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

druthers (Ephesians 4:1-16)

a loner by nature,
i don't cotton to others
very well,
preferring to wander
those less-taken paths
staring at my shoes,
swimming out of the way
of the other fish in the sea;

but all those people -
that crowd i could take or leave?
you
have joined me at the Hope
with those who are not
my cup of tea,
nor i theirs . . .

. . . refusing to let
my humility-resistant pride,
my gentle vindictiveness,
my impetuous patience
threaten this life-shattering
unity.

i may not have
the body i would like,
but you grace me
with the Body i need,
which
(by God's sense of humor)
needs me.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

only

we sit down
with our sharpened pencils,
to chart out the
longitude and latitude
of your grace
only
to keep running
out of paper;

we tie a string
around each sin,
dropping them into
your sea of forgiveness,
only
to discover we can
never plumb its depths;

we scrabble and scrape,
push and pummel ourselves
from Land's End to John o' Groats
on our self-planned journey,
only
to find
we are at the
starting point
of your Way;

how foolish we are
to try to limit you
by our imagination
only.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

braggadocio

joining the parade
as it snakes
through life

i swagger
to the front of the line,
my swash polished
and buckled around
me,

my swollen ego
floating higher and higher
pushing and shoving
till it is caught on camera,
for all the talking
heads to admire,

my pomposity
joining the windbag band,
we drone on
and on, playing
a tune that is all about
amazing me;

turning the corner
towards the grandstand,
i glance back
and
there you are,

sweeping up all
the blustery dust
trailing behind me.

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

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