the juggler (Trinity Sunday)

i toss
         God
   into the air,
      watching the divine
   spin and sparkle
              in the
         air;

next i add
         Jesus
   to the mix, carefully
      throwing each
      from one hand
            to the
         other, confident
   i will not drop either
               One;

then, pulling
         Spirit
   from my back pocket, i begin
   that simply
               complex
      process of keeping all
         Three
               in the air;

as i settle
into the rhythm
   of keeping the
         holy community
   under my control
      (propelling them
       faster and faster
             until they
             become a
          blur
      no one can
         comprehend),
   the audience sits
            spellbound
      by my theological
         dexterity,

and none of us
               hear
   your gentle whisper,
      'why do you think
       it is all an
            act?'

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

justus (Acts 1:21-26)

my fingers intertwined
      with the chain link
                   fence,
   i watch the two
                   teams
      play one another,
         casting me
                   aside,
   as there was only one
                   position
         left and two
            had shown up
                   to play . . .
. . . so i'll go home
         toss the ball
            with the kid
            next door,whose
   mom works two jobs;

after all those years of
                   practice
         (so many hours!),
      i was so hoping
      to get one of the
                   leads,
         but the director
   chose someone else . . .
. . . so i'll take my
                   place
         in the back row
         of the
                   chorus,
   helping those on either
                   side
      when they stumble;

i thought this
would be the
                   year
   when i would be
                   chosen
      to be one of the leaders
      in the church, but when
   the ballots were counted
      one of the pastor's
                    'pets'
         had won . . .
. . . so i'll keep on
   handing out the bulletins
      and cleaning up the
                    sanctuary,  
   teaching the youth class
      for the 23rd year,
   showing up for all the
                    work days;

i may have lost
the toss of the
                    dice,
   but i haven't lost my

faith.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

who's in; who's out?

as the greeters
      stand at attention (like
      tv show doormen in their
      gold braided coats), politely
   opening the door for the insiders
   with a knowing nod,
         you knock over the
         neatly stacked bulletins
                and as they scramble
                on their hands and knees
             to clean up the mess
      you sneak in all those
         whom the world has cut
                       off;

where the songs 
        are so old the words
           float in the sky
           beside the dust motes
       from the hymnals
              and the organ
              plays at an
         undertaker's pace,
            you sit down at the piano
   and rock the house
      with riffs Dave and Duke
         would envy;

when those who
look like a
              Bradbury short story
      arrive, only to be
         told sotte voce
   as the usher gazes over
   the half empty space, that
            the church is filled
         to capacity,
      you stand up and
                     holler
   "I'll give up my seat!"

and First Xenophobic Church
will never be the same.

(c) 2012  Thom M. Shuman

yea (psalm 23)

though i find myself
sinking in the sea
of stress and success,
   you buoy me
   with your living waters
          until i am at
                         peace;

though i run down
amaranthine corridors
late for never-ending meetings,
    you detour me
    onto the walkways
          leading to your
                        joy;

though i stumble through
the thorn bushes of a
culture which seeks
to tear my soul to shreds,
    you prepare a picnic
       in the garden of
                        grace;

though i am famished
and malnurtured from
wandering the shadows
of sin and death,
    you hand me a slice
          of life's bread slathered
          with the sweet honey of
                          hope;

though i try to flee
from the very life
i convince myself
i am seeking,
    you slow me down so
                         goodness and mercy
       can catch up with me and

push me
       into your
                          heart.

© 2012 Thom M. Shuman

wondering (Mark 11:11)

leaving everyone wondering,
   he wandered back to
            Bethany,
      not so much to hide,
      but to walk back
         to that open
                grave,
            simply standing
         and staring,
                his thoughts
                chasing after
            one another in his
                   heart;

finding himself across
   the supper table from
          Lazarus, while
     the sisters clattered
        around the kitchen with
     the dishes, stacking them
             for the guys
             to wash later,
       he asked
          (for the millionth
           time, or so it seemed),
   'tell me what it was like:
       the darkness like a stone
                on your chest,
          the silence wrapped
             tight around you
                  like a shroud,
       the minutes stretching out
              into eternity,
                 while you listened
                 for the feathery
                    footsteps.
          tell me again, Laz,
          was it worth it?

the waiting, I mean,
   and the wondering.'

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman  

my hour (John 12:20-33)

i wish to see
         Jesus
   in the panhandler
   on the street:
             but
      the stained, tattered clothes,
         the unkempt hair,
            the acridness clustered
            around him
   cloud my eyes;

i wish to hear
         Jesus
   in the politicians
      whose decisions i cannot
             support,
   in the evangelist
      mouthing platitudes to the
             pain-full,
   in the talk-show callers
       spewing hateful bile,
                  but all these words
   clog my ears;

i wish to meet
         Jesus
   in the tattoed skateboarder
            riding the rails
            down at the school,
   in the hip-hopper
            jamming at the
            bus stop,
   in the goths
            hanging outside the
            arcade,
                   but too quickly
               i cross the street
               searching for my
                       twins.

      Jesus,
   why would you wish
            to see
               to hear
            to meet
me?

(c) Thom M. Shuman

persistence (number 21:4-9; psalm 107:107:1-3, 17-22; ephesians 2:1-10; john 3:14-21)

 seduction's snakes
         entwine
   themselves ever tighter
   around my soul,
      biting deeply
      into my heart, venom
         deadening my hopes
            of remaining faithful
   to you,
               then
      you rush up, and with
         the sharp edge of your
               love,
            make the sign of the
                    cross,
   and slowly suck the poison
      out

thinking i was
         (finally)
      weaned from you,
   i find myself
            confundussed
        by the music of the
               Snake Charmer,
      when, 
   hearing me mew like a lost
                  kitten,
         your Word comes
         running up to me,
      breast bared so
            i might taste
        hope;

leaning on my
                shovel,
   having filled the pockets
      of all i deem
                unworthy
         with judgment's
             gritty gravel,
      i do not see
               you
          take those scissors
             formed from the
             cross's beams,
   cutting holes in everyone's
      pockets, giggling as they
         join hands and begin
            to dance to the tune
      grace plays on the
               harmonica.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman