“There Are No Uninteresting Things”

“There are no uninteresting things, only uninterested people,” wrote G. K. Chesterton.

And he’s right, you know.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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).

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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…

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).

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.

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!

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.

The Theme Song of Hell

If I were asked to give the title of my favorite song, I don’t know what I would say. I like too many.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

The song is… Drum roll…

“I Did It My Way.”

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.

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.

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.

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.”

In Paradise Lost, 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.

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.’”

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.”

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.

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.  

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 not be singing.

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!

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.

Holy Week, the Lord’s Prayer, and a Roasted Chicken

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

 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.

The what!? “The roasted chicken,” she said again.

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.

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.

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!

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.

“A God Who Knew the Way Out of the Grave”

“Christendom 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.”

Oh, yes, and a God who “so loved the world” that he truly did “give his only Son” both to pardon and to empower.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.”

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

There is a genuine way out of the grave. Real pardon. Real power. But it comes completely from outside of ourselves.

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.

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.

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.”

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!

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.