the exorcist (Mark 1:21-28)

what

are you holding

in your hands

(behind your back)

as you come towards us;

have

you come to plunge

the listlessness

of our lives into

the pools of your peace,

or will

you

silence the dubious choirs

which echo 24/7

in our souls,

to be able to

expunge those little

hellions

who bounce up & down

on the bedsprings

of our souls?

do

for us

what you will,

Holy One of Conundrums,

for

with

hope slipping out

of that tiny tear

in our heart's pocket,

and questions piling up

on the dining room table,

we wonder,

if it was left to

us

would we

embrace your healing touch

or renounce you

as the enemy

Jesus of Nazareth?

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

pushy, aren't you?

when,
by the shores of complacency,
i am content to simply
mend the nets
of my washed-up life,
pull me to my feet,
plop me in the boat,
stick the oars in my hand,
and push me away
to find the ones
you would have me
bring to you;

there,
as i scrape my toes in the dirt
at the city limits
of petulant procrastination,
waiting for the bus to pull up,
grab the ticket
to Tarshish out of my hand,
put on the backpack filled
with hope and humility,
and push me towards
those who have waited
so long and patiently
for that simple word
which can change them
forever.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

was it you?

that insistent
whisper
that resounded like a
shout,
dumping me out of
a warm snuggle
with my worries,
urging me down
the path,
stumbling through the shadows,
stubbing my toe
on all my doubts
scattered about like toys
i forgot to put away;

was it you?

doggedly shaking me
awake,
while i drowsed
in the shade of
the figments of my imagination,
dreaming of that day
when all my stereotypes
become self-fulfilled,
when all my suspicions
are confirmed by
my prejudices;

was it you?

taking me by the
hand,
pulling me out
of the safe waters
of the womb of my expectations,
persistently prodding and poking,
forging and framing
(focusing so hard on your task,
the tip of your tongue sticking
out of the corner of your mouth),
following the blueprints
sketched out by the Spirit;

it is you,
isn't it?

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

still, waters

like water skimmers,
we simply glide along
the smooth facade of our lives,
till you come running up,
diving right in,
coming up with rivulets
caressing your big grin,
as you splash water
in our eyes so we can
see;

we drift along
just below the surface,
occasionally coming up for air,
hoping you cannot spy us
hiding in the shadowed pools,
but you step in
with your waders on,
tying the special fly
the Spirit made for you,
casting, casting, casting,
again and again,
until we take that first bite
of your grace
and we are hooked;

throwing caution to the wind,
you drive out onto our frozen souls,
setting up the shack,
chipping through the ice,
dropping your line in the hole,
patiently waiting
(while you pass the bread
and bottle around
with your two buddies)
to pull us into
the warmth of your heart.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman