Dust Shaker (Mark 6:1-13)

      dust shaker

unmoved
by the cries
of the poor,
   shake the dust
   out of our ears
      so we can listen;

uncompassionate
to the brokenness
of our own king,
   shake the dust
   off our hearts
      so we can give them
            away;

callous
towards those
different from us,
   shake the dust
   from our souls
      so we may embrace them;

amassed
by years of hoarding,
   shake the dust
   off our nest eggs of
            blessing,
      so we may offer grace
      to the hopeless;

shake the dust
off our unbelief,
Son of Mary,
   so the gospel
   might be lived in
            us.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

Thom

out of harm's way (Mark 3:20-35)

petition in hand
   you are about
            to go
      out the door,
   ready to stop
      every person
            in the street,
   asking them to fight
      against today's
            injustice,
but we grab
                you
   right before
      you grasp the
           doorknob
imploring
         "but we haven't
      finished breakfast"

pulling on your
            winter coat,
   and wrapping a muffler
            around your neck,
      you pick up the box of
                sandwiches
   for the overnight
                shelter,
but
         we walk over,
   dangling the car keys
   in front of you,
            coldly stating,
      "you're not going anywhere
       with the roads so
                   icy."

turning Rublev's
                Trinity
      towards the
         wall;
forgetting to pick
   up your clothes
   at the cleaners
     (again! really?);
hiding your sandals
         in the back of the
   closet,

we can come up
with dozens of ways to
                restrain
         you
   from bringing the
         kingdom
into
    our lives,
    our churches,
    our world.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

the juggler (Trinity Sunday)

i toss
         God
   into the air,
      watching the divine
   spin and sparkle
              in the
         air;

next i add
         Jesus
   to the mix, carefully
      throwing each
      from one hand
            to the
         other, confident
   i will not drop either
               One;

then, pulling
         Spirit
   from my back pocket, i begin
   that simply
               complex
      process of keeping all
         Three
               in the air;

as i settle
into the rhythm
   of keeping the
         holy community
   under my control
      (propelling them
       faster and faster
             until they
             become a
          blur
      no one can
         comprehend),
   the audience sits
            spellbound
      by my theological
         dexterity,

and none of us
               hear
   your gentle whisper,
      'why do you think
       it is all an
            act?'

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

justus (Acts 1:21-26)

my fingers intertwined
      with the chain link
                   fence,
   i watch the two
                   teams
      play one another,
         casting me
                   aside,
   as there was only one
                   position
         left and two
            had shown up
                   to play . . .
. . . so i'll go home
         toss the ball
            with the kid
            next door,whose
   mom works two jobs;

after all those years of
                   practice
         (so many hours!),
      i was so hoping
      to get one of the
                   leads,
         but the director
   chose someone else . . .
. . . so i'll take my
                   place
         in the back row
         of the
                   chorus,
   helping those on either
                   side
      when they stumble;

i thought this
would be the
                   year
   when i would be
                   chosen
      to be one of the leaders
      in the church, but when
   the ballots were counted
      one of the pastor's
                    'pets'
         had won . . .
. . . so i'll keep on
   handing out the bulletins
      and cleaning up the
                    sanctuary,  
   teaching the youth class
      for the 23rd year,
   showing up for all the
                    work days;

i may have lost
the toss of the
                    dice,
   but i haven't lost my

faith.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

who's in; who's out?

as the greeters
      stand at attention (like
      tv show doormen in their
      gold braided coats), politely
   opening the door for the insiders
   with a knowing nod,
         you knock over the
         neatly stacked bulletins
                and as they scramble
                on their hands and knees
             to clean up the mess
      you sneak in all those
         whom the world has cut
                       off;

where the songs 
        are so old the words
           float in the sky
           beside the dust motes
       from the hymnals
              and the organ
              plays at an
         undertaker's pace,
            you sit down at the piano
   and rock the house
      with riffs Dave and Duke
         would envy;

when those who
look like a
              Bradbury short story
      arrive, only to be
         told sotte voce
   as the usher gazes over
   the half empty space, that
            the church is filled
         to capacity,
      you stand up and
                     holler
   "I'll give up my seat!"

and First Xenophobic Church
will never be the same.

(c) 2012  Thom M. Shuman

yea (psalm 23)

though i find myself
sinking in the sea
of stress and success,
   you buoy me
   with your living waters
          until i am at
                         peace;

though i run down
amaranthine corridors
late for never-ending meetings,
    you detour me
    onto the walkways
          leading to your
                        joy;

though i stumble through
the thorn bushes of a
culture which seeks
to tear my soul to shreds,
    you prepare a picnic
       in the garden of
                        grace;

though i am famished
and malnurtured from
wandering the shadows
of sin and death,
    you hand me a slice
          of life's bread slathered
          with the sweet honey of
                          hope;

though i try to flee
from the very life
i convince myself
i am seeking,
    you slow me down so
                         goodness and mercy
       can catch up with me and

push me
       into your
                          heart.

© 2012 Thom M. Shuman

wondering (Mark 11:11)

leaving everyone wondering,
   he wandered back to
            Bethany,
      not so much to hide,
      but to walk back
         to that open
                grave,
            simply standing
         and staring,
                his thoughts
                chasing after
            one another in his
                   heart;

finding himself across
   the supper table from
          Lazarus, while
     the sisters clattered
        around the kitchen with
     the dishes, stacking them
             for the guys
             to wash later,
       he asked
          (for the millionth
           time, or so it seemed),
   'tell me what it was like:
       the darkness like a stone
                on your chest,
          the silence wrapped
             tight around you
                  like a shroud,
       the minutes stretching out
              into eternity,
                 while you listened
                 for the feathery
                    footsteps.
          tell me again, Laz,
          was it worth it?

the waiting, I mean,
   and the wondering.'

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman  

my hour (John 12:20-33)

i wish to see
         Jesus
   in the panhandler
   on the street:
             but
      the stained, tattered clothes,
         the unkempt hair,
            the acridness clustered
            around him
   cloud my eyes;

i wish to hear
         Jesus
   in the politicians
      whose decisions i cannot
             support,
   in the evangelist
      mouthing platitudes to the
             pain-full,
   in the talk-show callers
       spewing hateful bile,
                  but all these words
   clog my ears;

i wish to meet
         Jesus
   in the tattoed skateboarder
            riding the rails
            down at the school,
   in the hip-hopper
            jamming at the
            bus stop,
   in the goths
            hanging outside the
            arcade,
                   but too quickly
               i cross the street
               searching for my
                       twins.

      Jesus,
   why would you wish
            to see
               to hear
            to meet
me?

(c) Thom M. Shuman

persistence (number 21:4-9; psalm 107:107:1-3, 17-22; ephesians 2:1-10; john 3:14-21)

 seduction's snakes
         entwine
   themselves ever tighter
   around my soul,
      biting deeply
      into my heart, venom
         deadening my hopes
            of remaining faithful
   to you,
               then
      you rush up, and with
         the sharp edge of your
               love,
            make the sign of the
                    cross,
   and slowly suck the poison
      out

thinking i was
         (finally)
      weaned from you,
   i find myself
            confundussed
        by the music of the
               Snake Charmer,
      when, 
   hearing me mew like a lost
                  kitten,
         your Word comes
         running up to me,
      breast bared so
            i might taste
        hope;

leaning on my
                shovel,
   having filled the pockets
      of all i deem
                unworthy
         with judgment's
             gritty gravel,
      i do not see
               you
          take those scissors
             formed from the
             cross's beams,
   cutting holes in everyone's
      pockets, giggling as they
         join hands and begin
            to dance to the tune
      grace plays on the
               harmonica.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

caesarea philippi (mark 8:31-38)

early each morning,
   you stand behind me,
      Valet of my life,
            straightening the collar
               on my shirt, rolling
         the lint off my pants leg,
            handing me my cross
            before i walk out
                      the door,
   whispering,
      'don't forget this'

if
            my cross turns out
to be you,
      Juncture of choices, with your
         uncomfortable hopes,
         difficult words,
         uncompromising stare,
   may it dig into my shoulder
            just enough
            to remind me,
      but not so much
      i become too callused
         to feel
               you;

when that little
         tear
      in my cross threatens
   to widen,
            take out your
            scarlet thread and
               your darning egg,
          Seamstress of hope,
   mending it so my soul
      will not slip out
               unnoticed.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

gggrrrooowwwlll (Mark 1:9-15)

my kitten, Apathy,
   settles down in my lap
   as if it were a nest,
       contentedly purring so long
                     that i become
               convinced
                          there is nothing
     i can
                (or need) to do
        for the brokenness of the
                  world;

putting the leash on
                                      Envy,
    he drags me through the
              day,
       stopping to sniff
       every place the rich
                      leave their mark,
           sitting at the end of the
                         driveway, looking
              up at the mcmansion,
                   turning to stare at me,
                   with a  look on his face,
    'wouldn't you like to live there?'

Lust, Temptation, Greed
chase each other
                around and around
                the fish tank (like the
                             3 Stooges at work),
    pausing every five minutes
                                        or so,
         to swim to the top, imploring
                  'feed us, feed us!'

oh my!
                             if only it were
   lions and tigers and bears
       i have to contend with,
              but in my wilderness
         they are so domesticated,
                        so every-day,
                        so comfortable,
           that i never notice
                             my
wild beasts.

© 2012  Thom M. Shuman

reduction (Ash Wednesday)

greed, envy, worry,
doubt, brokenness, grief:
   you take the juices
   of our burnt out lives,
      pouring them into
      the Spirit, setting
            the temperature on low
         and
   as you gently keep stirring,
      you mix in the crumbs
         from the Table,
            adding a dash of
            of the Cup's nectar,
      some sprigs of time,
      a couple of hope leaves, 
   patiently waiting for
         the sauce of
               grace
      to emerge;

almost forgetting the place
where you stored them,
         you take the palms you
         had gathered up off the road
      while the crowd scurried
      on towards Calvary,
   and with a pair of old scissors,
   you slowly snip them up into
             smaller pieces,
         and when there is
         plenty, you strike a match
      and set them ablaze, your prayers rising
                like incense,
   singing a love song, as the ashes
           pile up and up, enough
      to baptize us in humble
         discipleship.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

until (Mark 9:2-9)

until 

we see the faces 

of those tossed into
the world's garbage piles
dazzling bright with 

hope and wholeness;

until
we respect the prophets
we have been yearning for
in the hip-hopped, doo-ragged
teenagers strutting 

through the malls;

until 

we hear God's sweet
songs of peace and reconciliation 

in the mother tongues
of all we turn
a deaf ear to;

until 

we catch a glimpse 

of you (out of the corner 

of our shut-tight eyes) 

coming down off 

the shelf where we store you, 

to enter our frayed lives;

maybe 

we should have nothing to say . . .
      
until.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

when the time is right

speak . . .

. . .aloud
        for those whose voices
        have been stilled
        by all who know best;
. . .in whispers,
        to a child
        tossing and turning
            in fear's fever;
. . .caroling
        the joy of bathing
        in grace's sweet arms.

keep quiet . . .
   
. . .tongue-tied
        when caressed
        in a seaside sunset;
. . .tight-lipped
        rather than flapping
        one's gums
            in gossip;
. . .muting
        that inalienable right
        to lash out
            in anger.

there is a time to speak
    as well as a time to be silent . . .

may i discern
the right time,
    Word of my heart.

(c)  Thom M. Shuman

wait (Isaiah 40:21-31)

after
they pull the curtains shut
             around the bed
   (so we can have "some peace
              and quiet")
       and walk away softly
          murmuring their expertise,
   you
            stick your head in
      wearing that rainbow wig,
      the big red nose that
               HONKs when you push
                 it,
         those silly oversized
                     shoes,
   and, taking your seltzer bottle
            filled from the river of life,
      you squirt fear and worry (who
         had plopped themselves down
         in the bedside chairs) soaking
             them until they run down
             the hall, threatening to call
                     their lawyers;

finding our backs
               up against the goal line,
   wondering if we have any strength left
          after being battered and
                   bruised by that team
             filled with spots on the CT scan,
                bank foreclosure notices,
                   another job application rejected,
                that bully in the schoolyard.

   when the ref blows the whistle
            for the 2-minute warning,
      you gather us around you
          (Spirit going around to each
                             of us,
              giving deep drinks of
                     GraceAde),
        and looking deep into our 
souls
           you simply whisper,
   'have you not heard,
    have you not known,
       have you forgotten?'

(c) 2012  Thom M. Shuman


 

stumblebum (Ist Corinthians 8:1-13)

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)

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)

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

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

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