canticle 130

i dangle my toes over
the curb of my heart,
my toes washed in
those tears racing
towards the storm drain,
my keening words
echoing through the
empty streets;

if you wrote all my sins
on the blackboard
you would run out of schools,
but the Spirit stays after class,
banging dusty death out of the
erasers
begging your pardon
for Crossing
out your work;

more than those
who watch the clock
on the graveyard shift,
i wait (we wait!) for hope
to be the lyrics of
the music of your heart,
more than a rooster
scanning the horizon
for that first glimpse of dawn -

we hope
for you . . .

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

in the still of the night

i can cross the t's
and dot every i
in my doctrinal
blue book
during the mid-terms,
but cast off
into my dusky life
as the storm clouds
gather on the horizon?

i can (intellectually)
affirm certain teachings
(though that predestination
thingy has always bugged me,
but you knew that before the
foundations of the world
were poured, right?)
but calmly, without a whimper,
resist crawling under the covers
when lightening strikes
and thunder rumbles
through my heart?

i can memorize
all the creeds
and parrot every
confession of faith,
but keep on steering
through the waves
crashing over my soul
without looking over
my shoulders to see
if you have woken up?

what do you think
i am

faithfull?

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

by . . .?

eyesore
from chasing after
every image
flashed before me
by sin's sirens
(by faith,
i can walk through
the flowers of the
kingdom);

earached
all those angry
words packed in
so tight, i can only hear
their hollow echoes
(by faith,
i can hear
the soft whispers of
grace);

aftertasting
the noxious nosh
piled high on the
platter of my soul
(by faith,
i can feast
on the simple
bread,
quenching my thirst
from the everflowing
cup):

tonguetied
every word i imagine
slips quickly into the life
of those around me,
tripping them on
their journey
(by faith,
i can rest in silence
until the word
another needs
blossoms from the
seed)

by faith
everything
(even me)
has become
new.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

when?

when the Spirit comes,
she will put dancing shoes
on my two left feet,
lace them up
and lead me out
onto the floor,
where we will enter
the Argentine Tango
competition;

when the Spirit comes,
she will wander through
the barren garden of my soul,
and
as she opens her hands,
butterflies will skitter
from withered hope
to dashed dream,
breathing them back
to life;

when the Spirit comes,
and finds me brooding
by the stagnant pool of tears,
she will dive right in,
drenching me with God's joy,
then teach me how
to float on my back
(without sinking)
pointing out the flames
flitting about our heads
like fireflies.

come,
Spirit,
come . . .

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 1

we walk on air,
when we refuse to go to
the self-help seminar
hosted by Incorrigibles, Inc.;
when we won't put our feet
in the footprints left
by those who trespass
through life;
when we refuse
to sit down in the seats
vacated by the skeptics;
rather,
God tickles us pink
by handing us that credo
which we can chew on,
in silence and hope,
until we hunger for nothing else.
rooted deeply in grace and mercy,
we yield a harvest
in every season of life,
our gifts do not need
to be raked up and taken
to the landfill -
we turn out well.

the reprobates are polar opposites:
blown about like dandelion
puffs;
they won't be able
to break in line ahead of us,
or sit in the front row;
God sweeps the litter
the vandals have thrown
on the sidewalk,
and watches us play
hopscotch all day long.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

Prayer for Memorial Day

We remember, Grieving God,
those, in so many places,
in so many times,
who have died in war;
and we pray
we might honor them
by becoming your children,
makers of peace to our broken world.

We remember, Mothering God,
children who have grown up
around us in our schools,
our neighborhoods, our churches,
who have now gone to war;
and we pray for children
throughout the world
who are the orphans
of violence and death.

We remember, God of Truth,
those wars which rage within us,
the aggression we feel towards others,
our unwillingness to forgive,
our desire to foster division and discord,
our discomfort in being called
to love our enemies;
and even as we despair,
we pray for new hope;
as we struggle to see you in our world,
we pray for discernment;
as we confront ancient fears,
we pray for new love;
and for your old, old peace
to be born anew in us.

As we remember, we pray,
Healing God,
we pray.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 98

the smokey-voiced
scat singer
backed by the overly-enthusiastic
handbell ringer:
producing a psalm . . .

the hobo on the oboe,
the buffoon with the bassoon,
with bling-burdened rappers,
and street corner finger snappers:
all shape notes into spirituals . . .

the organ grinder's monkey
dancing for a dime,
and the fourth-grader
mastering ragtime:
orchestrate an oratorio,
with the mountains taking
the low notes,
and the stars the descant . . .

new songs!
composed in your heart,
Ghostwriter of joy,
and planted deep in our souls,
just waiting to burst forth,
a flood of praise!

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

. . . may i . . .

in the secret places,
where fears and doubts
litter the floor of my heart,
you come along
sweeping them into
your broom and dustpan,
exposing the bright
foundation of faith;

you sit me on your lap,
placing your hand over mine,
stretching out my finger,
so, together, we trace
the words in the stories
of grace and hope
told (and lived out)
in each generation;

you could roam all
the ends of creation,
but choose to hang out
with me (!)
grabbing me by the hand
when i am about to dart out
into the traffic on Sin Street;
lifting me into the air
to reach the highest branch
so i can swing
back-and-forth
on the Arm of your love.

Mother . . .
. . .may i always
lose my heart to
you.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

(it is Mother's Day in the States)

canticle 23

with you at my side,
i am not poverty-stricken:
finding rest in your lush love,
stilling myself by baptismal pools,
dipping my frantic feet
in the cool waters;
you add zest
to my fading impishness,
you carve your name
in each paving stone
set in the path.

when fear, sickness, doubt
crook their finger at me
from the shadows,
i can lean on
your walking stick
to make my way to
that table where
my rivals are seated;

you pour healing oil out
for dipping the bread of life,
the cup of grace spills over
staining my hands with hope.

Shirley, Goodness, Mercy
(friends from childhood)
and I play follow the leader
till we end up
on the front porch,
you welcoming us with
wide-open arms of joy.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 4

how long . . .
will i play tag
with the idle idioms
on my street,
or buy a front row seat
at the con artists' convention,
buying their latest
self-help tomes?

not long, for . . .

your joy delights
my palate
more than the
oldest single malt;

you pick me up
and lay me
in the deep downy
mattress stuffed with grace,
pulling the Spirit's
peacemeal quilt
up under my chin,

sitting by my side
until morning comes.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

springtime of doubt

as my frozen heart
thaws bit by bit,
and the brown lawn
carpeting my soul
begins to green,
they appear:

slowly
tenaciously
they push up
through the tangled
roots of my belief

their bright heads
dazzling in the light,
the softness of
their caresses
inviting me to pause
(just for a moment),
to lie down and
contemplate their beauty,
to stay in their midst
a little while longer;

then
you come along,
gathering them up
into your arms,
appearing a little
while later,
a luscious salad
tossed from their leaves,
the petals pressed
into a chardonnay
(with a hint of
of peace),
all placed on the Table

a part of the feast
you have prepared
for us.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

the day after

on the second day
of the week:

Salome spent nearly
three hours at the
doctor's office
with a croupy kid;

Pilate and Herod
had their troops
out searching
all the dumpsters
for the missing
body;

11 ordinary looking
guys joined the
ever-growing lines
at the local
unemployment office;

and Jesus played
hopscotch with the kids,
using the stone which
had sealed his fate
to mark his place,

then waving bye,
he danced through the streets,
high-fiving all those
ear-budded teens
twittering
the good news
to their networks.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

twilight

at twilight we gather,
to remember:

a basin of water
will baptize
our trembling hearts
in your warm grace,

then
you will fill it
with your salty tears,
handing us
the cup of hope
to slake our
parched spirits;

a soft linen towel
will swaddle
our weary souls,

then
wrapping it around
the still-warm loaf,
you tenderly break the bread
(with hammer-and-nail
callused hands)
passing on
your passion for God
to us.

at twilight's end we will depart:

a towel,
a basin,
a loaf,
a cup

all we need to love
and serve
one another.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

dawning

when peace sweeps
the cobwebs of our fears
out of the corners
of those tombs
we carve into
our hearts;

when death is left stunned
at the open grave door,
the empty shroud
dangling in its hands;

when grace gently
bathes the scars
with God-tears,
swaddling them in
bands of compassion;

when joy
takes our breath away,
and we can only stand,
slack-jawed,
in awe and alarm;

when hope races
ahead of our doubts,
waiting to welcome us
when we return home,
wrapping us in
the tender arms
of love . . .

morning has come
with unexpected
elegance.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

the circus is in town

gazing in the mirror,
you scoop up a gob
of greasepaint,
smearing it all over
your face,
adding the candyred
gumdrop nose,
dabbing multicolored
stars and moons
on your cheeks;

you pull on
the polka dotted suit
the baggy sleeves
stuffed with grace,
sticking the seltzer bottle
filled with living water
in your back pocket;

you pull on your
three-times-too-big
scuffed shoes
and squeeze uncomfortably
into the kiddie car
disguised as a
firetruck;

waving and honking
the big-bulbed horn
you drive through
our lives,
calling out:
'wanna see Jesus?
. . . follow me!'

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 51

when you receive the latest
huff-and-puff from me,
be kind
and hit the delete button;

when i spend each moment
hanging out with the wrong crowd,
be patient
and send truth to be
my best friend;

when i wallow
in the muddy mess of me,
be gentle
as a washerwoman with
the unmentionables,
and let me dry in
peace's sweet breath;

when i hear the bell
on sin's seductive truck
coming down the street,
be quick
to turn up the boombox
playing the glad choruses
of your heart;

when you could
toss me out with
the rest of the junk,
be an old softie,
cradling me in your heart,
tenderly polishing me
with your scarred hands,
until i reflect
the hopeful gleam
in your eye.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

the enemy

traducer
seducer
accuser
persecutor:
all those people i can be
when i follow
the wrong profit;

rebuker
quibbler
nitpicker
hairsplitter:
of all the faults
i spot so easily
in those around me;

croaker
complainer
grumbler
mumbler:
every time my life doesn't go
exactly as i asked God
to create it;

bellyacher
whiner
murmurer
moaner:
when everyone acts
as if it isn't all about
me;

i've met the enemy
and he is behind me,
pushing me
further and further

from you.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

lead me

tempted to slide
as far away from
my cellmates in
sin's dank, dreary tombs,
nudge me till
i am sitting side-by-side,
our brokenness
a mute witness
to our solidarity;

tempted to remain
at the Jordan's edge,
with my feet tingling
from the bracing water
swirling between my toes,
open my eyes to see
you on your knees,
cradling those
i shoved aside
in my impatience
to be first;

tempted to simply tread
water while the flood
of my fears sweep me away,
show me a new stroke,
so i can make it to
the safety of your hope.

teach me your ways . . .

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

until (Mark 9:2-9)

until

we see the faces

of those tossed onto

the world's garbage heaps

dazzling bright with

hope and wholeness;

until

we respect the prophets

we have been yearning for

in the hip-hopped, do-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) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

the right time

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) 2009 Thom M. Shuman