, “conversations” about tough issues like race and justice are discussions we need to be able to have and can be positive, if we really listen to each other.</p>
<p>But we did not need looting, burning, and rioting; it is wrong, weak, cowardly, criminal, and indefensible, and I am very sure that the vast majority of people of all races in our land are in agreement on that.</p>
<p>I think most of us, whatever our color, believe that what happened to George Floyd was abhorrent and wrong.</p>
<p>I think most of us believe that it’s a matter for tears that in our land any parent of any race should have to give their teenagers “the talk.” (The much earlier talk about sex is hard enough.)</p>
<p>I believe that I have a lot to learn about the challenges faced by my friends of other races and that trying to learn is worth some effort.</p>
<p>I believe that a lot of what we see as racial differences are also, and maybe on an even deeper level, economic differences. My own experience is that I have very little trouble at all talking to, respecting, understanding, and loving friends of different races who are similar to me (or “above” me) economically and educationally. Some of the folks I’m thinking of are among my dearest friends, and some are family members. This does not absolve me from trying harder to understand folks from other races who are poorer economically and/or educationally. (In my experience, it’s every bit as hard for me to understand and communicate with “poor white” as it is “poor choose-a-color.”) But we all need to try harder.</p>
<p>My own belief is that much of the unrest and hurt we see most obviously in some of our nation’s largest cities can be traced directly to seeds sown years ago when societally we ran to embrace the selfish and false “freedom” that resulted in massive numbers of fatherless families, illegitimacy, and the many bitter fruits of poverty. And the pernicious result was exacerbated by failed social and economic policies from the left that promise compassion and end up promulgating cruelty.</p>
<p>I also believe that you have every right to disagree with me. You have not only a Constitutional but God-given right to do so, a right that I should cherish and be willing to defend. And “free speech” is rapidly becoming an even larger part of the current “discussion.”</p>
<p>As free people we should be able to talk peacefully about our beliefs, even if they’re diametrically opposed, and whether or not they are in line with the latest opinion polls or the views of the media or the self-righteousness and virtue-signaling of the social and political right or left. (Are those two qualities not easily recognizable by their smell as being of the same substance?)</p>
<p>I believe that any “culture” that would actively “cancel” speech and thought is a culture for cowards, brutes, and immature fools. How can we understand each other if we don’t listen to different views? And who will decide whose opinions expressed in speeches, books, movies, etc., are views that our evidently very delicate ears can handle?</p>
<p>As it happens, I found myself agreeing with and appreciating Jason L. Riley’s <em>Wall Street Journal</em> column (6/17/20; his stuff is always worth reading, and his opinion is always thought-provoking). In “America Has a Silent Black Majority,” Mr. Riley (who is black) quotes Daniel Patrick Moynihan’s words in a 1970 memo to President Nixon that there “is a silent black majority as well as a white one” that “shares most of the concerns of its white counterpart.” Fifty years later, Riley says, this is still true.</p>
<p>“Most black people,” he writes, “know that George Floyd is no more representative of blacks than Derek Chauvin is of police officers. They know that the frequency of black encounters with law enforcement has more to do with black crime rates than with racially biased policing. They know that young black men have more to fear from their peers than from the cops. And they know that rioters are opportunists, not revolutionaries.”</p>
<p>Riley writes that, though there’s nothing wrong with a national conversation about better policing, “blaming law enforcement for social inequality” is “not only illogical but dangerous.” He goes on, “Unsafe neighborhoods retard upward mobility, and poorly policed neighborhoods are less safe.” And he closes, “A conversation that doesn’t acknowledge that reality is hardly worth having.”</p>
<p>I think he’s right on target. But maybe the even larger issue these days is how willing I am to acknowledge and defend your right to think otherwise. A lot of people have given their lives to help preserve our right to live in freedom. Freedom without free speech is not freedom.</p>
<p>The best and most loving, the strongest and gentlest, most truly wise and most completely peaceful Man of all died completely unjustly to bring all of us, of every race and nation, genuine freedom.</p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644672020-06-15T13:43:22-05:002020-10-19T02:26:14-05:00Even in a Bad Year, a Good Father Is a Priceless Gift<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/father-01.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/father-01.jpg?w=300&h=198" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="198" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>n the midst of this roller coaster year and its blur of events and emotions, we’re speeding toward Father’s Day. As I find myself thinking of my father, my thoughts quickly turn in immense gratitude to my Father for giving me such an incredible gift, my earthly father.</p>
<p>If anyone asked me for the name of the best man I have ever known, I’d not have to pause a nanosecond before replying, “G. B. Shelburne, Jr.” My dad.</p>
<p>I’ve said that many times, not because I feel haughty about it. That would be ridiculous. I say it in what I hope is deepest humility because the gift utterly amazes me, and I recognize that it’s worth far more than gold. What did I do to merit the gift of such a father? Nothing at all, of course. It was pure grace. Total blessing. Absolutely undeserved and “undeservable.” And worth more than all the gold in the world.</p>
<p>I don’t come even close to always living up to what Dad taught me. But what he taught me and showed me, what I watched him live out in his day to day life, is always in my mind and never far from me. It’s very practical. Examples abound, and maybe never more than right now.</p>
<p>In the midst of the present health pandemic, the social and political pandemonium, and the economic and pervasive uncertainty, I ask myself, “What would Dad do? How would he respond?” And I realize that as I ask this question, I might as well just ask, “What would Jesus do?” That’s the kind of man he was.</p>
<p>Would Dad tremble in fear before the virus? Of course not. He would behave wisely, and in attitude and action point people toward the Source of real hope and health for the present and “the hereafter.”</p>
<p>In the face of racial conflict, social unrest and mistrust, Dad would love and respect God’s people of any color. He would do what he did—willingly preach for any church except a church that would exclude other races. He would teach God’s word to anyone willing to listen, and he would particularly love teaching in Spanish.</p>
<p>Dad would sympathize with and love folks who told him about their fear for their children because of their race. He would also model respect and appreciation for the vast majority of police officers who do a thankless job well. Dad would never be able to understand why anyone would “take a knee” during our national anthem, but it would warm his heart to see citizens and police officers kneeling together.</p>
<p>Dad was much too wise, much too gentle, and much too strong to be anything but appalled that anyone would even consider participating in or making excuses for looting or burning. For that matter, Dad would never agree that getting what you want politically, even if the “end” is good, justifies using low or coarse behavior against your adversaries as a means to reach that end.</p>
<p>In short, as we come to this Father’s Day on this difficult year, from the bottom of my heart, I thank my Father for my father and for the incredible blessing that knowing him has made it so much easier for me to know Him.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong>You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644682020-06-08T12:08:03-05:002020-06-24T00:03:15-05:00“To See Real Strength, Look Into the Face of a Farmer”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/06/farmer_drought.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/06/farmer_drought.jpg?w=300&h=205" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="205" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>A</strong> glance through the window on the other side of the room tells me that we’re “in for it” again.</p>
<p>It’s mid-morning and the trees are already waving their branches maniacally, flailing arms raised in surrender, as the wind lashes them unmercifully. They seem to know that they are facing another withering day of wind-scourging, aided and abetted by blistering, unrelenting, sap-boiling, life-sapping heat.</p>
<p>The calendar says that it’s not officially summer yet. But the window and the trees are issuing a bleak and soon-to-be scorching sort of warning. Like the trees, I feel ready to surrender.</p>
<p>I’m weak. If you want to see strength in the face of a drought’s merciless onslaught, look into the face of a farmer.</p>
<p>If you’re not a farmer and you glanced into his barn at a pallet loaded with bags of seed, and if your life depended on correctly guessing the cost of the seed in those bags, I’m guessing you’d miss it by a factor of three zeros. Rich life is in that seed, dormant but real. The life is the miracle and our Creator freely gives the life. He also has given us men and women who have gained the knowledge and ability to be able to enhance that seed and multiply its blessing for a world much in need of it. That part does not come cheap, but when that seed grows, it’s green and rich and beautiful, full of potential and blessing.</p>
<p>But I look through the window again. I’m not standing out in the midst of the wind’s assault, waiting for the blast furnace to fire up again, knowing that we’re heading into another day, another week, with no rain. I’m not loading heavy bags—they might as well be filled with silver dollars—into planters, knowing that, barring some meteorological miracle, each seed is being plunged toward death by asphyxiation in dry dust.</p>
<p>No, I’m not a farmer, and though I respect and appreciate and love a bunch of farmers and farm families, just looking through the window today reminds me of how little I really understand about the way of life that makes it possible for me to live. Even to me, planting in a drought seems pointless. But that’s what the insurance rules require, and to have any chance at all to live long as a farmer, you must not only know how to grow things, you must understand, though it breaks your heart and goes against every fiber of your being, why for far too many years, seed has to be planted just to die.</p>
<p>Jesus once told a parable about seed; it was really a parable about souls (Matthew 13). But telling it showed that our Lord completely understands both. He understands seed. He understands souls. And he understands a farmer’s soul. He keeps planting seed, and he keeps planting in hope. He knows that at the end of the day he’s one day closer to the time when he’ll tuck that seed into the ground, the rain will fall, life will conquer death, and what grows will be beautiful.</p>
<p>Yes, in farming and in all of life, in times of difficulty and drought, we’re still one day closer . . .</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644692020-06-01T13:04:36-05:002020-06-24T00:03:15-05:00“What Can We Know Right Now, and How Do We Feel?”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/06/howtofeel.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/06/howtofeel.jpg?w=300&h=210" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="210" width="300" /></a><strong>“I</strong> was neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet,” wrote the man we know as the prophet Amos (7:14). He said that he was just a shepherd and a caretaker of sycamore trees when he was called by God to deliver the Lord’s message.</p>
<p>I understand. I’m a “non-prophet” myself. And right now I’m “sucking air” on delivering anyone’s message, even as a deadline for this column is racing down the rails toward me.</p>
<p>Newsworthy current events are currently plentiful.</p>
<p>We just successfully launched two astronauts into space and to the International Space Station without the humiliating need to hitch a ride on a Russian launch vehicle. This is progress, and the public-private partnership between NASA and commercial entities is a fine thing. (I wish we’d try it with TSA and a trillion or two other government agencies.) I feel good about this.</p>
<p>The Covid-19 pandemic is still pandemicking and causing an incredible level, a mind-boggling variety, of stress—physical, emotional, and economic—pretty much everywhere. (“Everywhere” is the “pan-” part.)</p>
<p>But the situation “everywhere” varies widely. They have over 2,500 cases in a couple of not-far-off counties where some of my kids/grandkids and two of my brothers live. Yet one son says he personally knows only one person who has it; one brother says he knows of two. In the county where I live, we had zero cases for weeks; now we have 21. I know personally one person who has died due to the virus. He lived in the same state, hundreds of miles away. I know a couple of folks in New York City who have been dealing with the virus assault there.</p>
<p>Most of us where I live have been trying to be careful, but until recently, it seemed pretty unreal. I always took my mask with me into the grocery store; it always stayed in my pocket.</p>
<p>How to feel about this all right now? Worried? Ticked off? Scared? “Over” it? Tired? Sick of it but not sick? Well, ya feel the way ya feel, but it feels weird when your feelings are all over the place. When you don’t know how to feel, you mainly feel bad.</p>
<p>And now. Now comes the brutal killing of George Floyd and the subsequent mayhem, and here’s the “non-prophet” aspect of this column.</p>
<p>Last week’s column was entitled “It’s Almost Never Wise to Trust a Mob.” It dealt with some pandemic reactions. I asked about when a crowd becomes a mob, when a protest becomes a riot, how long it takes “righteous indignation” to become mindless anger, when protesters are high-minded and brave and when they are misbehaving malcontents and professional victims.</p>
<p>And then a week later in Minneapolis, a police officer put his knee on a suspect’s neck and the man died in custody. I didn’t know white police officer Derek Chauvin’s name. I didn’t know black suspect George Floyd’s name. But we know the names now.</p>
<p>The pictures and video I’ve seen are appalling. I don’t know if they tell the whole story, but the story they surely seem to tell is abhorrent. I don’t know if Floyd committed the crime he was accused of, but I know he didn’t deserve to die. I know that I wish race wasn’t a factor. I know that people jumping on cars, burning and looting, are thugs with no excuse, no matter their race, and they demean those they claim to “speak” for. I know that I wish we weren’t all—black and white and all races—so quick to believe in caricatures of others instead of seeing the image of God in all.</p>
<p>But how do I feel, and how do you, watching the pictures of the mayhem? My emotions are many. Mostly sad.</p>
<p>But I do know this: I know that people of good will of all races, people who aren’t interested in joining mobs, can and do learn to respect and love each other. I know it happens, and I suspect that it happens most regularly among Christ’s followers. I’m thankful for that.</p>
<p>I know that we need to hug each other, virus be hanged.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong>You’re invited to check out my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644702020-05-22T10:52:34-05:002020-06-24T00:03:15-05:00“It’s Almost Never Wise to Trust a Mob”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/crowd.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/crowd.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>M</strong>obs. I never have cared much for them.</p>
<p>Personality—mine, that is—explains part of this. I’m not particularly freaked out by large crowds, I just don’t enjoy them and am happy to avoid them. It’s not a phobia. (“Enochlophobia” is “fear of crowds,” I’m told.) It’s a dislike.</p>
<p>I don’t enjoy what often seems mindless and is most certainly loud, and those two features tend to cluster around big crowds like flies around a dung heap. Peace is good. Quiet is precious. And the sounds we choose to fill our lives with (when we have a choice; we often don’t) should be an improvement over silence. (I wonder about a society that is afraid of silence, but that’s another subject.)</p>
<p>We’re told repeatedly in Scripture that Jesus often went out by himself to pray. Even God’s Son needed some time away from the ever-present and always needy crowds, which leads me to think that we might need some, too.</p>
<p>I like the music metaphor. Notes only have meaning and beauty because of the space between them.</p>
<p>To have something to say when we speak, we need some quiet time when we don’t have to speak. To be able to nurture others, we need souls able to go deep and fill up in the quiet. To pray. To read. To think. To breathe.</p>
<p>The time will come soon enough when we’re back in the crowd. Maybe if beforehand we’re still and quiet enough, we’ll have something worth sharing and a soul God-built strong enough in the silence to handle the soul-stifling noise that so often assails us.</p>
<p>All to say, crowds can be loud. Ah, but here’s a question for you: what’s the difference between a crowd and a mob? Let’s think quietly for a moment.</p>
<p>Well, not every crowd is a mob. Crowds may be loud; mobs are louder. But mobs are not just particularly loud crowds; they’re not even just mindless, frenzied crowds. (Those are called “fans.” Sorry.)</p>
<p>Mobs are crowds on steroids, including all the side effects. Mobs are loud, fickle, and downright dangerous. You see, even if their “cause” is not an inherently bad one, a mob is much more quickly described as “angry” than a simple crowd might be. “Deep anger” multiplied by “many folks” is gasoline just waiting for a spark.</p>
<p>Granted, it’s not impossible for a mob to begin with some “righteous” indignation. But it easily becomes just indignation and soon slides right on down into anger.</p>
<p>Some mob members are professional complainers and like nothing better than a good riot; they are misbehaving malcontents of the sort our national media loves to spotlight. People with sense who are not spoiled brats or professional victims, folks whose parents raised them to value civility, are in greater supply but are usually a lot quieter and, being generally occupied with worthwhile duties and pursuits, are less likely to be photographed shouting and with fists in the air.</p>
<p>I know. Some protests are worthy. I’m thankful and humbled when people who love freedom raise their voices together courageously to speak truth to Communist thugs or other dictators for whom truth is deadlier than bullets.</p>
<p>But I’m thinking here of mobs of a different sort.</p>
<p>Personally, I’d be slow at present to trust internet mobs, for example, who are careful about social distancing and quarantine but ranting that only fools would open up their states right now. We don’t all live in New York City.</p>
<p>But neither do I trust mobs who are carefully <em>not </em>social distancing, standing side by side, and screaming in front of state capitol buildings, “Open Up Now!” Shouting throws the human brain into neutral.</p>
<p>Of course, mobs are nothing new. Surely, anyone who has read the Gospels has wondered how many of the folks in that famous crowd shouting “Hosannas” on Palm Sunday were the same ones in the mob crying, “Crucify him!” on Friday.</p>
<p>It’s rarely wise to trust a mob. And it’s almost always unwise to join one.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>! </em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644712020-05-18T12:19:31-05:002020-06-24T00:03:15-05:00“Judge Not, O Ye Masked or Mask-less Ones!”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/storm-trooper.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/storm-trooper.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>“S</strong>heltering in place.”</p>
<p>Just for the record, it might be worth mentioning that “sheltering in place” is what we’re<em> not</em> doing.</p>
<p>Forgive me, please. I am far too much in love with freedom to turn anyone over to the Covid-19 police. I won’t be scowling at you if I meet you pushing your basket the wrong way down the jelly aisle at the supermarket. Besides that, it’ll probably be me swimming upstream; I seem to be clueless when it comes to noticing arrows on floors.</p>
<p>Nor will I cast a masked smirk at you if I see you mask-less behind your cart, becalmed in the aisle, not moving in any direction as you “ponder in place,” wondering whether store brand green beans are as good as Libby’s (pretty much, yes) or generic peanut butter is as tasty as Peter Pan’s (not even close.) In the state where I live, you can still make your own decision about that. Not peanut butter. Masks.</p>
<p>So far, I’ve consistently chosen to take a mask with me every time I’ve gone to the grocery store. And I’ve consistently chosen to keep it in my pocket. Mostly because we’ve had just handful of Covid-19 cases in our county and half a handful have already recovered. I know this could change quickly, and that’s probably a good reason to wear a mask at the store. Would I wear a mask in a store in New York City? Yes, indeed. Would I wear a mask at a store in a much smaller less virus-besieged city if everybody else in the store wore a mask? Probably so. We may not have achieved “herd immunity,” but I’m still part of a herd.</p>
<p>In this strange time, what is a customer saying if he or she walks into a store or church or “essential business” liquor store masked or mask-less (and is not robbing the latter)? I mean, what’s he saying in a city where no laws are in place about masks or, for that matter, whether you can buy a 32-ounce soda?</p>
<p>I don’t know. And neither do you. I think we’d be wise to “judge not, lest ye be judged.” We don’t know if the masked person is sick, medically compromised, careful, neurotic, wise, scared, smart, smug, self-righteous, considerate, “virtue-signaling,” a wonderful and thoughtful human being, a jerk, or a lot older than the unmasked potion of their face looks. And we all know wise medical folks who tell us, “Here’s the evidence thus far, and here’s what I’d recommend.” Resounding Yes? Resounding No? No, not terribly resounding. So mask-wearers and non-mask wearers are usually best advised, I think, to wear some humility. It looks good on us and protects us from an affliction worse than Covid-19 anytime, even as we’re not sheltering in place.</p>
<p>I’m not the English usage police, either. I think I can live with occasionally turning “shelter” into a verb. But “sheltering in place,” as I understand it, actually means to stay in the closet until the bullets quit flying, or not sticking your nose out of the storm shelter until the tornado has flown away and the “all clear” is given. It must be terribly difficult, but you’re not technically “sheltering in place” even if you’re going stir-crazy staring at your over-priced and claustrophobia-inducing apartment walls in New York City, but still putting on a mask and emerging occasionally for some useful purpose like buying food or just to take a walk to avoid full-blown psychosis.</p>
<p>To borrow a musical metaphor, “sheltering in place” is <em>fortissimo</em> and only a few measures long. “Stay at home” is <em>forte</em> and can seem like forever. And “safer at home,” a nuisance and not a storm shelter, is semi-<em>forte</em> and certainly not<em> normalissimo</em> (don’t look either of those up).</p>
<p>Misuse the term if you want to, but if you start out at <em>-issimo</em> don’t blame me if you want to get a lot louder and have already limited your linguistic options. I promise not to call storm troopers from the EUP (English Usage Police).</p>
<p>I’m about to mask up. Always do when I mow the yard. But, as I write, our county’s Covid-19 cases are passing two handfuls. A mask at the store, even if you don’t intend to rob the place, is making more sense.</p>
<p>But “judge not” makes the best sense of all.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"> <em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>! No mask required or even suggested.</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644722020-05-11T12:33:26-05:002020-06-24T00:03:16-05:00“Our Church Went Back to Church on Sunday”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/corona-church-2.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/corona-church-2.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>O</strong>ur church went back to church on Sunday. Our governor had said that we could, within some Covid-19 guidelines. Our little bunch chose to wait a week longer than required, and, just speaking for me, myself, and I, I’m glad we waited.</p>
<p>One size does not fit all, though we’re all trying to plot a way through this mess. Backseat drivers are already plentiful, and, though toilet paper was hard to come by a few weeks ago, I suspect, once we get a bit past this present pandemic crisis, we will be buried by a surplus of hindsight for years to come.</p>
<p>It seems to me that the top national medical folks we’ve heard from have done very well. I think my state’s governor and the mayors in my area have handled a tough situation admirably.</p>
<p>And so, when we got to the point here that churches were given, not the “all clear,” but the opportunity to meet together again, with precautions in place, we did. We just waited an extra week. I have friends at area churches who met the first Sunday they could. I have friends and colleagues at churches who have needed to wait two weeks. And I have friends and colleagues at other churches in other towns who either can’t resume meetings yet because their churches are too large to effectively follow the guidelines, or they are located in areas where the virus is presently spiking.</p>
<p>What this all means is that, though we’re all dealing with this mess and share plenty of experiences in common, we may be at slightly different points in the journey.</p>
<p>Not second-guessing anybody else at all, I’m glad we waited a week. It took that long to try to figure out how to do, in the midst of a pandemic, this thing that we’ve done every Sunday for decades. And I might as well admit it, spiritual giant that I am, though I’ve really missed worshiping together, I knew we’d be “back” eventually, and I didn’t mind recording one more Sunday service on a Thursday night and having one more sort of two-Saturday weekend. (Am I really just a barely housebroken pagan at heart? Probably so. If you’re surprised, you obviously don’t know me.) I know God wants his people to meet for worship. I know we need it. And I love it. But if my Father minds me filing as “a little bit of a blessing in the mess” a few Sunday mornings of genuinely quiet rest, well, I’d be very surprised. (In fact, I now think I’d lobby for a once ever seven-year Jubilee year, an Old Testament allusion, where we had seven Sundays of total Sabbath rest.)</p>
<p>Being “back” would be good, I knew, but I also knew it would be a bit weird. Enough masks for a bank robber/burglars’ convention. An odd inclination to want to remove somebody’s appendix. And, if we took any liberties, expecting the Covid-19 police to show up with tape measures and super glue or staple guns to permanently mask us up, even in a county with, so far, less than a handful of confirmed cases. And, yes, I know we need to be wise, even if being wise may feel a bit silly. We don’t want more cases, and we’ll probably have more, like it or not, so, yes, we need to be careful.</p>
<p>I’ll be interested in comparing notes with others who have or soon will go back to church. Not everything felt silly.</p>
<p>Some of the changes made us think more about what a blessing it was simply to be together. We thought more than usual about each member’s special place at the Table and in the Body—both those who were there and those who weren’t yet. We lingered on the front lawn visiting and laughing (and desperately wanting to hug).</p>
<p>What was the same as it had always been seemed somehow more precious. What was altered seemed more deeply filled with meaning.</p>
<p>We’re enjoined by the Apostle Paul to “discern the body.” Maybe we did. Maybe more than ever on Sunday. His Body.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>! No mask required!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644732020-05-04T13:31:44-05:002020-06-24T00:03:16-05:00One Size Never Fits All<p><strong>One Size Never Fits All</strong></p>
<p>By Curtis K. Shelburne</p>
<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/onesize.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/onesize.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>O</strong>ne size never fits all. If you’ve lived for ten minutes or so, I probably don’t need to tell you that.</p>
<p>But one of my brothers just sent in a text to the rest of his brothers a photo of a government form designed by some nameless bureaucrat or committee of bureaucrats or building burgeoning with bureaucrats (of the sort some folks would like to place in charge of the part of our nation’s healthcare the government doesn’t already control). Form 1040-V (“V” for “voucher”) includes the payment voucher taxpayers are supposed to use if they mail in a check or money order to pay any additional dollars they owe at the end of the tax year.</p>
<p>In some ways, the form, really short by governmental standards, is helpful. Since it’s not long, I assume they put in only information they think is particularly useful and important for the wide variety of folks who mail in payments.</p>
<p>For example, the amount on the right side of your check should be in this format: $XXX.XX. Taxpayers are asked not to use dashes or underlines or slashes. None of this, please: “49/100.”</p>
<p>But the paragraph that my brother circled in the pic he sent to the other three of us gives some information he found especially helpful: “No checks of $100 million or more accepted. The IRS can’t accept a single check (including a cashier’s check) for amounts of $100,000,000 or more. If you are sending $100 million or more by check, you will need to spread the payments over two or more checks, with each made out for an amount less than $100 million.”</p>
<p>I’m glad Gene read that in time, lest he write one single check, fire it in, and inadvertently break a valuable IRS rule. He may need to send two checks. I just hope he gets the number format right and doesn’t use a dash.</p>
<p>This, by the way, proves what a wise accountant once told me. He certainly believed that taxpayers should pay what they owed, but he gave this valuable advice: “Curtis, remember these are bureaucrats [meaning that they barely still have a pulse]. Don’t think that any of this is personal with them. They don’t care if you owe ten dollars or ten million dollars, they just want the right blank filled in on the right form.” ’Tis true. (Yes, let’s hurry to give them the healthcare. That’ll be great.)</p>
<p>It surely is easy to inadvertently break rules. In the midst of this Covid-19 mess, I’ve found myself walking the wrong way down the jelly aisle at the grocery store (against the arrow) on several occasions. Then the only choice for a person of high character (not me, I’m afraid), is to turn around or walk backwards.</p>
<p>Businesses, and churches, in my state are starting to open again. But I’ve been surprised to be surprised that “one size” can’t work for them all. With masks and weird, but mostly sensible, accommodations, it’s going to be a bit strange and less comforting than we’d like for all of us, I suspect. But “all” of us are different.</p>
<p>Our small church “opens” next week. I’m glad, but figuring out how to do this is necessarily, may I say, a serious pain in the tail section. But it’s harder for a mid-sized church a few blocks away; it will take more planning and more time to pull off. And for the large church 100 miles away that another of my brothers serves, well, they’re not even close to being back. Too many folks for one building even if they have a bunch of services. And their area’s virus numbers are presently going crazy. They don’t know when they’ll be able to meet even in masks and each congregant doused in disinfectant. (Just kidding about the last part.) If this mess gets any more complicated, please just mercifully drown me in Lysol.</p>
<p>One size never fits all. That knowledge makes me especially thankful that our Creator knows each of us completely and individually. He knows exactly what we need and how we feel every moment. He even knows the number of the hairs on our heads.</p>
<p>And he never asks us to fill out a form. The love we need to go on in this life and beyond, far beyond $100 million in value, all comes from our Father to us.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne</a>! No mask required.</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644742020-04-27T12:36:39-05:002020-10-20T02:28:32-05:00Genuine Truth Is as Real and Unchangeable as Gravity<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/gravity.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/gravity.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong> was scrolling through some news this morning and ran across a completely nonsensical “headline” in the midst of much “non-news.” Some popular actress or other generic celebrity (I don’t remember her name), the headline promised, would tell us all about “her truth.”</p>
<p>Great. I suppose that if we’re interested enough to read that article, we can logically look forward to some companion articles, some sequels. Maybe she can later tell us about “her gravity” or “her multiplication tables.” If truth itself is up for grabs—and why wouldn’t it be in a society where your very gender is dependent upon the day or your mood and not easily determined by your chromosomes and plumbing—are any of the “laws” of physics or mathematics really much more than suggestions?</p>
<p>If anybody wants to come talk about his or her gravity, I suppose we could climb up on my roof, have a nice visit, and discuss our deep and very individually unique feelings about gravity and how we’re feeling on that particular day about “up-ness” and “down-ness.” Or, forgive me if this is harsh, we could save a lot of time by holding hands, taking a deep breath, and leaping together off the roof. However we feel about the experience, I’m willing to go on record as believing in the absolute law of gravity which dictates this harsh but real truth: we will not fall up. And “open-minded” is not the first word that comes to mind when I think about someone who feels a need to try such to find out if gravity is a law still in effect on this particular morning.</p>
<p>It is not simply my opinion that gravity is still a law today. It is. This is a truth I can know without any need at all to resort to difficult or dangerous or painful testing. And, I suppose, if I wake up one morning with doubts about the truth and reality of gravity or the multiplication tables, professional help is available to help me come to terms both with reality and with whatever malady or foolishness is causing me to doubt it. In the long run—and even the short run, if I’m contemplating jumping off a roof to test gravity—coming to terms with what is inalterably true and real is much wiser, more helpful, and less painful than the alternative.</p>
<p>Of course, the point I’m trying to make here is true regarding genuine truth and laws that are real and incontrovertible laws. Physics. Mathematics. And I’d say, the Ten Commandments. No one can break those without consequence. I don’t remember if my brother had a clothes-pinned super hero towel-cape around his neck or not when he fell or jumped out of a redbud tree in our back yard when we were kids; I do remember that he broke his arm.</p>
<p>The problem comes when I get my opinions confused with incontrovertible laws, my opinions confused with immutable truth. I am not a super hero, and I am wrong and mistaken about many things, and this fact calls for some serious humility.</p>
<p>But I’m not so confused that you will ever hear me talking about “my truth.”</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/63644752020-04-20T14:43:00-05:002020-06-24T00:03:16-05:00What We Have Is a “Failure to Communicate”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/quotemark.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/quotemark.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>A</strong> language problem.</p>
<p>We have a language problem, writes geriatric psychiatrist Dr. Marc Agronin in the <em>Wall Street Journal</em>, which is “Why It’s So Hard to Talk to Your Parents About the Coronavirus.”</p>
<p>We don’t want hard times, struggles, and suffering. But one thing they do for us is bring to the surface truths that we already deeply or instinctively knew were lurking just barely underwater. Then we wonder why we didn’t see that hidden, but real, fact all along. This generational “linguistic” truth is real.</p>
<p>Plenty of other reasons make knowing how to feel about this mess difficult already. Even “keep your tail section at home” terms in the same language are confusing. “Stay at home,” “safer at home,” and “shelter in place” are not the same. (Google it.) The first two are close. The second is what we’re doing where I live. Almost nobody is truly doing the third in its strict “don’t budge at all until the bullets quit flying” sense, though New York is close.</p>
<p>New York is close for good reason. The situation there is different than in my town. (For that matter, the situation 70 miles to the east in Lubbock is also different.) The Dallas mayor was frustrated that the Texas governor hasn’t completely shut down the whole state, but the governor is wise enough to know that Dallas County with several thousand confirmed cases is not the same as Bailey County with zero. We need to do some of the same things, but we’d be fools to do all of the same things.</p>
<p>Ah, but then we discover that, even living in the same area, folks of different ages are, as Dr. Agronin says, speaking different languages. They’re speaking “forty-ish” (if they’re 30-50), “sixty-ish” (40-60), and “eighty-ish” (70-90).</p>
<p>Forty-ish speakers figure they’re mostly safe, unless they have “underlying issues,” even if they catch Covid-19. But then they figure out that their parents, speakers of sixty-ish, aren’t scared enough and need their wings clipped and their keys hidden. “You went where!?” Forty-ish speakers have shifted roles from “occasional drop-by driver, porter, or tech support” to “protectors.”</p>
<p>But their protectees are unruly and not accustomed to feeling the need to be protected or managed. Sixty-ish speakers are most recently accustomed to taking care of both the generations ahead of them and behind them. They’re not totally cut up that the younger generation might get a chance to worry a little (about time, donchathink!), but they think of themselves as being still in their prime. Caregivers not care-receivers. Vulnerable?! Since when? It feels like an insult or a demotion and a lie all at the same time. And, worse, what if . . . it’s . . . true? When did <em>that</em> happen!?</p>
<p>And the eighty-ish speakers? Most are far sharper, Dr. Agronin writes, than we realize. Their “healthy aging minds are neither depressed nor disabled.” They are less impulsive than younger folks, less “reactive.” They know that time and relationships are precious and that routines are comforting. “Social distancing” negatively impacts all of those things. Eighty-ish speakers are tough and “surprisingly resilient.” They’ve met “crises” before and don’t plan to panic. (No accident that “key leaders” like Dr. Fauci are from this bunch.) Most are much more worried about “loss of connection” than getting sick.</p>
<p>So how do we talk to each other? Dr. Agronin says that we listen, and then try to hear what’s really being said. A forty-ish speaker saying, “You went <em>where</em>?!” means, “I love you, and I’m worried about you” even if a sixty-ish speaker hears, “You’re older and more vulnerable than you think.”</p>
<p>I’m thankful we all have a Father who is, in all respects, the King of all ages. He understands and loves us all. Completely.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/56590792019-02-25T12:40:48-06:002020-10-09T01:36:02-05:00When Your Whole World Seems Tilted in Its Orbit<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/02/globe.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/02/globe.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>t’s very nearly as weird-feeling as it is heart-rending—a day when you wake up and realize it’s just another ordinary day for most of the world around you, but your whole world has tilted in its orbit, shifted on its axis.</p>
<p>For you, almost nothing feels the same, and even the things that do, don’t. Their very sameness in this new universe renders them incredibly strange.</p>
<p>You brush your teeth just like you always have. Part your hair in the same place. Take your keys off the same old hook. Just like you did in your old universe. But this morning you feel as if you’d opened your eyes in a universe where two plus two could not possibly still equal four. Is plumb still plumb, level still level? You know it must be, but you wonder how as you take your first steps in your suddenly off-axis world.</p>
<p>This morning you waked up for the first time in your life in a world where the mother or father who gave you life didn’t also wake up. You wonder how many times you’ll have to think, “I need to call Dad,” before your mind will face that fact that you can’t.</p>
<p>How long did it take this morning for you to realize that you were alone in the house? No shower sounds. No smell of coffee. Nobody else’s alarm going off. Your spouse really has left. Some of the last words before that were a little loud. But this jarring silence seems louder.</p>
<p>This morning you took your first breath of consciousness in a world where the child who was the light of your life no longer breathes. People say sadly that you lost a child. No! As if you could misplace your own heart! You didn’t “lose” her. Cancer or tragedy or incomprehensible accident seized her, wrenched her out of your arms. But not your heart. Never your heart. It still beats. And you wonder how.</p>
<p>Whatever the grief—and grief is the name of this thing that feels so strange—you waked up this morning in a universe that seems completely tilted.</p>
<p>You managed to get out of bed, but could that really have been you yesterday in the doctor’s office? Did she really say that the test results confirm that you have a life-altering disease? Now you’re staggering between the uneasy “peace” of at least knowing the reason for your symptoms and the abhorrence of the new label you never wanted, the name of the disease you’re told you that you have but right now seems to have you. “Your” symptoms? The disease you “have”? You resent “having” something that’s “yours” that you have no option to throw away. The old words are not adequate in this new world where the ground won’t stop shifting.</p>
<p>Hear now some words that point to a reality that is rock-solid, foundational, unchangeable, always trustworthy. Grief has a name, but so does Hope. God’s “mercies” really are “new every morning,” every moment, even in what seems a new and unwelcome universe. The only thing greater than your pain is God’s love. “Great is his faithfulness!” It is no accident that those words, deeply true, are found in the tear-stained Bible book named Lamentations (3:22-23).</p>
<p>When your old world “was,” when you don’t know how you can ever stand in this new world that “is,” when you’re deeply afraid of what “will be,” trust, one moment at a time, in the great “I Am.” The God of the universe is your Father. He loves you. That has not changed. It never will.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em> </em><em>Copyright 2019 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/56442002019-02-14T20:49:08-06:002020-06-27T04:54:49-05:00When Jesus Says, “It’s Time to Fish . . .”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/02/jesus-in-peters-boat.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/02/jesus-in-peters-boat.jpg?w=300&h=169" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="169" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>n Luke 5 we find the story of the calling of the first apostles.</p>
<p>To get a little space from the crowd, Jesus has turned Simon Peter’s fishing boat into a pulpit, pushed out from the shore, and taught the people from the boat.</p>
<p>When Jesus finishes speaking, he looks over at Simon and, I think, with a twinkle in his eye, he says, “Okay, Simon, you’ve indulged me as I’ve turned your boat into a lectern. Whaddaya say we make it a boat again? Put out into the deep water and let down your nets. Let’s fish a bit.”</p>
<p>Simon’s a tad taken aback. He has heard Jesus teach before and has been amazed. No one taught like Christ. But, with pardonable pride, Simon knows that not many fishermen fished as well as Simon. He knows fishing. It was worth stopping the endless work tending to his nets to listen to the Lord, but he’s tired and filled up with fishing. It’s time to go to the house, but . . .</p>
<p>“Master, we’ve been fishing all night and haven’t caught a thing. But because you ask me, we’ll do what you say.”</p>
<p>Do you ever get your fill of experts? They’ve never coached a day in their life, but they know more than the coach. They’ve never doctored a day in their life, but they know more than the doctor. They’ve never taught a day in their life but they know more than the teacher. They’ve never farmed even a furrow but they know more than the farmer. They’ve not done the hard work or made the sacrifices or put in the hours to train or earned the experience only years can buy, but they know more about everybody else’s field than the folks in it.</p>
<p>We all play the pseudo-expert at times. When we’re pompous about it, we can be insufferable; but even a little of such can a bit hard to take, especially when you’re bone tired, you’ve done your best, and the last thing you need is help from an expert.</p>
<p>Jesus is certainly not being insufferable, and Simon is not even close to being deeply offended. But he’s really tired. And who’d blame him if behind his polite words is a little kernel of a “please mind your own business” rebuke?</p>
<p>“Rabbi, I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to teach, and I don’t mean to be impertinent, but the plain fact is that I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know about fishing. I promise you, more fishing right now is a waste of time. But if you have the time to waste—and I wouldn’t do this for anybody else—okay. We’ll give it a shot.” Behind his words: “And I’ll try not to say, I told you so.”</p>
<p>So out they go as Simon unlimbers his already stiff muscles. He takes the boat on out and then with a tired grunt he begins to toss out the nets. And . . .</p>
<p>So many fish the nets begin to break! Simon suddenly realizes that the One who made the lake and the fish and . . . is in his boat! And Christ has caught not just a bunch of fish but also four apostles who through his power will “fish for men” and change the world.</p>
<p>When Christ tells us to put out into the deep water, trust his promises, and follow him, something wonderful is always in store.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em> </em><em>Copyright 2019 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/56378362019-02-11T10:40:26-06:002019-02-11T12:45:29-06:00Unselfish Love: A Real Gift That Matters<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2015/02/valentines-day-02.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2015/02/valentines-day-02.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>U</strong>h oh. It seems that the date for this column should probably indicate its content. Rats! If the whole thing reads like it was written by a Valentine’s Day grinch, I should just plead guilty.</p>
<p>It’s almost certainly good for husbands like me to have a deadline that calls for something on the order of flowers, gifts, candy, seriously over-priced cards, etc. I have difficulty appreciating the Madison Avenue manipulation, but I don’t doubt that clods like me need the shove.</p>
<p>It’s not particularly what the pseudo-holiday has turned into that bugs me; what really bothers me is the reminder that so much in our society that masquerades in second-rate song lyrics and steamy TV as “luuuuuv” bears no resemblance to the real thing.</p>
<p>I listened as a famous singer on a TV morning show opined that he and his wife had just split up because “the sparkle wasn’t there anymore.” He was way past fifteen, so “puppy love” was no excuse. He evidently had actually believed too many of his own songs and was confusing love with “warm fuzzies” and body heat, the kind of “luuuuv” that bears precious little resemblance to genuine commitment that really means “in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer.” The love god was originally an old Greek one, Eros, as Sheldon Vanauken (“The False Sanction or Eros”), C. S. Lewis, and I’m sure others, have noted. Eros has never lacked for worshipers.</p>
<p>Bowing before this god, our society has unleashed a demon who offers easy sanction for anyone wishing to commit almost any wrong, shatter any vow, break faith with God and society, and, in the sordid process, break the hearts of countless spouses and children. And the “luuuuv” god blesses the whole mess brought on by unvarnished selfishness.</p>
<p>How does our society respond? When we should turn away in nausea or shed tears, we turn to tabloids and gossip magazines that glamorize the carnage.</p>
<p>God help us to be both wise and merciful. When we fail in our marriages to love as we should—and we fail often—may we turn contrite hearts to our spouses and our God as we seek his grace and seek renewed power to share with each other our Lord’s genuine mercy and forgiveness and love. If we can’t share those things with our mates, I doubt that what we’ll share with others will be worth very much.</p>
<p>Oh, and let’s be merciful, too, to those who have fallen and failed seriously in this regard, and whose genuine sorrow shows that they know it, lest we find ourselves looking down our noses when we need to look inside and realize that we too are totally dependent upon mercy and grace every moment.</p>
<p>Fellows, you really ought to invest in a card and maybe some flowers or candy, too. (My wife prefers cash.) But your gift will mean a whole lot more if your beloved knows that behind it is the kind of genuine, unselfish love that helps with dishes and diaper-changing before it forks over the flowers.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em><em> </em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2019 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/56279922019-02-04T22:09:29-06:002020-10-13T01:49:17-05:00Irreplaceable: When a Mary, a Martha, or a Dorcas Goes Home<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/02/melba.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/02/melba.jpg?w=200&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="200" /></a></p>
<p><strong>Y</strong>ou probably didn’t notice a wobble in the earth’s rotation, a split-second tilt in its axis, a brief cosmic stutter last Wednesday. Neither did I.</p>
<p>But when I learned later that a sweet lady in Amarillo named Melba Joy had passed away suddenly that day, I immediately felt an emptiness in my soul, a pain in my heart, and a deep sense of loss. And I confess to being irrationally surprised that this planet could sustain that kind of loss and keep spinning as the solar system carried on business as usual.</p>
<p>I suppose that an unbeliever, an agnostic or atheist, but a skeptic of a kind sort, would feel compassion for anyone in grief, even if the bottom line in the skeptic’s life philosophy is that we’re all accidents anyway and the planet/universe can’t be expected to notice, much less, mourn, our loss.</p>
<p>Rationally, though I’m a Christian believer—and one who doesn’t believe for a second that belief negates rational thought—I know that the universe is impersonal and cannot mourn. But I believe its Creator is God, not an impersonal force or capricious pagan deity, but the Father who loves his children with an intensity we cannot begin to fathom, who, as Christ has told us, numbers even the hairs on our heads.</p>
<p>I believe the Creator of the universe not only noticed when Melba Joy passed away last Wednesday, I believe he welcomed her with an inexpressible love and, yes, joy. I believe that our Father not only loves every one of his children, I believe that he loves us as if there was only one to love. And, though I believe that the Father rejoiced to receive her truly Home, I also believe that he feels the loss and grief of those who loved her.</p>
<p>Obviously, my words come from the perspective of a believer. They are also coming from a small-church pastor. If you’ve not known and loved life, and the lives, the folks with faces, in a small church family, a real family in every sense, I doubt you can begin to understand the loss the folks in the little but lovely Anna Street Church in Amarillo are feeling right now. (It’s been my privilege to know and love them for lots of years, and my brother is their pastor.)</p>
<p>They love all of their folks, but for over 60 years, Melba, a “charter member,” has been integral in the life of that church family. For much of that time, she served as their church “hostess” and was later also recognized officially as what she had long been, a sweet deaconess. If it was warm, beautiful, well-organized, tasty, filled with joy, you can be very sure Melba Joy had a serious hand in it.</p>
<p>Sweet, talented, filled with joy to match her name, and beautiful in every way, Melba died at 93 (and could have easily passed for 73). When my younger brother heard of her passing, he wrote, “How sad! But didn’t she show us how to serve right up until the finish line? What a remarkable ‘Martha’ who had a big helping of the heart of ‘Mary’!” (Mary and Martha were Jesus’ dear friends). Yes, and what a “Dorcas” (Acts 9) whose passing the ancient church mourned so deeply.</p>
<p>Irreplaceable. That’s the word that keeps coming to mind. For small churches who lose such a lady, irreplaceable has a name. It’s Melba Joy. It’s June Conway. It’s Robin Taylor. It’s ______; fill in the name. If you’re a genuine part of a small church family, you know it. Speak the name. Thank God for her. And when she goes Home, ask the Father to help you honor him as you also honor her by being part of the small army you’ll find it will take to try to even begin to do what she did so wonderfully with so much selfless and soul-warming love.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2019 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/56168132019-01-28T11:23:35-06:002019-01-28T17:00:42-06:00Even for Night Owls, God’s Mercies Are “New Every Morning”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/01/bible-coffee.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/01/bible-coffee.jpg?w=300&h=150" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="150" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>W</strong>hat a sweet morning I’ve just experienced! And this from a person not in the habit of gushing about mornings. A “morning person,” I am not.</p>
<p>The preceding sentence is just a fact. No moral ramifications are attached. Not by me. I have actually even met a few humble morning folks who seem to harbor no self-righteous “early to rise” prejudices. I refer the others to mounting research and genuinely science-based books such as Dr. Till Roenneberg’s <em>Internal Time: Chronotypes, Social Jet Lag, and Why You’re So Tired</em>. Get up with the roosters if you want to; just please be quiet and don’t crow about it—and, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t bang the lights on!</p>
<p>Our chronotypes—whether you’re a morning lark, a night owl, or a “third bird” (something in between—check out Claudia Hammond’s fun and fascinating <em>Time Warped</em>)—are as hard-wired as our eye color. Granted, the time you’re due at work or school is likely beyond your control, but nobody can control the genes and physiology, your “chronotype,” that dictates when you will generally be most alert, effective, and efficient. The owl under my hat has no problem with mornings; I just like them as dark, as silent, and as still as possible, until caffeine and hot running water can accomplish a resurrection.</p>
<p>All said to underline how very beautiful this particular morning was, even from an owl’s perspective. (My wife and I had the sweet blessing of an unusually un-rushed morning.)</p>
<p>When I awoke, it was deliciously dark. Darkness can be a metaphor for evil, but in a safe, warm place, it can also be as beautifully enfolding as a blanket. I’d banked the fire the night before, tucking in with ashes what was left of the glowing embers so that this morning I could simply rake the ash-blanket aside, lay on some more wood, and wait for the flickering fire to spring into life and warmth. Flickering in darkness is the best kind of flickering a fire does.</p>
<p>I made coffee so as to be able to find my pulse. Later on, I perused the headlines in a digital version of <em>The Wall Street Journal</em>. It was nice to get a couple of my prejudices confirmed. Article headline, front page-below the fold: “Please Do Your Sneezing at Home: Employees Strike Back Against Coughing Colleagues.” (Of course, one colleague will spray disinfectant and sniffle-shame you if you show up sick, even as another will call you a slacker if you take sick leave. Catch-22.)</p>
<p>And I smiled at the book review of <em>Dreyer’s English</em>, a book by Benjamin Dreyer (review by Ben Yagoda). “Being well copy-edited is like getting ‘a really thorough teeth-cleaning,’” Dreyer writes. And he mentions a famous <em>New Yorker</em> editor’s rule: “Try to preserve an author’s style if he is an author and has a style.”</p>
<p>But before heading to the <em>Journal</em>, I sought more timeless wisdom. I decided today to read and pray the “morning office” from the venerable <em>Book of Common Prayer</em>. (There are apps for that! For iPad, iPhone, or PC, search “The Mission of St. Clare.” It’s one of the best. By the way, if you think this sounds terribly “spiritual,” you obviously don’t know me.)</p>
<p>One of the Scriptures for the morning was Psalm 19. “The heavens declare the glory of God, / and the firmament shows his handiwork.” I love that psalm in any translation, but I decided to check it out also in <em>The Message</em>, and, wow! Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase is always amazing, but never better than this: “God’s glory is on tour in the skies, / God-craft on exhibit across the horizon. / Madame Day holds classes every morning, / Professor Night lectures each evening.” (To read it all, head to <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.biblegateway.com</a> and go to Psalm 19 in <em>The Message</em>.)</p>
<p>No, I’ll never be a morning person. But I do indeed believe that God’s “mercies are new every morning” (Lamentations 3). And I really enjoyed this one.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2019 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/56059942019-01-21T12:57:41-06:002019-01-21T16:30:24-06:00Mature “Little Children” Could Solve the Government Shutdown<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/01/gov_shutdown.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/01/gov_shutdown.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p>As I write, it is Day 31 of the longest government shutdown in the history of our nation.</p>
<p>I tend to think that a much longer, much more permanent, shutdown of a good many regulation-spawning government bureaucracies would be about as detrimental to our nation as a cure for cancer would be to our health.</p>
<p>But life (and government) is neither that simple nor that fair. We actually need many of the services the government is presently not providing. Even if many of those duties could be far more efficiently provided by the private sector, well, when the gears grind to a halt, the sudden stop is jarring. And for workers whose paychecks are stuck in the non-functioning governmental gears, the shutdown is far worse than inconvenient.</p>
<p>I try not to push politics or a partisan position in this column, but if on occasion, I flirt with making folks on both extremes of an issue angry, I’m probably okay with that, so here goes.</p>
<p>I’m intensely frustrated with our nation’s mis-leaders on both sides of the immigration issue which is the excuse for this mess. They all are behaving like immature brats very much in need of a spanking.</p>
<p>Is there any good excuse for the unseemly cesspool in which so many of our politicians float? In a representative form of government, we are, ideally, supposed to elect our “betters,” people we esteem to be wiser, more mature, and with more experience and expertise than ourselves. We are supposed to be represented by folks who are capable, intelligent, well-educated, well-mannered, and who possess a higher than average level of wisdom, prudence, and integrity. Forgive the metaphor, but if the kids can’t trust the parents to behave better than selfish fools, the family is in trouble.</p>
<p>So the voter under my hat blames both sides. They all look terrible. They should have dealt wisely with immigration issues long ago. They should have been willing to reach fair and equitable, albeit imperfect, solutions long ago. And neither side should be allowed to accomplish by holding their breath and throwing tantrums what they could not accomplish by reasonable legislation.</p>
<p>If this goes on, I really think funds to help pay government employees should be deducted from the salaries of the “leading” politicians from both parties, those who have the power to break the stalemate.</p>
<p>I’d personally love to see Trump and Pelosi locked in a room, fed only water and crackers, with reasonable bathroom breaks, but otherwise not allowed to come out or sleep until they play nice and reach a compromise.</p>
<p>Or, maybe better, I’d refer the issue to binding arbitration by a non-partisan group of wise children. I’d suggest nine third-graders chosen from the student body of DeShazo Elementary School in Muleshoe, Texas. Let them choose a teacher they respect to lay before them, in thirty minutes, the main issues at hand. Give Trump and Pelosi twenty minutes each to make their cases. (Flip a coin to see who goes first.) Then let the kids deliberate and come up with a compromise. Third-graders understand “fair.” They recognize “stupid.” The know how to deal with whiners and bullies. I’ll wager they could come up with an equitable compromise, have the government running again before lunch, and not even miss recess.</p>
<p>Isaiah the prophet, and later, Jesus himself, pointed to the real peace found in God’s kingdom and rule, the time when “a little child shall lead them.” If our leaders find leading wisely in this nation too strenuous, perhaps they should be overruled by little children who could provide more mature leadership.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2019 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55955122019-01-14T12:43:46-06:002019-01-14T16:15:21-06:00Reverse Snobbery and “All Things New”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/01/arm-rest.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/01/arm-rest.jpg?w=225&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="225" /></a></p>
<p><strong>A</strong> big part of this is reverse snobbery, I know, but I love my old pickup truck.</p>
<p>That faithful machine already had 90,000 miles on it when I flew down to Houston a bunch of years ago, laid eyes on it, and fell in love. The original owner must have loved that truck, too, because he took great care of it.</p>
<p>I probably haven’t been quite as faithful in that department. I try to do basic maintenance, even a little touch-up paint here and there. I don’t spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning on the inside; it’ll just get dirty again. My wife quarrels with the reasoning, and I don’t apply it to my own personal hygiene.</p>
<p>But faithful to me is what that truck has been, and I honor it with the best two words ever used to describe any vehicle: “paid for.” Its odometer recently rolled on past 200,000 miles. There’s a “short” in that thing, so sometimes the screen goes blank, but it was blazing brightly as it proudly crossed the mark. Sadly, I missed the moment, and it was 200,011 when I noticed.</p>
<p>I try not to be superstitious, but I know I’m flirting with disaster by writing this. I’m dooming the transmission. Or the engine will now thrash. A wheel will fall off. Or maybe worse, my good friend Buddy, who sells cars (mostly trucks) in Robert Lee, Texas, will call me with a really tempting offer on a great follow-up F-150 at a good price.</p>
<p>Robert Lee is a truck place. Unless you’re infirm and not up to the step up, most able-bodied adults want trucks and not polite little car-lettes. The only electric vehicles are Old Man Jones’ golf cart with the flag on top or Billy Joe’s truck that lit up after it hit a utility pole.</p>
<p>I trust Buddy like a brother (which if you know my brothers might be scant praise), but he’s a great guy, and won’t steer me wrong. When he calls, I may be tempted to “pull the trigger” on the newer vehicle. I’ll probably love that truck, too. But I fully expect to be left wondering if the purchase was a bit extravagant, and, had I shown just a tad more faithfulness, I could have put another 100,000 miles on my older one almost for free. I’m putting a good many additional miles on my truck right now by ferrying friends to pick up their much newer vehicles at dealerships or repair shops. Their rides seem to break down pretty often and require a lot of pampering.</p>
<p>I splurged the other day and put a nice new arm rest cover on the driver’s side. The original one’s leather was torn, its foam disintegrating, its wooden “bone” about to poke through.</p>
<p>When my long-ago first love F-150 (blue, five-speed on the floor, short bed) needed a new arm rest, I carved and varnished one from an ancient bois d’arc tree on my grandparents’ old Robert Lee home place. It wasn’t soft, but it looked cool. This time, I went with a posh original-equipment-looking new one. I learned a few installation tricks, literally mostly by mistake, but it looks good.</p>
<p>So I admit that there’s a time for “new.” New years, even. And the time will come when God himself says, “Behold, I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5). Already, He promises to those who trust Him new hope, new peace, new mercy and grace, new life. Why? Because it’s been <em>paid for</em> by His Son.</p>
<p>For my truck, an arm rest worth of new is new enough for now.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2019 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55841412019-01-06T21:20:17-06:002020-10-10T01:54:24-05:00January Is a Good Time for Looking in Both Directions<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/01/janus_coin.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2019/01/janus_coin.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>W</strong>ell, here we find ourselves again in January, and maybe some reflection is in order.</p>
<p>On the one hand, author Thomas Mann is right: “Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunder-storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols.” So a new year? January? Big deal.</p>
<p>On the other hand, I’m always a little surprised when 12:01 a.m. of the new year rolls around and there’s not even any perceptible “bump” indicating that our wheels have run over a chronological curb. Even so, the seasons of the year each do have a discernible character, and I like that.</p>
<p>I like seasons, and I like living in a place where weather-wise, they are pretty obvious. It’s strange. I don’t tend to like change, but I like the changing seasons. I particularly like the fact that there is so very little change each year in the way that they invariably change. I like the particular character with which the Creator has endowed each season, and winter just might be my favorite.</p>
<p>I know nothing about Edith Sitwell, but I think she captures for me winter’s winsomeness: “Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”</p>
<p>There it is: “the time for home.” I like that.</p>
<p>One of my sons recently reflected on the time our family had together at Christmas, and what he said delighted me and may well have been the best Christmas gift I received. He said, “You know, it was really nice to be home. You and Mom have made it a really enjoyable place to be, and that’s true for all of us, from the little ones to all the rest.” I love that, and am immensely thankful for it!</p>
<p>Home matters to me, and there is no place I’d rather be. Maybe that’s why I can think of nothing better (as long as the cupboard is full and there are some good books, old movies, and firewood available), than being snowed in for a few wonderful days. The only way, it seems to me, that we ever have anything much worthwhile to offer to the loud and bustling world outside is when we spend enough quiet and rich time inside, being gently reminded of who we are and Whose we are. That’s true of our homes, I think, and I believe it’s also true of our minds and our spirits.</p>
<p>January gets its name from the Roman god Janus who was depicted on Roman coins as two-headed, looking both ways, backward and forward. He was the keeper of gates and doors.</p>
<p>Wisdom lies in spending the right amount of time looking in both directions. God is still the Lord of both our “coming in” and our “going out.” He is the God of all times, all seasons, both “now and for evermore” (Psalm 121:8).</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2019 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55725702018-12-28T11:13:59-06:002018-12-28T15:30:28-06:00In God We Trust–Not in Us<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/12/20181225_191557.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/12/20181225_191557.jpg?w=225&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="225" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong> am writing this column on December 26. Christmas is not even close to being over. This is only the second of the “twelve days of Christmas,” which was a season a very long time before it was a song.</p>
<p>I’m whistling in the wind, I know, but I prefer to stand with the wisdom of the centuries on this one and not with Western marketing. My little $5 tree and the lights in my humble shed behind the house will stay up until Twelfth Night, the evening of January 5.</p>
<p>I’m not sure if I’m a Yuletide purist or just the son of my mother. Mom liked Christmas and hated taking down trees. Ours often stood in the corner of the living room until February, by which time the tree was a genuine incendiary device we could have sold to terrorists for serious money had we not been patriotic Americans. (My wife, flaunting tradition and my maternal heritage, will slam the lid on the whole thing and shove the plastic tree into a box much sooner than I would prefer.)</p>
<p>Because I’m a Christmas traditionalist, I always hate to see Christmas go. I’m also quirky, eccentric, and loving my second childhood as, I hope, I’m growing younger inside as I grow older outside.</p>
<p>But I also have a deeper reason perhaps worthy of some reflection. You see, at Christmas, for just a little while, we almost get it. We almost understand that genuine beauty and light and joy and life itself do not proceed from us and are not about us. What happened at Bethlehem was something God did. (And though I’d not be legalistic about it, I see genuine wisdom and spiritual blessing in the truly Christian tradition of the preparation time of Advent leading to the sweet 12-day Christmas season.)</p>
<p>We could have sat through a million “success” seminars, strategically planned our hearts out, burned out our calculators creating fine business models, centered on ourselves in a thousand ways, and we’d never have thought of sending God’s Son from heaven and laying him in a manger. Even if we’d thought of it, we’d be as likely to start a nuclear reaction by rubbing two sticks together as to do for ourselves and our world what only God could do by his power. At Christmas, we see with a little clarity, which is far more than usual and about the best we ever muster, that everything we really need in this life is about God and from him, not us.</p>
<p>No wonder it’s a let-down when the lights come down and the lists of resolutions go up. We were centered on God’s great symphony; now we tend to focus again on our own little performance playing “Chop-sticks” on a plastic toy piano. We were enthralled by God’s power; now the temptation is to center on ours, take back the stage, pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps, start rubbing two sticks together, and get busy trying to do for ourselves what only God can do.</p>
<p>No matter when you take the tree and the lights down, remember the lesson of Bethlehem. In God we trust. Not in us.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em> </em><em>Copyright 2019 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55637242018-12-20T22:18:22-06:002021-01-23T00:10:43-06:00Christmas Is Only as Strong as Its Weakest Link<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/christmas-cross.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/christmas-cross.jpg?w=225&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="225" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong> don’t usually think of Christmas and chains as going together, unless I’m reading about the ponderously-chained Ghost of Christmas Past who so terrorized old Ebenezer Scrooge! But I believe this to be true: Christmas is a “chain” which is only as strong as its weakest link.</p>
<p>If Christmas deals only with lights and tinsel, egg nog and poinsettias (all of which I enjoy very much, I hope you understand), and the Yuletide joy and peace, love and good will, we sing about are just artificial twinkles and largely illusory light, then Christmas is a weak and pathetic thing which can’t possibly stand the test of life and time and which will fade a long time before the January sales (and credit card bills) end.</p>
<p>If Christmas has to do only with parties and good times, but nothing to do with hospital rooms and disgusting diagnoses . . .</p>
<p>If Christmas has to do only with smiles and “Merry Christmases” and nothing to do with hope at a graveside . . .</p>
<p>If Christmas has to do only with sales and not souls, presents and not His Presence, holiday cheer but not lifelong Joy . . .</p>
<p>If Christmas has to do only with Jingle Bells and nothing to do with “God with us,” well, then, Christmas is not up to the task of making a real difference in our lives, and it’s just one more momentary diversion for the despairing, one more false hope for people who know no hope, and it certainly won’t make much difference in life, or in death, or in anything at all very real or substantial.</p>
<p>But if Christmas, and all that is best about this good season, points to real light and hope, glimmering reflections from the Father of Lights, the Giver of Joy, the Sender of the very best Gift, then the Christ of Christmas can use this time of celebration to point us to light that truly is stronger than darkness, hope that is genuinely stronger than despair, and life that is ultimately and infinitely stronger than death.</p>
<p>Then we discover that the Light of Christmas is real indeed because He is real, and life is far more substantial than death.</p>
<p>Then Christmas means something beautiful and wonderful and real. And Christmas joy can and will last forever.</p>
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<p><em> </em><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>! Merry Christmas!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55578632018-12-17T11:05:13-06:002018-12-17T15:15:25-06:00The Song of Christmas Is a Song of Hope<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/curtis-shelburne-photo.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/curtis-shelburne-photo.jpg?w=242&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="242" /></a></p>
<p><strong>H</strong>ope. One of the most beautiful of words, hope is very near the heart of this season.</p>
<p>For me, the Christmas-singing season usually starts in earnest about the second week in December. I start listening to Christmas music sooner than that, and I’ll usually sing one or two Christmas programs earlier, but the sleigh really gets moving in that second week. And whenever I sing those songs, at the center of the music is hope.</p>
<p>I hope I won’t mess up by forgetting the words or, worse, playing fast and loose with the pitch. I hope nobody’s ears will begin bleeding before I’m done. I hope nobody will throw anything.</p>
<p>But the hope I have in mind is much deeper than that.</p>
<p>From the time I set up the equipment, climb onto the stool, and start filling the mike, it is hope itself that I really want to start flowing from the speakers. I know that sad songs have their place in this world. I’ve not forgotten that the writers of the Psalms at times wrote songs of lament.</p>
<p>Even as we sing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel!” we know Christ comes as our ransom; a heavy price will be paid. But we still sing his coming, and our tears are mixed with joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy.</p>
<p>You see, sad songs and hopeless songs are not the same. The “psalms of lament” always end on a note of hope: “We cry now, and for very good reasons. Hear us, O Lord! But we know where to bring our tears, and we know who will wipe them away. We know that joy comes in the morning, and we know from whence it comes!” In that is real hope, and genuine hope is always stronger and longer-lasting than meaninglessness and despair.</p>
<p>If you want to find a “singer” to continually wail about the ugliness of life or wallow as a victim and scream about life’s unfairness, spreading bile and accusation and even filth, you’ll need to find someone with no hope. Sadly, they’ll not be hard to find.</p>
<p>Hope is my reason to sing, and nothing is more hopeful, more joyful, more full of love, than the Child who entered our world in that tiny form at Bethlehem. If His light is within us, then every twinkle on every tree, or glimmer of every icicle, or sparkle of every child’s wide eyes bears witness to Bethlehem’s eternal joy.</p>
<p>Sometimes during a Christmas performance, I’ll introduce and sing some special songs, some (I hope) beautiful music perhaps new to my listeners’ ears to help them see yet other glimmers of His hope and joy, and that’s fun.</p>
<p>Sometimes I’ll talk to an audience about a song they’ve long known and tell them its story that they probably didn’t, and then I’ll sing it anew.</p>
<p>But often I think my favorite part is simply to sing in the background of the conversation and food and laughter the songs folks know and love, the songs that wrap softly around each of us, warm us up, and quietly say to our souls, “It’s back, that lovely Christmas hope, and if I’m not home quite yet, this music tells my soul, I’m closer, and I’m loved.”</p>
<p>And so I sing. You’d be surprised how easy it is to watch and revel in the hugs and smiles, laughter and warmth, hope and joy, to be thanking God for the blessing of filling these ears, and still be singing. The trick during those times is to let the music waft through unobtrusively, to sing mostly what they know and delight to welcome back, the old song-friends that hold hands with this Christmas and sweet Christmases before. They have a common Ancestor, these Christmases, singing His song of hope in His every son, every daughter.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>! And Merry Christmas!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55481582018-12-10T10:53:28-06:002018-12-10T16:30:25-06:00Only One Child Really Is Wisdom’s Child<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/12/shirt-old-e1544460614153.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/12/shirt-old-e1544460614153.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>f extraterrestrials were to land in our part of the world seeking intelligent life, I often think they’d return to their mother ship reporting that none exists. I do not believe extraterrestrials exist, but on this point, I tend to agree with their nonexistent little selves.</p>
<p>We pay for little plastic bottles filled up with water most often from municipal water supplies exotic because they are not ours. Refilling a bottle from our own tap is evidently unbearably difficult.</p>
<p>We pay appalling prices for devices designed primarily for use in communication, chain ourselves to them as their indentured servants, and allow them to snuff out real communication with folks we love in the very same room.</p>
<p>The same country that once sent barely-college-age kids to fight for freedom and dodge (or not) bullets and shrapnel in world wars now sends kids to colleges with “safe zones” lest reality and free speech be too much for them to bear.</p>
<p>Sorry for this picture, but in our culture, I could actually pull my pants down around my ankles, show off my underwear, and whine that people are “disrespecting” me. May I summon all the eloquence of the English language to comment, “Duh.”</p>
<p>In this land where most of us have way too much to eat, models starve themselves to try to look or be anorexic while over 20,000 people in our world die of hunger each day. Shrink wrap fashions in our land seem absolutely designed to make girls of normal weight suddenly look and feel like they’re twenty pounds over the “limit” and deprive them of their already lagging self-esteem. As a grandfather of some beautiful little girls approaching the teenage years, I confess that if I hear anyone say “weight” around them, I will be sorely tempted to nail his or her tongue to the wall and set the fool afire.</p>
<p>That’s not funny, but, forgive me, this tickles my “truth is stranger than fiction” funny bone: In Texas, we just witnessed a Senate race between a Robert Francis “Beto” O’Rourke and a Rafael Edward Cruz. It’s not hard to figure out which candidate leans pretty hard left and which leans pretty hard right, or, for whatever difference it makes (none), which is of Irish descent and which of Cuban, but it was a good reminder to avoid stereotypes. If an Ian Alexander Sean O’Guitierrez runs for governor, I’ll not try to guess his politics, but I’ll likely vote for him just to get to chuckle—and for that aforementioned reminder.</p>
<p>And, back to the “Emperor Has No Clothes But We Buy Them Anyway” fashion category, we’re quite used to folks, mostly with no more holes in their heads than the general population, buying jeans with put-there-on-purpose rips for which they pay good money in pursuit of holey-ness. My favorite old Henley shirt has developed gaping holes in the sleeve-ends. I hate to part with it, but I’m tempted to jack up the price, pay someone to sneak it in to a teeny or tweeny section of Macy’s, start a trend, and start raking in the profits.</p>
<p>Long ago, Jesus said basically that Wisdom was everybody’s mama, or at least that everyone claimed to be her (wiser than average) child. We do crazy things in her name.</p>
<p>Yet how’s this for universe-class crazy, completely “over the top”? God sending his only Son as a baby in Bethlehem! But it wasn’t crazy at all. Within it was the breathtaking wisdom of God himself, mixed with unimaginable love.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55365742018-12-02T22:01:50-06:002018-12-02T23:00:41-06:00Christmas Trees Don’t Have to Be Perfect to Be Beautiful<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2015/12/christmas-001.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2015/12/christmas-001.jpg?w=300&h=225" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="225" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong><span style="color:#800000;">M</span></strong>y earliest Christmas memories are mostly wrapped around our family’s Christmas trees.</p>
<p>I remember Mom making creamy hot chocolate and my sister stacking the spindle of the old record player with an inch-high pile of vintage vinyl Christmas music by Nat King Cole, Perry Como, Tennessee Ernie Ford, and the Norman Luboff Choir.</p>
<p>Most years the tree had already been bought at (where else?) Amarillo’s Boy Scout Troop 80 Christmas tree lot. I was a member of Troop 80 and thus expected to help sell trees each year. My younger brother was not, but he was a wheeler-dealer sort who liked selling trees and often, as I recall, managed to pawn off more trees than most of the <em>bona fide</em> boy scouts. Jacob (I mean, Jim) always felt Jacob of old settled for far too little when he sold his hungry brother Esau that bowl of stew and only got a birthright for it. Jim would’ve held out for hard cash and then the birthright at the end as a balloon payment.</p>
<p>We’d lean the tree in the garage for a day or a few on its amputation-site stump in a bucket of water while it waited to be lit and glorified. Anchoring the tree in the stand was a chore. Jim and I would crawl under the scratchy boughs and slide around on our wood floor to turn each screw just the right amount. It was never straight the first time.</p>
<p>Then my 15-years-older sister, the unquestioned head honcho of the process, would ascend to perform the task of highest honor as she put on the lights (bubble lights, snowball lights, and all), a job in later years graciously bequeathed to me.</p>
<p>Then we would hang the ornaments, a tedious task but nothing like as bad as the final stage in the process: hanging the icicles.</p>
<p>I don’t see those long, thin, silvery strands of foil or plastic, those “icicles,” on trees much anymore. I hope never again to have to put them on one of mine.</p>
<p>According to my sister, they had to be hung with great care, one at a time. Ten million or so came in a box. You’d drag one out of the box and carefully place it over a tree branch. It was essential, my sister assured us, to start at the back near the trunk and make sure the icicle hung straight down on both sides of the branch. Straight down. No clumps. Which is why Jim’s preferred method of grabbing a paw-full of icicles and launching the whole wad in the general direction of the tree was sternly forbidden. No. One at a time. Until you froze there, died there, decayed there, and Christmas never came, and it was spring and you were still hanging icicles. One at a time.</p>
<p>I don’t know what we thought would happen—apart from sure death—if we didn’t hang the icicles exactly right. Would Santa’s sleigh suddenly crash in flight and the FAA later determine and publish for the whole world full of weeping giftless children to see that the cause was icing—not on the sleigh but improper tree icicling by two Shelburne boys at 125 N. Goliad, Amarillo, Texas, whose wanton and reckless disregard had killed Santa?</p>
<p>I’m sure we never did it “right.” But I remember wandering into the living room as a little lad clad in those great PJs that came complete with feet, lying down almost under the tree, looking up through its branches, and drinking in the beauty.</p>
<p>By God’s grace, Christmas trees don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. Neither do lives.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55279722018-11-26T11:49:41-06:002018-11-26T12:45:21-06:00Why Does God Attend Worship?<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2016/05/prayhands.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2016/05/prayhands.jpg?w=300&h=239" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="239" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong>A</strong></span> number of years ago now, I took some of our family 70 miles down the road looking for a little dose of culture. We went to hear the symphony, and, with them, the man who’s arguably the best classical guitarist in the world. Christopher Parkening’s performance that evening reminded me of one of my own. No kidding.</p>
<p>The orchestra with which I performed was conducted by Mrs. Stevens, who was not only the head of the Music Department at Amarillo’s San Jacinto Elementary, she <em>was</em> the Music Department. I played the bells. We performed one evening for an elite group—the PTA. Mom and Dad, of course, attended.</p>
<p>Now, I ask you, why did they come? Because they were looking for a cultural experience? Probably not.</p>
<p>Because Mrs. Stevens was world-renowned as a conductor of pygmy orchestras? I don’t think so.</p>
<p>Because the guest soloist was a world-renowned bell player who toured elementary schools the world over and just happened to be their son playing in a limited engagement? No. I may have had a dozen notes. No solos.</p>
<p>No, Mom and Dad were not enamored with the notes or the way I played them. They weren’t in love with the music or the performance. They were in love with me. Which leads me to wonder.</p>
<p>When God’s people gather to worship him, why does God think it worthwhile to be “in their midst,” as he has promised?</p>
<p>This God is the Conductor who raises his baton to begin the “music of the spheres” and set the whole universe dancing with delight.</p>
<p>This is the God of Heaven where the streets are filled with the continual praise of great choirs of angelic hosts.</p>
<p>Is God present at worship because our music is so fine? Or our prayers so perfect? Or our preaching so inspiring?</p>
<p>Is God among us because he is so impressed with the way we worship?</p>
<p>My parents, in a sense, lowered themselves to come to an elementary school orchestra performance at a PTA meeting not because we were so good but because they loved me so much.</p>
<p>And our great God? He’s not with us because we’re so good at what we do, or because we or our group “do” worship better or more correctly than others of his people. He’s there in spite of the pitiful soul-crushing walls we create, not because of them. No, God is not there because we are so good, so right, so impressive. We are none of those things.</p>
<p>He’s there because we’re his children. Because he’s our Father. Because he loves us with deep and genuine love. And he knows that though our love for him is weak and imperfect, it, too, is real.</p>
<p>Why is God with us when we worship? Because of relationship far more than ritual. We’re not child prodigies wowing Heaven with the beauty of our worship. But we are our Father’s kids. And the God of all joy beams and his heart overflows yet again with love as we offer to him the praise that comes from love. As our hearts dance before him, his heart dances, too.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55206212018-11-19T14:43:35-06:002018-11-19T19:30:26-06:00Father Tim Kavanagh and Thanksgiving<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2016/11/gratitude.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2016/11/gratitude.jpg?w=300&h=157" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="157" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>’ve been enjoying re-reading Jan Karon’s books set in Mitford, North Carolina, centering on the life and ministry of the community’s Episcopal priest, Father Tim Kavanagh.</p>
<p>I like Father Tim. My wife goes farther: she says I <em>am</em> Father Tim. My wife is usually right, but she’s wrong on this one. Father Tim is a much better pastor and a much nicer fellow than the preacher my wife lives with. But nonetheless it does me good to spend time with the kind rector, and I’m usually more pastoral and a little nicer after I’ve done so.</p>
<p>I wouldn’t deny that a few similarities do exist between us, Father Tim and me.</p>
<p>Mitford is a small town of the “great place to live” variety. Muleshoe is in exactly that category. Father Tim has discovered that the very best (and by far the largest) part of America is the small town part. I couldn’t agree more.</p>
<p>Mitford is set in the “high green hills” of North Carolina. Muleshoe is set in the high brown plains of West Texas. Hmm.</p>
<p>Father Tim has discovered that you can truly and meaningfully touch just as many lives in a small church/small town setting as you can in a large city/mega-church setting. Maybe more. I agree.</p>
<p>Father Tim is the kind of guy who would rather spend thirty minutes with the “real” guys at the local coffee shop than five minutes with the “plastic” big business/big politics/big shots (in general) of our society. Absolutely.</p>
<p>Father Tim has a great church secretary full-time who does a great job and doesn’t mind telling him how “the cow ate the cabbage” and keeping him in line. I’ve got one of those, too, but she can do the job in one day a week.</p>
<p>Father Tim has a great dog. For lots of years, I had one of those. His dog is pacified by the reading of Scripture or 18th-century English poets. I never needed to try that. Like her master, the best thing Maddie did was sleep.</p>
<p>Father Tim has a polite little motor scooter. I’ve got a man-sized machine with air intakes and pipes that opened wide will suck in and spit out neighborhood pets from three doors down. (The similarity is that both machines have two wheels.)</p>
<p>Father Tim has been described as “bookish.” Ditto, and that’s a compliment. Our society desperately needs folks who read more and spout off less. But I don’t read enough.</p>
<p>Father Tim esteems C. S. Lewis and Winston Churchill as among his heroes. Well, of course.</p>
<p>Yes, there are some similarities. But Father Tim is, I repeat, a much nicer guy, better pastor, and finer human being than am I.</p>
<p>As I spent some time with him recently, I was struck by the notes he’d jotted in his sermon notebook on “thanksgiving” and another quotation or two he recalled.</p>
<p>Oswald Chambers: “We look for visions of heaven, and we never dream that all the time God is in the commonplace things and people around us.”</p>
<p>Dietrich Bonhoeffer: “We prevent God from giving us the great spiritual gifts he has in store for us because we do not give thanks for daily gifts. . . .” Looking for the “highest good,” we “deplore the fact that we lack the deep certainty, the strong faith, and the rich experience that God has given to others, . . . Only he who gives thanks for little things receives the big things.”</p>
<p>I’m pretty sure Father Tim’s Thanksgiving sermon was better than mine.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55104002018-11-12T14:29:44-06:002020-10-19T01:14:46-05:00Epitaph: Love Is Always Greater Than Power<p><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/cross-sunset2.jpg?w=308&h=205" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="cross-sunset2" height="205" width="308" /></p>
<p><strong>T</strong>his morning in <em>The Wall Street Journal</em> I read a well-written obituary by James R. Hagerty focusing on a woman who so loved to be in the spotlight that her former husband—she had four and divorced four—simply said, “To say that [she] loved publicity would be a massive understatement. She lived for publicity.”</p>
<p>Hagerty wrote, “More than 30 years before she died, she had her own tombstone engraved,” noting on it that “her father was a prominent neurologist and that she was recognized at White House press conferences by several presidents.”</p>
<p>Hagerty says that in a 1996 <em>People</em> magazine article, she simply said, “The main thing is to keep my name out in front.”</p>
<p>I do not intend to mention her name. You won’t know it anyway, and it will soon be forgotten. But I admit that I’ll have a hard time forgetting what Hagerty says this woman wrote on her own memorial: “Power is greater than love, and I did not get where I am by standing in line, nor by being shy.”</p>
<p>I suppose when she wrote that pathetic line, she could hardly imagine that “where I am” could mean anything other than “in the spotlight.” For much of her 89 years, she lived for power and fame. Where did she get? She got to the place where “where I am” means “in the grave.” And then what happens to such a shriveled soul?</p>
<p>I read that obituary this morning. Then this afternoon I drove down to our little town’s First Baptist Church to attend the funeral of a man whose name I’m privileged to mention and whose service I felt it was an honor to attend, “Sonny” Byrd. Most of us just called him Mr. Byrd.</p>
<p>I didn’t know that Mr. Byrd’s first name was actually Levanather. I’ve still not heard anyone take a stab at pronouncing it, but, if I’m doing that right, I kind of like it. It has a dignity about it. Just like the man, married 57 years to his “sweetheart” and committed to his Lord.</p>
<p>I didn’t get to know Mr. Byrd nearly as well as I’d like to have, partly because he was such a quiet, gentle, “always there but never loud” presence in our community that I guess I thought he always would be. I figured he had many stories to tell, and I hoped one day to be able to sit down, drink coffee with him, and hear some of them. He was here for 60 years; me, for 33. Surely there was time. And then there wasn’t. Not in this life, but I hope in the next.</p>
<p>I felt almost presumptuous attending the funeral, mostly because—my own fault—I didn’t know him well enough. But what I knew, I respected. He cut a striking figure, a man carved out of rich ebony, clad in crisp coveralls and a cowboy hat. He worked so well, so hard, with dignity and the kind of soft-spoken gentleness that is only found in those who are genuinely strong with the kind of soul-strength that the loud will never understand, much less, possess. I can’t imagine anyone less interested in the limelight, but when I heard of Mr. Byrd’s passing, I knew our community had lost the kind of person to whom any community owes a debt that can’t be paid. At the funeral, it became clear that lots of folks felt that way.</p>
<p>It’s probably a mercy to him that he could not hear what was said at his service because the last thing in the universe he’d have wanted was for his name to be “out in front.” I have no idea what will be written on his tombstone, but it might well be this: “Love is always greater than power.”</p>
<p>And that is literally God’s truth.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
<p> </p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/55005272018-11-05T13:19:44-06:002018-11-05T15:45:30-06:00A Life or Death Fight in the Backyard Bird House<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/dscf0178.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/dscf0178.jpg?w=300&h=225" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="225" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong> like to think of our back yard as a mostly safe, peaceful, and appealing place. Until recently, it was.</p>
<p>Oh, there were years when a good-natured Great Dane lived there. It was safe. He was peaceful. But “nice yard” and “Great Dane” do not coexist in the same universe. He was a good dog, but his relocation was an incredible blessing for that piece of real estate. When he moved on, we undertook a serious improvement project, and that part of the estate became vastly better, truly enjoyable.</p>
<p>About fifteen years ago, I built out there what I call my “bird house.” “Aviary” is actually closer to the mark but communicates with fewer folks. Neither a little bird house nor a large aviary, this is a 4 X 8-footprint, 9-foot tall, rustic, old barn-style edifice with railroad tie corner posts—and birds. White doves, one gray ring-neck dove (I named him Michael, as in Phelps, because he loves water, but a grandchild recently saw Michael lay an egg), one ring-neck male pheasant, pharaoh quail (about the same size as ordinary quail), and button quail (my favorite—little guys who, full-grown, are smaller than chicken eggs with legs).</p>
<p>Alas, my button quail are no more. Old age and one hungry snake, I think, took them out. (I took him out, but too late.)</p>
<p>And now, I sadly report, the pharaoh quail are gone, too. They started disappearing, or turning up dea</p>
<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/dscf0119.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/dscf0119.jpg?w=300&h=225" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="225" width="300" /></a></p>
<p>d, a couple of months ago. It didn’t take a CSI technician and detailed postmortem for me to determine that they weren’t dying peacefully in their sleep. Down to one quail and feeling helpless in the face of mass murder, I somberly apologized to that bird for my failure to solve the case but also wished him luck and told him truthfully that I’d hate to be in his, uh, shoes. He lasted maybe a week. An intolerable situation.</p>
<p>I’ve tried deduction. All the doves are fine; they only touch ground to eat, and they perch up high to sleep. The pheasant sleeps on the ground, but he’s large, and the killers are cowards.</p>
<p>Signs of serious digging and some interesting holes began to show up before the spate of murders. Snakes are hole-dwelling opportunists and don’t dig their own. I didn’t think that skunks or raccoons would fit the bill.</p>
<p>Tired of deduction, I bought a cheap wildlife camera and hung it on the chicken-wire screen door. First night. Bingo! Some nice pheasant pics. Even a fox staring in hungrily at the pheasant.</p>
<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/dscf0098.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/dscf0098.jpg?w=300&h=225" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="225" width="300" /></a></p>
<p>But once that bird bedded down, three sets of beady eyes began to glow in the dark from a hole. Then (quit reading if you are squeamish) unmistakable, gross, vile, evil vermin with long tales began to roam the birdhouse floor: rats! Out of quail to terrorize, these murderous and disgusting freeloaders are, each night, chowing down on my bird food.</p>
<p>The fight is on! It involves a combination of traps, voltage, poison, and calibre. This is not catch and release. I do not care if these enemies expire peacefully. This is war. I intend to finish it quickly.</p>
<p>Most analogies break down if pressed too far, but it is not difficult to find numerous Bible verses that warn about trusting or associating with creatures who live in darkness, despise beauty, and seek to destroy what is good. We’ll see what works in my bird house, but having God in your heart is the best defense against spiritual rodents who would like to lodge there.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54910572018-10-29T13:17:47-05:002018-10-29T15:00:34-05:00“A True Friend . . . Continues a Friend Unchangeably”<p><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/10/friendship.jpg?w=343&h=160" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="friendship" height="160" width="343" /></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>f I ever write anything wise—you know, the kind of pithy one-sentence bit of proverb-like wisdom that shows up in quotation books and on Internet “great quotes” sites, I hope I can avoid using any one word in the string that is detrimental to my proverb’s multi-century shelf life.</p>
<p>Sometime over 300 years ago, the Quaker leader and founding father of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, William Penn (1644-1718) wrote these wise words about genuine friendship: “A true friend unbosoms freely, advises justly, assists readily, adventures boldly, takes all patiently, defends courageously, and continues a friend unchangeably.”</p>
<p>That is so good! I wish I’d said it. From the depths of my unbosomed soul, I sincerely believe it. It’s just sort of a shame that, though these sweet words have been conveying an even sweeter truth for several centuries and the English major in my soul says that the fourth word in is still a perfectly fine word, the third grade boy still alive in my head needs a swat in the tail section and the admonition, “Move on, lad!” lest he overindulge in snickers and mental immaturity.</p>
<p>Some morons just remove the one word from the quote, crippling the sentence. Others remove the word and its modifier and comma. To be fair to Penn, and accurate, they need to insert an ellipsis (formally known as the three dotty thing) to show they’ve snipped some words. But doing so, even that honestly, costs the sentence a little punch, color, and truth.</p>
<p>You see, a true friend is one to whom you can genuinely share your soul, whether unburdening your bosom of a deep sorrow, doubling up to find the “two is better than one” brain power to squeeze the juice out of a prickly or fascinating life question, or allowing a joy to flower more beautifully precisely because joys burst into fullest bloom when shared.</p>
<p>And, yes, indeed, a real friend will tell you the truth in tough love lest the momentary warmth of soft words and falsehood lure you into soul-chilling peril.</p>
<p>A real friend will help you lift a burden that would be crushing to one.</p>
<p>A real friend will ride a real roller coaster with you even if she hates roller coasters. She’ll ride an emotional roller coaster with you for a while but will be wise and loving enough to know when to tell you to get off of it, quit living addicted to drama, and grow up. And love you still.</p>
<p>A real friend’s love and faithfulness lifts you to be better even when you’re going through times that are your worst.</p>
<p>A real friend will be patient in strong kindness, will “have your back” always, will defend you when you deserve it and love you and stand up as your friend even when you don’t. A real friend would rather be ridiculed for remaining true to a friend than be praised by those who change friends like they change shoes.</p>
<p>A real friend shares your joy when you or yours reap public praise, your sorrow when you or yours are stung by public shame, and loves you all just the same in good times and bad.</p>
<p>Come to think of it, is it any surprise that our best Friend and the best pattern for true friendship is the One who once told his disciples, “I have called you friends” (John 15:15) and loved them always? He is still our very best Friend.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
<p> </p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54803992018-10-22T11:46:42-05:002018-10-22T12:00:38-05:00Faith Is the Key to Any Enduring Foundation<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/key-place-01-oct14.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/key-place-01-oct14.jpg?w=300&h=224" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="224" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>f you know me, any of my three brothers, or, heaven help you, all of us, you know that our grandparents’ old place in Robert Lee, Texas, is dear to our hearts.</p>
<p>Granddaddy Key built the house in 1928, and, long story short, in 1974, after Granddaddy had passed away and, partly to ease our Grandmother’s mind as she made the transition to the nursing home just across the creek, my brother Gene bought the place. For seven years, it was occupied by various tenants whose rent helped pay for it, but, truth to tell, were otherwise about as helpful to home upkeep as goathead weeds in the once-pristine lawn.</p>
<p>In 1981 or so, Gene was able to bid the last tenant, “Farewell, and don’t let the door hit you in the tail section,” and bring in some even less savory sorts—his three brothers. For those first years, we actually did some serious manual labor here, and the place eventually became such a showplace that, after we put carpet down, my younger brother and I became reformed characters and had to quit spitting sunflower seeds on the floor, sweeping up once at the end of the trip (good stewardship of time and effort). If anybody ever vacuums now, I’ve never caught him at it, but since nobody spits seeds on the floor, there’s not a lot of need for persnickety housekeeping.<a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/img081-cropped.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/img081-cropped.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p>We love this place that, filled with wonderful memories, has affected our lives far out of proportion to its size and (nonexistent) grandeur. My brother Gene even wrote a great book about it (<em>The Key Place</em>, Leafwood Publishers, 2015), filled with the kind of lessons that perhaps a “key” place in your life might hold, too. The book’s well worth the read!</p>
<p>Long ago, we got the place in nice enough shape that we love to come here, and (don’t read too much into that conjunction) our loving and long-suffering wives are happy for us to come and even happier that they don’t ever have to. For (gasp!) thirty-seven years, twice a year all together, we four brothers, all pastors, have been coming. For a number of sweet years before his death, our father, also a pastor, came with us. In short, the blessings we’ve received at this place can’t be bought at any price.</p>
<p>I’m sitting at the old original table at the Key Place this Sunday evening. For maybe the second time in all these decades, I’m here first. The only other time I recall this happening, I walked in to find that some incredibly nasty insects had arrived first, been fruitful and multiplied, and taken up residence. It was like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I engaged the enemy, my brothers later joined the battle, and we won. The post-traumatic stress has become manageable enough that I decided, these years later, to take a chance once more and get here first.</p>
<p>I’m glad I did. I unloaded my truck, sat for a while out near the unlit fire pit which will be wonderfully ablaze tomorrow night, and just breathed in the beauty of a deliciously cool and still autumn evening. The country still smells like the recent rain.</p>
<p>I finally came inside to sit at the old original kitchen table, think about what I might write for this column, and eat a quiet dinner. Of course, Grandmother’s corn bread was not available. But the meal I brought chilled from the big city and enjoyed here by myself is a dish I don’t suppose this table’s ever hosted in its 90 years. I’ve eaten goat here with Granddaddy and family. But never sushi. Grandmother and Granddaddy would love my being here. I doubt they’d much appreciate the meal.</p>
<p>Time and tastes, years and generations, keep rolling on. But the deep faith in God that was the real foundation undergirding everything my grandparents built here is still real and sure, true and unchanging, timeless in all times.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54707782018-10-15T12:51:16-05:002018-10-15T16:15:23-05:00“It’s No Secret: I Love the Church!”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2016/08/church-001.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2016/08/church-001.jpg?w=204&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="204" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong> love the church! Not just (<em>just?!</em>) the church universal, that marvelous, amazing, and miraculous Body of Christ composed of all of God’s children, everyone who ever has or ever will wear Christ’s name, all the sons and daughters of God. Oh, I love “that” church, too.</p>
<p>But I also love the smaller local expressions of that Body, the little bands of disciples—all of them small indeed, whatever their size, compared to the grand Body from which they spring—working in thousands of thousands of places to share Christ’s love. I love the church.</p>
<p>Oh, I know, loving the church is not always fashionable. Many of my generation who were sentenced to too much time in the 60s and 70s decided that all “institutions” are suspect. Many others of later generations—different views and different areas of blindness—have decided that the church is not “relevant.” Not enough of a social service agency? Not (lock)step enough with the latest opinion polls? Oh, I do recognize some of the truth in the charge, but, still, I’m trying to understand how worshiping the One who gives us each breath could ever be anything other than intensely relevant to folks who enjoy breathing.</p>
<p>Some, also like me, grew up in “separatist” traditions or groups who tended to talk more about “the church”—meaning their little walled-off franchise of it—than they did about the Lord of the church. That sad mistake makes it easy to lose respect for the church as seen in the little all-too-human local expressions of Christ’s Body.</p>
<p>Yes, I know, when bad things happen in the church, the ugliness is even worse precisely because we know how beautiful the church can and should be. When a church gets caught up in power struggles disguised as pious piffle, dividing and walling itself off from the rest of the Body over molehills masquerading as mountains, prancing around like the old naked emperor parading “issues” that most sensible folks (in the church or outside it) recognize as no clothes at all, it looks really bad. It’s like a hairy wart on the nose of Miss America, or (and I could really cry a tear over this one) a cow patty dropped on top of a luscious cheesecake.</p>
<p>But, in spite of very real flaws, I still love the church. I’ve seen her beauty. I’ve felt her warmth and been embraced by her love, and the very best blessings of my life have been gifts from the Lord given through her hands.</p>
<p>I love the church, and I love the little church I’m a part of, and I hope you love “yours.” We’re family, you see. Over the years in this little group, I’ve seen walking through our doors and worshiping in our pews folks as diverse and deeply loved as a Cornell-educated F-16 pilot and his sweet law-student wife, a child just born weighing in at less than 4 lbs, a frail (though gigantic in the faith) little widow well into her 90s struggling to church every Sunday on a walker while so many younger and healthier folks slept in unaware that the blessing she claimed while they slumbered was worth more than gold.</p>
<p>I love the church! Vertically and horizontally, all because of a cross, she and her King have my heart.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54600822018-10-08T12:54:06-05:002018-10-08T15:30:28-05:00“You Must Read and Understand These Instructions”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/10/warning4.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/10/warning4.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>’m considering buying a new weed-eater. It’s an extravagant thought. The old one, older than five of my grandkids, is still working fine but taking longer on first start. My patience is wearing thin, but my memory is still good. I remember when I bought that machine.</p>
<p>It was also an extravagant purchase. Its predecessor was sputtering along just fine in two-cycle engine form, but a couple of my sons had just moved into a different house and needed weed-whacking equipment. In a gesture of paternal magnanimity, I donated the old weed-destroyer to the cause. I didn’t tell them that it will likely out-value anything else left in the estate for them when I’ve departed. But they seemed appreciative.</p>
<p>I ceremonially handed over the old weed-eater and straightway departed (in a less final sense) to procure a new one. The shopping trip was like all of my shopping trips. I wasted gas going to four stores to save money and ended up back at the first store and lined up to pay twice as much as I thought the item would cost.</p>
<p>When I got my shiny new weed-whacker home, I was tempted to fire it up just to check out the brand new thimble-sized engine, but it was midnight. I’d given my (mixed) gas can away, too, and couldn’t buy a new one to get the petrol cocktail mixed up (shaken, not stirred) until Monday. So I parked the new machine on the living room floor for the weekend and actually started reading the instructions.</p>
<p>Once I’d trimmed the two manuals down to the King’s English only, I was left with eighty-four pages of weed-eater literature. Only twenty-six pages counted as “instructions.” The lion’s share was the “safety manual.” It was evidently a vicious machine.</p>
<p>Of course, there was very little plot to the two-volume novel. Most of the pages were covered with lawyer droppings. Safety booklets will soon come, no doubt, attached to every nail you buy at your local hardware store. Restaurants will be including safety manuals with toothpicks, and toothpick manufacturers will be paying hefty fines since they knowingly sold their wares and conned us, poor victims that we are, into thinking toothpicks were safe.</p>
<p>But I read and learned . . .</p>
<p>The muffler would be hot. Good.</p>
<p>The State of California (which, safety labels assure us, can always be counted on to know so much more than other states) was concerned that my sucking in weed-eater exhaust could cause birth defects. (I’m relieved to report that my grandchildren are fine.)</p>
<p>The thing could amputate my fingers. I figured I’d have to be uncommonly determined to be fingerless, but I supposed it could happen.</p>
<p>It seemed that it would also be a bad idea to run it indoors, to use it to shorten power lines, or to operate it when drunk.</p>
<p>And so on.</p>
<p>I’m not sure I finished reading, partly because reading these manuals, I was warned, was not enough. I needed to “read and understand” all of the warnings. I doubted that I’d ever be able to honestly check off that last part.</p>
<p>I can only imagine the size of the manuals that must come with today’s weed-eaters. I see no evidence that common sense is on the upswing. And we have more lawyers.</p>
<p>The Maker of this world was kind enough to include a manual that we really should read and, yes, do our best to understand. He wrote it not to keep Heaven out of court, but to keep us out of trouble. But the main reason he wrote it was to point us not to the law but to the Savior.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54510202018-10-01T11:53:57-05:002018-10-01T16:15:33-05:00When God Walks with Us in the Fiery Furnace<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/10/daniel3-002.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/10/daniel3-002.jpg?w=232&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="232" /></a></p>
<p><strong>O</strong>ne of the finest of many great gifts my mother gave me when I was just a little guy was reading to me. Most of all, she read me Bible stories.</p>
<p>Since I wasn’t a declared English major in my youngest days (<em>that</em> came later), and since Mom was smart, she didn’t, when I was little, read the stories straight from the King James or any other Bible version; she read them from a couple of really good Bible story books. I suspect that she also edited and embellished a bit as she went, at least in places where she found the story books a bit inaccurate or lacking.</p>
<p>The best thing about the story books (I still have them) was that they had great pictures. I still have those, too. They’re tattooed into my brain and, unlike most tattoos, won’t go out of style, leaving you with the equivalent of having your high school senior pic, coolness date long since expired, grafted onto your saggy bicep.</p>
<p>One of my favorite stories was from Daniel 3. It was the story of “Three Men in a Furnace.” Pictured in the illustration is quite a mighty fire, and pictured in the fire are four fellows, not three. The text of both the Bible and the story book agreed with the picture. (Read Daniel 3.)</p>
<p>We called them the “three Hebrew children.” I don’t know why. Children they were not. They were some of most impressive of the Israelites taken captive by the Babylonians. These three—renamed Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego (I liked the names)—were from Judah and had been specifically trained for service in the king’s court.</p>
<p>I’m not sure how the three felt about their lot, but it could have been worse. Well, right up until the time when it got a lot worse.</p>
<p>King Nebuchadnezzar, suddenly afflicted by the kind of modern-as-tomorrow fit of megalomania that you’ve probably noticed powerful world leaders still regularly fall prey to, ordered a 90-foot-tall, gold-plated idol to be built. When he struck up the band, all of his people were to bow, nose down in the dirt, or else be tossed into a furnace of fire.</p>
<p>You really should read the story. I’m abbreviating ruthlessly as I just tell you that our three men of faith didn’t need more than the one God, would not worship the idol, and, after they courteously and consistently defied the king’s order, were thrown into a turbo-charged fire where they were joined by a strikingly glorious fourth figure. They came away unharmed, un-toasted, and highly respected. And ol’ King Neb learned an important lesson from the highest King.</p>
<p>Oh, I loved that story of great faith in action and of God’s salvation and power. I still do. The outcome is utterly amazing.</p>
<p>But I think that now the most striking part of the story to me is not the obvious miracle but is found in what those three heroes actually said to the king as they affirmed their faith. The “God we serve is able to save us,” they said, but “even if he does not, we will not serve your gods.”</p>
<p><em>Even. If. He. Does. Not.</em></p>
<p>God may give me exactly the answer to my prayer that I want. He may amaze and astound me. But you tell me which takes greater faith: to see the fourth figure present in the fiery furnace in Daniel 3 or to trust that he is walking with you through the fiery trial you face right now “even if” the show-stopping miracle you want seems not to be in God’s present plan?</p>
<p>I submit that God’s presence in both is very real.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54420812018-09-24T12:20:55-05:002018-09-24T18:00:31-05:00Trouble Comes with This World, But Drama Is Optional<p><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/09/nodrama.jpg?w=233&h=202" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="NoDrama" height="202" width="233" /></p>
<p><strong>S</strong>ome people live life with their sirens running. They are either creating wrecks, running Code 3 toward emergencies, or chasing ambulances to be sure to have a front row seat to view the carnage. Right in your living room. If you allow it.</p>
<p>My question is, why would you? Offhand, can you think of any way that a siren wailing in your home or church or business can be conducive to peace, good sense, and harmony?</p>
<p>What I’m talking about, of course, is “drama.”</p>
<p>By virtue (more accurately, by the lack of virtue) of the sin-sick human condition and this fallen world, we will all at times face pain, suffering, trouble, and even tragedy. And, oh, yes, swimming in what is often a sea of selfishness means that we regularly paddle into relational challenges that would be difficult even if we were wise enough never to slop around in them like pigs in mud.</p>
<p>But there’s the key. Sorrows, troubles, difficulties—they come to us all. Jesus said it clearly: “In this world you will have trouble . . .” (John 16:33). But he went on to say, “Don’t be such sick fools that you relish wallowing in it.”</p>
<p>Well, that’s not exactly what he said. What he actually went on to say is, “But be of good cheer! I have overcome the world.” Don’t you agree that being “of good cheer” implies making a choice that rules out romping around in our troubles? Getting our jollies from splashing in the mud as we pull others in to join us?</p>
<p>Trouble is bad enough without drama, and embracing drama as we deal with difficulty is—we might as well admit it—a choice that tempts us all on some level. When we introduce drama, the spotlight’s focus shifts, for at least a while, to us. The more drama we create, the longer we own the stage.</p>
<p>It’s one thing to have to pass on bad news; it’s another to relish being the first to report it. It’s one thing to have to deal with difficulty; it’s another to egg it on, throw fuel on the fire, inject more poison with sharp tongues.</p>
<p>Face it. Some people stoke drama because they’re Satan-inspired to create chaos and destroy harmony. Others just get used to living in drama and become adrenalin junkies never completely happy without a crisis. They become perpetual victims or voyeurs of other victims. To be sure, some of the pain, sickness, difficulty, they deal with is real. But their reaction is over the top and drama is their dysfunctional constant, their abnormal normal, sucking everyone in their path into its vortex.</p>
<p>Our choice? To jump into the drama with them and blow into the whirlwind, or to set wise and real boundaries, distancing ourselves from the drama and those who would suck us into it. If we choose to embrace it, exacerbate it, marry it, tolerate it, or otherwise allow ourselves to be infected by it, our predictable misery will not still the storm.</p>
<p>Whoever said this spoke truth: “Drama does not just walk into our lives. Either we create it, invite it, or associate with it.”</p>
<p>Don’t do it! This loud world has sirens enough.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54328392018-09-17T22:07:29-05:002018-09-17T22:15:23-05:00A Rule That Will Bless Us: No Whining Allowed<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/09/no_whining.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/09/no_whining.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><em>[Note: One of the sweetest and best ladies I’ve ever known, Vernell Cotten Nance, my mother-in-law, just passed away. Maybe this is a good time to reprise this column from August 2012.]</em></p>
<p>My mother-in-law has just moved from her apartment down and around the corner from our house, where she moved around five years ago, to assisted living in a community about 75 miles away.</p>
<p>I don’t like it much. I know—we’ve all heard the jokes about mothers-in-law. And, yes, I’m afraid we’ve all seen some who deserved both to be the brunt of jokes and to be drop-kicked a blessed distance away.</p>
<p>But by far most of the mothers-in-law that I’ve known actually do the job quite well and are a major blessing. And I’m convinced that mine is the best of all. Vernell simply amazes me, and from the first moment over 37 years ago when it began to look like I might become her son-in-law, I knew for sure I was getting the better end of the bargain.</p>
<p>I would describe her first as Christlike, and that means loving and unselfish and grateful and winsome and . . . all sorts of good things. I could talk for a very long time about all the good things she is.</p>
<p>But one thing keeps occurring to me, and it centers on what she is not and never has been. She has never been a whiner. (I wish I was more like her!)</p>
<p>Dr. Charles Siburt, a truly amazing Christian man, professor, minister mentor, church fuss mediator, etc., passed away recently, and a friend of mine remembered him saying this: “There is no way to modulate the human voice so as to make whining an acceptable sound.”</p>
<p>My mother-in-law would have liked him. Vernell is one of the most patient and forgiving people I have ever known, but my wife, truly her daughter in this respect as well, will tell you that her mother has never had much patience for whining or whiners. Juana remembers, for example, coming home from school as a child and starting to fuss about a situation, another student, or a teacher.</p>
<p>“Now, Juana . . .” her mother would say, and then give a lesson on “Why We Don’t Whine, Why Whining Is Obnoxious, and Why You Are Never Allowed to Become a Whiner.” She didn’t actually give the sermon a title, but that’s what the lesson was. For most of the rest of my wife’s childhood, two words were all her mother had to say to silence completely any whiny utterance: “Now, Juana . . .”</p>
<p>The gift Vernell gave her daughter has been passed on. My sons and I know quite well that if we feel like whining, we’d better look elsewhere than to the wife and mom who loves us too much to let us get in the habit of emitting whiny sounds.</p>
<p>Vernell has buried two fine husbands, and she genuinely grieved, but I’ll always remember what she said: “I don’t like this, but if I were the only one this had ever happened to, I might have a reason to complain.” Wow.</p>
<p>She will be happy in her new home. You can count on it. She plans to be.</p>
<p>It’s okay for us to be sad that she won’t be as close by. Healthy tears are allowed. Just not whining.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54231222018-09-10T12:42:05-05:002018-09-10T18:30:30-05:00Amazing Is What Real Grace Always Is<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/09/grace-05.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/09/grace-05.jpg?w=300&h=200" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="200" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>“A</strong>mazing grace.”</p>
<p>Amazing is exactly what real grace always is.</p>
<p>On the other hand, the many counterfeits are pretty much what we should expect—“do-it-yourself” schemes focused on our power to occasionally strike a tiny spark rather than on God’s power to always create a nuclear reaction. Do-it-yourself “grace” is an impostor every bit as dangerous as the real thing is amazing.</p>
<p>The Apostle Paul points to real grace in everything he writes, most notably Romans and Galatians, pounding the point home. If we feel we must earn it in any way, it’s not real grace. If we imagine that we can pay for it at all, it’s bogus. If we think we can deserve it even a little, it’s a sham. And perhaps worst of all, if we reckon that we might need less of it than someone we consider morally below us, we’re dishonoring Christ and denying his Cross.</p>
<p>God’s grace is amazing, astounding, marvelous, incomprehensible, eternal, and so much more. And as we pile up adjectives, we should never forget this one: “scandalous.”</p>
<p>Read the Gospels with eyes wide open, and notice how many of Jesus’ healings, miracles, teachings were offensive to those who could never imagine God’s grace reaching so far, so low, so wide. A woman caught in the wrong bed in the embrace of the wrong guy. A gal who’d been through way too many husbands and was living with a guy she’d forgotten to marry. An acknowledged loser hanging on a cross, a failed thief unable to steal any more earthly chances. And the list goes on. Right down to us. The real grace of Christ always has within it a serious element of scandal. It seems reckless. It seems “over the top.” Too good to be a true.</p>
<p>We can never plumb its depths or exhaust its powers. We’ll never fully comprehend it, but even what we can see rocks us on our heels as Jesus reaches down to forgive those we can’t imagine even God ever forgiving. Certainly not without some lengthy probation. Maybe a written self-improvement plan. And a short leash, for sure.</p>
<p>But Christ just keeps on forgiving, his only requirement being that, having given our lives to him, we keep on accepting the gift he keeps on giving. How reckless is that!? Good luck trying to find that kind of grace in any other world religion—or in the world anywhere else.</p>
<p>Real grace both forgives and empowers even as it refuses to allow us to focus on ourselves. When we do poorly, fall flat on our faces yet again in attitude or action, grace turns our focus back to Christ, forgives, and gives him glory, reminding us that Christ at Calvary has literally taken all of our “badness” away from us. When we do well, grace reminds us that everything good we could possibly do comes through Christ’s power at work in our lives and that what we might once have considered our own goodness is not our own at all.</p>
<p>When we’ve accepted real grace, the focus is never again to be on us; the focus is on God and joyfully giving him glory for what he has done and is doing—all by grace, all through his Son. All <em>for</em> us, and not at all <em>by</em> us.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54102372018-08-31T23:42:23-05:002018-08-31T23:45:28-05:00God’s Grace Is Amazing, But It Is Not “Easy”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2017/10/grace-04.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2017/10/grace-04.jpg?w=300&h=225" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="225" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>G</strong>od’s grace is wonderful. But if we think grace is easy, we need to think some more.</p>
<p>One of Jesus’ most famous stories was told in response to a religious lawyer’s question: “Teacher, who is my neighbor?”</p>
<p>The question was blatantly self-serving. Luke prefaces the lawyer’s question: “But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked . . .”</p>
<p>The greatest temptation we all face is to try to “justify” ourselves rather than accepting by faith the justification that comes only through grace. We understand the question’s tone all too well.</p>
<p>“And who is my neighbor?” (10:29).</p>
<p>Let’s make a law about this so I can be very sure I’ve done what is required and no more. After all, love is costly business, and I’d hate to waste a lot of time loving someone with no claim on my love. Let’s clear this up so I can check this off the “to do” list, present the completed list to God, and expect to be paid a wage for services rendered.</p>
<p>We’re all expert in religious accounting. It’s easier to count than to worship. Trusting ourselves rather than trusting God is humanity’s default mode. And it’s easy to find a religious group that is more of a “religious” accounting firm focusing on our effort to keep the law rather than being the worshiping Body of Christ focusing on blood-bought salvation we in no way earn.</p>
<p>Ah, but that “all-about-me” question hangs in the air: “Who is my neighbor?”</p>
<p>Remember the story? A foolish traveler, a Jew, is waylaid by robbers, beaten senseless, and crumpled by the side of the road. In turn two religious men, a priest and a Levite, see him and walk on by, willfully blind to his need. But a Samaritan, a man whose race and religion all Jews, including this lawyer, would despise, stops, helps the man, and even pays for his lodging and care.</p>
<p>Then Jesus asks his own question: Who was a neighbor to the man in need? And the lawyer stammers, “The one who had mercy on him.” “Go,” Jesus says, “and do likewise,” indicating that the lawyer will never run out of neighbors and never be able to check this item off his religious “to do” list.</p>
<p>Salvation by law, by rule-keeping, which is no salvation at all, says, “How little can I do and be saved?” Salvation by grace through faith says, “How may I joyfully honor the God who has already saved me?”</p>
<p>So here are a few religiously legal questions for us, though you could add a thousand more: How often must I go to church? How much of my money do I have to give? How much can I play with sin in action or attitude? When can I say I’ve completed all the “right” rituals, worshiped enough and just “right”? When can I look down on others of God’s children who are not as “right”? How many miles away from my own front door does my responsibility to show God’s love extend?</p>
<p>If you think these are law questions and not grace questions, not the kinds of questions God wants us to waste time asking, I think you’re right. A legal approach to religion is not only cold, shallow, and barren, it is far too easy.</p>
<p>Grace? Now that’s another thing entirely!</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/54031702018-08-27T08:37:06-05:002018-08-27T12:30:19-05:00Nearest the Axle, the Spokes of a Wheel Are Nearest to Each Other<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/wheel-spokes.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/wheel-spokes.jpg?w=300&h=151" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="151" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>M</strong>y favorite columnist, Charles Krauthammer, passed away in June. When I (very often) miss his wit, wisdom, common sense, and uncommon command of the English language, I pull out his book <em>Things That Matter</em>, a compilation of some of his best columns.</p>
<p>One of those was written in 1999 shortly after <em>Time</em> magazine had named Albert Einstein as the “Person of the Century.” An “interesting and solid choice,” Krauthammer wrote, albeit a wrong one. “The only possible answer,” he continued, “is Winston Churchill.” Why? “Indispensability.” “Without Churchill, the world today would be unrecognizable—dark, impoverished, tortured.” Yes, it would.</p>
<p>Krauthammer noted that Einstein certainly possessed the “finest mind of the century” and was “deeply humane and philosophical.” He even said, “I would nominate him as the most admirable man of the century.” But indispensable? Churchill, not Einstein.</p>
<p>Krauthammer didn’t jump on into postulations regarding any other categories, but one that particularly interests me was settled long ago. The most influential Christian apologist of the 20th century? C. S. Lewis. An “apologist” in this context is a “defender” who writes to logically defend, make the rational case for, the truth of Christianity.</p>
<p>I wonder how many hundreds of thousands of people have read his classic <em>Mere Christianity</em>? And I wonder how many thousands of those have found it to be the catalyst God used to launch their journey into the Christian faith? (Charles Colson of Watergate fame was one of those.)</p>
<p>I’ve long thought that the preface of <em>Mere Christianity</em> is itself more than worth the price of the book. In it Lewis makes it clear that he is writing to highlight the beliefs held in common, all through the centuries, by those in the whole Christian “house.” He is not at all intending to discuss the differences of views from any particular room (denomination). And he wisely writes, “Our differences should never be discussed except in the presence of those who have already come to believe that there is one God and that Jesus Christ is His only Son”; otherwise, we drive people away.</p>
<p>Lewis goes on to note that before publication he sent the second section of the book, “What Christians Believe,” to four clergymen from four different Christian groups to be sure he was on track. A minor quibble or two, but yes, they said.</p>
<p>But the really interesting thing he discovered came from responses after publication. Any serious criticism seemed to come from “borderline people” not seriously involved in any Christian tradition. He actually found this rather “consoling,” an indication that it is “at her centre, where her truest children dwell, that each communion is really closest to every other in spirit . . . And this suggests that at the centre of each there is a something, or a Someone, who against all divergencies of belief, all differences of temperament, . . . speaks with the same voice.”</p>
<p>Are we surprised? A point far out on the spoke of a wheel is farthest from the other spokes. The center point of the whole “wheel” of Christianity is Christ. Those nearest to the axle, whatever “spoke” they’re on, are closest both to Him and to each other.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invite to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53952372018-08-20T20:31:41-05:002018-08-20T22:30:19-05:00“What Are You Waiting For?”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/waiting.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/waiting.jpg?w=300&h=150" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="150" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>W</strong>hat are you waiting for? The truth is that most of us spend the vast majority of our lives waiting for something.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s a birthday. A vacation. A holiday. A graduation. A wedding. An anniversary. A retirement.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s when the baby is finally born, or the student loan (good luck waiting <em>that</em> out!) or car or house or business loan is eventually paid off.</p>
<p>You waited—even as you were working all the necessary hours and many more—to achieve that hard-to-reach business goal or rank. You waited—even as you trained, practiced, sweated—to finally earn that coveted professional certification. It took all of the knowledge, skill, and experience you possessed—and more—for you to finally finish that massive multi-year project, but you did.</p>
<p>Maybe what you’re waiting for right now is not warm or fuzzy, not exciting at all, but you’re waiting nonetheless. Waiting for the chemotherapy to be over once and for all. Waiting for the divorce to be final and that corner turned. Waiting to be dismissed from rehab and praying to keep the freedom you’re working so hard to find.</p>
<p>Waiting can be a big part of the adventure on the journey toward a goal. It can be a sweet blessing. Waiting can be the cask in which the draft is aged and infused with layer upon layer of flavorful complexity. It can be precious time, essential time. Waiting can be filled with anxiety as each day, each hour, each moment seems to bring its own ominous question mark. It can be excruciating.</p>
<p>Scripture overflows with examples of waiting and wait-ers. We read the amazing story of the patriarch Joseph and see him waiting in a pit, waiting in a prison, waiting, unbeknownst to himself, to save his family (and many more), bless the whole world, and be a major link in fulfilling God’s promise to us all.</p>
<p>How many long years did David wait before he actually began to reign as king of Israel?</p>
<p>In a rather negative example, we see a surly prophet named Jonah waiting for three interminable days in the belly of an oversized fish and then waiting, scowling, grinching, sweating on the top of a hill hoping against hope that God might ditch mercy and scorch and destroy a city He seemed determine to save.</p>
<p>Nine months of waiting became for the Virgin Mary precious, invaluable time.</p>
<p>Jesus himself waited for thirty years to begin his primary ministry and, as it began, spent forty days in the wilderness being tested and, I think we can also say, waiting.</p>
<p>Saul of Tarsus was stopped in his tracks on his way to Damascus by Christ and a blinding light. But becoming Paul the apostle also entailed spending three years in Arabia, waiting, learning, being molded by his Lord; the waiting was essential to what he would become and do.</p>
<p>Whenever you find yourself navigating an “in-between” time, a time of waiting, well, you may find that it’s actually priceless time God can use to shape and hone your life into a far richer blessing than it could ever be apart from the waiting.</p>
<p>Pastor and author John Ortberg’s words are wise: “Who you become while you’re waiting is as important as what you’re waiting for.”</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53860822018-08-13T14:19:41-05:002020-11-17T04:45:53-06:00“Sensdistra Is Good for What Ails Ya!”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/pills.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/pills.jpg?w=300&h=175" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="175" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>A</strong> good commercial can be a lot of fun. I’m thinking about the TV sort. You know—cave men, lizards with British accents. That sort of thing.</p>
<p>But I am full to overflowing (yea, verily, to nausea) with two other TV ad-types—those pumped out by slime-oozing lawyers and those peddled by drug pushers. Let’s tackle the latter.</p>
<p>I am very thankful indeed for the availability of needed medications that make our lives much better. But whatever side of the political spectrum you find yourself on, is it hard to figure out that our medical system is messed up, wasteful, unaffordable, and in need of massive change?</p>
<p>Case in point: drugs. How helpful are drugs if you can’t afford them? And just a few of the reasons you may have a hard time affording them are legitimately high costs in research and development, much higher costs because attorneys are involved, and the kind of stinky skullduggery that always attaches itself to big bucks and big institutions.</p>
<p>Ah, yes, and the cost of commercials. The commercials must work, or the folks spending big bucks on them wouldn’t spend big bucks on them. They can’t be targeted just at doctors, but I liked it better when my physician just told me what medicine I needed. If it might cause “oily discharge” or gruesome death as a side effect, he’d probably mention it. It’s laughable that company lawyers, who’d rather their clients not get out of bed and thus manage “risk,” force half of the stupid commercials to be devoted to listing atrocious side effects. Just stuff it! I mean, the brochure. Into the box. Just get off my TV! Your commercials make that vast mind-numbing wasteland even more vapid.</p>
<p>Alas, the never-ending drug ads just keep piling up. Lest they drive me nuts, I just laugh at them. (Is it possible to be amorous to much effect in two separate bathtubs?)</p>
<p>As word guy, I can’t help but wonder how much money the drug companies spend naming their concoctions. I can help them, I think, and for less than a cool million.</p>
<p>I’ve started keeping a list of drug trade names. Filled a page of a yellow pad with just 78 of the better-known. (You can easily find around 4000 on the web at lists such as <a href="http://www.needymed.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.needymed.com</a>.)</p>
<p>Most (not all) are three syllables. The emphasis is usually on the first. Some make sense. Allegra® has to do with allergies. Some are take-offs on the chemical name. Paxil® is Latin “pax” for peace and sounds a little like paroxetine. Where they got Xeljanz® for tofacitinib, Jardiance® for empagliflozin or Kystrexxa® for pegloticase, I don’t have a clue. (Those are all patented trade names; leave ’em alone or the lawyers will be after you.)</p>
<p>I wrote drug names on slips of paper, put them in three bowls, one for each syllable, and then drew, combined, and laughed. So here ya go, drug pushers. These are free for the taking, and there are scads of combinations. But I’d accept a check.</p>
<p>Spitavtyx. Crestoppa. Lotaflo. Humnocol. Oproqura. Vyervo. Tretilor. Lipfexty. Orrevia. Wellfypro. Valuvia. Neudivnax. Elitrin. Migcardya. Celtrudgrix. Levlasmax. Sensdistra. Litavtor. Shinazi. Alvanpril. Glalartik. Eljanztix. Trexlicort. Viliquin. Remdaxia. And on we could go. (If I’ve stumbled onto any real names, it’s accidental!)</p>
<p>The real fun might come if we were to try to postulate what maladies might be connected with each of my cobbled together drug names. At least one needs to be for “oily discharge.”</p>
<p>The Creator of our universe has lots of names. I’m particularly fond of Lord, Father, Abba. Whatever the number of syllables, the emphasis—first, last, and forever—is on love.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53766952018-08-06T13:09:45-05:002018-08-06T16:00:33-05:00Tripping Over a Logical Fallacy Can Cause Bruises<p> </p>
<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/water-deadly.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/water-deadly.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong> don’t have a clue what the rules are now at most universities regarding graduate/teaching assistants. I do know that when I was working on a master’s degree and serving in that capacity, teaching assistants actually taught. A lot.</p>
<p>It was not unusual for me to teach three or more sections of English 101 (Freshman Composition) per semester. The departmental goal for English 101 was that each student write ten 500-word essays.</p>
<p>Somehow I managed to get through college and a graduate degree without taking a single math course, but I can tell you that if each of three classes had 20 students (we often started out with more), that translates into 600 essays per semester for the TA under my hat to grade. For obvious reasons, we didn’t always make it to the ten, but we got so close that my own spelling suffered from running in such bad company. I almost began to believe that “alot,” as in “My students used that non-word word alot,” was a word. As I recall, when I was sitting in the labor room with my wife as she was doing the work of getting our first child here, I was grading essays and/or working on my thesis until her groans became distracting.</p>
<p>English 101 students will drive a teacher to distraction/despair with spelling and grammar errors, but a big problem with many of those essays was not mechanical; it was a problem some of my fellow TAs and I tried to address with a unit on “Logical Fallacies.” (We meant breakdowns in logic, not fallacies that were logical.) Good writing not only needs to be free of grammar errors, it needs to make alot of sense alot (even most) of the time. (Oops.)</p>
<p>Logical fallacies abound. Whether we’re writing or not, we all bump into them or fall over them regularly. Once we learn to recognize a few, we’ll be a bit more wary and a lot more humble, even as we begin to see more of them lurking about than we’d ever dreamed existed. I’ll list a few below. (A Wikipedia article lists more than 100.)</p>
<p><em>Either/or</em> sets up two extremes as the only possibilities when many others actually exist. “If we don’t elect Senator Bluster as president, the country is doomed.”</p>
<p><em>Post hoc, ergo propter hoc</em>, Latin for “after this, therefore because of this,” jumps to draw conclusions from coincidences. We chuckle about the rooster who noticed that the sun came up every day after he crowed. He developed serious neurosis, paranoia that he might oversleep and, at great inconvenience to the world, the sun would not come up because he forgot to crow. To assume that since many children who develop autism received vaccines, the vaccines cause autism is no more logical, but it is more dangerous.</p>
<p><em>Non sequitur</em>, Latin for “it does not follow,” means that your conclusion does not necessarily logically follow your premise, as in, “If you hate this column, you are mean and ignorant.” (And here, I jump right into the <em>ad hominem</em>, “to the man” fallacy, too, by resorting to name-calling rather than rational discussion.</p>
<p>Oh, and don’t forget the <em>fallacy fallacy</em>. Reasoning for an argument may be fallacious, but that does not necessarily mean the conclusion is false. (Even a broken clock is . . .)</p>
<p>Jesus says that we are to love the Lord with “all of our hearts, souls, minds, and strength.” I’m not sure which is hardest, and I’d like to avoid the either/or fallacy, but I’ve not found the “mind” part to be the easiest.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my webpage at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53680592018-07-30T12:42:22-05:002018-07-30T18:45:23-05:00When “War” Comes to Worship, All Sides Lose<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/serve-01.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/serve-01.jpg?w=300&h=225" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="225" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong> try to avoid ever firing any shots in what have been called the “worship wars.”</p>
<p>“Worship” and “war.” Those two words together, not held at arm’s length from each other by a conjunction, form a jarring contradiction.</p>
<p>We know what the Apostle Paul would say because we know what he <em>did</em> say in Philippians 4:2 to two squabbling gals named Euodia and Syntyche (who some wit has christened Odious and Soon-touchy). He doesn’t describe the “issue” or take sides. He just says, “Get along.” The mere fact that Christians were fussing was shameful, as out of place as a cow patty on a cheesecake. It still is.</p>
<p>Our Lord Jesus went to the cross, completely emptying himself, laying aside his own will, out of his love for his Father and us. How ludicrous, how deeply wrong, it is for those saved by his sacrifice to refuse to sacrifice their own rights—maybe even to shoulder the unbearable burden of singing a song or two that we might not like but that might very much bless someone else?</p>
<p>I wonder. In times of persecution, do people worry and fuss about such minutia? I wonder how long we could endure the real thing if our idea of suffering is to sing a song we don’t like or endure a service with the thermostat set a bit too high or too low for our personal comfort. (Oh, it’s impossible to ever get that one “right.”)</p>
<p>I do understand why some fine pastors I very much respect and some great churches have chosen to offer separate “traditional” and “contemporary” services, particularly when the whole congregation can’t fit into the building at the same time anyway. I’d likely do the same thing. But, ideally, I much prefer a “blended” worship where we sing a variety of styles and thereby inch up on something called sacrifice. Or love.</p>
<p>As the disparity between styles widens, though, I admit that “blended” is a challenge. “God of Our Fathers” cries out for an organ. “Kumbaya” equivalents, soundly Trinitarian (that’s good) with three hundred verses (fine for the first 150), need a guitar (and maybe a campfire). And the latest coolest Christian Luv Radio Top 40 or sorta sacred rap songs call for calisthenics, maybe some amazing riffs, and perhaps a good deal of other jumping about. It can be a tad jarring to go straight from some of these into others of these.</p>
<p>Yes, and I suppose church folks have always been like all folks. Everyone is somewhere on a continuum from dyed in the wool and pretty much calcified traditional (danger: ossified folks bend poorly and break easily) to folks burdened by carrying about a heavy load of coolness (danger: cool marches on, and we look silly chasing it). The fact that the former folks on one side of that continuum have usually paid the freight and are the reason the church exists perhaps should at least not be totally forgotten but never brandished like a club.</p>
<p>But the One who truly paid the price, the Reason the church exists, is Jesus. And if we ever catch ourselves fussing about worship, we’ve already lost the fight and are utterly defeated. Claiming to see better than our brothers and sisters in Christ’s family, we’ve already poked out one eye and are half-blind and stumbling; we’ve lost the focus of all worship, and we are denying the Cross. Then whether we’re doing so with a pipe organ, a cappella, or a heavy metal guitar makes precious little difference.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53579892018-07-22T22:20:39-05:002018-07-23T01:01:15-05:00“So, Bob, Would You Hand Me That Thingamajig?”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/thingamajig.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/thingamajig.jpg?w=300&h=169" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="169" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>T</strong>hingamajig. Doohickey. Dillybob. Whatsit.</p>
<p>Those are, of course, all words we use to refer to things for which we are unsure of the actual word, if there is one, for the thingamajig in question.</p>
<p>There. I’ve written “thingamajig” twice now, and my spell-checker has thus far resisted the impulse (do spell-checkers have impulses?) to squiggle a red line under the word, thereby calling my spelling into question. “Thingamajig” is evidently now a bona fide word for something we don’t know the word for. Ditto for doohickey.</p>
<p>Yes, but dillybob and whatsit still get red squiggles. Since I usually write these columns using software which, perhaps like its owner, tends to straddle American and British English spelling a bit—its preference for “anesthesia” or “anaesthesia” is mostly anesthetized, not to say completely anaesthetised (red squiggle just appeared; the “s” did it)—I often double-check the spell-check.</p>
<p>So I just did. Now the gate arm swings up and whatsit strides on past the spell-check check point. Dillybob is still being held at the border, though the Urban Dictionary (not, I admit, the highest authority) recognizes its usefulness. The Oxford English Dictionary must be dilly-dallying and hasn’t given dillybob its official papers yet.</p>
<p>Still, you know what I mean when I use the word. We need words for thingamabobs, whatchamacallits, doodahs, and hoobajoobs. (Sea of red squiggles now, but I’ll stake my English degree that these whatsitsname words for things unknown or as yet unnamed exist to answer, rather creatively and with a touch of heart-tickling whimsy, a real need.) The language would be much poorer without them.</p>
<p>We need a word for the crunchy little tidbit left on a corn dog stick when the dog is doggone. And along that line, what about a word for that little smidge of chocolate sticking to an ice cream stick until you lick it off?</p>
<p>What about a word for that disgusting little puff of smelly air that hits you in the face when, after delaying a bit too long, you bag the kitchen trash and then lean over and pull the plastic drawstring tight?</p>
<p>Often you discover that a word really does exist for the whatsit you wondered about. It was a fine moment when author Madeleine L’Engle taught me that dragon droppings are called “fewmets.” It’s a shame to accidentally step into something and not know its official name. Now I’m fewmetically safe. (Definite red squiggle.)</p>
<p>And is there a one-word description for a dweeb with a weird sense of humor? I guess so. (See dweeb. Or dork. Or nerd. Maybe doofus.)</p>
<p>I stepped right into that one, but I’m still smiling. Words can sting a little or a lot. But they can also morph wonderfully into delightful whimsy. And they can fly to heights of breathtaking beauty and awe-inspiring mystery.</p>
<p>And, yes, sometimes you just need a word and don’t have one. But our heavenly Father knew exactly what this world needed when, out of infinite love, he sent us his Son, the Word.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
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Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53476452018-07-15T20:00:46-05:002018-07-15T20:45:44-05:00“Trendy,” By Its Very Nature, Can’t Last<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/ties.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/ties.jpg?w=225&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="225" /></a></p>
<p><strong>“T</strong>rendy” can’t last.</p>
<p>Whether you’re talking about clothing and hair styles, the latest instructional “cure-all” in education, technological whiz-bang devices, automobiles (think Pacers and PT Cruisers), tattoos still affixed to one’s epidermis long after the tatt has sagged past its coolness date, “cool” marches on.</p>
<p>No surprise, words and phrases also have a shelf life; the trendiest end up the moldiest most quickly.</p>
<p>For years, no mission statement (speaking of trendy) was complete without some form of the word “excellence” in the paragraph that could have been a horse until a committee turned it into a camel. It was enough to make one want to settle for “fair to middlin’” so as to give real excellence a shot at the same time as giving the word a rest.</p>
<p>You may have noticed that everybody’s “reaching out” these days. In times past, reporters asked for, requested, or sought interviews. Now they reach out. Continually.</p>
<p>And we’re in love with “systems.” Good luck finding a hospital; you’ll have to settle for a system. I’m sure your tooth paste is now part of your “dental wellness system.” (Wellness. Another trendy slinky overly-impressed with itself hot air sort of word with questionable credentials.)</p>
<p>Of course, shampoo is integral to your hair care system. And where would a carpenter be without what I assume is now a nail installation system? (Just hand me my hammer.) Got facts? If you need more, head to your handy dandy information system. You can even buy special food for your cat if she has a “sensitive system.” (Personally, I’d just buy a new feline.) It’s all a little too much for my system.</p>
<p>And here’s an increasingly trendy phrase for you. I’ve been trying to figure it out for a long time: “spiritual but not religious.”</p>
<p>I’m not sure what that means. Is it like “I’m a fan of sports but not athletics” or “I‘m sick but not enough to be contagious”? But make no mistake: it’s definite and certain. It definitely partakes of the seriously indefinite. It certainly <em>feels</em> deeply, albeit vaporously.</p>
<p>I only have two problems with “spiritual but not religious.” One is with “spiritual” and the other is with “not religious.”</p>
<p>I’m not sure what “spiritual” in this context means. Maybe it has something to do with liking sunrises and sunsets, mountains and birdies. (I do.) I think it may have once included a little New Age-tinged mysticism, 90 per cent of which was old warmed-over Eastern religion all dressed up as new. Define “spiritual” in this context. Good luck to you.</p>
<p>And “not religious.” Phooey! You’ve never met anyone who doesn’t worship something by making it their focus. It may be God, fame, fortune, success, work, pleasure, science, creation, or just themselves. We all worship something; we just don’t always name our God.</p>
<p>But that “jello nailed to the wall” phrase may hold some advantages. I’ll betcha “spiritual but not religious” folks get to sleep in on Sundays and never tithe. (If so, a lot of Christians got there first.) It must be handy to believe in an impersonal force who set this world in motion but can’t ask anything of you. Good luck, though, in getting that force to love you. You’ll get as much love from a carved piece of wood or chiseled stone. (That’s already been tried; it didn’t work.)</p>
<p>The God of the ages, our Creator, our Father, is changeless. Real. Strong. Not trendy at all, he is 100 per cent love. Now and always.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53381042018-07-09T15:43:27-05:002018-07-09T18:01:26-05:00A Home Renovation Is Easier Than a Soul Upgrade<p> </p>
<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/boots-mud1.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/boots-mud1.jpg?w=225&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="225" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>t was a joy last week to finally come out of the closet.</p>
<p>Well, perhaps I’d better rephrase that lest you get the wrong idea. And, to be completely accurate, I probably should say “out of the closets.” Two of them.</p>
<p>For clarity, maybe I’d better back up and take another run at this.</p>
<p>One of my sons and his sweet family are moving into a new old house. New to them. But very old. And they’re involved “up to their eyeballs” in serious renovation.</p>
<p>Part of the renovation involves the kind of wall work required when you take out old wall furnaces, ducts, and vent covers, alter some existing walls and deal with various imperfections in old ones. This involves sheet rock and drywall work. And that means slathering on mud (gypsum joint compound), putting on drywall tape, floating it out with two more coats of mud, and matching the old texture.</p>
<p>Call me weird, but I like “taping and bedding” sheetrock. I’ve made this deal with several folks: I’ll do the sheetrock finishing if you promise me I’ll never have to touch a paint brush. I do not like painting. By the way, want to watch a real craftsman? Take a look at any of the YouTube videos featuring Laurier Desormeaux. Poetry in motion with mud!</p>
<p>So, that deal made with my son (oh, did I remember to mention that deal specifically before I jumped in?), I got started. And I was quickly sent to a closet. Patched some holes. Re-sheeted the ceiling and a wall or two. Then finished it. (This description was time-altered. Drying between coats takes time.)</p>
<p>Then I was sent to another closet. A really small one with three walls and one needing to be built. Repeated the process above.</p>
<p>But with that one, I ran into a problem my son says he has already repeatedly hit head-on in this house. (Did I mention that it is a very old one?) Do I try to agree with Earth and gravity with regard to what is truly level, square, and plumb? (Folks may think everything from gender to the Ten Commandments is alterable depending upon the latest opinion poll, but the Earth is amazingly close-minded when it comes to items such as “square.”) Or do I give in and match the sags, pitches, and yaws of the old house? Or opt for a combination thereof and go for a split decision?</p>
<p>Well, for the closet in question, I went with Earth, deciding that inside that closet one door frame board that tapers from 3 inches to 1/2 inch will rarely be seen anyway. The real challenge there was to suck in enough of my girth to be able to climb in, turn around, occasionally change my mind or my knife angle, and not mud myself into the wall. Coming out of that closet eventually was a joy.</p>
<p>Maybe I like working with sheetrock occasionally because there’s really not much about it that can’t be easily fixed with a little mud. That sort of progress and healing in my own soul and those around me is not as easy to see. Sad to say, even that old house is far closer to plumb, square, and level than my life has ever been.</p>
<p>But the renovation that I need in myself is underway, and my hope is in the finest Carpenter of all. It’s amazing to watch him work!</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53281902018-07-02T11:47:03-05:002018-07-02T13:30:47-05:00Strong Faith: How Badly Do We Really Want It?<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/faithstorm.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/faithstorm.jpg?w=300&h=190" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="190" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>f God exists and is all-powerful and all-loving, why does he allow suffering in the world he created?</p>
<p>Life’s biggest questions, the ones that truly matter, can be condensed into a few that can be counted on one hand. The question I’ve just asked is one of them. It, and the very few more in its league, are worth asking. I’m convinced that our God will help us face such questions in his strength if we really want his help.</p>
<p>But if we’re fat and sassy, dollar-blinded and bloated and quite comfy, swimming along in the warm stream of our society’s sea of selfishness . . . If, most of the time, pretty much our highest goal is to get through life with more and more stuff and not lose too many golf balls . . . Well, then we easily shove out of our consciousness the questions that matter.</p>
<p>Yes, but then one hope-withering medical test, one terribly sick child, one life-shaking tragedy is all it takes to toss us out of the hot tub and into very deep, cold, and turbulent waters indeed. Then the questions that really matter <em>really</em> matter, and easy answers and “throw-down,” “Facebook-faith,” TV-preacher platitudes will never weather the storm.</p>
<p>I hope you’re not in such a storm right now, but we don’t have to live long to know that we will all go through times that shake us to our core. Before the time of testing, it’s best to remember that strong faith cannot grow in a heartbeat. However badly I want a 50-year-old oak tree to shade me from oppressive heat, I won’t get it this afternoon by planting a seedling this morning. As G. K. Chesterton said, “No one ever grew a beard in moment of passion.” Some things just take time. Possessing faith that is strong and mature is one of those things.</p>
<p>Don’t misunderstand. You can sincerely give your life to the Lord in a heartbeat and your contrite heart will be accepted into the Father’s warm embrace. Even mustard-seed faith, Jesus said, can be real faith.</p>
<p>But if we think “baby faith” is all the faith God wants to build in us, and if we think genuinely trusting God is easy, we’re mistaken. For our faith to mature, we need to yield our wills to God and follow our Lord in practical ways. The Son worshiped the Father. He spent time in prayer. He was steeped in Scripture. He lay down his will, wrapped himself in a towel, washed the dirty feet of those who should have been washing his, and, because of his deep love for and trust in his Father, went to a cross.</p>
<p>If I want strong faith, I’ve got to walk the way of the cross. Can I carry a cross if I can’t even go to worship? How can I expect to grow in selfless, mature faith if I’m chafed by singing a song I don’t like in worship (but that might bless someone else)? More spiritual still, how strong is my faith if I won’t carry out the trash for my wife or switch off the TV to read our kids a Bible story?</p>
<p>God wants us to love him with all of our hearts, souls, and minds. He’ll help us to grapple with hard questions and live through hard times. But for our hearts, minds, and souls to be strong and integrated, real relationship and growing faith is required—not to buy God’s favor; God’s people already have that. No, we need faith to help us through life’s storms. And the question is unavoidable: how badly do we really want it?</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53164782018-06-25T13:07:25-05:002018-06-25T14:01:41-05:00God Chuckles and Says, “Time for Bed, Child”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/timetosleep.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/timetosleep.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>W</strong>hen I learned that CBS’ <em>60 Minutes</em> news program was doing a story on sleep, I was interested. Sleeping is one thing I’ve always been very good at. But if anyone has pointers to help my technique . . . So I made sure to watch what was a fascinating program, and I learned a lot.</p>
<p>In 1980, a study was done using rats who were kept awake indefinitely. After five days, they began dying. They needed sleep as badly as they needed food. All mammals do.</p>
<p>Modern folks in our society have been a little snooty and dismissive about sleep, as if needing to snooze at all is something of an embarrassment, a luxury we could likely do without if we weren’t lazy and unmotivated.</p>
<p>Not so.</p>
<p>Studies show that sleep is every bit as important to our health as diet and exercise, and that adults need around eight hours of it each day. The lack thereof seriously impacts our memory, our metabolism, our appetite, and how we age. A recent study at the University of Chicago School of Medicine restricted the sleep of young, healthy test subjects to four hours a night for six consecutive nights. At the end of that time, tests showed that each of the subjects was already in a pre-diabetic state (which would be naturally reversed when they resumed sleeping normally).</p>
<p>They were also hungry. Lack of sleep caused a drop in levels of leptin, a hormone that tells our brains when we’re not hungry.</p>
<p>A lack of sleep? No problem. If you don’t mind being fat and sick. One researcher said that sleep deprivation should definitely be considered a risk factor for Type II diabetes. The program host went on to mention studies done all over the world linking lack of sleep to obesity, heart disease, high blood pressure, and stroke—not to mention the mood swings that make sleep-deprived people “hell on wheels” to harmony in their homes and workplaces, and whose brain activity on MRIs mimics that of the severely psychiatrically disturbed.</p>
<p>To those who say they have trained themselves to do fine with little sleep, the researchers reply, “Nonsense.” For a day or two, artificial “counter measures” such as caffeine or physical activity may mask the problem, but it is cumulative and real, and can’t be hidden for long.</p>
<p>“People who are chronically sleep-deprived, like people who have had too much to drink, often have no sense of their limitations,” said Dr. David Dinges at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine. “It’s a convenient belief,” he says. But he issues a standing invitation for “any CEO or anyone else in the world” to come to his laboratory and prove it.</p>
<p>We easily adopt society’s lie that our true worth is in what we produce. We’re so impressed with ourselves, our indispensability, our strategies and plans. We quit “wasting time” by sleeping much. Then the wheels come off even as we slog on physically and emotionally as if through molasses. And the God who is real Rest and Peace but who Himself never needs to sleep, chuckles and says, “Time for bed, child. Go to sleep and let me do within you what you can’t do for yourself.”</p>
<p>I think there is a lesson in that, but right now I need a nap.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/53024892018-06-18T12:49:37-05:002018-06-18T13:01:35-05:00“How to Think” Is Worth Some Thought<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/thinker-2.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/thinker-2.jpg?w=225&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="225" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>’ve been enjoying reading a fine book by Alan Jacobs, a professor in the Honors Program at Baylor University. When I tell you the title of the book, you’ll likely smile and tell me that, obviously, I read it none too soon. It’s titled <em>How to Think</em>.</p>
<p>If you just peruse our social landscape very briefly, you’ll certainly recognize the need for better thinking. Often any attempt at cogent thought at all in the midst of our culture’s loud battles would be welcome. In a day when a deep fear of genuine freedom of speech is gripping many university campuses so tightly that they feel a need to establish “safe zones” for students apparently traumatized by the outcome of elections or diverse opinions, Professor Jacobs opts for teaching students (and others who will listen) to think more clearly rather than to run from facing reality at all.</p>
<p>I’m planning to read the whole not-very-long book, but, after reading the first chapter or two, I cheated and flipped over to the last one, “The Thinking Person’s Checklist.” Jacobs gives twelve great points there, ending with “Be brave.” Thinking requires courage, mostly because the loudest folks around us don’t do much of it. I’ll just mention here a few of his other points.</p>
<p>First, he says that “when faced with the provocation to respond to what someone has said, give it five minutes.” He suggests taking a walk or pulling some weeds. I think he’s recommending using that five minutes not to think much at all; better thinking will be more likely to occur after a break, and it will stand a better chance of being actual thinking, not just reacting.</p>
<p>Need I mention that this is particularly important with regard to social media? Off-the-cuff fly-off-the-handle flaming Facebook posts or middle of the night tweets or texts are rarely ever the fruit of much thought. If the tweeter talks like a twit, walks like a twit, and tweets like a twit, it’s probably a twit, and a twit’s lack of impulse control is rarely improved by sleep deprivation.</p>
<p>Along that same line, Jacobs also advises, “As best you can, online and off, avoid the people who fan flames.” Yes, and don’t <em>be</em> one! “Remember,” Jacobs writes, “that you don’t have to respond to what everyone else is responding to in order to signal your virtue and right-mindedness.”</p>
<p>Might I suggest that, before firing of a fiery Facebook post or a bird-brained tweet, it might be good to run it by a mature 8-11 year old? Their hormones haven’t kicked in yet and they usually have a pretty clear idea of what is fair, what is mean, and what is crazy. If you’re particularly courageous, you might even give them the power to curtail your Facebook or Twitter privileges if they determine that you can’t behave.</p>
<p>Professor Jacobs would agree that St. James was thinking very well indeed when he counseled, “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry” (1:19). Yes, but that will require more thought and more courage than we might at first think.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/52897742018-06-11T14:37:52-05:002018-06-11T17:45:37-05:00God’s Grace: It Just Isn’t Fair!<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/grapes.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/grapes.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p>A surpassingly strange story it is, and enough to make a math or accounting major bite nails. I’m talking about Jesus’ Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard (Matthew 20:1-16).</p>
<p>Here’s the story in a nutshell: It’s grape-harvest in Palestine. A vineyard owner goes out early to hire men to work in his vineyard, and he agrees to pay them a denarius, a normal day’s wage. They go to work.</p>
<p>At 9:00 a.m. he finds other men standing around in the marketplace and also hires them, promising to pay them a fair wage. At noon and at 3:00 he does the same thing. Finally, even at 5:00, he finds others standing around, and he hires them also.</p>
<p>When evening comes, he pays the workers, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first. To the workers he hired last, he gives a denarius, and so on down through the line. Every worker receives the same pay.</p>
<p>The workers who were hired first begin to complain that it isn’t fair, that the landowner has made the fellows who worked just one hour “equal to” those who have worked all day long in the hot sun. But the landowner replies that he paid exactly what he agreed to pay, and that he has every right to choose to as generous as he wishes with his own money and pay the men hired last as much as those hired first.</p>
<p>Jesus concludes, “So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”</p>
<p>Quite a story, and not so much a story about vineyard owners and workers as a story about grace.</p>
<p>You see, where real grace is found, you’ll find our gracious God.</p>
<p>Law may ask grudgingly, “I know I’m to love my neighbor. Who qualifies? And under its breath it mutters, “I’ll not love anyone I don’t have to.”</p>
<p>Law may ask grudgingly, “Who and how many times do I have to forgive?” and mutters with frosty breath blown out over a cold heart, “It’ll be a snowy day in perdition when I forgive <em>that</em> one.”</p>
<p>Law may ask grudgingly, “How much do I have to give?” and under its breath mutter, “I’ll not give a penny more.”</p>
<p>Law may ask grudgingly, “How many times do I have to go to church?” and under its breath mutter, “I’ll go not one Sunday more.”</p>
<p>Those are not the kind of questions grace asks because they are not the kind of questions God asks. God loves, forgives, gives, walks with us, because our Father is the God of all grace. Do we deserve his gift? No! It is enough for him that we desperately need it. His loving us will never make black and white, bottom-line accounting sense. Legally, it will never add up or balance. Not even close.</p>
<p>Sadly, where you find real grace, you’ll also find, just as in this parable, grinchy grumblers who aim to get their salvation the old-fashioned way: they want to <em>earn</em> it. They are angered by a God who freely offers salvation to a thief on a cross or a prisoner at Huntsville with a needle in his arm but faith on his lips. That kind of grace just doesn’t add up! That God gives it always angers some.</p>
<p>May we be far too busy praising him and thanking him to ever listen to complaints from those who’ve not yet learned that to get what you deserve is hell.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or profiteering is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/52752002018-06-04T12:15:32-05:002018-06-04T16:45:26-05:00What Will Happen Next in the Adventure of Life?<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/soyuz_reentry.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/soyuz_reentry.jpg?w=300&h=169" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="169" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong>I</strong></span> don’t remember ever quoting that famous philosopher Forrest Gump, but here you go: “My momma always said, ‘Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.’”</p>
<p>That’s true, isn’t it?</p>
<p>Noted Swiss psychiatrist and Christian of deep faith Paul Tournier wrote a book about that truth and summed it all up in the book’s title, <em>The Adventure of Living</em>. Life, he writes, is, by definition, an “adventure.” You “never know what you’re gonna get.”</p>
<p>From even before the moments of our actual birth, we’re one heartbeat away from, well, death. Most of the time, folks survive the entry into this world. But not always.</p>
<p>Once breathing, we never know what the next breath will hold. Even before we know how to articulate these truths, we discover that life, and sometimes each day of life, holds both far deeper joys and much more poignant sorrows than we could ever have dreamed or imagined.</p>
<p>From a very young age, most of us—at least, those whose parents give them this sweet blessing—learn through time-honored fairy tales and great stories that life can be wonderful and scary, pretty much all at the same time. Imaginary countries filled with breathtaking beauty and incredible joys open our hearts to receive deepest truths. They take us on great journeys, amazing adventures which are adventures precisely because in the midst of their joys are encounters also with wolves and dragons and orcs. Nothing that is completely safe can be called an adventure, least of all, life.</p>
<p>It says much, I think, that most of us would judge that experiencing life’s deepest joys, greatest beauties, and richest loves, is worth the risk, the utter certainty, that living means facing relentless uncertainty and experiencing, at times, incredible pain. Few of us would, if we could, opt for a painless life. We know that a life devoid of the possibility of pain and sorrow would also be completely numb to the experience of joy and love. The trade would not be worth it. A risk-free life without “the adventure of living” is no real life at all.</p>
<p>Just this morning I watched the video account of three astronauts’ journey back to earth from the International Space Station. It happens so regularly that we become complacent. But it really is amazing. And dangerous.</p>
<p>That video led me to another, the poignant final moments inside the crew cabin of the space shuttle Columbia. Mission Commander Rick Husband and I were in school together. Another amazing man of faith, he absolutely loved what he did. Most of us can hardly imagine a life with such risk, but then we step out the front door, and . . . Would Rick have traded his rich life for one with no risk? It is not a hard question.</p>
<p>The almost career-ending injury astronaut John Glenn suffered was not in space but was against a bathtub right here on earth.</p>
<p>Mountain-climber Charlotte Fox scaled earth’s highest peaks and survived a near-disaster on Everest but died recently after falling down her stairs.</p>
<p>What will happen next to each of us in this adventure called life? We can’t know. But if our faith is in life’s Author, “the Way, the Truth, and the Life,” we can know that he will be with us through every moment of the adventure, and that the ending will be the best beginning of all.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/52569772018-05-25T09:33:51-05:002018-05-25T10:30:28-05:00Our Souls Need Real, Not Counterfeit, Rest<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/rest-01.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/rest-01.jpg?w=300&h=169" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="169" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>F</strong>or many of us, one of the hardest things we ever do is doing nothing. Incredibly difficult, disciplining ourselves to find some regular time to do nothing is the best way to make the doings that we do, when the time is right for doing, worth something once the doing’s done. When we never really rest, we just end up done in, and much of the doing becomes dry dust bereft of real meaning.</p>
<p>If you found it difficult to make your way out of that last first paragraph, it’s because it’s its own frenetic illustration of our lives, bouncing so rapidly from one “doing” to the next, and the next, and the next, that it almost never stops. The Brits call a “period” at the end of a sentence a “full stop.” And an occasional full stop is exactly what we desperately need.</p>
<p>At least, our Creator seems to think so. He thought that a regular time to rest was important enough for the well-being of the humans he created in his image that he devoted one of the Ten Commandments to it. Even God rested on the seventh day of creation.</p>
<p>Dallas Willard once observed that “the command is ‘Do No Work.’” What that means, he says, is as simple as it is difficult: “Just make space. Attend to what is around you. Learn that you don’t have to <em>do</em> to <em>be</em>. Accept the grace of doing nothing.” And, knowing us well, he says, “Stay with it until you stop jerking and squirming.” (And texting!)</p>
<p>Oh, but we do jerk. We do squirm. And we have a very hard time just “making space” even for a few moments.</p>
<p>What is “urgent” crowds out the truly important. (How many texts do you get in a day that deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence as the word “important”?)</p>
<p>What is loud floods our ears continually and drowns out the silence that can fill our souls with meaning if we just stop long enough to let it in.</p>
<p>What is garish and glitzy blasts our eyes with counterfeit color and flash-blinds us to the real beauty and joy we could see all around us if we’d just be still long enough (and unglue our eyes from our screens long enough) to look around and see it. But most of the time we’re moving so fast with our thumbs or our feet that life itself becomes a dreary blur.</p>
<p>I think it was Dallas Willard again who commented that rest and diversion are not the same things. We all enjoy some occasional diversion. A “run fast and play hard” vacation at times is fine, but don’t be surprised when you come home more tired than when you left, and your soul is still hungering for some real rest.</p>
<p>Living life continually at high speeds is unsafe. Wrecks happen and people get hurt. Relationships suffer as we bump into each other and crash into solid objects like exhaustion and reality. We weren’t made to run this fast, this continually.</p>
<p>And so our bodies, our minds, and the objects and people we bump into often end up forcing us to stop, whether we like it or not. I wonder how much depression, migraines, gut maladies—and on the list goes—are really our bodies/minds saying, “You won’t stop on your own, fool? Pull over. I bet I can stop you for a while.”</p>
<p>As always, our Creator is telling us the truth. Our souls desperately need some genuine rest.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/52468742018-05-21T12:17:18-05:002018-05-21T12:30:26-05:00The Stars Speak Loudy, Wisely, in Silvery Silence<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/big-dipper.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/big-dipper.jpg?w=200&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="200" /></a></p>
<p><strong>T</strong>he yard mowing was finished. One more time. A personal best, by the way. Two hours. Mowing our 10,000 square foot yard usually requires almost three hours.</p>
<p>The last part of the job had pretty much been accomplished in Braille. It was a Wednesday evening. We’d gathered, as usual, with our church folks for a meal, etc., 6:00-7:00. (I am so very glad we meet that early.)</p>
<p>But Daylight Saving Time, a very mixed blessing, meant that I faced a decision at about 7:30. To mow or not to mow. That was the question. I did not want to. That was not in question. But this was the window I had for mowing for the next several days. If I waited, the yard would be, even this early in the season for us, a jungle.</p>
<p>So I mowed, figuring I’d get at least part of it done. I was amazed to finish the whole thing. (Only because I had trimmed pretty seriously on the previous mowing and got away with very little of that on Wednesday.) As I mentioned, darkness was coming on as I throttled down my mowing machine.</p>
<p>It really was a beautiful evening. So, once the rumble of the engine was silenced, I decided to sit out on the patio for a few minutes, partly to nurse my aching feet, and mostly to enjoy the quiet and the stillness.</p>
<p>The slivered moon was headed down behind my friend and neighbor’s workshop. Optical illusion, I know, but it surely seemed to head down faster the closer it got to the horizon. A lunar voyeur, I spied on it, lest it sneakily rebel and head back upward with no one watching. In the space of ten long breaths (I was counting), it slipped away, down for the count.</p>
<p>And, of course, as the moon went under, the stars, always there but needing the darkness to make their shimmering silvery presence known, began their sparkling dance.</p>
<p>The canopy of two huge trees in the backyard obscures part of the sky (blessed shade in the heat of the day), but the Big Dipper was shining through brightly. A very elementary knowledge of astronomy will reveal that drawing a line from the “pointer stars” (Merak and Dubhe), five times the distance between them (about twenty degrees), will land your eye on Polaris, the North Star, the anchor of the northern sky and friend of long generations of sailors.</p>
<p>The second star from the Dipper’s bowl is Mizar, and right beside it, if your eyes are good (this was an ancient eye test) you can make out Alcor.</p>
<p>The Big Dipper hasn’t changed recently. In about 50,000 years, I’m told, a bit of a shape change may be apparent. But on Wednesday night, I noticed what looked like another bright star in the pattern. What?!</p>
<p>And then the “star” moved. Jet airplanes do that. And that’s what it was. I had momentarily confused a few-years-old man-made object flying six miles high with God-made stars billions of years old, 51-123 light years away.</p>
<p>We should spend more time sitting in the darkness looking up at the stars. That night their silvery silence spoke loudly. My “airplane” difficulties may masquerade as stars, but they flit away, and God’s love-lit starlight remains.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/52335132018-05-14T12:30:39-05:002018-05-14T13:15:31-05:00When God Posts a Warning, It Pays to Pay Attention<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/warning.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/warning.jpg?w=490" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a></p>
<p><strong>I</strong>t had to be a government production, the sign I saw. Only a glassy-eyed bean-counting bureaucrat with common sense completely and laboriously expunged by years of mind-numbing training could have produced it. (Your tax dollars at work.)</p>
<p>Posted above a busy tramway, the sign proclaimed in large letters: TOUCHING WIRES CAUSES INSTANT DEATH. Good information, that.</p>
<p>But then in smaller letters was posted this message: “$200 Fine.”</p>
<p>Well, fine indeed. But I’m not exactly sure what to make of that.</p>
<p>I’m always as willing as the next guy to avoid shelling out two hundred bucks, but if paying up is presented as the alternative to sudden and gruesome death, I’d likely shell out a couple of C-notes.</p>
<p>Does the second warning belie the truth of the first? “Touch these wires, moron, and you’ll surely be quick-fried to a crackly crunch! But maybe not. In which case, you’ll be fined, and that’ll teach you!”</p>
<p>Or maybe there’s no contradiction at all. Maybe the long arm of the bureaucracy involved will reach right past death. The dead dumbo, smoky and smelling a lot like an electrical fire, finds himself waiting almost eternally (in a long line, no doubt) in front of a desk in the afterlife. He waits forever to file the forms in triplicate needed to remove the $200 lien on his account that’s got his posthumous processing locked up in limbo.</p>
<p>I’m not sure I get it. The sign’s message, I mean.</p>
<p>But I <em>am</em> sure I won’t be touching tramway wires if I should happen to run across any. I don’t like the sound of that stiff fine.</p>
<p>Some governmental signs and warnings can be a bit baffling. But it occurs to me that when God gives a warning, we do well to pay very close attention. Some things that we touch will hurt us worse than even an electrified tramway wire.</p>
<p>Touch adultery, God warns us, and we will get scorched. Count on it.</p>
<p>Grab hold of greed, and we’ll end up with some awfully bad burns. We can be sure of that.</p>
<p>Grasp bitterness and embrace an unforgiving and critical spirit, and, even if we’re sure we’ve been terribly mistreated and have a great excuse for the chip on our shoulder, we’ll still end up alone. Resentment is a very chilly friend.</p>
<p>Grip such tempting wires, and so many more like them, and we can end up with scorched souls and in deep pain. God knows it’s tempting; that’s why he gave us the warnings. And, thank God indeed, his grace and healing are real, available as often as we fail, as present as our next breath, as rich and deep and life-giving as our Father’s loving heart.</p>
<p>But the truth is that when we ignore his warning and choose to play with that which is deadly, pain is always the consequence. Worse, if we hang on to those hot wires long enough and are burned so badly that we refuse to ask for healing, death can come even before we die.</p>
<p>When God gives a warning, it pays to listen.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><strong><em> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</em></strong></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/52200192018-05-06T17:46:48-05:002018-05-06T19:00:47-05:00Knowledge and Wisdom Are Not the Same Things<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/lighthouse.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/lighthouse.jpg?w=300&h=200" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="200" width="300" /></a></p>
<p><strong>K</strong>nowledge and wisdom are not the same things. As has been wisely observed, knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is knowing not to put a tomato in a fruit salad. On a deeper level . . .</p>
<p>Knowledge has to do with knowing about created things; wisdom means knowing the Creator.</p>
<p>Knowledge means knowing facts about the past in order to make a good grade on your history exam; wisdom means learning the lessons of the past to plot a course for the future.</p>
<p>Knowledge knows how to make stuff, lots of it really cool; wisdom means knowing how to use what is made for the best purposes.</p>
<p>Knowledge may think that simply knowing facts equals wisdom; wisdom knows that only the incredibly foolish ever think of themselves as being wise.</p>
<p>Knowledge is tempted to be arrogant, puffed up because of what it knows; wisdom lives in humility knowing that everything it knows is evidence of how very little it knows, even as it is always seeking to learn more.</p>
<p>Knowledge points to glitz and technology and cool engineering tricks to amaze and thumb its nose at the past; wisdom knows that the glut and the glitz of its age (industrial or technological or informational) makes it not one bit truly wiser than ages past.</p>
<p>Knowledge knows stuff—and lots of it; wisdom knows that what is true and real and lasting is rooted forever in the One whose existence holds this world together, the only One who is constant, unchanging, forever true.</p>
<p>C. S. Lewis is the one, I think, who coined the term “chronological snobbery.” We are so easily—at all times and never more than now—tempted to think that increasing knowledge and information and, especially in our time, amazing technological advances, mean that we are wiser than those in all preceding ages. Really?</p>
<p>Oh, I love technology (and cool gadgets). I love being able to access incredible information at the click of a few keys. But wisdom is not dependent in the least upon technology, and burgeoning levels of information are no evidence at all of any increase in wisdom.</p>
<p>I may be afflicted with chronological snobbery in reverse. I can’t imagine how we can be such fools. Even ancient pagans, foolishly worshiping rocks and carved pieces of wood, were “wise” enough to worship something outside of themselves. How many of us today breathe God’s air, live on his spinning world, “thank” him by doubting, denying, or laughing at his existence, and crown our idiocy by worshiping ourselves? In our arrogance, we seem to think that everything from our gender, to the multiplication tables, to whether up is up or down is down depend our mood or the latest opinion poll. After all, it’s 2018, and technology and information abound. Are we not wiser than all who’ve come before us?</p>
<p>No, we’re not. I wonder if any society has ever been more foolish. The Apostle Paul pointed to the cross and told the truth that “even the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom” (1 Corinthians 1:25).</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/52103342018-04-30T12:41:49-05:002018-04-30T17:30:23-05:00“Wednesday’s Meeting Has Been Moved Forward”<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/watch.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/watch.jpg?w=225&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="225" /></a></p>
<p><strong>G</strong>ood morning.</p>
<p>Forgive me for even considering such, but I almost planted an exclamation point at the end of “morning.” It is indeed morning as I write. I’ve eased into light, speech, and a little thought, but that I would even consider assailing your mental ears this early in the day with the kind of volume implied by that loudest of punctuation marks, well, I apologize for almost falling into such brutish behavior. Those two words followed by an exclamation point become a contradiction in terms.</p>
<p>So, settling for the more civil <em>ante meridiem</em> (as in a.m. for morning) greeting, we move on into the day, fire up, log in, open up the computer, delete a few dozen ads and several phishing attempts masquerading as legitimate emails, and peruse this real one: “Note to Committee on Committees Members: Wednesday’s meeting regarding the creation of another committee to further complicate the lives and work of the many too many committees already created to complicate our lives has been moved forward by two days.”</p>
<p>Here’s the question: Is that Wednesday meeting, “moved forward by two days,” now set for Monday or Friday?</p>
<p>Okay. Pause. Take your time. Don’t lock in your vote and alter your calendar too quickly, but do take notice of your first reaction.</p>
<p>It’s clear to me that the meeting is now set for Monday. But I also know, and so do you, that a significant number of other folks will be quite sure that the meeting is now set for Friday. If we’re the ones wording the message, we know very well that we’d better spell out the day or confusion will reign. Two groups half the size of the whole will find themselves meeting on two different days four whole days apart. The confusion hinges on that simple word “forward.”</p>
<p>According to author, psychology lecturer, and BBC broadcaster Cynthia Hammond in her book <em>Time Warped</em>, the little vignette above illustrates how very practically in our daily world the way we associate time and space and the way we feel about time “moving” separates us into two groups. Hammond says that those, like me, who now plan to head to the meeting on Monday, see time itself as moving “like a conveyor belt,” the future coming towards us. Those who plan to meet now on Friday see themselves as moving in time towards the future.</p>
<p>As Hammond writes, “either you stay still while the future comes toward you or you move along towards the future. It’s the difference between thinking that we’re fast approaching Christmas or that Christmas is coming up fast.” Either point of view is defensible; the point is that each of us defaults into one or the other.</p>
<p>I find this sort of thing fascinating. But far more important than whether the future is heading toward me or I’m heading toward the future is the fact that my Father holds all of time and all of the times of my life in his warm hand.</p>
<p>See ya Monday. But my vote is that we cancel and spare the world one more meeting and one more committee.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.</em></p>
Curtis Shelburnetag:curtisshelburne.com,2005:Post/51983692018-04-23T12:19:18-05:002018-04-23T19:00:55-05:00Third Birds, Trampoline Mats, and Early Mornings<p><a href="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/trampoline.jpg"><img src="https://curtisshelburne.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/trampoline.jpg?w=225&h=300" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="300" width="225" /></a></p>
<p><strong>T</strong>hird bird. That’s the term author Daniel Pink uses, in his book <em>When</em>, for folks who aren’t by nature larks (morning people) or owls (night people).</p>
<p>Having taken the analysis he recommends for determining where one nests on that feathery continuum, I was a little surprised to find myself perched in the third bird category. I’ve always thought I followed in my mother’s footsteps as the very definition of a night owl. (Henceforth I will simply say “owl”; “night owl” is as redundant as “hot water heater.”) I like the quiet and warm enfolding that night affords and, with it, opportunities for reading, writing, musing, perusing, working, breathing during sweet moments when one’s cell phone is under control (as in, OFF), and a large percentage of the population is comfortably tucked in and unconscious.</p>
<p>On the fairly rare occasions I’ve tested early mornings—I’m doing that right now, but they don’t come as naturally to me—I’ve found that they provide some of the same benefits as late evenings and have their own good flavor. Just let me ease into light and volume. I can make coffee just fine in the dark, and my mouth is where it’s always been. The computer screen’s brightness needs to be throttled down. I wish its key-clicking could be muted. And, please, let’s put off speech until coffee does its work and the sun follows suit.</p>
<p>Mom was not a morning person; I wonder now who it was who used to wake us up singing the old and always obnoxious “Good Morning to You” song with its line about “all in our places with sunshiny faces.” Ouch.</p>
<p>Third birds like me evidently can go a bit either way, though I’ll definitely morph more toward midnight than morning. Just mind the light, please.</p>
<p>But I’m writing early this morning. I blame the trampoline. My back, which was awake before the rest of me, thinks I spent too much time testing a new mat yesterday afternoon.</p>
<p>The old mat served long and well. Four sons did their best to work it out. One Great Dane spent a little time on it but found it hard on his hip. That mat was shaving cream-stained from grandkid fun days complete with water, sprinklers, “silly string,” water balloons, etc. And it had lots of mileage on it as a launching pad for jumping and giggling grandkids on the back of a winged unicorn or about to be eaten by a hungry orc. The aforementioned unicorn/orc recently put his foot (rapidly) through what was a small tear in the mat. Hence, new mat. Hence, time testing new mat. Hence, up early this morning.</p>
<p>The lawyer litter tag on the new mat says it needs to be used with mature supervision. My wife read that and said I don’t count.</p>
<p>Scripture says that God’s mercies are “new every morning.” My back will be fine. The coffee is on board, and I don’t at all mind admitting that on this early morning, the Creator of each new day has blessed me with some sweet memories. I’m ready to make some more! I just need a nap first.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#800000;"><em><strong> You’re invited to visit my website at <a href="http://www.CurtisShelburne.com" rel="nofollow">http://www.CurtisShelburne.com</a>!</strong></em></span></p>
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<p><em>Copyright 2018 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice</em></p>
Curtis Shelburne