capernaum (Luke 7:1-10)

in the child
            sleeping at
   the shelter,
  dreaming of a job for
       her dad
     and an apartment
         for her family. . .

in the mother
            helping
      her son with his
         homework
               so he can pass
               the entrance exam
            for the private school
      her third job will pay
            for . . .

in the senior
            who gets up
         in the middle of the
      night,
               to change the
            wet bedding of
         his alzheimered wife,
      believing she will
                         (finally)
                  remember his name
               at
                     breakfast . . .

we encounter that
         faith
      we thought we would
   never
               find
               again.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

a prayer for Moore, Oklahoma

O God, hear our prayers:

for teachers
   who became tornado shelters
   as they covered their children
          with their bodies;

of parents
   whose hearts shattered
   at the sight of the bearer
   of bad news;

for children
   whose last image
   was that of a beloved
               playmate,
      before they saw
      your weeping face;

for rescuers,responders, searchers
   whose grief must
   be left at home
   until their work
                  is done;

for families
   whose earthly goods
   consist of
      a picture in a
             broken frame,
      a half-torn letter,
      a broken kitchen chair;

for all
   whose beloved community
   has now become that
             shadowed valley
             of loss;

for all your people,
O God,
      hear our prayers.

(c) 2013  Thom M. Shuman

maybe (John 17:21)

we would be one

if that place
across the street
   would stop braggin'
   about all its
              missions;

if those big box
        entertainmentplexs
      would realize
      how serious worship
           must be;

if others
      would recognize
    that certain doctrines
         just can't be
         compromised;

if everyone
      would just stop
            fighting
        over the questions
        we already have
               answered.

we could be one
                if
       it wasn't for
  us.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

almost (Easter 6-C)

it almost didn't happen:
   every door was slammed
                in our faces,
   every road became more
                 and more
              potholed,
   the shadows chased us down
                 each alley
         until we hit the wall,
      then
             you put on your hardhat,
             unfolded the blueprints,
             rolled up your sleeves,
         and built that city
         which is open to everyone;

it almost didn't happen:
   your bed was unslept in,
            empty hangers in
                  the closet,
      your laptop and cell phone
            left on the desk,
   and the house echoed with
                the emptiness
                of our hearts,
      then
            the doorbell rang,
         and when we opened the door,
            the Babysitter stood there,
       a big smile on her face,
       suitcases full of peace
                at her side,
         and gathering up our
                           fears
            she took them out to
                     the curb
          for the trash pickup
          scheduled next morning.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

marching orders (John 13:31-35)

i could step
      over the homeless
               woman
      sleeping on the
                  sidewalk,
         or i could
   lift her to her
   feet, embracing her as my
               sister,
      as you have . . .

i could continue
   to carry that grudge
         in my heart, letting
      it rub blisters
      all over my soul,
         or i could
   forgive that person
   who gave it to me so
                  long ago,
      as you have . . .

i could keep
            a list
         of all those who
         step out of line, not
      heeding all the
                 rules
      carved into stone
                 weathered
            by time,
         or i could
   invite everyone to join
                      hands,
      dancing in that circle
      where all are welcome
               just as the are,
        
as you have . . .

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

The Lord is (Psalm 23)

The Lord is a first responder
    who runs towards the blast
    not away from it;

the Lord is a trauma nurse
    who is in her car in the parking lot
    ready to go home after her shift,
    but goes back in when she sees
    the ambulances arrive;

the Lord is employees
    who turn their restaurant
    into a shelter for the injured
    and frightened;

the Lord is a mother
    who makes sure her home
    is secure and then checks
    on her neighbors;

the Lord is a father
    who comforts his children
    while his own fears
    assail him . . .

in the darkest of valleys,
   the Lord is
   always with us.

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

meanwhile (Easter 3-C)

we are still struggling
   to come up with ways to
             rationally,
        carefully,
    all-so-theologically
                 explain
      just what happened
      a couple of weeks
                     ago

         and

you are
            blinding
   people with your grace
      so they can find
      the right road;

you are
            jumping into
        the Pit,
   cupping your hands together
      so people can put a foot
                 in them, getting
        a boost up into the
             kingdom;

you are
            holding hands
   with all the kids, singing:
     'ring around the throne,
      God never leaves us alone;
      amen!  amen!  we all fall down!'

you are
           standing at the grill,
      sliding the fish and
                  bread
      onto the warm plates, hollering
             to the disciples,
   'orders up!'

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

doubt-less

       
conjoined at that 
            new birth 
      you spoke of 
      just before dawn 
               broke, 
   my lifelong companion 
   promised never 
          to leave me 
          stranded, especially 
     as i sought 
        to follow down 
           those mystery-filled 
           paths you 
   wandered, 
                 until 
      that evening 
            you pointed the 
        Way 
           with your scars, 
    and taking her 
              trembling hand, 
     we took 
     that first 
                 hesitant 
   step into 

belief.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

just suppose

what if 
   the homeless are 
               right, 
      that affordable housing 
      for everyone is a 
             possibility 
        and not a problem; 
 
what if 
   the poor are 
        telling the truth, 
     that we silence their voices, 
     stepping right past them as if 
               they were invisible, 
          in our rush to be their 
        advocate; 
 
what if 
   the broken and the sick 
           are correct, 
      that they should 
      be able to receive 
            the medical care 
                 we do; 
 
what if 
   the testimony 
   of the women is true, 
         that the grave is empty 
         and the Gardener 
      is planting new life 
   for every one, 
          every one, 
             every one. 
 
(c) 2013  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

prodigies

dragging his emptied life behind,
one wheel wobbling,
ready to fall off at
the next crack in
his misery,
the children trailing behind
laughing and throwing
derision's husks
at the wastrel
wondering towards home;

the lenses of his glasses
so grimed with envy
he can't see past the end
of his sharpened red pencil,
he stands in the shadows,
arms full of ledgers
where each and every slight
is recorded,
ready to make his case
at any moment;

recklessly
burning the midnight oil,
the robe lapping his knees,
the ring rubbed smooth
from so much twisting,
he watches until
the stars doze off,
starting up from the chair
every time a figure appears
in the periphery of his
hope,
wearily sinking back
as the shadow passes
the end of the drive;

so many prodigals . . .
yet
you welcome each
at your table,
eager to waste all your grace
on us.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

providence (Isaiah 55:1-9)

starting in the middle
      of the night, supervised
      only by the stars, you
   meet the delivery trucks,
         getting case after case
              of milk into the
              refrigerated coolers,
      stacking the loaves of still warm
                  bread on the shelves,
         running the meat through
           the slicer )thin enough
           for deli sandwiches), then
     turning to your partners who,
               like you, are wiping
     their sweaty brows with the
        hems of their aprons, you announce,
   'throw open the doors!  And remember,
    everything is 100% off.'

while the Kid
is running the sweeper
              through the dining room,
     and setting the tables
     with the best silver and china,
   and Sophia is putting the finishing
          touches on the dessert trays,               
                  you make one final
       check of the food in the ovens
       and simmering on top of the stoves,
     then, turning to the servers, you
   remind them that everyone is to be treated
   as if they were at a State Dinner, and
         on every check, they are simpy
         to scrawl
           Total: $0.00 (grace included),

then,
      you stand at the open door,
   greeting every person with
        a smile, calling each one by name,
              welcoming them
     to your banquet of
          joy and wonder.

(c) 2013  Thom M. Shuman

cluck, cluck (Luke 13:31-35)

surely
      you meant an
   eagle,   majestic
         and soaring above
         mountaintops,
      with an inscrutable eye
           on all below;

or maybe
it was a
      stork, bringing
   good luck (even a baby?)
         to the house
            it visits;

perhaps a
      nightingale,
   singing to cheer our
        solitude;
      an owl,
          imbuing us with
        wisdom;
   the wild goose whose
      dignity belies
          its free spirit . . .

but a chicken? 

   squawking, clucking,
   scrabbling around in the
                      dirt
      for food, gawkily
         flapping her wings,
    while scrabbling about
       to protect her chicks
            who are doing
            everything they
                     can
      to get away from her . . .

. . . that's your image of

            God?

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

Your Body, LLC (1 Corinthians 12:12-31a)

we stick our tongue
         out of the corner
         of our mouths
      as we try to make
              the chart
           flow
         properly (if
   the vote is 'yes'
      then we go
           in that direction,
        if 'no' then
    we take a different
              route)
      but you simply whisper
         'follow me (even
        if it seems we
        are going in circles)';

the time line is posted
            all over the
      facility, from the
         boardroom to the
              bathroom, so
   everyone will know the
   exact sequence of when
      our transformation
      efforts will take
                  place,
          and you persist
        in showing up when
        we least expect, asking
   'is this a bad time?'

we pull up
         the template on
         our computer, ready
      to fill in the names
      of the organization's leadership,
   so it is clear as to who has
   what authority, who reports to
                      whom,
           who the links in the
           chain of command are,
       and
              you place a gift
              in the heart of each
         person (even the ones
                not listed on the
                    chart) and
   invite us to join hands as
      we dance in a circle
         around you.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

Cana (John 2:1-11)

when you might prefer
to do nothing,
you are reminded of
what you should do,
so

prodded,
you take our
tears
pooled on the
floors of our
hearts
and, with a word,
they flow together
into the sweet wine
of joy;

nudged,
you gather up
our shattered
words of despair,
and rearrange them
into songs
of hope;

pushed,
you step into our
comfort zones,
pulling us up
out of our lazy
concerns,
dancing with us
until the dawn breaks.

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

Advent 4-C

      coming day

leaving the throne
in the hands of the
            cherubim,
      you choose
         to come
   and clean up
        the royal mess
      we have made
    of everything;

from the pinnacle of
              glory,
      you choose
         to come,
   peddling your
           words
       in
     the hollers and
           hills
         of our hearts;

stirring your tears
   with all your might until
         they are reduced to
             grace,
      you choose
         to come,
   partnering with the
           insignificant,
   honoring the
           unnotable,
   pickpocketing the
           opulaent
      to buy out the store
        for those lined
          around the block
    at the
       foodbank.

you choose
   to come
            even
     in these days.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

Advent 3-C

       come again?

if what
           the novelists portray,
        the moviemakers show,
           the radio hosts talk,
        the tv preachers yell
     is all true,
                    then why would
          i want you to
               return?  but

if you come
        so

      those thirsting for hope
           will find it gushing
              out of the taps,

   those cursed by the world
         will be embraced
              in your arms of love, 

      that the despair which overwhelms
                         so many
           will be gathered with the
                      chaff
           and used to warm the
                  homeless,

        those who have lived
                on the scraps
            we toss into the trash
              will be at the
                  head table
             of your feast,

   and every one, every last one
               of us
      will find our way
           home;

well then,
          i will wait,
   and while waiting,
          i will rejoice,
   and while rejoicing,
          i will make this
      great news
known.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

benedictus (Luke 1:68-79)

all it takes
          is a word
      (no - just a few letters)
   and we can begin to
        bandy about all
        sorts of things
     about this person
          or that,
        but gossips of
            grace -
   when is the last time
      anyone accused us
           of such
     behavior?

having feasted on bias
       until only the
                     core
   remains, we take the
     seeds and plant them
         as deep as we can
         in those who look
       up to us, so this
               fear
         will never face
         extinction,
      while the kernels
           of compassion
        remain in their
        original packaging,
   gathering dust on the shelves
                 of our
         souls.

while the experts
                and
      talkingheads continue
   to intimate that
         the cliff is drawing
              nearer
     and no one remembered
          to fix the
          brakes,

dare we
become
           rumormongers of
      hope
             that
   the beginning is just
         dawning?

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

anhelo (Advent 1-C)

in the
         chair
   idly leafing through
   one more well-thumbed
            magazine,
      the tube slowly dripping
      that poison which is
         supposed to cure
               him, he quietly
           craves a human
   touch;

at the deli counter,
      the lengthening list
          of this tray,
             that cheese,
      those particular crackers
                 all
   turning her eyes to
             glaze,
        she hungers
               to find the aisle
    stocked with
           solitude;

their slow shuffle
         matching the small
         steps of their children
   as they move along the
      slowly whining conga line
             of fidgeters
         getting closer to
               The Lap,
      the parents whisper a hope
           that this is the
                 year
   we look in the manger
              and see
         the baby
      shawled in innocence,
                   not

a tiny santa.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

shiloh (1 Samuel 1:4-20; 2:1-10)

you wait

          at shiloh,
where we can bring
    our brokenness
                   and,
    with the pebbles
       formed from our tears,
    the rocks chiseled
       from our hardened
                          hearts,
    the stones others
        have cast at us,
                 we build a
            cairn
to mark this place
   as holy ground;

          at shiloh,
where our cries
             are
                   plainted
    with the mother
    who cannot afford
          medicine for her
                      child,
    with the teenager
    whose heart bleeds
                      first love,
    with the family
    whose future has been
                      foreclosed,
       we whisper
             our aching loneliness
    to the listening
                              One;

          at shiloh,
where our worst
    is enveloped by your
                          best,
   where our emptiness
              is filled
              at your table of
                           grace,
   where our despair
          is transformed by your
                            hope;

          at shiloh,
you wait . . .

© 2012 Thom M. Shuman

abc/123 (Mark 9:42)

the numbered ones
            come in handy,
      when we are trying
            to decide
         who's in/who's out,
   who should we reach
        out to, using all
     sorts of demographics
          and stats, deciding
        whether or not the
               budget
      can fund that proposed
           ministry;

we've taken them
                  out
         to spell
I-M-M-I-G-R-A-N-T
   to make sure others
              know their
          place,
      or
D-0-C-T-R-I-N-E
             so no one
           can do well
    on the entrance exam,
             or
               C-L-O-S-E-D
       so our afternoon
     committee meetings
     won't be interrupted
         by folks searching
         for a friend
            (or you)

but you
reach into the
                toy box
      grabbing up all
   the blocks in your
            arms
and begin
        to build your
        kingdom
                 which
     is for
everyone.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman
       

another try (Mark 9:30-37

after reading
     the story to the little
          girl
   (for the 3rd time!),
              you tuck
      the covers under her chin,
  and watching her eyes
     turn into saucers
at the loud voices
from the living room,
                    you whisper gently,
   'don't be afraid; they just
    haven't figured it out
       the way you did.'

picking up the
                 toys
      as you walk
             down
   the hallway, you stop
      at the bedroom door
      which is cracked open
                 just enough
    to see the twin teens
        putting their just bought
        school clothes in the box
                      they marked
   'for kids who really need them'
                and
                    as they glance over,
          you give them a
                  double thumbs up,
     'you got it!'

ignoring the stares
                 of the adults
                 in the room, whose       
thoughts are ricocheting off
           one another,
   you wander over to the corner
        where the crib of the little
        fellow absorbed completely in
        his toes
             has been pushed out of the way,
    and picking him up, you toss
                  him,
          higher and higher in the air,
       and as the sparkle in his eyes
                        matches yours and
             his laughter is echoed by you,
   you glance at the others
                  and whisper,
      'you paying attention?'

(c) 2012  Thom M. Shuman

say what? (Mark 8:27-38)

 at the end,
          just before the bell
                          rings,
     i bring my blue books
        (filled with
   observations from my favorite
            theologs;
   answers [copied almost word-for-word]
       from the 2 volumes
              Calvin wrote;
   quotations from all the
                    parables
          you gave over the length
          of the course [just to prove
                i was paying attention,
                though my eyes appeared
                           closed];
   minutes from all the judicatory
            meetings and committees
               i attended;
   copies of all the sermons
      where i managed to turn the
                           good news
          into gobbledygook)

up to your desk,
where you set them on top
              of all the others,
   and taking a match
   you set them all on fire,
                            as
       you tap me on the
            chest, asking,

'what's in here?'

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

body language (Mark 7:24-37)

we stand,
     our arms folded
               tightly
          across our chests,
   letting folks know
                      in no
             uncertain terms
        where they stand
        with us,
                then
     you accidentallyonpurpose
          bump into us, so
       we have to reach out to
                      them(!)
             for help;

putting our stone
                make-up
             on,
     we slowly turn our chairs
        away from the other,
   convinced no worthwhile
                     words
              will be spoken,
     until you thump us
     behind the ears, whispering,
         'pay attention;
         this is important!'

we stand at the desk,
       scanning the reservations
   (and ignoring the folded bills
              held out towards us),
      replying with ice-cold words,
   'i'm sorry, you have no
          reservation . . .'
                            and
     you come bustling out of
       the kitchen, trailing the
                       crumbs
             of dinner behind you,
   shouting,
      'my mistake!  everyone is
             welcome;
    set up more chairs around the
          table!'

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

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