potluck (John 10:1-10)

at one end of the table,
i can find the meatloaf
  slathered with catsup
     (the directions for which are
        tattered and grease-stained,
        held in the recipe book by
  the cracked, clear plastic
     envelope);

in the middle,
i come across the
        carrot-and-raisin salad
  the 9-year-old boy learned
  how to make
     from his great-grandmother,
           before she went to the hospital
        for
  (what proved to be her last)
              stay;

years ago,
having tasted the lemon pie
     created by the Shakers, Maud
  went home and experimented
        until she created a
        near-perfect copy
     (only without all that
             sugar)
  and she places it lovingly
  on the dessert table, next to
     the pitchers of cold milk,
     the coffee perk-perking along,
     lemonade for the little kids
       and water for the purists.

if it was only
me, i'd simply peel the plastic
  back from the corner of
    the frozen meal tray,
           zapping it in the
      microwave until it turned
  into heated sludge,
but you invite me to the
           potluck
    where i can pile my plate
       high with the rich variety
  of your grace, and go
     back for as many helpings
         as i want of your
abundant life.

(c) 2011  Thom M. Shuman

(Luke 24:13-35)

lost,
i take
a shortcut just
  down this alley,
where anger
  and agony come
tagging after me;

wandering,
i explore the wide avenues
of the world,
  whose hope
  has been potholed
     with despair;

wondering,
  i glance at the map,
and stumble down
the next street,
  only to find sin
  standing in every
     doorwary,
enticing me with its
fingers sticky
        with temptation;

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

(c) Thom M. Shuman

lazarus (John 11:1-45)

handcuffed
  by those foolish
              fears
        we have of being
     left on our own,
swaddled
  in the cool enbrace
        of our misunderstandings
     about why he came,
hampered
  by the chains
              of sin and death
        dogging him every
            step,
he stands weeping at
the now-empty tomb
                      until
     he hears the Voice
              cry out,
  'unbind him and let him go . . .

           . . .to Jerusalem'

and he turns
  and goes,
                 hoping not to
         stumble
  along the way.

(c) 2011  Thom M. Shuman

piano man (John 3:1-17)

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,"
     pointing to the corner
as Nick turns,
he sees Spirit
  waiting for him with open arms;
"but, Nick," Jesus whispers,
     you gotta let her lead . . ."

as he swings into
a blues version of
     'i could have danced all night'

(c) 2008  Thom M. Shuman

a handfull (Matt. 17:1-9)

if it was only
in the mist-ery of
            unknowing,
   we would never have
      enough
   knowledge to understand
               what in the world
      is going on with you;
if it was only
   the thundering voice
            echoing off mountain
         walls,
   we could never have enough
               silence to hear you;
if it was only
   in the sun and stars
            heaving and
                   twisting
         in birth's throes,
   we could never have enough
              light to see you.

but in you
         coming
   to touch us with
      a gentle hand
      on the shoulder,
   lifting us to our feet, whispering
       'don't be scared!  look...'
as you point to
              God
   standing in the kitchen,
   flour freckling the calloused hands
        kneading the dough &
        shaping it into life
              all too easily broken,
   while watching the Spirit
merrily stomping down the
                     grapes of wonder,
      laughing in delight
             as grace stains the hem
   of glory's garment.

a crumb
      a sip,
           a handful of
        God

and that's more than
   enough.

(c) 2011  Thom M. Shuman

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