someday soon (Advent 1-C)

the days are surely
         coming
   when justice will sprout
   from every tree
      withered by misery;
   when every broken-windowed
         building
      and every dream-littered
         vacant lot
               will be made over
               into havens for
               refugees;
   when our morning
         prayers
      will provide legs
      for those who have no
               standing in the
               world and our
         evensongs
       cradle lonely children
       in hope's lap;

but until those days,
               let us
   not waste time
         waiting.

(c) 2015 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) Thom M. Shuman (from "Dust Shaker")

in the still of the night (Mark 4:35-41)

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 lightning 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) Thom M. Shuman (from Dust Shaker)

john 15:15

every morning,
      in high school
      and college,
   i put on that outfit
   with the big L stitched
      on it, given to me
      by my classmates;

i wore out
more shoes than
      I can count,
   walking down
   Unrequited Love Lane,
      searching for my
      true heart;

shadowed rooms
were the places
      which were always
      cheapest to rent,
   because they required
   no fancy furniture,
      no extra chairs
      or beds for another;

then you came
      drifting into
      my life,
   looking me in the
        eye, and called me
      'friend,'

and the old clothes
   were tossed into the bin,
my life was
         resouled,
and the healing
      began.

(c) 2015 Thom M. Shuman

Now

there was a time
when i knew
without a doubt
that you were
a white-haired old gent
holding a ruler,
ready to smack my hands
whenever i was bad;

there were years
when i longed for you
to come storming down
to shake up society
and make it more like heaven:
where everyone is loved,
no one is shoved aside,
little children are as valued
as the wisest and richest,
where we go swimming
in that cascading river
called Justice;

now?

i see you for who
you have always been:

Wisdom warning me
to look both ways
as i cross sin's streets;

Compassion whose lap
always has room for me;

Love
who always accepts me;

Grace
who walks beside me
every day.

abide in me,
Mothering God,
abide in me.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

finding Jesus

In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.  And Simon and his companions hunted for him. (Mark 1:35-36)

we tiptoe
      behind Jesus,
   waiting for him
   to pause for
               just
         a minute,
      before we gather
               him
   up in the net,
   taking him home
   to pin him to
   the board with
         the rest of the
         collection;

we hunt for
               Jesus,
   knowing that
   when we bag him,
      we can mount
                him,
         stuffed,
      on the wall
      in the den
   beside all the
   other gifts of
          creation
      we destroy;

once our quest for
                 Jesus
         is done,
   we cement him
   to a ceramic base,
        polishing him
        to a soft, warm
            glow,
   and lock him behind
   the glass doors,
   with all the other
                trophies
   of our achievements.

(c) 2015 Thom M. Shuman

Fourth Sunday after Epiphany

of all the words
i might
banter about with you,
it is the questions
that keep trying
to slip past
my guarded lips;

of all the prayers
i might bring to you,
it is the doubts
i am hesitant
to offer.

so,
Astounding One:

open wide the windows
of my doubts,
so faith's fresh breeze
might invigorate my soul;

batter my resistance,
till i take the latch off
the door to my questions
and your Word
can come in
and begin to teach me
all i need to know.
(c) Thom M. Shuman

little c

it's not always
      a blinding light
      that drives
               us
         to our knees,
   it is sitting in
   the dark
            comforting
      a scared child;

it's not always
      a burning bush
      calling us
            to take off
            our shoes
            and listen,
   it is jumping
   into a pool
      of frigid water
      for a charity;

it's not always
      cherubim flitting
      about the rafters
            of a cathedral
         as a mighty
                    voice
                 speaks,
   it is the silence
      as we catch
      the tears of a
             mourning mother
        in our hearts;

not every
            call
    comes with a
    capital
                
C

(c) 2015 Thom M. Shuman

canticle 72 (Epiphany)

with pockets full of cash,
                        credit cards in hand;
our arms full of $500         
                                    fragrances
and spices used (only)
                        by the chefs in the finest
                                    establishments,
we come,
                                                to honor you;

but

                        you are busy
                        going from back door
                                                to back door
                        of every bakery and
                                    eatery in town,
   gleaning the left-overs
   for your friends at the
                                                shelter;
 
you are drenched
                        in sweat from head to
                                         toe,
hammering nails,
                  hanging wallboard,
                  installing windows
   at the new house
                        for the family
                                                who spent
                        last night sleeping
                                    in their car;
 
you are
                        at Potters Field,
            holding services for
                                    all the
                        Jane and
                        John Does
                                    the world
                                    has forgotten to
            honor.
 
(c) Thom M. Shuman Dust Shaker (2014)

Second Sunday after Christmas

            sirach

she has lost

                track
    of all the generations
    who sat on the floor
         watching her move
         the figures around
              the flannel board
   telling them the stories
       she knows by heart,
   but we remember
      every word,
         her voice filled with love,
         her eyes sparkling with joy,
         her tender touch of hope.
 
she is always at the door,
   opening it wide and
   giving us a hug,
          steering us toward the
                 kitchen table
          where the cold milk
          and still warm cookies wait,
                and as we settle into
                the feast, she asks,
                     ‘so, tell me, how was today?’

at night, she
      plugs in the light,
     tucks us safe under
            the covers,
     kisses us good night,
                         and
        settles herself
        in the rocker
          over in the corner,
                where
    she will keep watch
                 until
                  morning.

(c) Thom M. Shuman  from Dust Shaker (2014)

 

the bogeygod

afraid you would
   smack my knuckles
   with a ruler, i
      kept my hands
            clasped
      behind my back
               and so
      you could not
      fill them with
                     grace;

certain you were
looking for me, so
   you could scream
   about all the mess
         in the kitchen,
      i
         quivered behind
         the door, hoping
         you would not look there,
                     and so
            you could not
            gather me up
            in your arms
            to wipe away my
                            fears;

taught to believe
   you lurk in the
                  shadows,
   prowling around looking
   for a way to get in,
         i lock all the doors
                and windows,
         pull the drapes shut,
         turn out the lights,
         and hide under the quilt,
         refusing to answer the door,
                     and so 
            the invitation to the party
            at your house gathers
                           dust 
               in the mailbox.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman        
   

every moment (Matthew 20:1-16)

early in the morning,
at the corners
where we stand
with our hands stuffed
in pockets full of pride,
     you come looking for us.

mid-morning,
at the coffee shops
where we sit grumbling
about how different
our jobs, our relationships, our dreams
would be 'if only . . .'
     you come to engage us
     in the only Person
     we will ever need;

in the late afternoon,
when our eyelids droop
from acedia
and our energy follows us
about being overwhelmed,
     you come to give us
     a jolt of unfettered grace;

in the evening,
just as we are about to nod off,
you re-run the day for us,
so we can know
(and whisper),
'it was you -
     in every moment,
          in every place,
     in every person -

who got us through
this day.'

(c) Thom M. Shuman

the F word (Matthew 18:21-22)

leery
of becoming a
97-pound weakling,
i regularly exercise my
umbrage
at those who have done
wrong to me . . .
but you would release
my death grip
on pain's weights,
and give me
a Spirit-filled bouquet
of mercy's tender flowers
to hand out
as i walk home.

watching
the line form of
all who can't wait
to wipe bitterness on my soul,
i hesitate to open my heart
to put out the welcome mat,
but you sweep off
the sidewalk
to make a way for them,
leading to the porch
where a pitcher of
cool refreshing leniency
has been poured for them

have patience, Lord,
have patience:
till i discover
forgiveness
is not a word listed
in the world's lexicon
of foolish notions,
but grace gifted
    over
       and over
          and over

to me.

(c)  Thom M. Shuman

Romans 12:9-21

         variance*

purple pills
and online romance;
far-too-casual sex
and binge dating -
is there a more propitious period
to model genuine love?

angry gestures
echoed by hate-filled words;
violence flooding streets,
hate teaching our children -
is there a more apropos age
to feed our enemies with hope,
to offer a cool drink
to those burning with bitterness?

the lost sent around to
the kitchen's backdoor,
the least discounted
by hardened politicians;
the last shoved out of line
by shoppers armed with more credit,
the little squashed underfoot
in the rush to get more -
is there a more timely age
for blessing, not cursing;
for partnering with the oppressed
and not pretending they are not us?

in this stretch of selfishness
and narcissistic narrowness,
in this season of unbridled arrogance
and unchecked injustices -

is there a more opportune
time to simply
serve?

(c)  Thom M. Shuman
(* - according to the NRSV, some ancient authorities translate 'serve the Lord' in Romans 12:11 as 'serve the opportune time')

at the end of her rope (Matthew 15:21-28)

she forces open her
                eyes,
   shaking the cobwebs
   from her thoughts,
      wondering how
      does three hours
         pass so quickly,
      and give so little
             rest to a
             weary soul?

once again (almost as
         ritualistically
         as the prayers
         which are never
             answered),
   she cradles her daughter,
      pouring the waters
            over her from
            head to toe,
        hoping they might
        chill the fiendish
              fires deep
           inside her;
   she picks up the
      spoon smacked out
         of her hand,
      dipping it into the
               bowl,
         trying to bring
         a few drops of
             strength
             to the cracked
                    lips;
   she listens, as the
      curses spew out
         of that broken
                heart,
        answering (as
            she always will),
   'i love you,
        you are my heart,
             you are my joy.'

laying the exhausted
      child in her bed,
   she steps outside
            for a quick
            breath of hope,
         and at the sight
               of the one
               the neighbors
               had been
         talking about, she
      dropped to her
                knees
             whispering,
   'help me . . .

(c) 2014  Thom M. Shuman

boating on a summer day

here we are, Lord,
your people:

on a hazy summer morning,
lazily floating on life . . .
our little church calm and steady,
a cold beverage in our hands,
our fishing lines
drifting through
the lukewarm water.

and here you come,
strolling across the water,
shaking your head
at our comfort, our ease,
our complacency.

you crook your finger at us,
with an inviting dare:
'what are you doing
still in the boat?
come, join me,
the water's fine;
don't worry,
i won't let you sink.'

here we are, Lord,
your people,
on a lazy, hazy summer morning.

pull us out of the boat, Lord,
pull us out!

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

'tis

the kingdom of
                heaven
            is like
a community organizer
    walking through
    oppression's
    neatly ordered
            regulations,
        planting seeds
        which blossom
                    into
    radical hope;

the kingdom of
                heaven
            is like
mold
    on a slice
    of bread
            which
            can cure
        a child's
        infection;

the kingdom of
                heaven
            is like
the young family
    which buys a
    foreclosed house
            in a rough
            neighborhood
        and turns it
                into
    a day care center.

© 2014 Thom M. Shuman

weeds

no matter how hard
                    we pull,
                    we spray,
                    we curse,
                    we pay
    the weeds
    refuse to go
                        away:

        a death too soon,
            a debilitating disease,
        rejection from loved ones,
            anger enough to destroy,
        heartache that knocks us to our
                                knees
and
            life goes out of
                        life;

yet,

without the darnel
                bearding us,

hope might not bear
        enough fruit for
        everyone who yearns
                    for it;

grace might blossom
            only once every
                    100 years;

the grapes of justice
        might produce
        just a few ounces;

love might become
        an endangered plant.

© 2014 Thom M. Shuman

internee (Zechariah 9:9-12)

from the shadowed
               corner,
   i used to stare
   up at the small
         window set high
      up in the wall,
      waiting for the moon
      to appear (even if
                  only a
                  sliver,
   imagining you were
           keeping an eye
      on me;

for hours on
          end,
   i would stand
   at the door, holdin
      onto the bars
      worn smooth by
      all the hands before
              me,
         waiting for you
         to come by with
         your cart full of
                    books,
   handing me the
           words you knew
      i needed, brushing
         the back of my hand
         with fingers as light
                  as Emily's
                  feathers;

in the early morning,
when even the guard
is too bored to
             notice,
      you tunnel in,
   taking me by the
             hand
   and leading me out
                   to
         where your muster
         of mistfits waits,
     and you swing me
     onto the bowed back
        of that borrowed
        farm animal,
     and we follow
     that route marked

   Hope.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

junk (Romans 6:1b-11)

those secrets
      known only to
            us in the
         shadows of our
            hearts
   and the flickering
      monitors in the
         dim rooms?

those grudges
      we stockpile in
             our souls,
         where they fester,
   oozing bitterness
            every time
            we pick off the
         scabs?

those thoughtless words
      and mean-spirited
          phrases 
          in that
                tattered
         dictionary of
            disdain we
   keep in our back pocket
      for use at a
          moment's notice?

you gather all these
          up, (and all
      the rest of the  
      junk of our lives),
   sorting them out
      on the tables in
      the driveway,
         planting a big
         sign reading
   Yard Sale
      by the curb;

then,
turning on the
          sprinklers,
   you teach us
       to turn
          cartwheels
      in the cooling
          drops of
   life.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman