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