teach us how to pray (Luke 11:1-4)

our Father . . .

    when i wander down despair's streets,
    and get mugged in the alley of arrogance,
        build me a home at the corner
        of Grace and Hope
            in your kingdom;

    your will
    is that scratchy hair shirt
    hanging deep
    in the back of my closet -
        nudge me to get it out
        and wear it till
        it becomes so frayed and soft,
            i could never throw it out
            with the garbage;

    when i hunger
    for a hubris-and-selfish sandwich
    with all the fixings,
        feed me
        with the simple crust
        of the Bread of
            Life;

    tempted to charge
    all my sins
    on my revolving account
    with the Evil One,
        let me cut up my card
        with your sheer mercy
        and walk around
            with pockets full of grace
            to share with everyone
                i meet.

our Father . . .

(c) Thom M. Shuman

hard

    to embrace gracious

        freedom

            so eagerly,

        that i take on every

                menial task

            on behalf of others;

    to avoid the aisles

     stocked with temptation's

            empty calories,

        but shop in the produce

                section of the kingdom,

            filling my cart

            with all sorts of luscious

                         goodies,

        giving them away

        as i walk down the

                street;

    to follow you

    down paths overgrown

        with aching loneliness,

            potholed with grief,

                worn smooth where

                those who turned back

                    walked;

you have asked

a hard thing, 

    yet i see your footprints

        stretching out before me,

     and take the first (of what

        will surely be many

                 faltering)

steps.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

miraculous (1st Kings 17:8-24)

when i am down

to my last few drops

of the oil of obedience,

and distractions hammer

at my door

inviting me to come out

and play:

fill me

with that trust

which has no end;

when the flour of faith

is but a dusting

at the bottom of my heart

and sin's silliness

points me 

in the wrong direction:

feed me

with that love

which never wears out;

when i put my feet 

under the table

for just a few hands

of hold-em poker with death,

and she moves 'all in,'

pull the chair out

from under me,

and yank me to my

senses;

when i believe

there are no miracles left

(at least, for me):

tickle me 

with your grace

till i ache

with life.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

get up! (John 21:1-19; Psalm 30)

my burdens, struggles,

worries and doubts

lie on the floor

    scattered after

    last night's game

        of hide-and-seek;

i had to get up

in the middle of the night,

    changing the sheets

    on the bed, soaked

        from the nocturnal

            anamnesis

                of my foolish

                    day;

most mornings,

    trust hungover the bow,

    mercy hanging in rags,

    hope slipping off the hook,

        i cast out my life,

        only to pull in

            despair's emptiness.

but there you are

down in the kitchen:

    flour all over the counters,

    dirty pots stacked high

            in the sink,

juice poured,

tea steeped,

    hollering up the stairs,

        'get up, lazy faith!

        breakfast's ready!'

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

Holy Humor Sunday

dour-faced

in the presence

    of stunning sunsets;

stricken with chronic severity

while surrounded

    by gurgling babies;

frozen-souled when touched

by the warmth of

    grace;

if we are made in your image,

it's no wonder people think of you

as a grouchy old geezer,

    God of Joy.

       so, breathe on us . . .

fill our souls with:

    laughter which chases away

        the long faces;

    chuckles which wipe frowns

        off our brows;

    great guffaws

        which shatter hardened hearts;

           fill us,

           Breath of sidesplitting shrieks,

so we can celebrate

the last laugh on

    death.

(c) 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

jordan

we sit waist deep

in the dusty ashes,

scooping our dried-up

dreams in our hands,

letting them sift

through our fingers,

watching them gently

swirl in the air;

you come along,

a bucket of warm hope

in your hands,

sitting down next

to us, you suggest,

'maybe if we add this

to the mess,

we can create something

wonderful.'

so veddy proper,

in the top percentile

on the prim-o-meter,

we walk stiff-necked,

straight-backed through life

where you hide around

the corner,

giggling with your lifelong

pal, Spirit, arms full of balloons

bulging with victus aqua,

hoping to deluge us,

until

we loosen up enough

to lose ourselves

in you.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

hannah's canticle (1st Samuel 2:1-10)

if only we would

look past

the politico's rhetoric

flashed across the screen

day after day,

    so we might see

    those families

    for whom poverty

    is an unwelcome guest

        who refuses to move out;

  

if only we would

listen beyond

the pious platitudes

so easily mouthed

day after day,

    and with ears

    finely tuned with compassion,

    listen to the whispered prayers

    of children whose future

        seems so sterile;

if only we would

disassemble the walls

stacked word upon word,

day after day,

by the dissemblers of optimism,

    and peer into

    the faces of our sisters and brothers

    mired in the pit

        of hopelessness.

if only

    we

        would . . .

 . . .  day after day.

(c) 2009  Thom M. Shuman

canticle 127

unless you keep giving us

the kingdom's vocabulary test,

until we know your hopes

backwards and forwards,

we hem-and-haw

on the part of the have-nots,

our words wobbling weakly

past the world's ears;

unless you take your fingers

and rub the avarice

out of our eyes,

we drift further and further

away from our sisters and brothers,

leaving them buffeted and bruised

on poverty's floor;

unless you fashion our hearts

into a sanctuary

for your compassion,

we can only hand out

the moldy bread

of futility,

we can only offer a drink

from the cup filled

with empty promises.

unless you . . .

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

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