alterations, no charge (Matthew 6:24-34

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)

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

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)

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)

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)

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)

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

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

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.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

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

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)

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)

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)

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.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

the lamb (Luke 15:3-7)

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

leaning, 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 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

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

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

hard

    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.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

miraculous (1st Kings 17:8-24)

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.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

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

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!'

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

Holy Humor Sunday

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.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

because (John 12:1-8)

because

we have preserved our joy

in manna jars

    for the long winter of despair,

    storing them in the dark corners

                of our souls,

        we have forgotten

        its gritty taste;

because

we have put a tight lid

on our joy,

    and put it in the back 

    of the pantry,

            we have forgotten

            how it can tickle

            our noses;

because

we are so busy 

    prattling pious platitudes

    about the poor, the least, the lost,

            we ignore your words

            which anoint them

            as your children;

because

we have put up 

the shutters and storm doors

    to keep your future

    from sneaking in,

        we have missed

        the sweet breeze

        carrying your hope

             to us;

because

we are who we are,

        restore us, Holy Grace,

    and make us 

    a fragrant offering

            to the world.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

jordan

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.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

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

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

    we

        would . . .

 . . .  day after day.

(c) 2009  Thom M. Shuman

canticle 127

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 . . .

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

all day, every day

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?

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

tumbling act (mark 10:46-52)

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.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

able? (mark 10:35-45)

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?

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

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

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?

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

one size fits all

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?

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

and taking a child . . .

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!

(c) 2009  Thom M. Shuman

don't walk?

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?'

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

song of jesus

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

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

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