persistent, aren't you

confident that the
wanting-to-do-it-our-way
strategy always works,
we end up tagging on amendments
to your guides for life,
but patiently,
you out-wait us
continuing to reshape us
into your community;

confident that our
pedigree of proud production
will earn us a place
on the kingdom's board of directors,
we habitually clog
the road to your heart,
but grittily,
your grace keeps moving
our stumbling blocks
out of the way;

confident that
what we have learned
(on our own, thank you!)
and taught to others
(you are most welcome!)
is exactly what we (and they) need,
we build a fence walling
ourselves off from your dreams,
but persistently,
you keep sending us servants
(like Theresa, Martin, Roger)
to help us become
better neighbors.

persistently,
patiently,
gracefully,
you press on . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

complaint dept

as the doors open
and the folks begin
to take numbers and line up,
he wanders around
kneeling to put a smile
on a cranky child's face;
soothing a mother worried
about catching the bus for work;
leaning over to hear
the frustrated grandfather
on his fifth visit this week.

as the crowd spills out the door,
the metal-shuttered window
flies up with a bang
and the baggy-eyed woman
who has been running
the department forever
(will she ever retire?)
leans her leathery elbows
on the scarred counter
and calls out 'number 1!'
nodding,
smiling,
grimacing,
comforting
she listens to each one,
and whispers (at the end)
to each to go around the corner . . .

. . . where they find a kiosk
carved from stone
where the perky, young
attendant smiles
and hands out a drink
of crystal clear water,
laughing,
'here! this is what you've
been looking for all along!'

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

enough for each day (Matt. 20:1-16)

early in the morning,
at the corners
where we stand
with our hands stuffed
in pockets full of pride,
you come looking for us.

mid-monring,
at the coffee shops
where we sit grumbling
about how different
our jobs, our relationships, our dreams
would be 'if only . . .'
you come to engage us
in the only Person
we will ever need;

in the late afternoon,
when our eyelids droop
from acedia
and our energy follows us
about being overwhelmed,
you come to give us
a jolt of unfettered grace;

in the evening,
just as we are about to nod off,
you re-run the day for us,
so we can know
(and whisper),
'it was you -
in every moment,
in every place,
in every person -
who got us through
this day.'

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

F word (matthew 18:21-35)

leery
of becoming a
97-pound weakling,
i regularly exercise my
umbrage
at those who have done
wrong to me . . .
but you would release
my death grip
on pain's weights,
and give me
a Spirit-filled bouquet
of mercy's tender flowers
to hand out
as i walk home.

watching
the line form of
all who can't wait
to wipe bitterness on my soul,
i hesitate to open my heart
to put out the welcome mat,
but you sweep off
the sidewalk
to make a way for them,
leading to the porch
where a pitcher of
cool refreshing leniency
has been poured for them

have patience, Lord,
have patience:
till i discover
forgiveness
is not a word listed
in the world's lexicon
of foolish notions,
but grace gifted
over
and over
and over

to me.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

variance*

purple pills
and online romance;
far-too-casual sex
and binge dating -
is there a more propitious period
to model genuine love?

angry gestures
echoed by hate-filled words;
violence flooding streets,
hate teaching our children -
is there a more apropos age
to feed our enemies with hope,
to offer a cool drink
to those burning with bitterness?

the lost sent around to
the kitchen's backdoor,
the least discounted
by hardened politicians;
the last shoved out of line
by shoppers armed with more credit,
the little squashed underfoot
in the rush to get more -
is there a more timely age
for blessing, not cursing;
for partnering with the oppressed
and not pretending they are not us?

in this stretch of selfishness
and narcissistic narrowness,
in this season of unbridled arrogance
and unchecked injustices -

is there a more opportune
time to simply
serve?

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman
(* - according to the NRSV, some ancient
authorities translate 'serve the Lord' in
Romans 12:11 as 'serve the opportune time')

Q & A (matthew 16:13-20)

when it shows up
on the test
('who do you say I am?')
i quickly flip open the book
and copy out the answers . . .

for
'Son of the living God'
has become a research paper
(hopefully expanding into
a dissertation)
with experts, writing
in several languages,
quoted to support my view,
but a real Person:
calling me to follow;
willing to open my shut mind;
hoping to send me out
to confront the powers
in my corner of the world?

and
i have said
'Lord'
so many times
that i have lost count,
but the instances
i have (actually,
willingly, eagerly)
given you control of my life?
even if i include the
thumb on my counting hand,
i still have several fingers
left over . . .

so maybe i need
to close the book,
and open my self
to you.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

no more waiting (Matt. 15:21-28)

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

the waiting was over . . .

Easter's Child had come
to her heart.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

as if (romans 5:9-10; matthew 14:27-31)

as if
it were so simple
to believe:
when i am offered
a smorgasbord of choices
by the culture around me;

as if
it were as elementary
as confessing:
when i am taught
that everything i do
is exactly the right choice
for me!

as if
it were easy
to get out of the boat,
when i rest so
comfortably in the bottom,
rocked to sleep
by apathy's lullabies;

as if
it were a piece of cake
to walk on faith's
crashing waves:
when everyone is
grasping and clutching
to keep me from taking
such a foolish step . . .

if only
i could live
as if . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

the crossing (Genesis 32:22-31

laughing and chatting,
piped aboard by
flutes of champagne,
the crowd pours onto
the chartered liner
for the crossing,
tables groaning with
the finest food;
nine-piece band
tuning up for the dancing;
the captain waiting,
tanned, smiling, nodding,
promising a gentle crossing;

down the beach,
i clamber
into the rickety rowboat,
paint faded into a dull gray,
water sloshing in the bottom,
the seat stained and creaky,
the shipshape shaky;

you hand me
the nicked and cracked oars,
and noticing the askance
on my face, whisper,
'look, this way
you get to know the water,
its ebb and flow,
the tides that can
rip out your heart,
the rocks lurking beneath
the smooth glass,
the way the surface can
change in an instant;'

pushing me out into the water,
you continue,

'it's harder, i know . . .
i've done it myself.'

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

enough (matthew 14:13-21)

there was more than enough
grief
for Jesus,
hearing the news
that beloved John
had lost his head
to Herod;

there was more than enough
people
when all those folks,
men, women, children
(the press reported
more than 5000)
crowded after him;

there was more than enough
hunger
following each person,
gnawing away at
their hopes and dreams;

there was more than enough
doubt
feeding the fears
of his disciples,
whining for Jesus
to send everyone packing;

but what they did have
was more than enough
for Jesus -
taking,
blessing,
breaking,
transforming
their paltry panic
into manna's joy.

when we look into
our picnic basket of scarcity,
murmuring,
'not enough money,
not enough people,
not enough time,
not enough energy,
notenoughnotenoughnotenough'

remind us, Overflowing Grace,
that it is all Jesus
needs.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

[nothing] based on Romans 8:37-39

[nothing]
not the death
i fear,
or the one
i long for;

[nothing can]
not the life
i sleepwalk through,
or the one
i fantasize about;

[nothing can separate]
not the hubris
that carries me
to the top of Mt. Arrogance,
or the skeptics
who push me
into the Sea of Doubt;

[nothing can separate me]
not the foolish choices
that tripped me up
yesterday,
or the terrors
i imagine
lurking in tomorrow;

nothing can keep us apart,
God-as-close-as-my-breath:
nothing
sheol
nada
gehenna
not a thing
not even

me . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

this or that (matt. 13:44-52)

in this kingdom
where the hopeless
are thrown into
Lake Forgotten Forever,
you cast your net,
drawing them
into your embrace,
cradling them in your heart;

in this kingdom
where folks turn anorexic
gorging on greed,
while the poor scratch
in famine's fallow fields,
you wander in,
offering top dollar
for the pearls of grace
they uncover;

in this kingdom
where hope and faith,
patience and peace
have been sold as showpieces
for fancy museums,
you come,
purchasing them back,
polishing off the dust,
handing them to us
so we can see the reflection

of that kingdom
you forged for us.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

you know . . .

you thought for a moment,
and creation sprang forth
from your Wisdom;

and now,
you know my thoughts:
anger that can
crush another's spirit;
contempt that can
drown a dream;
hatred which could
cripple a lover.

you spoke a Word,
and healing walked
among death's dark shadows;

and now,
before i can say a word,
you know
the loneliness
stalking my nights;
the sin
corroding my heart;
the emptiness
flooding my soul.

you know

and yet
you reach out
to grasp my hand,
walking with me
so that
at last,
i am finally with you.

Psalm 119:105-112

your grace is a lamp to my feet:
lighting my way
through the shadows
my sin casts;

i was baptized
and affirm those promises:
to honor your tenderness;

i struggle with
my soul's pain:
so fill me with life,
Tender Heart,
for you will
compassion;

i lift my songs of joy
to you, Hope's Home:
opening my spirit
to your generosity;

holding my life
in my trembling hands,
i remember:
you cradle me
in your love;

the world tries to seduce
me from your kingdom,
but i stick close
to your kindness;

your goodness and mercy
were my gifts at birth:
they continually fill my soul;

i lean my heart
towards yours,
that i might live
your grace
through all eternity.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

Double Dare!

The car is packed,
the paper is stopped,
the door is locked;
the trip we have planned for
after a lifetime of work
stretches out before us
on the horizon:
dare we throw away the map
and go down unknown roads?

The monthly report
was due 5 days ago,
the accounts do not balance,
the boss is standing
over my cubicle, tap-tap-tapping
his fingers on the wall:
dare I get up
and follow that stranger?

My physician says
it's all in my mind,
the experts tell me
there is nothing they can do,
my friends and family
insist that I learn to live with it:
dare I take heart
and reach out in trust?

Is that a double-dare
I hear, Entreating God?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

DIY

done!

my improvement project
is done!

walls framed
out of my fickle fears,
drywalled with
my dashed dreams;

windows triple-paned
with my desires,
flooring out of
the finest hardheaded lumber,
roofed over
with the wretchedness
of my will:

so why doesn't it
feel like home?

you could hammer
a refuge for me
in your heart;

your grace could
finely sand
my roughened edges;

your tenderness
could warm
my iced-over soul.

when it comes
to building a life
on faith's foundation,
i am an unskilled laborer,
so please,

please!

do it yourself
(for my sake)

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

alterations, no charge

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'

(Matt. 6:24-34)
(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

nothing, but . . .

i have no proof,
but in the carpet
of motley grasses
Dusty rolls on
stretching his back;
in the multicolored
leaves
which hide the squirrels
from his gaze,
i discover you,
Imagination beyond compare.

it's not admissible evidence,
but in the daughter
who sits up
all night
while her father
slowly sleeps
into resurrection's arms;
in the mother
comforting her son
who made the last out
in the championship game,
i learn from you,
Compassion's Carpenter.

there is nothing concrete,
but in the mist
sculling over the lake.
in the ripples
which lullaby
the couple in the canoe,
in the breath
which cradles
the gently sailing geese,
i feel you,
Whisperer of life.

no proof,
no admissible evidence,
nothing concrete:

only you
God in Community,
Mystery in One.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

pentecost party

(having burnt
a finger
testing the iron)
God begins -
phump, phump, phump -
smoothing out
the wrinkles
on the heirloom
tablecloth
woven
by Hagar and Sarai;

(grabbing
Gabe and Mike
to help)
Jesus fits
the extra boards
into the kitchen table,
then starts
moving the place cards
around
so folks
have to sit
next to those
they cannot
stand;

Spirit
is putting
the liturgical dancers
through their paces
stagewhispering
'flames! flames!
flicker like flames!'
(though not telling
any one
of the last-minute surprise
she will pull);

in an upper room
we wait . . .
turning the invitation
over and over
in our hearts . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

spoilsport

personally
(and please don't
take this personally)
there are those times
when i wish i were an
orphan . . .

then,
i could ditch
my Easter outfit
and put on my
all-too-human skin
again;
then,
i could
be cranky
without guilt
belaboring the point;
then,
i might just enjoy
treating people
the way they seem
to enjoy treating me.

But nooooo!
You have to go
and make Spirit
my sibling . . .

and spoil all my sin.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman
(based on John 14:15-21

fare

good-bye
is not in your vocabulary,
Embracing Love,
but you speak
grace,
so may that gift
swell gently
in our hearts;

ta-ta
is a word you've never
spoken,
but you sing
thanksgiving
for friendships
which last beyond
painful departures;

ciao
is an attitude
you do not reflect,
but you
celebrate with us,
even as we let go
of hands that have
encouraged us
through the years;

farewell
is not forever,
but your faith
which brought us together
and binds us forever,
is the promise
we will see
even when our
remembrances
fade.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

indeed (you are!)

indeed (you are!)

when our GPS
shorts out,
you blow the dust
off the map
written
on our hearts
so we can find
our way
home;

deadened by the
old songs of the old guard,
flooded by the
slick siren calls
of the sellers,
you cradle your hand
and hold it to our ears,
whispering,
'have a cuppa
truth';

as our days dribble on
dully
despairingly
dryly,
you hand us
life's pogo stick,
and laugh with
delight
at our foolish attempts
to follow
your lead.

and
finding every door
shut in our face,
you clean up
the Pilgrim Suite
at Abba's B&B,
where we can stay
forever.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 23

my steward,
you share with me
all i need;
my babysitter,
you tuck me under
the green quilt
of love;
my teacher,
you lift me up
to drink from
serenity's fountain;
my guide,
you point out
the walking paths
to hope.

when the power fails,
you take my hand,
so i won't trip
over the furniture
the evil one
has moved around
in the darkness.
your heart,
your joy
are a warm shawl
for my cold
soul.

you whip up
a gourmet meal
(but ask me
to share the
leftovers
with those who
never gave me
a crumb)
you pour grace
into my heart
until it overflows,
running down the
kingdom's streets,
so kids can
splash in its
puddles.

leniency and goodwill
tiptoe after me
wherever i go,
until i make it
safely
home,
where we will live
rent-free,
watching the sunset
that never ends.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

easter eyes

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 race down
the next street,
only to find sin
standing in every
doorway,
enticing me with its
fingers sticky
with temptation;

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

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

upper room

from the corners
of our doubts
come the claustrophobic
mutterings:
'it's their fault . . .
. . . how many times . . .?'

in the solace
of the shadows,
fingers stiffen in accusation:
'i wasn't the one . . .
. . .you said you would never . . .!'

fear
churns the room,
as we wait for
hate's hobgoblins
to jump out, yelling,
"BOO!!!"

then
you come,
parting our tears
to bring us out
of grief's slavery;

putting your finger
in our fissured faith
to make it whole;

breathing
"Peace"
sweet, simple
unimaginably
unlimited
peace . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

what have you done?

what have you done
with my fears?
i left them
on the dresser last night
and now,
they are gone!

what have you done
with my death?
it has suddenly
disappeared,
and i've ransacked
the house trying
to find it!

what have you done
with my name?
it was ground
underfoot
by the taunters
and tormentors
of Friday . . .

my fears have become
wildflowers
in Eden's garden,
my death
is the tattered shirt
now used
to mop up spills
at the Lamb's Table;

and my name
is that sweet whisper
in my heart,
as you take my hand
to dance the
Resurrection Waltz.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

come Saturday

come Saturday,
Mary, MM, and Sally
were rearranging
the furniture
and cleaning up
the mess
from Friday's wake;

the guys,
who found their loss
uneased
no matter how much
they consumed last night,
took double doses
of painkillers
and stumbled back
to bed;

Jesus
lay in the chill
of the darkness,
his head cradled
in God's lap,
while she stroked
his hair,
humming the
Resurrection Lullaby.

come Saturday.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

come Friday

come Friday
palms were stuffed
into trash cans
for the post-Passover
pick-up;

nails
were strewn
in the path
of the
cross-bearer;

little kids
stopped their games
of streetball,
pressing their backs
against shadowed
walls

as death
came striding by,
arm-in-arm
with
Pilate and Herod;

and
the silence
from his friends
was deafening.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

come Thursday

come Thursday
the powers-that-be
were being themselves,
lining up lackeys
to do their dirty work;
taking money
from petty cash
to pay a bribe
under the table;

Jesus was up early
working out his frustrations
as he kneaded the bread,
letting the grace
rise to a double measure;

decanting the wine,
he giggled
as the rich bouquet
of hope (with just a hint
of promise)
filled the room;

shaking the wrinkles
out of the tablecloth
(cross-stitched
with the names of all
who had eaten with him
over the years),
he spread it over
the scarred table.

now,
everything was ready

come Thursday.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

come Wednesday

come Wednesday
the world stunk
with the bitterness
of intrigue;
the foul breath
of secret machinations
fogged the alleys
and byways
of the city,
while the silent
walls echoed
with
the whispers
of the lovers
of shadows.

the spines of the scolds
stiffened
and dander filled
their mouths
as they took umbrage
with the one
who spread solace
on the soul
of her Beloved,
when they
would have doused him
with the sour perfume
of self-righteousness.

come Wednesday . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

come Tuesday

come Tuesday,
the Morally Superior
store
was back in business,
selling conspiracies
(buy 1, get 1 free),
fear (one size fills all),
and a variety of nails,
3/shekel;

people stood around
with their hearts
in their pockets,
listening to stories
again
and,
as usual,
missing the punch line;

stubborn-souled Jesus
gently,
softly,
hopefully,
reminded folks
(once again)
that it is all about
relationships,
not rules, regs, rituals.

come Tuesday . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

come Monday

come Monday,
Jesus groaned
getting out of bed,
trying to stretch out
the stiffness and tenderness
from riding that donkey;

hungry enough
to eat a donkey,
he grumbled under his
breath
when the service
was so lousy at
his usual eatin' place;

wanting to find
some silence and solace
he wandered into
church,
and wailed with grief
when he saw
that it had become
so upmarket
that those
who needed it
most
were not to be found;

come Monday . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

you

glory
is left behind,
hanging in the closet
gathering Adam & Eve's dust,
as you put on
humility's shirt
(stained with grace)
that's been lying
crumpled up on the floor
to be tossed into
baptism's wash;

you
(who waded
splashing and laughing
in Eden's crystal fountain)
now
jump feet first
into this messy muck
we call life;

you
could be dancing
with the stars,
gliding around
Saturn's rings,
but you throw
your leg
over the back
of an animal
(which reminds you
of your disciples);

you
we welcome
with cheering voices
and nail-choked hearts.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

anointed one

when i would kneel
to be anointed
from the horn of hubris,
you thow mud
in my eyes,
so i can see
those trampled
by a world stampeding
toward success;

when i would
splash on
pomposity's perfume,
you sprinkle me
with the tears of children
who,
cradled in hunger's arms,
cry themselves to
sleep;

when i would
soak my feet
in the salts
of self-absorption,
you massage them
with the dust
from the souls
of mother's walking
weary's highway
to their third jobs.

anoint me,
Lord God,
that i might serve
my sisters and brothers.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

bucket list

each morning,
i fill my bucket
at the Well of Sin,
and by the time
i get halfway through the day,
i have to turn around
to get more;
will you meet me there
to fill me with salvation?

in the middle of the night,
i find my bucket
overflowing
from nightmares;
will you meet me
at the Well of Dreams
to tell me every hope
you have for me?

in the silence of my soul,
i discover that bucket
called my heart
is cracked by the heat
of my anger,
is holed by the hurts
of others;

will you meet me
at the Well of Grace,
to refresh me
with healing's
flowing stream,
to fill me
with the nectar
of sweet life?

piano man

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!'
nodding to the corner;

as Nick turns,
he sees Spirit
waiting with open arms

'but, Nick,'
Jesus whispers,
'you gotta let her lead . . .'

as he swings into
a bluesy
'i could have danced
all night'

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

blame game

it's the snake's
fault
you see . . .

that's why
i look at the outcasts
with a chill-carved face,
that's why i offer the poor
soup full of rocks;

it's that snake,
you see . . .

coiling around me,
whispering that i
am on my own,
no One
to guide me;
no One
to follow;

it's him, you see . . .

crafting money, power
success into icons
that slip so comfortably
into my pocket, my dreams,
my life.

yet,
in the wilderness
the tester wears my face,
offering me
petty pride,
dubious hopes,
faithless fears.

if only i
could
blame the snake!

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

transfigure me, please

i'll meet you
on the mountaintop;
but could you come
and find me
in Lost Valley?

i'll build you
a home
in my heart;
but could you visit
that hovel
called hopelessness?

i'll worship you
on Praise Peak;
but could you cherish
me when grief
knocks me down;

i'll bathe myself
in glory's light,
but could you wash away
sin's shadow
which stains me?

i'll promise
not to tell a soul;
but could you whisper
that i am
Beloved;

i'll try to wait,
but when i can't,
could you transform
my fear into faith
and raise me to life?

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

this year

i've gotten rid
of all junk:
chips, chocolate, cola;
the fridge is now stocked
with fruits, veggies, juice -
this is the year
i get into shape!

no more contrived reality,
no more glazed eyes
from watching "Idol" wannabes;
it's public radio and tv,
it's a stack of bios from the library -
this is the year
i form new habits!

but you would
take my twisted logic
about 'who deserves'
and reshape it
into compassion;

you would
take my bitter heart
and fill it with
hope and joy;

you would
take my hurtful ways,
and reform them
into acts of gentleness;

this is the year
you take delight
in making me
a servant!

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

droplets

when we dangle
our feet over
the chasm of skepticism,
baptize us
in your spunky spirit:
just a drop;

when we are parched
by our phobias
(petty or prevalant),
quench us
with your brash breath:
just a drop;

when we are withered
by our narrow-mindedness,
refresh us
with your all-embracing ardor:
just a drop;

when we are stained
by vitriol's wildness,
wash us
with your gutsy grace:
just a drop;

a drop here,
a drop there:
drop
drop
drop:
a flood of faith
to carry us with you
through the kingdom,
Beloved Brother.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

first star . . .

star light:
when invited to ride
in comfort and style through life,
when tempted to take
the path of least discipleship,
shine on another road
we are called to take -
worn smooth by humility,
bordered by flowers of grace,
winding through the brokenness
of your heart,
taking us to the kingdom.

star bright:
illumine the shadowed corners
of our world,
where poverty rules with
an iron fist;
where injustice paces
the corridors of power;
where need is easily handed
to the lost, the least, the last -
for it is in these places
we are called to walk.

in our grief,
glisten;
in our sadness,
shimmer;
gleam with hope, with joy,
with peace, with grace:
star light,
star bright,
only star for our life.

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman

for the innocence

for little girls
who play with dolls,
and for those
who are treated
like playthings;

for little boys
who bounce balls
against a wall,
and for those
who curl up fetally,
longing for the comfort
of a womb;

for those
who do not see
another's color,
but a child of God,
and for those
who laugh
at another's accent;

for those who play
in safe backyards,
and for those
whose playground
is potholed by bombs;

for those who pray
before climbing into warm beds,
and for those
whose bed
is a cardboard box;

for those
whose hearts are broken
by the suffering
they see on TV,
and for those
whose lives are shatterd
by indifference;

for all your children,
for the innocents
in their innocence,
we would not only pray,

but act.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

will we . . .

when they went
home that night,
did they hope
the anthem would
be filed away
until three years from now,
or did the tune and words
keep running through their heads
that they couldn't fall asleep?

when they went
back to work
that night,
did they grumble
about the long hours,
the harsh nights,
the low pay with no benefits,
or did they discover
they were now herders
of hope and grace,
a thankless job
no one else would take?

when they snuck
out of Bethlehem,
keeping their faces hooded
from the searching eyes
of the soldiers,
did they forget about the star,
or was its reflection
so strong in their eyes
that it seemed
it was noontime?

when she snuggled
the infant to her breast
as he smuggled them
through the back alleys
to the forgotten road to Egypt,
did they wonder
if they would ever
get back home
or was the promise
so ingrained in their souls
that they knew God
would hear them crying out
for release?

when we go home
this morning,
today, tonight,
from the vigil
at the stable,
will we . . .

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

when

when we long for
a dreamless sleep,
you are working
the graveyard shift
to bring us life;

when we crave
a peaceful life
(no stress, no frills,
no problems, no fuss, please!)
you are down
in the trenches,
bandaging the world's wounded
with hope,
carrying them
to the kingdom's hospital,
giving us a drink
from your deep reservoir
of reconciliation;

when we think
all that is required of us
is a riskless love,
you grow so reckless
in your passion for us
that the choir director
has to compose new pieces
for the angelic chorus;

when we are convinced
we can easily dismiss you
from our daily routines,
you tap us on the shoulder,
and hand us your newborn grace,
asking us to cradle him
in our hearts.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

magnificat

praises piggyback
on top of one another
until my soul topples over;
i toast my God,
taking great gulps of joy.
listening with compassion,
She pours a cup of coffee
for the footsore waitress,
softly whistling 'O Holy Night.
like a grandmother to a daughter,
like a mother to a son,
She teaches the cross-stitch pattern
of mercy
to all who want to learn.
after lifting weights
down at Grace's Gym,
God grabs a pushbroom
to whisk out the garbage
of our minds;
tapping the lobbyists
on the shoulder,
and escorting them
to the children's table,
the immigrants are given
the seats at the head table;
God crams a suite of hope
into our unfurnished souls,
and takes the shoes
off the well-heeled
so the outcasts can walk
the streets of the kingdom.
reminiscing at the dinner table
about our grandparents,
God memorizes our faces
so we can fill her dreams at night.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

come . . .

when the world
chops down my dreams
and i am left
with only a cracked
and crumbling stump,
come . . .
to plant that seed of faith
deep within me
that will blossom
when i least expect it;

when sin's friends
strip me naked
of my hopes,
and i stand exposed
and alone
come . . .
with that ensemble
of joy and delight
that will knock
their socks off;

when my fears
prowl around me,
smacking their lips,
ready to pounce
and devour me,
come . . .
to welcome them
(and me!)
at your Table
where we will break
the chains of bitterness
as we feast on your peace.

come . . .
come . . .
come . . .

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

o come

as we spiral
into the season of stress
with all the demands from
our schools, our families,
our communities, (and yes,
our churches!),
how do we slow down
enough
to walk in your light
and sit with the lonely
in the shadows;
to hold the hands of our spouse
and to fill the emptiness
of the homeless;
to sing carols with our children
and whisper hope
to the lost?

in the waterfall of lights,
through the tangle of tinsel,
out of the cacophony of commercials,
help us to see you
making snow angels with the kids;
to watch you handing out dinner invitations
to the lonely, the outcast,
the neighbor with AIDs;
to hear your carol of peace
to a world
which encourages us
to arm ourselves with fear.

come,
with the life that is to be
(for us)
as you become life
once and all
for us.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Day One

it seems important
(on most days,
according to TV's talkingheads
and radio's angry voices)
to focus on
what separates us . . .
religious, economic, political -
deep-held 'beliefs' and opinions;

we look at our lifestyle
and then at another's
and shake our heads
in disbelief and wonder
at how 'they'
talk, or act, or think;

in these days
is it any wonder
our world is so polarized,
so divided?

but you promise
there will come a time
when Red-staters and skateboarders
will play together
in your kingdom;
when those who hoard
will be shattered
by generosity;
when predators will stop prowling
and protect the most vulnerable.

in that Day
(your Day!)
O Lord,
we will rejoice!

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

questions

how childish they were,
those early questions:
why is science so hard?
what does that little girl think of me?
will 'it' be under the tree?

then, like life,
the questions got harder:
what will be my major?
will i meet that 'right' person?
what's the new boss like?
will 'it' be in my stocking?

now, no longer a child,
it's just an ever lengthening list
i plant to carry with me
till i meet God:
is there something (anything!)
on the other side of death?
are you as faithful as all
the psalmists, the poets,
the preachers tell us?
will 'it' turn out okay for me?

all my alife
(all my life!!!)
i've been carrying
these (and more)
questions,
Wise God.

help me to find
the correct answers -
not just the convenient
ones.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

change

if
i thought
it would change you,
Listening God,
i would indeed
pray without ceasing,
believing that,
then,
you would respond
as i want.

if
i thought
it would change
the people i am praying for
(especially those i know
are not praying for me!),
Attentive God,
i would be on my knees
24/7/365.

so perhaps,
in those very few moments
i begrudge you,
Persistent God,
you would be
gracious enough
to change

me.

(c) 2004/7 Thom M. Shuman

nine out of ten

nine out of ten hours,
i am hard at work,
chained to my computer,
addicted to meetings,
drowning in expectations -
then you show up,
interrupting my stress,
saying, 'they need us down
at the soup kitchen - let's go!'

nine out of ten minutes
i am thinking about
worries, fears, burdens -
then you grab my hand,
pull me down to my knees
beside you,
saying, 'let's pray for the lost,
the last, the least, the little.'

nine out of ten times
i am patting myself on the back
for all i do for you,
racking up points
on salvation's scoreboard -
then you hand me
a bouquet of grace,
whispering, 'have you stopped
and smelled these lately?'

pompous,
swollen-headed,
full of myself,
i am like nine out of ten people -
let this be the one time
and then the next time
and the next . . .

that i turn to you
and say
'Thank You!'

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

by the rivers of babylon

Lord Jesus:
by the park bench
where i sit each morning,
i hang up my giftedness,
my productivity,
my life.
i'm not needed any more;
the company knows best.

out at the mall
where i walk each day,
alone . . .
remembering:
the laughter,
the frustrations,
the gentle touch,
the days and nights
and months and years
before memories are all
i have left to hold.

in pain
with the pain of othes;

in sorrow
for the loss of my friends;

in anguish
over suffering i dare not touch

my wordless cry
filled with questions
i cannot ask
and horrors
too desolate to understand

is lifted to you
who knew the loneliness of life
and the forsakenness of God.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

Stranger than fiction

you set us free
from our addictions
to stress, to money,
to work, whatever -
strange
how quickly we forget
and move back into
those old neighborhoods.

you stock our lives
with the Bread
which never goes stale,
handing us that Cup
which always overflows -
strange
how we think
our shelves are always empty;

you polish the Table
tilll it gleams with your grace,
you are busy all night
preparing the feast -
strange
how often there
aren't enough chairs
for everyone;

we expect everyone
to know us by sight
and call us by name -
strange
how we haven't met
those who just moved in;

we assume you
are just like us -
strange, isn't it

how we don't see you
in the stranger?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

no doubt

i have no doubt
i would need to confess
(if i ever did such a thing!)
to murder,
or infidelity,
or robbery -
i wouldn't want to carry
around those boulders
on my back
the rest of my life.

but what about
these
pebbles in my shoes:
- calling in sick
when i'm sneaking off to the ballpark;
- using creation's gifts
wrecklessly;
- 'massaging' my taxes;
- using words against my family
i would speak to a stranger?

whatever
the size or shape
of my sins,
they are thrown at you,
and the people around me,
Redeemer and Deliverer,

and i must confess them
all.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Leaning

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 me 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
putting on my clay feet
every morning,
striding forth into the world
bent over by my skeptic spirit,
hoping that today,
i might be bowled over
by faith.

until then,
can i lean on you?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

I've Looked at Clouds

she taught your story
to me (and hundreds of other kids),
moving the cloth figures
around the flannelboard landscape,
making Hannah and David,
Jonah and Judith,
Phoebe and Philip
dance before our eyes;

when the widow Gospel
set up house with him,
all the neighbors were surprised,
but then they saw how
anger was remodeled into gentleness,
hollow words were smoothed into promises,
and grudges were set out by the curb
for the garbage collectors to take away;

they were your grace,
that antsy, gabbing, constantly texting
knot of teenagers,
who giggled whil making
ham sandwiches by the dozens,
and then served them
to the street people,
sitting down and sharing their stories,
welcoming the 'least of these'
as if they were family
that hadn't seen in years.

what a crowd!
telling,
living,
being

showr me with their faith,
O God,
that I might be
a witness,
too.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Teach me

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 p
nudge me to get it out
and wear it
till it becomes so frayed and soft,
i could never throw it out
in 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) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

In The Ditch

a ditch
runs through
my heart,
the ice water
of my propriety
carving it deeper and deeper.

i would fill it in
with some fine topsoil
mixed with fertilizer,
then plant it with
a bright bed
of daffodils, geraniums
and an array of shade trees
that would cause my neighbors
to shake their heads
as they pass by,
remarking on its beauty.

but you . . .

you fill it:
with homeless panhandlers
and struggling single mothers
working three jobs;
with teenagers longing
for self-esteem
and seasoned citizens
hoping to unearth their dreams;
with all those who have been robbed
by a world busy building ditches.

and when i try to slip by,
you reach out and trip me,
knowing that it is in that ditch,
and the next one,
and the one after . . .

i find myself,
my neighbor,

You.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Heal Me

heal this reluctant child of yours,
Holy One:

i despise the truth
that pain
is my faithful companion,
but am laoth
to place it in
your scarred hands;

i gnaw on the
bitterness
in my heart,
its tart taste
tingling my tongue,
so i cannot
savor the sweet
Bread of Life;

the millstones
piled on my shoulders
by the world
break my flesh,
but
i fear
the peace
you offer me
will shatter
my arrogant spirit.

heal me,
Holy One,
heal me.

Amen.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

I am

am i . . .
a magnetic strip
that can be swiped and scanned
so my loyalties and love
can be purchased
like a tank of gas or a jug of milk?

am i . . .
a keyboard on which,
with a few swift strokes,
my personality can be
modified, spell-checked
and saved in a new file?

am i . . .
a bank account
just waiting to be hacked into,
and emptied of
all my dreams, my hopes, my joys?

am i . . .
a vineyard
to be eminently domained
by some developer
who wants to build a skyscraper
on the foundation of my heart?

i could be . . .
but
cradled in God's justice,
grounded in God's grace,
planted in God's family,
living in God's heart

i belong to
I AM WHO I AM.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

tickle me, God

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 beleive
there are no miracles left
(at least, for me):
tickle me
with your grace
till i ache
with life.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Is God Triplets or What?

While the theologians have gathered
for their annual
'Decoding the Mystery of the Trinity"
symposium

God is out early every morning,
Grace padding alongside unleashed,
stopping to chat
with the single mother
just getting off the 6 a.m. bus
from her night job;

Jesus is doing
half-pipes
with the "losers"
down at the skate park
and later hanging out
at the video arcade;

Spirit pauses
from wiping the tables
down at the soup kitchen,
stretching her back
till it pops loud enough
to startle Catechism
drowsily purring under the stove;

in the evening,
while they mess up the kitchen
fixing dinner,
they chat about their day,
laughing and shaking their heads
at all they have seen and heard;
then they draw straws
to see whose turn it is
to keep watch during the night,
while the others
stumble off to bed,
yawning and scratching their heads
at the mystery of humanity.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

The Pentecost I Need

i've got a feeling
that if a violent wind
started battering my soul
i would just rund down
to the basement and hide;
but i could use
a gentle nudge
in the morning
to push me towards those
who need my help.

if flames started
darting down from heaven,
my first impulse would be
to call the fire department;
but my heart,
conditioned by the chill
of cynical callousness,
could use some melting.

if i suddenly
spoke in tongues,
i figure folks would start
slowly edging away from me
(if i didn't run from thm!);
but i could use
a new dictionary
filled only
with the language
of gentleness.

i'm not sure
if I need a day
like Pentecost,
or not;
but i know i need
the Spirit as my companion
the rest of my life.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

alpha and omega and me

okay
i think i've got it!

before anything
(any thing!)
existed
you were;

and when nothing
(no thing!)
remains
you will be.

but
what i want
to know:

where you there
the other day
when temptation
cracked the combination
to my heart?

will you be
when death taps me
on the shoulder
and grins,
'wanna go for a walk?'

and should i whisper
'come,
come soon,
i need you
right now!'

will you?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Twins

she would let me snuggle
up next to her at night
and read me story after story,
until i dozed off
with dreams of joy and hope . . .
and i learned that your lap
is always empty - 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 the Universe?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Acts 11:17

the homeless, the hungry,
the poor:
always complaining about
their circumstances.
why can't they pull themselves
up by the boot straps like i did?

yet,
you hold open the doors,
waying them in, saying,
'welcome! there's room
for all!'

i wish people
would stop whining and crying
because life is so unbearable.

but
you reach out
and touch their wet cheeks
wth nail-scarred hands.

travelers on a path
of desperation,
searching for One
who has living water
get in my way
as i hurry through life,

and
you remove the stones
in their path,
including me.

who am i
to get in your way,
my God?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

The Kittens

you promise
to be with me
when death takes my hand
to lead me into life . . .

but how will i know . . .

when i sneak down
the shadowed alleys,
hoping to find
that quick fix
for my broken dreams. . .

when I look up
from the muddy bottom
of desolation's ditch,
wondering where are my friends
who promised
('we'll be there!')
to pull me out. . .

when my addiction
to every sales pitch
i see and hear
trips me up and i fall into
greed's gutter . . .

. . . that you are with me then
and there?

i only need to look behind me -
and there are Goodness & Mercy,
those two stray kittens who follow me
wherever i go,
wherever i am -
just waiting for me to pick them up
and welcome them
into my heart.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Get Up!

my burdens, struggles,
worries and doubts
lie on the floor
where I scattered them
last night
as i crawled into bed;

most mornings,
with tottering trust,
meager mercy,
and no hope to spare,
when i cast out my life,
it seems
i only pull in
despair's emptiness.

but there you are
down in the kitchen:
flour all over the counters,
dirty pots stacked in the sink,
juice poured,
tea steeped,
hollering up the stairs,
"Get up, lazy faith!
Breakfast's ready!"

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

morning

yesterday
morning came:
i put the least on Sadness
and took him for a walk in the rain;
i put the kettle on
and watched my hopes steam away;
i stirred my life
and gorged on its bitterness.

tomorrow
morning will come:
the job will shove me
out of bed;
the dirty laundry will trip me
on the way to the shower;
TVs talking heads
will remind me how terrible life is.

but this morning?
this morning:
daffodills spread their petals
for the one who comes weeping
for her Lord;

this morning:
angels laugh
as death is kicked out
of the tomb;

this morning:
Jesus does cartwheels
through the graveyard,
splashing through
the puddles of our tears
and into our hearts.

Alleluia! Amen!

(c) 2004 Thom M. Shuman

Easter Garden

this Word
who squeezed
the vowels of chaos
into this rough world,
who spit
and filled the oceans,
who wrote on the ground,
carving the Grand Canyon;

daffodills
lift their faces to
this Light,
while grass races
toward it
like a wave;

trees
cup their leaves
to catch
this Water,
clapping with delight
at the rich banquet;

this playful Poet
who gives
whiskers to kittens,
skipping hearts to lambs,
canticles to frogs;

this Breath
blowing into
our grandparents' nostrils;

this One. . .

is the Gardener!

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Holy Saturday

what were they doing today?

Cleaning toilets
trying to forget
their dreams
draining away?

maybe Peter wished
he was hom
eating warmed-up
passover food
trying to forge
a way out
of his
wilderness.

did Joanna
have her Saturday list:
groceries to buy,
errands to run,
kids to a soccer game,
a full honey-do jar?

perhaps Herod and Pilate
nursed hangovers
out too late last night
hitting every pub
on the Street of Tears
till they got
thrown out of the
Last Station.

were children
being shushed by
fear-ridden parents,
told
to stop playing
'soldiers and messiahs?'

did the angels
tip-toe
around heaven
afraid
to speak
too loudly
wondering
what with the Word
God was doing
behind
that rolled stone?

what were they doing today . . .

before God
yanked the legs
out
from under
death?

(c) 2001 Thom M. Shuman

where once

feet that danced
through the streets
of Jerusalem
welcoming the Messiah
now softly pad
the back alleys
in search of shadows;

hearts that leapt
with joy at the sight
of David's true son
are thrown out
with Golgotha's
garbage;

hands that wrapped
a new born son
in bright bands of cloth
now shroud
his broken body
and lay him
gently,
tenderly,
softly
in death's manger.

where glad hosannas
rang out
there is now
only
the silent
weeping
heart
of
God.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

if he had spoken

no one asked him . . .

not the chief priest
or his bought judges,
though
fear would
have deafened them;

not the governor,
balancing
political options
on
his decision;

not the mob:
pockets full of nightmares,
stomachs full of poverty,
voices brimming with bile
no goodness or mercy
flowing over
in their cupped hands;

no one asked him
(but don't you think)

Jesus himself
would have said
(maybe he whispered it
to himself):

give them Barabbas!

(c) 2001 Thom M. Shuman

in the closet . . .

hmmmmm . . .

what shall i wear?

that blouse
has a wrinkle in it;
this tie
still has that gravy stain;
these pants . . .
just a little bit out of style.

what shall i wear?
how should i look?
will people notice
the 'presentation'
i try so hard 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 put on
us.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Of all the people

Rock star,
politician,
pro athlete;
of all the people
you could have been,
you chose to become
a servant -

for us.

Power,
wealth,
divinity;
of all the privileges
you might have grasped,
you chase to take hold
of a cross -

for us.

Paris,
Cancun,
Los Angelies;
of all the roads
you might have taken,
you chose the one
running through Jerusalem -

for us.

of all the pople
you might have died for -

you did . . .

Amen.

(c) 2004 Thom M. Shuman

A Fragrant Offering

because we have
preserved our joy
in manna jars
for the long winter of despair
and stored them
in the dark corners of our soul,
we have forgotten
its gritty taste;

because we have
put a tight lid
on our grace
and put 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, O God,
and make us
a fragrant offering
to the world.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

hungering

Abba:
hungering for more
that we deserve,
we demand our way
and you give it.

we stuff ourselves
on the empty husks
of pleasure and selfishness,
our shallow souls
hungering for more;

we party our way through life,
awakening in sin's gutters,
our hollow hearts
hungering for more;

then
stumbling and stammering,
we hunger to find
our way back to you -

where
you fling wide
heaven's doors,
dragging your stainless robe
through the litter of our sin,
running
to sweep us up
in your arms
and carry us home

where we will hunger
no more.

Abba.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

in this life

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 a mound of mercy,
pouring grace over it
and asking me to pass it on
to my worst enemy.

in those moments
when i am so dehydrated
by not having my desires met
that i drink deeply from the fountains
of self-pity and pettiness,
you turn the handle of hope,
filling that dented cup of compassion
you have had since the beginning of time,
and hand it to me, saying,
'Drink up! It's good for you!"

in this life
where it seems
i never get enough of me,
help me to seek
to get enough of you, O God;

help me.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

yet . . .

in this season of holiness,
in that unholy mess i call life,

i yearn for your face, O God,
but i see only the anger
of those who rush by me;

i hunger for your word of hope,
only to be deafened
by the voices of bitterness
on talk shows;

i ache for your healing touch,
as i am bitterly gripped
by doubt and despair;

i thirst for someone who
will gather up my brokenness
and shape me into your peace,
but find few guides
in this maddened culture.

yet . . .
in the laughter of children,
in the gentle encouragement of a teacher,
in the comforting laps of grandparents,
in the mentoring hope of a teenager . . .

i believe we can see
your goodness.

Blessed are those who come in your name,
O Lord,
even to me.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

A More Comfortable Savior

Lent makes me so uncomfortable.

i prefer to remain in my 'zone,'
lounging in my chair;
glued to my plasma screen;
relaxing after a long day;
but you would lead me
into the wilderness

into those uncomfortable places
of tempting,
of power,
of testing.

i would like to ehar words
about success,
and praise,
and feel pats on my back,
but you talk about
self-denial;
you mention the cost
of following God;
you invite me (!)
to shoulder
a cross.

couldn't you have sent
a more comfortable
Savior,

O God?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Ash Wednesday

yesterday,
i stuffed myself
on pancakes and pleasure,
on chocolate and self-indulgence;
now,
empty me
of all those delicious desires
which 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.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

You Talkin' To Me?

you can't be speaking to me . . .
can you?

after all,
i am a selfish person
in a culture which
worships the self;

i haven't felt the brush
of seraphim wings
(though my beloved
did caress my cheek
yesterday);

no hot coals
have purged my soul
(yet, there are
those kisses my children
give me);

and it is easier
to pull in my fears,
clean them up
and store them away
for tomorrow
then to let them down
into the deep waters
of discipleship
and servanthood.

you can't be calling me . . .
can you?

(c) Thom M. Shuman

what to do, what to do?

we don't know
what to do with you,
Jesus!

home from college
on spring break,
you stand up in church
and read the scriptures
with such wonder and awe,
all we can do is nudge one another:
'I had him in kindergarten,
he was always ahead of everyone else!'
'he was always helping the younger kids
when he was in youth group."

We can hardly wait to hear
your sermon . . . until
you start talking about
how we are
to welcome the immigrants,
to open the jail doors,
to give more to those
who will only squander it.
Then we whisper (in a stage voice):
'whose bright idea was it
to ask him to preach?'
'somebody out to throw him out
on his keester!'

and so,
we close our hearts to you,
and let you slip through
our souls,
as you go to fulfill
God's hopes for us,
wishing we would follow you
on that winding road
of grace.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Which three?

"...Now faith, hope and live abide, these three..."

doubt moves in
and props its feet
at the hearth of my soul,
warming them
on the coals of my unbelief;
while faith
rents space
for a few days
in the summers of my life.

despair is the frayed,
soft corduroy jacket
that fits comfortably
on my shoulders
while hope
is a hair shirt
i resist wearing.

impatience is the face
i put on
each morning
in order to greet the world,
while love
is that mask
i wear occasionally,
removing it
when i look in the mirror,
not recognizing myself.

which three will abide in me, O God?

which three?

Amen.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

words

i can go through
a couple of hankies
at a movie
or while reading
certain books

but

i cannot remember
when i last
(if ever)
wept
after hearing your words,
God of every language.

am i indifferent
bored
too stressed
exhausted . . .

is my heart hardened,
my soul shriveled;
do my ears recoil
as words such as yours?

perhaps
is should weep
because
i don't . . .

May the words of your mouth
shatter the complacency
of my heart,
my Strength,
my Joy,
my Redeemer.
Amen.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

for my sake

why do i have trouble
telling others about you,
Steadfast Heart?

others call me names,
but you whisper
softly
into my heart
'You are My Delight,"
cradling me in the palm
of your hand
like a precious gift.

running on empty,
the arctic chill of loneliness
cracking my heart,
my soul parched by despair,
you touch my lips
with living water,
resting me in the oasis
of your grace.

you give me gifts
until my life brims over,
and then challenge me:
'now, pour yourself out
for my children.'

for my sake
(and for the sake of others)
i will not keep quiet
but shout to the world:
'you won't believe
what God
is doing . . .!'

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

now what

now what will you do
with those gifts?

now what will you do
with that love
God has given to you -
to share with those
you don't like?

now what will you do
with that hope
God put under the tree -
can you pass it on
to a despairing neighbor?

now what will you do
with that joy
you didn't expect -
hoard it all for yourself
or hand it to a grieving widow?

now what will you
do with that grace
God stuck in your stocking -
leave it there
or find the stranger who needs it?

now what will you do
with all that forgiveness
God has given to you
in the Babe -
throw it out
with the wrapping paper
or offer it to the one
who has hurt you so much?

now
that Christmas is over,
what will you do?

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Micah 5:2

Micah 5:2a

did you worry
you should have
sent another prophet;
or did you want to
send your Best
for the least?

did you wonder
if you had chosen
the wrong route
to our souls,
or were you so determined
to find the lost
that you took that first step
anyway?

did you have any doubts
about the family,
the location, the timing,
you had chosen -
or was the first thing
on your mind
that sign to the last
of the world?

did it cross your mind
to place the Gift
under the tree
of the powerful and wealthy,
the wise and successful;
or did you just know
the little
would open it carefully
and cradle it in their hearts?

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

if you came
with a fistful of anger,
who could endure?

but you come
with open hands,
eager to grasp our own
in love.

if you came
with the fire of judgment,
who could endure?

but you come
with the light of grace
to show us the way.

if you came
hardened against our sin,
who could endure?

but you come
holding us in your heart,
so we might have life,

if you came
bearing bad news,
we might be able to handle it . . .

but can we endure
the gift
of good news?

even so,come,
Lord Jesus,
come.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

but you came

if you came in the spring,
we could expect newness,
bright flowers
to soften your path,
the songs of birds
to herald your coming:

but you came
in winter's despair,
the chill of complacency
settled upon us.

if you came in the summer,
we could expect you
to be bronzed,
blonde,
stepping from the sea:

but you came
in a stable
a wrinkled baby
with animals for midwives,
and angels your playmates.

help us to set down
our parcels of expectations
to reach down and scoop
you up in our arms,

your laughing breath
giving us life.

Amen.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

truth?

what is truth?

kings are old,
or dead:
dust collecting on
history's bookshelf;

so,
why would we need
kings
(or 'constitutional monarchs')
in this day of ipods/mp3s,
lightning fast email,
instant connect with anyone,
anywhere,
anytime
in the world?

what is truth?

truth is a commodity
traded to the highest bidder;
truth is a documentary
based on a novel;
truth is what comes out
of the end of a gun;

what is truth?

Truth is who you are,
Jesus
(who would be enthroned
in my heart, if I only would
let you),
as we discover
chasing to catch up with you:
and Truth is what you do,
on the cross,
dying for Pilate,
for Israel,
for feckless disciples,
for me.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

You love us beyond imagination
and forgive us beyond our wildest hopes;
you withhold nothing from us,
but grace us with everything we need.
You guide us when we stumble off
the paths which lead to right living,
you pull us to our feet
when we trip over our sins.
You feed us from the bounty of your joy,
and keep us close to your heart
when we are fearful of the future.
Words of thanksgiving can never express
all which you have done for us,
God of goodness and mercy,
and so, we lift our praise to you
in joy and hope.

thanks

Let us give thanks to the Lord,
telling of God's wonders.

We will tell our families of what God has done;
we will share the stories of grace and hope.

Let us give thanks to the Lord,
singing songs of joy to God.

We will tell our neighbors of how God has touched us,
we will share stories of renewal and healing.

Let us give thanks to the Lord,
praising the One to whom we belong.

We will tell others of God's presence in our lives;
we will share the goodnesss which has been given to us.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

no easy thanks

it will be easy
to be filled with gratitude
for friends and family
as we gather together:
so make us mindful
of the lonely,
the friendless,
the forgotten.

it will be easy
to lift a prayer of thanks
as i carve the turkey
this week:
so give me the words
to speak out
for the mother in Darfur
cradling her hungry child
in her arms.

it will be easy
to be filled with hope
as we take a long walk
after such a big meal,
and enjoy the freedom to do so:
so help us to remember
those held captive
by violence and war,
by addiction and pain,
by brokenness and despair.

it would be easy
to simply give thanks:
so intensify my compassion,
broaden my concern,
enlarge my heart
with your grace.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

risky business

You ask me to take a risk,
O God,
but i am not that sort:
i've always played it safe,
and sensible.

it it is cold and wet outside,
i make sure i bundle up;
after all,
i can't risk missing work
because of a cold, can i?

when i pull into traffic,
or cross the street on foot,
i hesitate just a moment,
look both ways first,
(so i won't risk getting hurt).

when i work in the yard,
or risk playing with the tools
in my garage,
i handle them very carefully:
they might bite!

and when it comes to my money,
i am very frugal
and practical
(i think!)
so my future is not at risk.

now,
You ask me to take a risk,
O God,
to consider letting go,
to ponder giving more,
to think about stepping
forth into your risk future:
in faith.


(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Post-election

The TV ads are history:
now
let us see one another
as sisters and brothers;

the vitriolic words have faded:
now
let us speak
of community,
of integrity,
of shared commitment;

the fists that were shaken
at opponents are unclenched:
now
let them reach out
to lift up the fallen,
to open a book for a child,
to serve a meal to the hungry,
to offer a job to the one
standing by the side
of society.

Election Day is over,
Healing God,
now
let us live together,
laugh together,
envision together,
serve together.
Amen.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

sitting duck

i would wear
steel-toed boots
to nudge my friends
out of the way,
or high-heeled boots
so i am not dirtied
by the muck of the world,
but you rub
my Achilles' heel raw
with the pebble of
servanthood;

i would take
self-defense courses
to protect myself
from all the blows
the world throws at me,
but you pull off
my gloves
and show me
the wide open stance
of grace;

i would build a fence
of cynicism and doubt
around my soul
so no one can sneak past
with their pain and need,
but you hold out
your heart to me,
naked and bleeding
from its brokenness.

Jesus, Son of David,
have pity on me:
so when I want to be
safe and secure,
i can become a sitting duck
for your vulnerability.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

where you sit

we leave our box seats
at the symphony or ball park,
and pray you won't catch our eye
as we pass you
sitting with the homeless;

we wait for a few minutes
at the doctor's office
to get a $10 shot
so we won't catch the flu,
while half a world away
you sit for a week
hoping medicine
which will cost you a year's wages
finds its way to your village;

we sit in our home theaters,
watching the latest "reality"
on our plasma screems,
while you sit in the darkness,
rocking your child asleep,
as she cries from the ache
of an empty stomach.

Lord Jesus:
when
(like James and John)
we want to be at your side
in glory:

remind us where you sit.

Amen.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Mirror, mirror, on the wall

this morning,
in the mirror,
i saw the person
i want to be:
dauntless, doubtless,
capable, caring;

at lunch,
when i peeked,
i saw a stranger
who resists
every invitation
to illimitable life;

tonight,
i glanced
out of the corner of my eye
i saw him!
searching,
stuttering,
suffering

Job.

Grace me, O God,
so
(if i dare look
tomorrowP
i will see
only you . . .

whose i am.

Amen.

(c) 2003 Thom M. Shuman

Finding

you can be found:

in the rich, deep aom
of our apathy,
where you plant
the seeds of justice;

behind the barbed words
of our angry retorts,
as you whisper
of our oneness;

in the list
of our exhausting schedules,
when you pencil in
oases for our weariness;

through the tangled briars
of our deep-rooted hates and fears,
as you clear a path
for your healing peace.

and so

in the cracking of our hearts,
and the brokenness of the Bread,
we will find you;

when we empty the Cup,
refill it with our gifts,
and offer it to a little child,
we will find you;

as we move the chairs around
to make room for everyone
at your Table:

we will find you.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman