Prayers4Today

stumblebum (Ist Corinthians 8:1-13)

2012-01-25T08:58:00.000-08:00

at the bi-monthly meeting
         of the presbytery,
   there is so much
                  food,
     we can go back 2 or 3
            times (if we
          wanted) while
       the hungry homeless
   continue to scavenge
               the bins
      behind the building;

gathering, chatting, munching
   peanuts, sipping my pint
      with colleagues after
                   work,
         i catch a face
         out of the corner
            of my eye, seeing
    the college student (whose
    mother is an alcoholic)
       staring from a booth
       across the room, and i
   stutter-step over to say
            'hello';

as i head out to lunch
         with that person
         who is not my
               partner,
   i not-so-carefully
         tiptoe into
     that minefield of
        wrong assumptions
        that can pop into
           someone's mind,
   triggering
      that idle gossip
      which can slip too
         easily from their
      lips.

so
         untangle my freedoms
     to keep me from sticking
        them out in front of
             others, tripping
   them
        on their way
                      to
                      you.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

road work ahead (Jonah)

2012-01-19T07:24:00.000-08:00

Jonah stands,
      leaning on his shovel,
   by the side of the
                  road, nodding
            with approval
         as we set out the
               traffic cones,
               flashing arrows,
               construction barrels
      narrowing traffic into one
                   lane;
studying the blueprints
      and gazing through the surveyor's
                        level,
   he smiles as he spots
         the parking lot where all
                the cars will be
                   diverted,
            and people will have
            to get out and walk
                      down
      ever narrower streets, until
         they are going
                 single file,
            having to turn sideways
               to squeeze through
that alley called
           No Hope.

So, you pick up the phone
                  and call
      Grace and Daughters
         General Contractors,
   hiring them to take over the
                    job,
         reminding them of
            the original specs:
   'widen the Way as far
           as possible;
       there are a whole lot
                 of folks
             heading for the Kingdom
    and we want
        to make sure they get there
                      in time for the
     party.'

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

punctuation (psalm 138:1-6, 13-18)

2012-01-11T18:53:00.000-08:00

i remember those
          (all too many) days
                   when the
             ?
   appeared at the end
                   of this verse,
       my worries and fears
                         always
           trying to boldface it;

there was that one
    time though, when the
                           !
        ran up and sang out,
    clear as a bell, that
              shivery afternoon,
         with the wind at my back,
                 standing atop
                          Dun I;

yet,
         it is there
                on still as snow,
                   as well as shattering, days;
                in my wondering,
                  and wandering, journey;
               in the shadow of my best self,
                   and trying to trip up my worst;
         however prosaic,
     seemingly forgettable,
              so grammery,
                            but just what i need
'I come to the end--I am still with you'
                       .
© 2011 Thom M. Shuman

Christmas Eve/Day

2011-12-24T12:17:00.001-08:00

the bothy

every room will be blazing with
                              light,
      so i will have no trouble
           finding the place
   when i arrive, or so i
                imagine:
      the table covered in fine
                                lace,
                   heirloom china
        and mirrored silver at each
                     place
          with the feast's aroma
             drifting in from the kitchen;
   my feather bed will manger
                my weary body while
     silks sheets swaddle me to sleep
                   after a relaxing soak
         in the jet-streamed tub.

but

         what if it is
just a box built out of
               river rocks,
   the door wind-weathered
                   and water-buckled,
      refusing to stay shut
          as if expecting more folks;
a rough-hewn shelf
         in one of the corners
    holds a clay pitcher brimmed
            with cool clear water,
      a hand-drawn map to the spring
                next to it;
wood has been laid
                     in the fireplace,
          ready to be brought to
                             life;
a stone shelf is all that keeps
         one's body from the ground,
    just wide and long enough
             for a rough blanket,
      a candle and matches
                  where the pillow would be;
           and there's a shovel
                by the door for taking care
                     of the necessaries;

it seemed perfect for
                                       you
       when you arrived,

didn't it?

© 2011 Thom M. Shuman

i don't have time

2011-12-15T08:11:00.000-08:00

bone-weary from errands

i don't have time to listen
   to my children singing in the tub,
   to my spouse quietly fixing dinner,
   to the angel whispering in my ear;

exhausted from the mall expeditions

i don't have time to wait
   to find hope suffed in my mailbox,
   to see you walking with me in the snow,
      for you to fill my emptiness;

spending the whole weekend decorating

i don't have time
   to greet a neighbor with a smile
      and not a mumble,
   to scrape the ice off my heart
      so you won't slip and fall,
   to be rocked gently
      in the cradle of your love.

         but
here i am,
     Lord,
   hoping you have
        time
for me.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

eusebia (2nd Peter 3:8-15a)

2011-12-03T17:40:00.001-08:00

it's tempting to think
that morality
   is about pointing one's
               finger at others,
      showing them the
         errors they have made,
                  but it's really about
    crooking your finger
    to invite the least
          into your home,
              tracing words in a
                    book, so a little
                one can learn,
        testing the wind
           so you know where
                Spirit wants you to
                          go;

it's simple to act as if
           piety
    allows you to walk around
    with your nose up in the air,
                but you need to stick
                   your nose in other
                people's problems,
      so you can help solve them,
          you need to smell the
                    ordure of injustice
             so you can help clean it
                      up,
                you want to lean down
         and rub noses with a little
                          kid
           and be filled with laughter;

it's easy to develop
the attitude that
   it is all about my journey,
      of my personal relationship
                                 with the divine,
         of what has been done for
                                           me . . .
but faith
        is God-ward,
             and them-ward
   before it's ever
       me-ward.

© 2011 Thom M. Shuman

eusebia is the Greek word translated 'godliness' in 2nd Peter 3:11

boots (Isaiah 64:1-9)

2011-11-23T11:03:00.001-08:00

so shiny you can see
your glory in them
   as you pull them on,
   the perfect accoutrement
to your beribboned uniform
   with medals from the Roman,
Babylonian, Egyptian campaigns,
your two-edged sword grasped
tightly in your hand . . .
   . . .so tear open the heavens
   and come storming down, to plant
   those boots precisely
where we are convinced they
are needed;

but instead, once again,
   (to our embarrassment? disgust?)

you pull on your waders,
   towing that rowboat behind you,
picking up all those folks
left behind when the
   stock market dams burst
   open;

you take your wellies
   out of the mudroom,
   heading out to the barn
to feed all those
we forget in our frenzied
gorging on more,
mucking out the floors
of our hearts to make room
   for the little One;

your faded and scuffed slippers
fit comfortably around your
   feet,
   as you get up and put
the kettle on,
   putting a plate
of cookies on the table,
   pointing us to the chair,
   whispering,
   'why don't you sit
   down and tell me
   all about it?'

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

the talent show (Matt. 25:14-30)

2011-11-10T10:12:00.000-08:00

as the brown truck
pulled away from the
            curb,
      i picked up
      the box left
         on the porch,
   and recognizing the
      return address,
            i immediately
         repackaged it in
              foil and
     plastic wrap, placing
   it in the bottom of the
       basement freezer,
           knowing no thief
     would look for faith
              there;

when i found the
   present way at the back
      of all the ones
         under the tree,
   and saw whose name
        was on the gift tag,
     i told the rest of the
          family i'd open
          it after dinner,
   but while everyone was
   dozing off in front of
      the tv, i carried it
         up to the attic,
    and hung grace way in
       the back of Aunt Maude's
          wardrobe that's been
      in the family for decades;

standing at the counter,
   my back blocking your view,
          as you told me, 'cream
           and two sugars,'
      i added something else
         to your tea, and when
   you fell asleep, i picked
           you up and carried
       you out into the night,
     hiding you in the compost
          of my fears
             and doubts,
   hoping you would never

notice.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

it's so easy, so easy, so easy (Matthew 22:34-46)

2011-10-21T08:47:00.000-07:00

it seems easy to love our neighbor
when she is the grandmother
across the street
   who always seems to make
   'too many chocolate chip cookies'
      and brings a plate full over
     to our house;

it's never hard to love our neighbor
when he is the retired gent
right next door
   who is willing to share his tools,
   and when we don't have the know-how,
      patiently shows us one-more-time
      how to unstop a drain,
         change the oil in our car,
            get the mower started
            without pulling our arms out;

it is so simple to love our neighbor
when it is the kids who
come by each fall
   selling Christmas wreaths
   for their scout troops,
      and each spring
      offering popcorn and candy
          to support the drama club;

but what if
   Moammar Gahdafi had moved in
      down the street;
   if the single mom
   whom we admire so much
       turns out to be a parolee;
   if the local Muslim population
      petitions the school board
      to allow time for Dhuhr?

what then?

© 2011 Thom M. Shuman

how (Matthew 22:34-46)

2011-10-21T07:25:00.000-07:00

how do
i love you
when my mind
is so easily distracted
   by the yelling on television,
   the anger on the roadways,
   the dullness of my life?

how can
i love you
when my heart
is so broken by
   the hatred among believers,
   the bitterness of friends,
   the forgiveness which eludes me?

how should
i love you
when my soul
   thirsts for a companion,
   hungers for empathy,
   longs for a respite from its weariness?

maybe,
just maybe,
if i stop hanging on
to all my questions,
let go of all my answers,
and be caught by your grace,
i will be able to love
YOU
with all i am,
all i have,
all i hope to ever be.

Amen.
- - -
(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

the reception (Matthew 22:1-14)

2011-10-04T11:46:00.001-07:00

in his off-the-rack
            tux
      and too-tight shoes,
   Jesus fidgets at the
               door,
     glancing at his watch
           every few minutes
   (always surprised that an
    hour hasn't passed since
    the last time he looked),
       peering, once more,
            down the road
            for signs of the
         stretch limos;

back in the kitchen,
   steam roiling around
   like cumulus clouds,
              Spirit
      mutters to the sous-chef,
   her breath sending the
         chefs de partie
      fluttering around,
            checking sauces,
            keeping salads crisp,
            banging lids and
         turning down flames,
      doing their best to avoid
           her look;

having polished the flatware
           for the hundredth time,
   and centered the arrangements
      for the last time,
               Abba
         sighs behind the bar,
   watching the fluted champagne
      flatten minute by minute;
throwing the bar towel down,
    the long-sufferer stomps
       to the back door and
       flings it open, hollering,
   'you cardboard box dwellers,
    you dumpster divers,
    you panhandling pariahs -
          come on in!
      there's plenty for all;
      bring your buddies!'

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

let's get organized! (Matthew 21:33-46)

2011-09-29T08:04:00.000-07:00

maybe we ought 
to form a tenants' rights 
      organization, 
   Owner of the Vineyard; 
 
after all, 
we seem to be doing 
        a pretty good 
     job 
   with what you have 
       given to us: 
 
so 
what do we need 
with all those 
         servants 
   you keep sending our way: 
      Mother Theresa, 
           Taize's Roger, 
        Martin Luther King, Jr., 
   and all the others 
   who don't seem to have a 
          clue 
     as to how to run 
       a vineyard? 
 
if you aren't careful, 
we might discover that 
   humility is preferred 
      over power; 
   service is more seductive 
      than success; 
   wisdom is to be more treasured 
      than wealth. 
 
and then what will 
      happen 
   to what you have 
      created? 
 
(c) Thom M. Shuman

mindless (Philippians 2:1-13)

2011-09-20T08:57:00.000-07:00

you root around
the clutter of my mind:

   behind the cartons
   overflowing with conceit,
      you find the shredded
      remains of hope
         and wash them with your
            tears;

   in the shadowed corner,
      you discover some old
      scraps of compassion
         and weave them into my
            heart;

   you sweep up the
      dust bunnies of my
      selfish ambition,
         so i can see where
         to put my knees
            to worship you.

make my mind yours,
   my Beloved,
make it yours.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

at the ledger's edge (Exodus 14:19-31; Matthew 18:21-35

2011-09-06T10:46:00.000-07:00

each morning,

i make sure i have

my wallet, hankie,

glasses, car keys,

and

a fresh page in my

notebook

to list all the

hurts and slights

which will come my

way;

at night,

before evening prayers,

i power up the pc

and my heart

quickens

as i pull up the

spreadsheet,

keeping careful accounts

what he said,

what she didn't do,

who hasn't apologized yet,

who owes me a kind

word

but comes up short.

do you ever

grow weary

of stretching out your

heart

to part our seas

roiling with grudges,

so we might

follow your gentle

path*

forgiveness?

* George Herbert begins his poem 'Discipline':

Throw away thy rod,

Throw away thy wrath:

O my God,

Take the gentle path.

easier? (Matt. 16:21-18; Romans 12:9-21)

2011-08-25T07:51:00.000-07:00

it's a whole lot
         easier
      to lose my
            cross,
   than to lose my
      life

to leave it propped
      up against the corner
   of the closet, dust
         bunnies sleeping
       at its feet;
to ignore it
      standing on the coffee
   table, looking out the front
           window, its cow eyes
        brimming with tears,
      as i pull away from
     the curb;
to simply reply, 'i can't
   remember the last time
           i saw it,' when
      i'm asked, 'what ever
   happened to your cross?'

but

each morning, it puts
       Good
   into my hands,
   closing my fingers tight
          over it, whispering,
      'don't let go; don't ever
             let go.'
it tapes a picture of
            evil
      to my bathroom mirror,
   so i will know it
         when i see it,
     and stand up to
            it;
it spends each lonely day
   at the loom,
       weaving the yarns
   labeled hope, love,
      patience, perseverance
         into that community
    which helps me to
        bear what is mine.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

crumbs (Matthew 15:21-28)

2011-08-10T12:33:00.000-07:00

she had heard
of those promises made
under starry, sable skies:
   blessings flowing
   through the lines
   of desert wanderers,
      which would bring life
      to every one
      of God's children;

she had heard
of this wandering band
of foolish followers
   led by the teacher
   who reminded his kin
   of those long-ago
   spoken covenants;

but she was tired of
hearing only words . . .

even if it was only
      crumbs,
   she longed to be fed
   from grace's feast;
even if it was only
      a glance,
   she challenged Jesus
   to see her as
   his sister;
even if it was only
      a whisper,
   she dared him
   to call her daughter
   'my niece'.

watching his assumptions
tumble to the floor,
   after she yanked the
   table's cloth out
      from under them,
Easter's Child
     silently reached down,
   lifted her to her feet,
        and gave her his heart.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

why wait? (Isaiah 55:1-5; Psalm 145:8-9, 14-21)

2011-07-28T08:48:00.000-07:00

when your soul is
        parched,
drier than any lecture,
           come
     to that fountain
        which never runs
              out of water;

when all you have
left is
        a pocketful of
                 hunger,
           come
        fill your cart
with bread and wine,
with joy and wonder,
     all marked down to
                 $0.00;

when the props are
k
   n
    o
     c
      k
       e
        d
out from under you,
     give a holler,
i'm right in the
          next room
     and i'll come
            running,
staying up all night
      keeping an eye
          on you;

but

     come!

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

in our midst (matt. 13:31-33, 44-52

2011-07-20T14:44:00.001-07:00

the kingdom of heaven
is like an old dog
curled up in a
sunbeam
snoring his praise
in solitude;

the kingdom of heaven
is like a seashell
burrowed under the beach
which a little girl
found
and gave to her best
friend
in the bleak midwinter;

the kingdom of heaven
is like a
sprinkle of
fireflies
skimming across the
lawn, just
out of the
reach
of dancing
kittens;

the kingdom
is . . .

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

who forgives God? (Genesis 22:1-14)

2011-06-21T11:54:00.000-07:00

when
in that hedgerow
woven tight with the
        vines of despair,
           the thorns of loss
           pricking at us,
     we find no ram
     caught by its horns;
when
we cling desperately to
         each other as our
            child is wheeled
            towards the surgery,
     where her life is placed
        in the hands of strangers,
and no angel comes
running down the hall, yelling
             'wait!'

when
        we have mailed the letter
    to that old friend whose
            heart our anger broke
               all those years ago,
       but no word of pardon comes;
when
the doctor comes into
            our room, but the words
       uttered are not
    "it's benign";
when
there is no last minute
                reprieve
       in the sentence of
            loneliness
    which has been pronounced
                upon us;

when,
do we forgive

you?

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

trinity

2011-06-15T13:43:00.000-07:00

you're not fuzzy math
that just doesn't add up,
   you're the dad
            who nags us
      to go mow the lawn
      for the laid-up neighbor;
   you're the mom
          who announces 'we're
              having left-overs tonight;
      that immigrant family
      whose care broke down
          is enjoying the pot roast.'

you're no theological
jawbreaker,
   you're our BFF,
   totally (and always)
            for us, even
      when we have trouble
         taking your side;
   you're our mate
      who knows us inside out,
         accepting us just as we are,
         pushing us to become more
             than we expect.

you're not a mystery
wrapped in an enigma,
   you're the thunderstorm
            that rattles our conscience
       awake;
               you're
         the gentle breeze
   that cools our fevered
           fears.

you're not a doctrine,

   you're a
      chameleon!

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

dare we? (acts 2:1-21)

2011-06-07T09:12:00.000-07:00

hesitant enough
to whisper your name,
much less tell others
of your presence in our lives:
dare we ask for
tongues of boldness?

our hearts
fatigued by
the malignancy of poverty,
the terror of our times,
the children wounded in our streets:
dare we ask
for a transplant
of compassion?

souls numbed
by broken lives
and shattered dreams,
grace iceberged
by the chill of our culture:
dare we ask
for just the smallest spark
to engulf us?

dare we hope?

come, Holy Spirit, come!

(c) Thom M. Shuman

time (Acts 1:6-14)

2011-06-01T09:11:00.000-07:00

we're ready;

you know
we are ready for the power
(we've prepared ourselves
for oh so long)
certain we won't abuse it
like so many before us;
but the humility,
the weakness,
the foolishness
you left lying on the ground
as if we should pick them up . . .

we would go anywhere
for you - hop on a
bus, grab the next plane,
spend years out on the
field of dreams, harvesting
a bumper crop of 'them,'
but that 1000 yards down
to the neighbor who has
trouble
getting up on his ladder
to clean his gutters -
that's can't be all there is
to the journey . . .

we have the structure
all in place,
everyone voted to approve
the committees, the task forces,
the bureaucrats, the gofers
(it was unanimous, for pete's sake!);
but committing more than 2 minutes to prayer,
facebooking the folks at the nursing,
blistering our feet in the race for the shelter . . .

we're getting antsy waiting, you know;

does your watch need a new
battery?

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

the account (1 Peter 3:13-22)

2011-05-26T16:52:00.000-07:00

(9:17 a.m.) while dropping off
       the kids at school, the youngest
   held on to the door handle, her backpack
         pulling her out the car, as she reminded
     me about the spring play's dress rehearsal
            later this afternoon, her voice relying
   on my answer, which came at its usual
                              rush pace,
       'if i get that report done;'

(1:33 p.m.) turning the corner
                   a little too much in a rush
           to get back the office (and the
       couch), i just about trip
              over the fellow sitting against
           the building wall, his handprinted
        sign clearly an appeal to the good
               conscience in those passing by,
          and his eyes turn hollow as i shake
                           my head from side to side,
    while pushing the handful of bills deeper
           into my pocket;

(9:59 p.m.) as we shuffle the papers into
      neat stacks of reports showing the
          challenges we face, and we
    try to let the babeled words of
        the out-of-touch dreamers slip
                 from our consciousness,
       the group turns towards me (is it only
                     my imagination?) watching
          to hear if i might dare to assure them
               God isn't done with them yet,
   but i fall back on my meeting-ending mantra,
'any more business we need to conduct?'

at the end of
      the day, filling out the columns,
        jotting down the details,
          i wonder why they don't add up
before putting that ledger marked
           hope
    back in its place on the shelf.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

the stonemason (1st Peter 2:2-10)

2011-05-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

we hand you the design
the committee has come up
with, so that the wall will
be layed out in that dogmatic,
unwavering line (no doubts or
deviations) we expect,
but after a quick glance,
you simply place it in the back
of the truck and start
to work;

where we would toss
aside
those who have
have been skipped haphazardly
over the world's waves,
they become the tiestones
to hold the sections together,
while those wearied from
their struggles shape the
soft gentle curves;

untying the bandanna from around
your head,
you quietly rub the dirt
out of the nicks and crevices
caused as they have been ignored,
you gather up the children
and youth,
pouring them into hollow spaces,
as the aggregate to hold
us all together;

when we expect to
be the pride of your
handiwork,
you quietly pick up the
broken, the chipped, the left-over
slivers we kick out of our way,
placing them as the capstones
on the dry stone wall
you are building in the
kingdom.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

potluck (John 10:1-10)

2011-05-11T08:55:00.000-07:00

at one end of the table,
i can find the meatloaf
slathered with catsup
(the directions for which are
tattered and grease-stained,
held in the recipe book by
the cracked, clear plastic
envelope);

in the middle,
i come across the
carrot-and-raisin salad
the 9-year-old boy learned
how to make
from his great-grandmother,
before she went to the hospital
for
(what proved to be her last)
stay;

years ago,
having tasted the lemon pie
created by the Shakers, Maud
went home and experimented
until she created a
near-perfect copy
(only without all that
sugar)
and she places it lovingly
on the dessert table, next to
the pitchers of cold milk,
the coffee perk-perking along,
lemonade for the little kids
and water for the purists.

if it was only
me, i'd simply peel the plastic
back from the corner of
the frozen meal tray,
zapping it in the
microwave until it turned
into heated sludge,
but you invite me to the
potluck
where i can pile my plate
high with the rich variety
of your grace, and go
back for as many helpings
as i want of your
abundant life.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

(Luke 24:13-35)

2011-05-03T11:49:00.000-07:00

lost,
i take
a shortcut just
down this alley,
where anger
and agony come
tagging after me;

wandering,
i explore the wide avenues
of the world,
whose hope
has been potholed
with despair;

wondering,
i glance at the map,
and stumble down
the next street,
only to find sin
standing in every
doorwary,
enticing me with its
fingers sticky
with temptation;

then we turn down
Emmaus Road,
where the aroma
of fresh-baked grace
wafts out each window,
and, tapping me on the shoulder,
you shout, 'go!'
and race me
home.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

lazarus (John 11:1-45)

2011-04-07T08:11:00.000-07:00

handcuffed
by those foolish
fears
we have of being
left on our own,
swaddled
in the cool enbrace
of our misunderstandings
about why he came,
hampered
by the chains
of sin and death
dogging him every
step,
he stands weeping at
the now-empty tomb
until
he hears the Voice
cry out,
'unbind him and let him go . . .

. . .to Jerusalem'

and he turns
and goes,
hoping not to
stumble
along the way.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

piano man (John 3:1-17)

2011-03-15T08:20:00.000-07:00

at the bar, where he's
been nursing his wounds
after a long bored meeting,
Nick pushes himself to his feet
wandering over to
the cigarette-scarred
piano,
           where Jesus is
        slowly plinking
                    out
        'in the still of the night'

putting a dollar
in the chipped glass,
he begins to chat
        with the guy
        who can do wonders
              with just a few notes;

nodding slowly,
listening carefully,
     Jesus looks up
           and smiles:
"my man,
you need a new dance partner,"
     pointing to the corner
as Nick turns,
he sees Spirit
waiting for him with open arms;
"but, Nick," Jesus whispers,
     you gotta let her lead . . ."

as he swings into
a blues version of
     'i could have danced all night'

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

a handfull (Matt. 17:1-9)

2011-03-01T11:02:00.000-08:00

if it was only
in the mist-ery of
            unknowing,
   we would never have
      enough
   knowledge to understand
               what in the world
      is going on with you;
if it was only
   the thundering voice
            echoing off mountain
         walls,
   we could never have enough
               silence to hear you;
if it was only
   in the sun and stars
            heaving and
                   twisting
         in birth's throes,
   we could never have enough
              light to see you.

but in you
         coming
   to touch us with
      a gentle hand
      on the shoulder,
   lifting us to our feet, whispering
       'don't be scared! look...'
as you point to
              God
   standing in the kitchen,
   flour freckling the calloused hands
        kneading the dough &
        shaping it into life
              all too easily broken,
   while watching the Spirit
merrily stomping down the
                     grapes of wonder,
      laughing in delight
             as grace stains the hem
   of glory's garment.

a crumb
      a sip,
           a handful of
        God

and that's more than
   enough.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

alterations, no charge (Matthew 6:24-34

2011-02-25T05:03:00.000-08:00

last night,
i hung up my worries
in the closet,
    hoping the wrinkles
    would smoothe out
    by the next day;

i put my fears
into the laundry,
    so they would
    be clean enough
    to wear again this week;

i made sure that
pebble called stress
was still in my shoe,
    where it has worn
    a hole into the heel.

but this morning,
when i opened the closet,
    i found
    a whole new outfit,
        woven out of
        Easter lilies
        and resurrection's
        sweet grass
    and sandals
    made out of
    sparrow's feathers.

turning,

i found you
standing there,
        a tape measure
        around your neck,
        chalk in your hand,

saying with a smile,
'try them on . . .
    so we can see
    if any alterations
    are needed'

(c) Thom M. Shuman

satyagrahi* (Matthew 5:38-48)

2011-02-17T06:58:00.000-08:00

you invite us
to walk the streets
of the world,
using those muddy paths
marked 'kingdom'

so that when one acts
with violence
towards us, we will
take gentleness out of
our clenched pockets,
to balm the hand injured
by our face;

so when one hauls us
into small claims court
trying to get half
of what we own,
we will strip our homes
of everything, loading it into
their empty souls;

so when we see a homeless
family sitting by the
side of despair,
our generosity will turn
anti-panhandling laws
into toothless
folly.

what a dangerous invitation
you send to us!

how will we rsvp?

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

* a satyagrahi is a practitioner of satyagraha,
the soul-force or firm love advocated by Gandhi.
The purpose of satyagrahi is not to shame or
coerce the practitioner of oppression, violence,
or other manipulative acts, but to convert them
by one's practice of active non-violence.

wordswordswords (Matt. 5:21-37

2011-02-10T07:14:00.000-08:00

the media trumpets
loud and clear
that i can get a hall pass
during my marriage
or i can have a friend
with benefits along the way,
but you whisper the words
commitment
honor
covenant
in those moments of
weakness;

this morning
i was told that the
terrror threat
is as high as its ever
been,
so my suspicion level
needs to be turned up
with that sharp eye
out for packages,
parked cars
certain people (who
might just look
like you),
but your songs have lyrics full of
reconciliation
trust
acceptance;

that little imp
sits on my shoulder and
whenever i find myself
in an awkward spot,
not sure about what i should
say,
he weaves a story
which win the trophy
at the liars club convention,
urging my tongue to give it a
try,
but you keep holding up
the flash card reading
'yes'
pushing me time and again
to get it right.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

halite (Matthew 5:13-20)

2011-02-02T08:49:00.000-08:00

while there may be
        (roughly)
     14,000 uses for
                  salt,
our preference
        is to use it
     the same way
     we have always done . . .
              as a
           preservative,
successfully inhibiting any
                 chances of
         growth;

but you,
     knowing that
we carry within us
           particles from
       creation's seas,
     would have us
                enhance
the world
          around us.

we've removed all those
     bright, old-fashioned,
         incarnation bulbs,
replacing them with
           CFLs
    (ContemporaryFaithLite)
anticipating we will
       see savings (in the first
                    year alone)
of some
                         22%;

but you,
watching the shadows
       creep across the kingdom's
                   lawn,
     would have us
turn up the dimmer (all
                the way)
       on the walls of our
           souls,
     so others might
be able to
        see what your
    fuss
is all about.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman
(halite is the mineral form salt comes in)

baditudes (Micah 6:1-8; Psalm 15; Matt. 5:1-12)

2011-01-26T11:29:00.000-08:00

i could come carrying the
                  ashes
      of my arrogance,
            handing them to
        you,
   waiting expectantly
          (just ignore the tap, tap, tap
              of my foot)
      for you to
recycle them into a plaque
         with my name etched in
                bronze;

i could come
      with crocodile tears
         (running down my cheeks)
   about how the world
                     operates,
            even as i continue
      to gain from the
               predicaments of
            others;

i could come sitting down
         at the table reserved
         in the quiet corner,
      ordering the special of the day:
            filet of bias (medium well),
            mashed meanness,
            a medley of injustices sauteed
                in herb butter,
         followed by apple pie
                     ala marred.

or
i could simply follow the
                        Blesseds,
      carefully placing
   my feet in the
               tracks
         they leave behind
      in the muck and mud,
            as they wander through that
                   kingdom
   they can see
          with their eyes shut
tight.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

slow poke (Matthew 4:12-23)

2011-01-19T09:51:00.000-08:00

a dawdler by
     nature,
a straggler by
        avocation,
     i could manage
           to lose a race
to a pro
      crastinator;

me-lingering through
           life,
i barely can
     find the energy
to get up and do
        nothing
     constructively;

strolling down the
           street,
     stopping at the
outdoor cafe at
        the corner of
     apathy and inert,
i while away
my hours, making
     a cup of expresslow
           last all afternoon;

but immediately?

        immediately!

that's the
     scariest
word
           in the
     Book.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

look! (John 1:29-42)

2011-01-13T08:36:00.000-08:00

the weakling
who can
topple
those immense barriers
of distrust and
fear
we have thrown up;

the softie
who can gather
up our tangled
lives
to weave a soft
comforter,
to wrap us in
hope's warmth
against pain's bitter
winter;

the innocent
who sings soft
lullabies,
counterpoints
to the raging cries
of loss
and doubt;

look! the
Lamb,
who takes us
just as we are.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

hymn for Baptism of the Lord

2011-01-04T12:51:00.000-08:00

still waters

One drop of water from the sea,
flowing your hope into our sight,
placed on our heads and into our hearts,
touching all in whom you delight.
   still, your waters run deep in us;
   still, your love overflows parched lives;
   still, you call us your Heart's true love:
      Holy in One.

One drop of water from the sky,
tears of joy on each upturned face,
running down cheeks to fill empty hearts,
so we thirst never for your grace.
    refrain

One drop of water from your heart
shatters the flimsy bonds of death;
your Spirit singing softly to us,
quenching our fears with your brash breath.
   refrain

tune: OPEN MY EYES 8.8.9.8 with refrain

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

remnant (Jeremiah 31:7-14

2010-12-29T09:20:00.000-08:00

those who cannot

see past the end

of broken promises

will find themselves bumping

into your

hopes;

those who stumble along,

twisting their ankles in

despair's potholes,

will discover you

on your knees,

a trowel in your hand

smoothing out the cement

poured

into the cracks in their

lives;

those who carry one

kid on their

hip, with another

about to burst out,

will be invited

to your play

group;

those who populate

the walls

at proms, and the

young men with two

left feet

will win the ballroom

competition;

those who can't carry

a tune

(and haven't for the last

60 years or so)

will record a CD

with Susan Boyle;

those who always

see their glass half

empty

and about to be

knocked over,

will do a cannonball

into your pools of

pure grace.

we're innocent! (Matthew 2:13-23

2010-12-23T07:26:00.000-08:00

we stroll down the
               streets,
   shoulder to shoulder
   with the other carolers,
            never noticing the teenagers
            huddling in the shadowed
                        doorways, trying to
                        assemble their broken
                                        dreams
               into that puzzle called
                            life;

we rush to the
polling places,
     eager to vote down levies for
             schools,
                 hospitals,
                      disability services,
and 'tsk, tsk' at the stories
      of cutbacks on art/music/drama,
            of scenes of mothers
            waiting hours in emergency
            to get medicine for
                          their babies,
      of veterans living on the streets
               and sleeping under bridges;

we reach for the remote
when the news from the wars
comes on,
      missing the scenes of bomb craters
      that are now playgrounds for
                        kids,
           of families who search
           through the rubble, only
                to find their worst fears,
       of houses of worship
                     which are now
             battlefields;

we've lost our innocents
and don't know where to
                find them . . .

do you?

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

mr. sandman (Matthew 1:18-25)

2010-12-16T11:22:00.000-08:00

in those soft, hushed
hours of the night,
     you dream

of no one noticing
as you slip in
to be one of us,
      and a baby cries;

of all the outsiders
being welcomed
           as if they
     knew the secret
               handshake,
and a woman
        at a well
     feels a shiver
     run down her soul;

of pantries in soup kitchens
        never being empty,
     of shelters being open
            24/7,
and a little boy
        hands you his lunchbox
        packed with
              a fish sandwich;

of death
kneeling in worship,
            offering all that it owns
        back to you,
and Beloved folds up
his bedclothes, and walks
      into the morning.

in those soft, hushed
hours of the night,

you . . .

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

being (Isaiah 35:1-10)

2010-12-09T08:38:00.000-08:00

to those
   whose hair has
            risen
      on the back of their
               hearts,
   we are to broadcast
      (gracefully modified)
            seeds of hope.

to everyone
         whose knees
   are swollen and
               wobbly
      from standing at
         two jobs,
   we are to be
             braces.

to all
      whose hands
   are palsied by
               poverty,
      we are to be
                  gloves
   woven from skeins
      of food,
         warmth,
            shelter.

to anyone
      whose feet are
           blistered
   from walking the burning
        bricks of foolishness,
   we are to be
                 shoes
      which will easily
           slip on
   for the Way.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

frazzled (Matthew 3:1-12)

2010-12-01T11:03:00.000-08:00

so frayed, so frazzled,

so harried, so hassled . . .

it's so hard to get prepared:

just when we think every present is bought,

and unexpected one arrives and,

of course, we have to go out

to buy one for that person;

as we gaze at the outside lights

that have been hung and arranged

(so lovingly, so carefully),

a strand goes out,

and so another trip to the store;

we know the way to the malls so well

we could drive there with our eyes closed

(and probably do sometimes!);

the path to the post office is well worn

from all the trips to mail parcels,

to get more stamps.

Christmas Day draws nearer and nearer

and the activity level increases

(as does our stress);

the days grow shorter and shorter

(since we obviously don't have

enough hours in each one

to get everything done!).

so frayed, so frazzled,

so harried, so hassled,

we might not hear the voice

calling to us:

'prepare the way, the Lord is coming!

his path will lead you

straight

to the kingdom.'

open our ears, Lord, open our ears.

timepiece

2010-11-24T13:54:00.000-08:00

stretching wearily
to get the stiffness
out of your back
after a long night
at the factory,
     you dump the detritus
     of your pockets
     on the polished dresser:

coins picked up off the floor
as you walked around
checking that all the doors
      were shut tight;
the master key
to all the offices
in the executive suite;
the pocket lint
that has accumulated
since the last time
     the uniform was in the
        wash.

you take the heirloom
out of your pocket,
opening it up
to look (for the umpteenth
     time during the day)
        at the picture
        of Spirit pasted
        on the inside of
           the cover;

after polishing
the crystal with your
blue bandanna,
you turn it over, gently
rubbing your fingers over
the inscription
'for Dad - love XP'
and putting in the key
you wind it, as you
have done every day
since

climbing into bed
and pulling the covers
up over you,
you whisper to yourself,
'i wonder what would
happen
if i ever forgot to wind
that old thing?'

high calling

2010-11-18T09:43:00.000-08:00

blessed be the one

who sits on the floor,

children lumped together

around you,

as you open the book

tracing your finger

under the words,

guiding the kids into

that kingdom called

Wonder;

for you will be called

'the prophet of the Lord.'

blessed are you

who clamber up and down

the garbage piles

of our culture

where all the left-overs

(the disabled, the oppressed,

the ignored, the broken)

of the world

have been dumped,

gathering them up

and recycling them into

saints;

for you will be called

'the Lord is our righteousness.'

blessed are those

who loan their hearts

to the lonely

(no interest charged);

who relinquish their frears

and stride into the Skull

(the pub on the corner)

where sin tends bar;

who hand over the flashlight

to the kids who want

search for their lost dog

at midnight:

for you will be called

'God's Delight.'

survival of the faithest

2010-11-11T09:31:00.000-08:00

when the facility committee

met to close down the magnificent

(but declining in membership)

St. Firstthird Church at the

corner of Wistful and Bygone,

with its beautiful stained glass

and tallest steeple in the city!

your minority report stated,

'the days will come

when the people you're

turning your backs on,

will delight their neighbors

with the homeless shelter they open.'

when the judicatory met

to discuss (for the umpteenth time)

the burning issue from a generation ago,

the same folks

parroting the same words,

you whispered to your pewmate,

'the day will come

when the opposing sides

will adjourn to the pub

and buy rounds for each other

until Last Call;

but the folks who keep trying

to blow this dying ember

back to life -

will pick up the tab.'

keeps passing ordinance after ordinance

making it harder and harder

to feed the hungry,

to shelter the street people,

to give medical care to the poorest,

to offer life to the hopeless,

you will go to the microphone,

simply reminding the powerful,

'the days will come

when joy is the song

on every child's lips;

when grace becomes the clean air

everyone breathes in;

when tenacity opens the doors

to the kingdom.'

when the city council

widow God (Luke 18:1-8)

2010-10-13T07:02:00.000-07:00

like the hardheaded
            mother
    who thinks that
    every child
            on every team
        should get to play
            in every game,
    you stand up for us;

like a
            squirrel
who races around
            the yard,
    diving into each
    pile of leaves,
        knowing another
                acorn
            will be found,
    you are tenacious
    in finding that kernel
                of goodness
        in each of us;

like the
            4th grade girl
who faces down
    the schoolyard bullies
    trying to extort money
            for smokes from
        the 1st graders
            on the playground,
    you take our side
        no matter what the
                odds;

like the
            father
who pushes the drama coach
    to envision his
    wheelchair-riding daughter
        as the perfect
                Eliza Doolittle,
    you are unwavering
        in pushing us to
        think outside the box;

like the
            golden
who starts out
    with a wet nose
    against the hand
        hanging at the side
        of the bed
    and ends up pulling the cover
            off its owner
        to start the morning
                    walk,
    you doggedly push
    us down paths
        we would rather
        not take.

        you' re a
    persisent cuss,
aren't you?

futbol (Luke 17:11-19)

2010-10-06T07:59:00.000-07:00

a recent hire
by the owner
    to replace the goalie,
        he sat down
        with the manager
    and asked what
    the losing club's problems
            boiled down to.

'it's the starting ten,'
was the reply,
    'cast-offs from other teams
        because of attitudes;
    each has failed so many drug
            tests, you think they owned
                a pharmacy;
    they walk down the street
        and the kids at the playgrounds
        grab their adidases,
            not wanting the players
            to contaminate them;
    they go into a pub,
    and it immediately empties out,
                with the blokes being
                served watered-down pints;
'they're pariahs, pure and simple!'

in the locker room
before the first match,
    the new goalie got everyone's attention:
        'look, mates, it's a new day,
            a new game, a new chance.
        i don't care what you've done,
                how you've played,
            what others say about you.
        i just know how I feel about you,
                and I've got your back.
    now, go and see the drug testers.'

after the match,
    a stunning defeat of EPL's
    top team,
        the striker (an Iranian)
        came up to him
        after the reporters
                had departed.
'thanks,' he said, 'you've turned
        us around; we believe in ourselves,
                    finally
            we'll never be
            the same because of you.'
'where's the rest of the team,
the other nine starters?' he asked.
'their attitude seemed changed as well.'
    'oh, they're down at the pub;
    everyone wants to buy them drinks
                    now.'

'go join 'em,' he encouraged,
    'and don't stop believing . . .'

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

Jeremiah as Harold Hill (Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15)

2010-09-23T08:50:00.000-07:00

we can stand nose to nose
            with you
    for weeks on end,
        and never glimpse
    your grace twinkling
            in your eyes;
we would rather
        wear our sin-faded
                hairshirts,
    than try on your
        bright red band uniforms
            with the big gold stripe
    running down the legs;

as Trouble's gang members
    stand on the street
            corners
        peddling their dime bags
                of despair
    to everyone who drives by,
you start singing
            your songs of glad
                    hope,
    waving your hand
        to gather in the kids
            in their shirt tails;

and when you could
        catch the freight train
    out of town,
you buy a home
    on New Covenant Street
        in Riveroflife City,
where you and your family
    will live forever.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

prodigality speaking (Luke 16:1-13)

2010-09-16T07:18:00.000-07:00

did you really mean to
                diss
        honesty?
because that is the way
    it comes across!

is integrity
just pocket change
    we can deposit
    in the vending machine
                punching D3
        for the
    Easy Way Out bar?

is candor
    to be the automatic reflex
        that causes us to bite
                our tongues
    instead of speaking
                    truth
        to power?

is morality
     just an empty house,
        surrounded by
                    tall weeds,
    while someone hammers
        a foreclosed sign
            on the front door?

did you really mean to
                diss
            honesty . . .

. . . or gently rap our
                knuckles
        because our
    genetic predisposition
            keeps
us from trusting
        the incorruptibility

    of God?

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

the coin (Luke 15:8-10)

2010-09-08T11:05:00.001-07:00

the world,
in a dither (as
            always)
    dumps out her purse,
    trying to find the car keys
        & the piece of paper
        with the estate sale's
                    address,
never noticing
    as i fall to the floor,
    rolling across the hardwood past
        the dozing cat (who barely
                twitches a whisker)
    until i end up tangled
        in the clump of dog hair
            curled under the chair;

you come along,
lifting the cushions
    from the sofa and loveseat,
        sticking your fingers
        into the crevices at
            the sides and back;
empty-handed,
you gaze around the room,
                suddenly
        grabbing the yardstick,
    you sweep back
    and forth under the chair
            to recover me;
    rubbing off the dirt,
touching up the nicks
        til i shine,
warming me in your
            hand, you whisper
    'i know
        exactly how to use you,'

going to the front door
    you give me away
        to the young man
        standing on the porch,
    who is trying to come
            up with the
        cost of a bus ticket
                    home

to his father.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

the lamb (Luke 15:3-7)

2010-09-07T12:42:00.000-07:00

not moving a muscle,
curling up so tight
    my nose touches my fears,
nestling deep in the
            hollow of
        forgetfulness,
i wait . . .
    knowing
        if i bleat a
                word
            or make any
                    sound,
    that the mischief
        of peccadilloes
            which has been
    standing quietly at the edge
                will swoop
        down upon me
    and strip my soul
                bare;

then louder
    than the arrythmia
        of my quaking heart,
i hear the soft, familiar
    tread of your grace,
        and you reach down,
    putting me (phobia frozen)
        over your shoulders
in a fireman's lift
            to carry me

        home.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

guest room (Philemon 22)

2010-09-02T08:12:00.001-07:00

you've run the sweeper

and dusted the knick-knacks,

flowers just gathered

from the garden

lean toward the

sunny window;

the sheets (fresh from

the line in the backyard)

are on the bed, hospital corners

neat and tight,

covered with the quilt

woven from the scarlet threads

of your hopes for us;

the rug hooked together

from the rags

of the tattered clothes

once worn at sin's

Saturday night dances

covers the scratches

in the hardwood floor;

on the table next

to the rocking chair,

you place a bowl

of fresh fruit,

and the book of

love poems you

just finished;

you sweep off the

welcome mat,

and sit on the porch

steps,

a cup of coffee

warming your hands,

as you look down the road

watching for us.

catechism (Luke 4:1, 7-14; Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16)

2010-08-25T09:57:00.001-07:00

giving everyone
their allowance
    out of our own
        pockets;
refusing to let
        lust
    louse up
        our love lives;
not shrugging off
the chance to throw
a block party for
    all maimed by the
            merciless,
    those whose hearts
        are foreclosed
            by fear,
    friends who grope
        in the shadows
            of grief,
    outsiders hamstrung
            by hate -

we discern that
God will not leave
    us standing by
    the side of the road
        at the outskirts
            of regret
but
    will pull the chair out
        for us as we sit
            down at the
    round table
        of God's grace.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

B - - - - - - ! (Luke 13:10-17)

2010-08-19T09:21:00.000-07:00

you could have

played it safe,

choosing to read

a 'safe' passage,

peppering your homily

with platitudes,

poems,

and bullet points;

your gaze could have

just slid right past,

as you made eye contact

with those at the back

of the room,

leaving her crinkled

and gazing at the dirt

at her feet

(which is how the

elders saw her);

you could have

gotten into the argument

the bully was itching for,

lobbing texts back and forth;

quoting this book, refuting another;

dueling back and forth

with rapiered rules;

but as you watched

her dance in joy,

you simply replied,

"oh baloney!"

and the whole congregation

bent over,

clutching their stomachs,

roaring with laughter.

leaning, leaning . . .

2010-08-18T10:26:00.000-07:00

i am only a little boy:
   my first day at school
   starts tomorrow;
i'll be brave for my mom,
and not let her see my cry;
          but, can i lean on you?

i am only a young girl:
   i'll get back on the bus
   this week wondering
      if the boy who teased me last year
      will be in his old seat,
         if that group of girls
         who giggled behind my back
         will still be knotted together;
               so, can i lean on you?

i am only a teacher,
not a super hero:
   i have good days
   and rotten mornings;
      i have tears
      shimmering in my eyes
         behind the happy face
         i wear every day;
               can i lean on you?

i am only a hypocrite
slipping into my clay feet each morning
   striding forth into the world
      bent by my skeptic spirit,
   hoping that today
          i might be bowled over by
             faith;

till then,
   can i lean on you?

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

by faith (Hebrews 11)

2010-08-05T08:27:00.000-07:00

'the problems are too overwhelming . . .it's unfortunate, but that's the way life is . . there is nothing more anyone can do . . .'

maybe,

but

by faith,

we can stand up to

Loneliness and Fear,

those bullies

who would terrorize

our children;

by faith,

we can panhandle

on city streets,

hoping folks

will drip a few bills

into that cup marked

justice;

by faith,

we can pick up those

who have been crushed

and tossed into

society's dumpster,

to help recycle them

into God's Beloved;

by faith,

we can root for

those seasoned citizens

whom the world says

should no longer

play the game.

by faith,

we can!

you!

2010-07-28T07:56:00.000-07:00

detouring into the

desert,

going around curves

without braking,

ducking around every

corner

until i am going in

circles,

every time i twist

out of your

grasp,

you scoop me up

in your arms,

holding my face close

to your wet cheeks (and

i can never tell if they are

tears of sorrow

or from laughter)

no matter how

fast (or far)

i run from

you

i find

you

waiting at the finish line,

handing me a towel

and a cup of cool water;

whenever i gave

up on

you

you gave yourself

for

me.

(and the Holy Ghost writer)

teach us how to pray (Luke 11:1-4)

2010-07-21T07:13:00.000-07:00

our Father . . .

    when i wander down despair's streets,
    and get mugged in the alley of arrogance,
        build me a home at the corner
        of Grace and Hope
            in your kingdom;

    your will
    is that scratchy hair shirt
    hanging deep
    in the back of my closet -
        nudge me to get it out
        and wear it till
        it becomes so frayed and soft,
            i could never throw it out
            with the garbage;

    when i hunger
    for a hubris-and-selfish sandwich
    with all the fixings,
        feed me
        with the simple crust
        of the Bread of
            Life;

    tempted to charge
    all my sins
    on my revolving account
    with the Evil One,
        let me cut up my card
        with your sheer mercy
        and walk around
            with pockets full of grace
            to share with everyone
                i meet.

our Father . . .

(c) Thom M. Shuman

m and m (Luke 10:38-42)

2010-07-14T08:44:00.001-07:00

in the banging of

the pots and pans

and the slamming of

the cabinet doors;

in the rattling of

the spoons

and the fork tines

humming with frenzy;

in the clattering of

the dishes pulled

from the shelves

and tossed onto

the table;

in the floundering about

amid the distractions

and the snivelling complaints

to myself,

the smugness better

than the emptiness is here

as i scurry about

unwilling to come into

that Presence

where i might find that

the Spirit better

than wine is here;

the justice better

than right is here;

the part better

than the hole is here;

the longing better

than the kneading is here;

the grace better

than the anger is here,

healing the crack

in my heart.

there are days . . .

2010-07-13T12:37:00.000-07:00

there are days

when i go through 3 pens

crafting my to-do list:

from the moment

the alarm shoves me

out of bed

until my pillow

rocks me to sleep,

i am going and doing and running,

cleaningwashingshopping

cookingservingclearing -

and then

Jesus comes in the door,

sits me down at the table,

pours me a cup of coffee, saying,

'be still. shush. listen. learn."

there are days

when i am all ears:

pondering the Word,

listening to God whisper,

being lullabied by the Spirit,

sittingreflectingdoingnothing

silenthushedthinking

and then Amos interrupts

my alone time, saying,

'you wanna learn something?

come sit at the feet of the poor;

they'll teach you more about

faithhopelovelife

compassiongracegentleness

than you'll ever need.'

there are days . . .

dressing sycamores (Amos 7:7-17; Luke 10:25-37)

2010-07-07T08:02:00.000-07:00

like old men who

suddenly stand taller,

sucking their stomachs in

and brushing thinning hair

across their scalps whenever

pretty girls walk by,

we disentangle ourselves

from the arms of status quo,

straightening up with

a big, goofy grin on our faces,

when we see you

approach

with your plumb line

dangling from your hand,

not realizing you

intend to use it

to measure the foundation

for our restoration,

building it from the

pieces of your broken

heart.

when we have finished writing

in our blue exam books

on the emotional/intellectual triad

of loving God, self, and neighbor,

we double-check our essay,

making sure i's are dotted, t's crossed,

punctuation in place,

then bring them up to you;

returning to our desks,

we watch slack-jawed

as you stack them neatly

on top of one another,

tossing them into

the circular file at your feet,

then smiling, you say,

'now, tell me a story

about a time you

were lying half-dead

in a ditch . . .'

hard

2010-06-23T07:31:00.001-07:00

to embrace gracious

freedom

so eagerly,

that i take on every

menial task

on behalf of others;

to avoid the aisles

stocked with temptation's

empty calories,

but shop in the produce

section of the kingdom,

filling my cart

with all sorts of luscious

goodies,

giving them away

as i walk down the

street;

to follow you

down paths overgrown

with aching loneliness,

potholed with grief,

worn smooth where

those who turned back

walked;

you have asked

a hard thing,

yet i see your footprints

stretching out before me,

and take the first (of what

will surely be many

faltering)

steps.

disquiet (Luke 8:26-39; Psalm 42:11)

2010-06-15T08:13:00.001-07:00

i have been thirsty

for so long that

now that i have found

the fountain,

i want to swim in it

every day;

i have been alone

for so long that

now that i know

you,

i can't bear to

let you go;

i have been searching

for so long that

now that i have a

destination,

i ran home and put

on brand new clothes,

so i'll look

my best on the

journey . . .

. . .but at the water's edge

you smile gently

(yet emphatically)

whispering the simple

command

i don't want to hear,

'stay'

and as i turn toward that

legion

of neighbors waiting

with wonder on their

faces

and questions in their

hearts,

i hear you singing

softly in my soul,

'hope in God; I will praise

my help, my God.'

justifiably (Galatians 2:15-21)

2010-06-09T11:24:00.000-07:00

often

i cop a plea

convinced that my

efforts to

center

my life

through a wide variety

of disciplines

will align me

with you;

in some moments

though, I

rationalize easily

my choices,

convincing myself

(and hopefully you)

that foolishness is

permitted in the

right circumstances;

my fallback position
has been to always
and in all ways,
line my life up
in perfect symmetry,
making sure that
all i's remain dotted,
and t's are always crossed;

but then

you come

along,

changing all the margins,

removing all the tab settings,

even tearing the pages

until they are ragged

at every edge,

so i can understand

who makes me

right,

no matter how

hard i try to

prove you are

wrong.

miraculous (1st Kings 17:8-24)

2010-06-02T08:18:00.000-07:00

when i am down

to my last few drops

of the oil of obedience,

and distractions hammer

at my door

inviting me to come out

and play:

fill me

with that trust

which has no end;

when the flour of faith

is but a dusting

at the bottom of my heart

and sin's silliness

points me

in the wrong direction:

feed me

with that love

which never wears out;

when i put my feet

under the table

for just a few hands

of hold-em poker with death,

and she moves 'all in,'

pull the chair out

from under me,

and yank me to my

senses;

when i believe

there are no miracles left

(at least, for me):

tickle me

with your grace

till i ache

with life.

veni (for day of Pentecost)

2010-05-20T07:49:00.000-07:00

the fire marshal

has issued strict instructions

concerning open flames

in the sanctuary,

so the ushers have placed

buckets of sand

at strategic spots

in the worship space

(though for some reason

they have neglected

the pulpit):

veni sancte spiritus!

once

i grabbed the extinguisher

in the hallway,

dousing my head thoroughly

when i thought those tongues

of fire had descended on me,

but it turned out

to only be a draft

from an open window

tickling my tonsure

(but let me tell you,

it takes a long time

to get that foamy stuff

out of your hair!):

veni sancte spiritus!

i try to get out on

the right side of bed

each morning,

following the same routine,

driving down familiar streets,

comfortably settling into

that grind that doesn't

wear me down,

yet lately, the ash from

the disComforter volcano

has caused major

disruptions in my

quotidian quest:

sancte spiritus,

veni!

she (Mother's Day)

2010-05-06T08:27:00.001-07:00

she would let me snuggle

up close to her at night

and read me story after story,

until i drifted off

into dreams brimming

over with hope and joy . . .

and i learned that your lap

is always there - for me.

she sat me down one day

to remind me that words

people hurled at me

were only that - words,

then she held me tight

to her heart . . .

and i learned about

your Word of love - for me.

she used to get up

and go to work on days

when i would pull the covers

back over my head

and sleep in late . . .

and i learned about

your self-giving grace - for me.

do you know how much

you look like my mother,

God of all children?

to-do list (Revelation 21:1-6)

2010-04-27T09:59:00.001-07:00

first thing i do
each morning
    is to write out my
            list
        of "do's" -
review the budget for
    the finance chair;
        proof the bulletins
        for the next two weeks;
    make sure the three meetings
            later today are on
                my calendar.

it is only late at night
when the first things have
been checked off,
    that i empty my pockets:
        smoothing out the napkin
        yanked from the holder
        during the lunch meeting,
            where I jotted down
            the name of a young man
                to add to the prayer chain;
    discovering the room number
    of the grandmother in the hospital
        torn off the bottom of that legal pad
        hieroglyphed with last week's
            sermon notes;
    reading the text message
    sent to my own cell phone
                (while stuck in traffic)
        to put a bug in my ear
            to call the family whose
            uncle's graveside i did
                a month ago . . .

. . . and i see.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

talking turkey (John 10:22-30)

2010-04-22T09:24:00.000-07:00

in a world where

we believe life

is a multiple choice

quiz with only

one correct answer

for each question,

you walk down the street,

giving us a song-and-dance

while keeping ambiguity

and uncertainty

juggling in the air;

where we want

clarity,

you fog our glasses

with the Spirit's

warm breath;

where we want simplicity,

you take a piece of chalk,

writing out a formula

that looks like

T > (Dth + Sn) x 3 = !!!!;

where we want

just the facts,

you tell us stories

about

camels and gates,

women who lose coins,

suckers who stop to help

the down-and-out;

when we holler

'quit all the

shilly-shallying around!

we want a simple

yes or a no'

you stop and,

grinning, reply

"it's as plain

as the grace

God bestows."

get up! (John 21:1-19; Psalm 30)

2010-04-15T08:42:00.000-07:00

my burdens, struggles,

worries and doubts

lie on the floor

scattered after

last night's game

of hide-and-seek;

i had to get up

in the middle of the night,

changing the sheets

on the bed, soaked

from the nocturnal

anamnesis

of my foolish

day;

most mornings,

trust hungover the bow,

mercy hanging in rags,

hope slipping off the hook,

i cast out my life,

only to pull in

despair's emptiness.

but there you are

down in the kitchen:

flour all over the counters,

dirty pots stacked high

in the sink,

juice poured,

tea steeped,

hollering up the stairs,

'get up, lazy faith!

breakfast's ready!'

Holy Humor Sunday

2010-04-08T09:58:00.001-07:00

dour-faced

in the presence

of stunning sunsets;

stricken with chronic severity

while surrounded

by gurgling babies;

frozen-souled when touched

by the warmth of

grace;

if we are made in your image,

it's no wonder people think of you

as a grouchy old geezer,

God of Joy.

so, breathe on us . . .

fill our souls with:

laughter which chases away

the long faces;

chuckles which wipe frowns

off our brows;

great guffaws

which shatter hardened hearts;

fill us,

Breath of sidesplitting shrieks,

so we can celebrate

the last laugh on

death.

tom's canticle (John 20:19-31)

2010-04-08T08:53:00.000-07:00

mrs. doubt lives down

the street, sitting on

her porch most evenings,

gently rocking in her

skepticism;

she always invites me to

stop and join her a glass

of something cold,

and after we chat for awhile,

i wander on down the street,

more confused than before.

young bully doubt

always knew the right buttons

to push,

playing on my fears

of rejection,

making sure i was

last chosen when he

was picking the team,

settling into an ominous

disquiet

when i gave my book report.

i slip my feet into that

pair of scuffed,

worn-down-at-the-heels

doubts

that always wait under

the bed,

letting them carry me along

as i walk through

the day . . .

. . . and even when i arrive

at your house, you holler

from the kitchen, 'no need

to slip those off!

this is holy ground,

doubts and all . . .'

mindful (Philippians 2:5-11)

2010-03-25T11:39:00.000-07:00

hmmmm . . .

. . . what shall i wear?

this blouse is nice,

but i don't have time

to iron the wrinkle;

that gravy stain

is still on the tie;

these pants . . .

still not back

in style.

what shall i wear?

how should i look?

will anyone notice

the 'presentation'

i try to make?

but you

snatching at the chance

to be stained

by our sin;

not minding

the wrinkles

of our aged foolishness;

offering

to bring us

back into fashion

with God . . .

you

take off

your glory,

hang it in the closet,

and slip

comfortably

into us.

because (John 12:1-8)

2010-03-16T07:01:00.000-07:00

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.

prodigies (Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32)

2010-03-10T08:32:00.001-08:00

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 periphary 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.

canticle 63

2010-03-03T12:43:00.001-08:00

if thirst

was

microscopic,

a quick sip from my

ever-present, plastic wrapped

bottle

would suffice,

but i swear

i could drink the atlantic

with a pacific chaser,

and my mouth

would be full of dust;

if emptiness

was an ache,

i could ease it

with a quick stop

at the window

under the arches

of gold,

but my soul

growls

in the middle of

silent prayer in

worship,

raising the ire-brows

of the preacher;

if i

was all i

needed,

i could get a full night's

sleep,

but you wake me

with a gentle touch,

and

side by side

we tip-toe down to

the kitchen,

the aroma of fresh baked

bread

showing us the way.

in this life (based on Isaiah 55:1-9)

2010-03-02T08:14:00.000-08:00

on those days

when i hunger

for some people to be hurt

the way they've hurt me,

i feed eagerly at the banquet

of judgment and retribution

proclaimed by some;

yet you offer me

an abundant feast

of what is good:

loading my plate

with mounds of mercy,

pouring grace over it

and asking me to pass it

to my worst enemy.

in those moments

when i am so dehydrated

from not having every desire met,

i drink deeply from the fountains

flowing with self-petty,

you turn hope's handle,

filling compassion's dented cup

you hand-crafted

at the beginning of time,

and hand it to me, saying,

'drink up! it's good for you!'

in this life

where it seems

i can never get enough

of me,

help me to seek

more of you,

Holy One,

help me.

yesterday

2010-02-17T08:12:00.000-08:00

yesterday,

i stuffed myself

on pancakes and pleasure,

on chocolate and self-indulgence;

now,

empty me

of all those delicious desires

that make my life (and soul)

so heavy;

yesterday,

i put on that funny face

i call 'me'

and danced through the streets

of temptation and selfishness;

now,

draw me

into those quiet places

where you can reshape me

as your child;

yesterday,

i wore a costume

bejeweled with pride's glitter,

and rainbowed with my silly sins;

now,

clothe me

in prayer

and smudge my face

with your heart's tears;

yesterday,

i chased after the world

into death;

now,

lead me into life

this Lent.

if you build it . . . (Luke 9:28-42)

2010-02-10T09:29:00.000-08:00

the architect has rendered

her drawings,

the financing is being

lined up,

so soon at

Transfiguration Theme Park

one can ride Pete's

roller coaster,

climbing high up into

the mist

before plummeting straight down

(hands raised high

stomach clenched

eyes wide in fear or wonder)

into the denial's

chill waters;

Elijah and Moses

tag team at the fortune-telling

tent,

their wisdom dispensed

for only five bucks;

at the Fun House,

God stands just behind

us,

peering over our shoulders,

roaring at the silly shapes

and faces

our lives reflect in

the mirrors;

for a quarter a chance,

one can try to

knock Jesus off

his mountaintop

into the valley below;

when we come up with

all our grandiose

schemes to market you,

silence us

with a look,

so we can

pay attention to

your heart.

fear rider (luke 5:1-11)

2010-02-03T07:26:00.001-08:00

we stand at the

very edge,

fastidiously scurrying away

as the curlicues

of qualms

creep ever closer,

hopeful of turning

our chilly souls

into blocks of ice;

yet

there you are

out on the deepest part

of life,

your feet planted

firmly

on the back of

fear,

guiding it back and forth

until it becomes so

exhausted

it longs to curl

in your lap,

a little kitten

purring contentedly

in your grace.

canticle 36:7-10

2010-01-13T08:00:00.000-08:00

hesed's eye

peeps out from under

dawn's blanket,

ready to pinball

from star to star,

until all creation

is dazzled;

your ardor

seeds

the clouds until

they burst open,

drenching us with joy;

goodness capping mountains

of hope

melts in the warmth

of your love

first a trickle,

then a brimming brook,

until your justice

tumbles through the depths

of our indifference;

under the canopy of your

grace

we dig for buried treasure,

discovering that epiphany

which lies just beneath the

surface of our fears;

we wander the garden of delight,

plucking goodness from

the branches,

lying on our stomachs

palming cool handfuls of

life

to our cracked lips;

we jump feet first

into pools of wonder,

your light dilating

our vision until find ourselves

smack dab

in the midst

of laughter.

jordan

2010-01-06T09:59:00.001-08:00

we sit waist deep

in the dusty ashes,

scooping our dried-up

dreams in our hands,

letting them sift

through our fingers,

watching them gently

swirl in the air;

you come along,

a bucket of warm hope

in your hands,

sitting down next

to us, you suggest,

'maybe if we add this

to the mess,

we can create something

wonderful.'

so veddy proper,

in the top percentile

on the prim-o-meter,

we walk stiff-necked,

straight-backed through life

where you hide around

the corner,

giggling with your lifelong

pal, Spirit, arms full of balloons

bulging with victus aqua,

hoping to deluge us,

until

we loosen up enough

to lose ourselves

in you.

questions (Malachi 3:1-4; Luke 3:1-6)

2009-12-02T13:03:00.001-08:00

what must i do

in order to

stand:

brush all the cookie

crumbs off my lap;

check my tie,

knotting it twice;

lace up my shoes

so i don't trip

and fall flat on

my foibles?

what will it take

for me to

endure:

soak my dirty laundry

in a vat of Fuller's;

pick up the litter

i have strewn all

along my journey;

skinny dip down at

Refiner's Lake?

i give thanks

every time (every time!)

i remember that

it is as simple as

getting out from

under the feet of

the Messenger

the Message

the Way.

signs (luke 21:25-36)

2009-11-25T08:43:00.000-08:00

i can jerk my head up

fairly quickly

when the wind shakes the house

till i about fall out of the bed,

when the branch taps morse code

on the window,

when the floor creaks suddenly

at 3 in the morning;

but i manage to keep

my eyes cast down at the ground

for the street person

shaking in the cold,

for the child whose fingers

reach in hope towards mine,

for the justice which longs

to put me to work;

i immediately snap to attention

when the most powerful in the world

begin to butt heads,

when fear stalks across

the backporch of my mind,

when premonitions invite me

to play outside with them;

but i easily doze off

in my chair

as the pinched faces of the jobless

flash upon the screen,

as a neighbor wants to unpack

her bag of woes in my kitchen,

as the carolers of righteousness

sing on my front lawn.

the portents, signs, warnings, omens?

i've got those down to a T(error);

but the inviting gestures of the

Spirit . . .

hannah's canticle (1st Samuel 2:1-10)

2009-11-12T08:38:00.000-08:00

if only we would

look past

the politico's rhetoric

flashed across the screen

day after day,

so we might see

those families

for whom poverty

is an unwelcome guest

who refuses to move out;

if only we would

listen beyond

the pious platitudes

so easily mouthed

day after day,

and with ears

finely tuned with compassion,

listen to the whispered prayers

of children whose future

seems so sterile;

if only we would

disassemble the walls

stacked word upon word,

day after day,

by the dissemblers of optimism,

and peer into

the faces of our sisters and brothers

mired in the pit

of hopelessness.

if only

would . . .

. . . day after day.

canticle 127

2009-11-05T13:25:00.001-08:00

unless you keep giving us

the kingdom's vocabulary test,

until we know your hopes

backwards and forwards,

we hem-and-haw

on the part of the have-nots,

our words wobbling weakly

past the world's ears;

unless you take your fingers

and rub the avarice

out of our eyes,

we drift further and further

away from our sisters and brothers,

leaving them buffeted and bruised

on poverty's floor;

unless you fashion our hearts

into a sanctuary

for your compassion,

we can only hand out

the moldy bread

of futility,

we can only offer a drink

from the cup filled

with empty promises.

unless you . . .

all day, every day

2009-10-28T07:20:00.000-07:00

st. lucy stopped for a moment

while she rested her arms and legs

from pushing her little

brother down the sidewalk

in his electric car whose

battery had run down;

stroking Dusty's nose,

her eyes shimmered with delight

and she exploded in a giggle,

'you're a silly dog!'

when he suddenly baptized her

with a sloppy kiss.

pausing for a few moments

from helping his elderly neighbor,

st. chuck leaned on his rake,

smiling as his grandkids,

eagerly and deliberately

scattered the leaves he had

spent all afternoon carefully

piling by the curb,

whispering, 'what a life!'

slowly, painstakingly, as if

she were joining together a puzzle,

differently-abled st. jennifer

put each item in its place

in the cloth bags,

not making them too heavy

(as the customer requested)

making sure the bread

ended up on top,

and nothing too heavy

was near the eggs.

they're all around us, aren't they,

those precious drops of grace

sprinkled in our lives?

tumbling act (mark 10:46-52)

2009-10-21T08:21:00.000-07:00

not by marching round and round

seven times (or more),

but by simply

standing still;

not in great tumult

or loud curses,

but by a gracious,

welcoming invitation;

not with a parable

or recounting of past

wonders and might,

but by a gentle

affirmation:

the meek find their voice,

blind trust becomes the path to walk,

futures are put at risk,

masks are taken off,

walls fall down

in jericho.

able? (mark 10:35-45)

2009-10-14T08:12:00.001-07:00

hand me a

steaming cuppa,

swirling with just

the right mixture of milk and sugar,

and i am content

to curl up in my chair,

listening to you

all day;

but offer me

your chipped, stained mug

filled with that vinegary

mix of discipleship and obedience,

well,

you'll forgive me (i'm sure)

if it slips through my fingers,

shattering on the cold, hard

floor of my soul.

i'd bellyflop eagerly

(and all too easily)

into those warm

baptismal waters,

floating the rest of my life,

stretched out on my back,

watching the clouds

drift by, over my head;

but your invitation

to skinny dip in your

drudgery filled pool,

dodging death's icebergs

as they drift by?

you'll understand (i hope)

if i let someone else

go in ahead of me.

disabled by my penchant

for power and privilege,

how can i ever

do whatever

you

ask of me?

kneeling, i ask (Mark 10:17-31)

2009-10-08T07:48:00.001-07:00

what can i do

to get that Christmas present:

- play nice with my kid sister;

- put away my toys at night;

- eat (all!?!) my vegetables?

what should i do

to deserve a brighter day:

- whistle rather than whine;

- smile at that person i'd like to smack;

- put a dollar (nothing smaller in my pocket,

darn it!) in the handler of the pan?

what must i do

to earn eternal life:

- not let my eyes wander over another;

- cough that gossip germ into my elbow;

- drop enough sins so i can squeeze through the gate?

at the fragile edges

of life,

where you lived and spoke

with the poor,

the possessed,

the children,

the outcasts:

was that where you discovered

even you could not save

yourself

and,

let go of all that you were,

so that with God

every thing became

possible

for us?

one size fits all

2009-09-24T07:50:00.000-07:00

it is so big

it takes more than

one of us to manhandle

and roll it along

until we find just

the right candidate

to wear it;

it is so heavy,

our biceps will ache

for days from the strain

of picking it up,

setting it perfectly

upon the shoulders;

so,

while i am busy

adjusting that concrete

necktie on another,

would you mind

sweeping up all

those tiny pebbles

i don't mean to drop

on the floor

in front of everyone

around me?

and taking a child . . .

2009-09-16T10:37:00.000-07:00

conventional wisdom tells us

we should always

stand our ground

until the other person gives in;

God's wisdom from on high

recommends a willingness to yield

so that the other might be served.

the consensus

among tv's talking heads

is that strength

remains the only choice

in confronting the world;

God's strange insight

is that weakness can be

the way to welcome others.

popular belief holds

that we should sit

in our easy chairs,

cynically commenting on

the rottenness of everyone around us;

God's radical response

beckons us to stand by living waters,

handing everyone a drink.

the prevailing sentiment is simple:

if you want to win the race,

use any (and every) means possible

to win the blue ribbon;

God's unorthodox belief

calls us to come in last,

carrying all who have fallen

across the finish line

with us.

sounds awfully child-like to me!

don't walk?

2009-09-09T08:11:00.001-07:00

at the busiest corners

of our lives, where

our toes tap out

a staccato of anxiety,

our knees buckle

from the weight

of the doubts

stuffed in our backpacks,

our hearts thud

to the beat of despair

in our earbuds

you stand . . .

the faded signboard

reading

Who do

YOU

say I AM?

chaffing your shoulders,

while little sister, Sophia,

hands out icecold bottles

filled from the aquifer

of hope.

and

while the flashing red hand

freezes us into place,

you pick up those

cobbled together pieces

of grace,

stepping firmly into

life's flowing traffic

glancing back at us,

as if to ask,

'you coming,

or not?'

song of jesus

2009-08-27T07:18:00.001-07:00

look!
leapfrogging over sin,
vaulting out of death's
grasping reach,
he comes, skipping
out of the wintry tomb.

look!
he stands behind me,
peering over my shoulder
at the trellis overrun
with my fears and doubts.

Beloved cups his hand
over my ear, whispering,
'arise, graced one,
run away with me . . .'

death's vigor is frozen,
(never to thaw out);
peace blossoms
in every heart;
all creation sings
of the love
which echoes
in every nook
and cranny of life.

hope stretches wide
its embracing arms;
joy weaves its way
into our hearts;
faith's sweet aroma
tickles our noses.

'arise, graced one,
run away with me
into the kingdom.'

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

doxology

2009-08-11T07:57:00.001-07:00

you tiptoe into our rooms
while the shadows still dream,
gently touching our hearts until
we roll over and open our eyes;
putting a finger to your lips,
you whisper, 'get up, sleepyhead,
i want you to see something.'

with our hands wrapped
around steaming cups, we sit
sidebyside on the lawn, comfortable
as only
soul friends can be,

watching the kitten stalk a butterfly
through the wildflower jungle,
softly laughing as the monarch
glides gracefully,
(so tantalizingly) just out of reach.

breaking off a piece of toast,
you pop it into our mouths,
and as it slowly incarnates
deep, so deep, within us,
we lean our heads
on your shoulder,
with a drowsy,
'thanks for everything.'

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

pantomime

2009-08-05T08:46:00.001-07:00

dressed in
the black-and-white
(horizontal) striped shirt,
i sit before the mirror
each morning
smearing on the greasepaint,
lining my eyes in black,
shaping little gold stars on my cheeks;
tying a red sash
around my neck,
the beret resting jauntily
on my head,
the white gloves slipped
over my hands
i am ready to bip
the good news.

yet
when my venomous words
wrangle another to the ground,
when only nettles flourish
in my soul's garden,
when my heart runs outside
to play another round
of spite and malice
with the neighbors
the seal is broken,
i am revealed:
a mockery of grace.

so then,
you gently enfold me
in your grace,
send me back out
into the crowd,
whispering,
'try again, beloved,
try again.'

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

druthers (Ephesians 4:1-16)

2009-07-29T07:06:00.000-07:00

a loner by nature,
i don't cotton to others
very well,
preferring to wander
those less-taken paths
staring at my shoes,
swimming out of the way
of the other fish in the sea;

but all those people -
that crowd i could take or leave?
you
have joined me at the Hope
with those who are not
my cup of tea,
nor i theirs . . .

. . . refusing to let
my humility-resistant pride,
my gentle vindictiveness,
my impetuous patience
threaten this life-shattering
unity.

i may not have
the body i would like,
but you grace me
with the Body i need,
which
(by God's sense of humor)
needs me.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

only

2009-07-22T12:10:00.001-07:00

we sit down
with our sharpened pencils,
to chart out the
longitude and latitude
of your grace
only
to keep running
out of paper;

we tie a string
around each sin,
dropping them into
your sea of forgiveness,
only
to discover we can
never plumb its depths;

we scrabble and scrape,
push and pummel ourselves
from Land's End to John o' Groats
on our self-planned journey,
only
to find
we are at the
starting point
of your Way;

how foolish we are
to try to limit you
by our imagination
only.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

braggadocio

2009-07-01T12:51:00.000-07:00

joining the parade
as it snakes
through life

i swagger
to the front of the line,
my swash polished
and buckled around
me,

my swollen ego
floating higher and higher
pushing and shoving
till it is caught on camera,
for all the talking
heads to admire,

my pomposity
joining the windbag band,
we drone on
and on, playing
a tune that is all about
amazing me;

turning the corner
towards the grandstand,
i glance back
and
there you are,

sweeping up all
the blustery dust
trailing behind me.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 130

2009-06-24T11:26:00.001-07:00

i dangle my toes over
the curb of my heart,
my toes washed in
those tears racing
towards the storm drain,
my keening words
echoing through the
empty streets;

if you wrote all my sins
on the blackboard
you would run out of schools,
but the Spirit stays after class,
banging dusty death out of the
erasers
begging your pardon
for Crossing
out your work;

more than those
who watch the clock
on the graveyard shift,
i wait (we wait!) for hope
to be the lyrics of
the music of your heart,
more than a rooster
scanning the horizon
for that first glimpse of dawn -

we hope
for you . . .

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman