canticle 32

i wish it was easier

to believe that you wipe

all my foolishness off the slate,

that you don’t hold a grudge

but pour out grace on me.

yet, when i hold it all in,

when i am not willing

to sit down at the table

and share my dumb mistakes,

well,

i feel so empty, so lost,

my soul is so parched

as if i have been in a desert.

but when i sit across from you,

rubbing my fingers in circles

on the tabletop, hoping the server

will come by with more tea;

when i clear my throat, start

to say something, stop,

start over again and, in a rush,

let the words slide over to your side,

you smile, grin, begin to chuckle,

break out into a hearty laugh and,

picking up the check, say,

‘let’s get out of here and

get on with living.’

we go out into the bright sunshine

where i start grabbing everyone

to let them know that, in you,

they find that haven of hope,

they find that island in an ocean of fears,

they find that shady tree on hot days,

they find the one they’ve been longing

to open their hearts so they might be mended.

if we listen carefully, if we write it down,

if we watch carefully, we will discover

that the mystery is really simple to solve –

quit insisting on our own way,

stop trying to pull you to follow us,

let go of all that anger than weighs us down,

and if we do, why

all that grumpiness, all those worries,

all those ‘what will happen if God . . .’

are washed away by those loving waters

of grace, hope, joy, and wonder

and we can holler our hearts out,

we can skip behind you, holding hands

with all the other mended souls,

glad that we finally opened our mouths

and heard your loving voice in our ears.

© 2020 Thom M. Shuman  

canticle 99

no single word describes you,

holiness of our hearts:

you sit on the floor playing jacks,

you walk the sidelines

as we run up and down creation’s pitch,

you could boss us around,

but chose to learn how to crawl

on your hands and knees just like us,

you join in the silly jingles

we make up to give you thanks.

you gave visions to Jeremiah

and spoke to Elijah in a still, small voice.

you taught Miriam how to dance

and sang backup for Hannah and Mary.

you listened to every voice,

every heartbreak, every hope

from those in Eden to this very moment.

on mountaintops and in clouds,

cooking breakfast on a beach

and sleeping in the back of a boat,

you taught us your dreams,

you showed us how to care for others.

you lean over to hear our souls,

you wipe every mistake we make

off the whiteboard of life.

you step between us

and the bullies who would taunt

us until we turn and run.

we sing your praises over and over,

in churches and on playgrounds,

in grocery stores and in classrooms,

in museums and malls, on boats and bicycles,

for everywhere we are, wherever we are,

we are standing on holy ground

holding tight to your hand.

© 2020 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 2

all you conspiracy theorists,

all you worriers stockpiling supplies,

all you politicos claiming absolute everything,

all those convinced that only losers

wrap themselves in grace, hope, peace –

God is doubled-up in laughter,

wiping tears from their eyes,

ready to set all those folks straight,

to knock them off their narcissism:

‘look for my Beloveds,

my children,

who know my heart,

who share my soul,

they are transforming weapons

into musical instruments,

taking day-old bread

to make sandwiches for hungry kids’

knock down walls

to build shelters for rough sleepers.”

pay attention – you know-it-alls:

let your callous souls

be transfigured by compassion,

your bullying words

be turned into love’s language,

your life-destroying anger

become comfort for the broken.

then,

you will find new life

in my heart

© 2020 Thom M. Shuman

terrific Tuesday

except for the single parent
looking for that third job
to put food on the table;
except for those kids
who will be bullied by classmates
whose parents, preachers, and
political heroes tell them
that it is okay to treat others
in those ways;
except for that elder adult
who is trying to figure out
how to pay for medicine;
except for the people
trying to push water
out of their flooded homes,
businesses, schools;
except for that person
going in for (yet) another
round of chemo and radiation;
except for all those we
too often never notice,
it really is terrific Tuesday,
isn't it!?!

(c) 2020 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 119:1-8

when we try

to walk your path,

you bless us by setting

us on our feet when we stumble.

when we listen

to your words and hopes,

we are blessed by

finding your heart;

when we do justice

and care for the vulnerable,

we know we are

following you as we should.

you whisper your dreams

to us, hoping we will

write them down when we awaken.

we long beyond longing

to be your faithful people,

so that we might not be mocked

for simply doing as you ask.

with the cracks in our hearts,

with our souls weeping for others,

we will sing glad songs to you,

songs of remembrance

of all you have shared with us;

songs which share the promise

that you will always be with us.

© 2020 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 112

hallelujah!

when we worship God 

with dancing and singing,

we are filling God's heart with joy.

our children will fill universes

with grace and peace;

our grandchildren will bless others

with wonder and peace,

as they share from their gifts,

and plant justice in every heart.

they search for the forgotten

in the shadows, to fill them

with grace, forgiveness, and hope.

they will open savings accounts

for the oppressed and needy,

and put in their own money.

they shall stand strong 

in the oncoming path of cruelty,

so others will learn from their lives.

because their hearts are filled

with the whispers of God,

they are not afraid of liars.

they will never let fear

control their souls or actions,

and will turn anger and falsehoods

into paving stones for others.

they open their pantries

so that children will not hunger;

their thirst for justice for those

tossed aside by the world will not be quenched;

they melt down any awards given to them

into walkers and wheelchairs for their neighbors.

the mockers and knuckleheads notice

and cannot figure out their motives;

they shout louder and louder but,

like chaff, their words drift away

into the the breeze for forgetfulness.

(c) 2020 Thom M. Shuman