what if the homeless are right, that affordable housing for everyone is a possibility and not a problem; what if the poor are telling the truth, that we silence their voices, stepping right past them as if they were invisible, in our rush to be their advocate; what if the broken and the sick are correct, that they should be able to receive the medical care we do; what if the testimony of the women is true, that the grave is empty and the Gardener is planting new life for every one, every one, every one. (c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
just suppose
Thursday, March 14, 2013
because (John 12:1-8)
because
we have preserved our joy
in manna jars
for the long winter of despair,
storing them in the dark corners
of our souls,
we have forgotten
its gritty taste;
because
we have put a tight lid
on our joy,
and put it in the back
of the pantry,
we have forgotten
how it can tickle
our noses;
because
we are so busy
prattling pious platitudes
about the poor, the least, the lost,
we ignore your words
which anoint them
as your children;
because
we have put up
the shutters and storm doors
to keep your future
from sneaking in,
we have missed
the sweet breeze
carrying your hope
to us;
because
we are who we are,
restore us, Holy Grace,
and make us
a fragrant offering
to the world.
(c) Thom M. Shuman
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
prodigies
dragging his emptied life
behind,
one wheel wobbling,
ready to fall off at
the next crack in
his misery,
the children trailing behind
laughing and throwing
derision's husks
at the wastrel
wondering towards home;
the lenses of his glasses
so grimed with envy
he can't see past the end
of his sharpened red pencil,
he stands in the shadows,
arms full of ledgers
where each and every slight
is recorded,
ready to make his case
at any moment;
recklessly
burning the midnight oil,
the robe lapping his knees,
the ring rubbed smooth
from so much twisting,
he watches until
the stars doze off,
starting up from the chair
every time a figure appears
in the periphery of his
hope,
wearily sinking back
as the shadow passes
the end of the drive;
so many prodigals . . .
yet
you welcome each
at your table,
eager to waste all your grace
on us.
(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman
one wheel wobbling,
ready to fall off at
the next crack in
his misery,
the children trailing behind
laughing and throwing
derision's husks
at the wastrel
wondering towards home;
the lenses of his glasses
so grimed with envy
he can't see past the end
of his sharpened red pencil,
he stands in the shadows,
arms full of ledgers
where each and every slight
is recorded,
ready to make his case
at any moment;
recklessly
burning the midnight oil,
the robe lapping his knees,
the ring rubbed smooth
from so much twisting,
he watches until
the stars doze off,
starting up from the chair
every time a figure appears
in the periphery of his
hope,
wearily sinking back
as the shadow passes
the end of the drive;
so many prodigals . . .
yet
you welcome each
at your table,
eager to waste all your grace
on us.
(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman
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