tools of the trade

we picture you
      striding out
   of the tomb, pristine
         robes swaddling
         your brand new body,
      a gleaming, chrome
      toolbox in your hands,
            full of shiny
            new tools for
         the work ahead of
                 you

but you come,
wearing your faded
                 and patched
      bibs,
   your calloused and nicked
             hands clutching
         the toolbox handed down
                to you,
      covered with stickers from
      all the places you visited:
         Sidon and Tyre,
            Galilee,
         Skull Hill,
            hell
and filled with the tools
               you choose to use:

   disciples bent over from
      the guilt of denial,   
      grief which can't be spoken,
      pain which never seems to
                    end;

   friends who have grown rusty
      because no one sees their gifts
                    (or them);

   older folks
         who've been 'honorably
                          retired'
            though time is the
               gift they can offer
     (along with all that wisdom
       that is expected to be placed
       on top of the dresser
          collecting dust);

   children who are told to
                      wait
          until that mythical
                    'future'
      they are to inhabit(and
      please don't bother the
      grown-ups till that day);

and you set to work,
   building your kingdom
            with these
old,
   bent,
       rusty
tools.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

road repairs ahead

groping
    in the grotto
                of my days,
       the entrance capped
       by that avalanche of
                       grudges
           too heavy to
                            move,
my life slowly ebbs;

cornered
       in the catacombs
             by the hounds of
                    hell,
         their foul breath
                  of fear
     sucking all
         the air out of my
                 lungs,
            as the workers
         of death mortar
                    me in;

stumbling
       in the sepulcher's
                      shadows,
       tripping over my own
                        despair,
          until my shredded fingertips
                find the rock of rages
                sin has slammed
                           shut
                   over my hopes . . .

. . . until you came this
                      morning,
          rolling every stone
                       away,
          using them to pave the
                         way
              to the
                    kingdom.

© 2012 Thom M. Shuman

Holy Saturday

what were they doing today?

cleaning toilets
trying to forget
their dreams
draining away?

maybe Peter wished
he was home
eating Passover
leftovers
trying to find
a way
out of his
wilderness?

did Joanna
have her Saturday list:
groceries to buy,
errands to run,
a soccer game,
a full honey-do jar?

were Herod and Pilate
nursing hang-overs
out too late last night
hitting every pub
on the Street of Tears
until they got
thrown out at the
Last Station?

were children
being shushed by
fear-ridden parents,
told
to stop playing
'soldiers and messiahs'?

did the angels
tip-toe
around heaven
afraid
to speak too
loudly
wondering
what with the Word
God was doing
behind that stone?

what were they doing today . . .

before God
yanked the legs
out
from under
death?

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

nails

will there be enough
nails?

i've brought one . . .
i found it in the street
after some neighbors
took off a door
to carry a paralyzed
friend
down the street
to some faith
healer;

a group of Galileans
came to the big city
for Passover
so
i had to put some
tables together last night
for their dinner party.
here's a
left-over nail;

years ago
i bought a cradle
at a yard sale in Nazareth.
just the other day
it finally fell apart;
i was going
to throw the pieces
into the garbage
but you can
have one of the nails
. . . if you need it.

on Good Friday

we never run
out of
nails.

(c) 2001 Thom M. Shuman

Holy Thursday (Mark 14:12-25)

on those early days
      when no one was
               around
         to watch,
   you planted the
               seeds
         which would
               blossom
   into sheaves of wheat;
      you began to train
               grapevines
         to curl around
         your fingers

so

that on that last night
   you could take
   that loaf of
               12-grace
      bread, breaking
   it into piece of
               healing
         which could
      take our shatttered
               lives
   and put us back together
      as your
               beloved;

that in that room,
   you could take the
               grapes
      of wrath, fear, doubt,
         squeezing them through
         your breaking heart,
   pouring the sweet
               nectar
      of hope, wonder, and
         peace
   into such a simple
               cup
      we cannot begin
      to understand the
         rich complexity
   of your
               love

but only
               taste
   on this
           night.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

come Wednesday (Mark 14:1-11)

come Wednesday
   the world stunk
   with the bitterness
      of intrigue;
the foul breath
   of secret machinations
      fogged the alleys
      and byways
         of the city,
while the silent
   walls echoed
            with
the whispers
   of the lovers
   of shadows.

the spines of the scolds
               stiffened
   and dander filled
      their mouths
as they took umbrage
         with the one
   who spread solace
            on the soul
         of her Beloved,
when they
   would have doused him
   with the sour perfume
         of self-righteousness.

come Wednesday . . .

(c) Thom M. Shuman

Holy Tuesday lament (Lamentations 1:17-22)

you stretch
            out
      your hands
   longing for someone
               (anyone)
   to grasp them
      tenderly,
         compassion's balm
         caressing the toughened
            pads of your palms;
      firmly,
         friendship's strength
         holding you tight in
                its grip;
      hopefully,
         another's heart
         swaddling your broken
               one . . .
   but
we slap them
                  away
      wishing you would
         just leave us
            alone.

you call to your
             lovers, those
   who have told you
      over and over
      that you are the
             one;
   who whisper words
      in the night which
         prove to be as
              empty
         as the chocolate
                   bunny
       bought for your basket;
   who stand before
   the world in our
      wedding finery, vowing
         our lives to you
   and leaving the words
            lying shattered
      on the floor at the
               reception.

you groan

         but we cannot
                  hear
   over the noisy
              rebellion
      wringing our
           hearts.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

Holy Monday (Mark 11:12-25)

just because your
corn flakes were
a little stale,
did you have to
take it out on
that fig tree?

and golly,
isn't free enterprise
all about letting
the small business
owners set up shop
where the customers
are (or don't you
see yourself as a
job creator)?

and
isn't 'just have faith'
a bit of a platitude,
something we don't
usually hear coming from
your lips?

'maybe you shoulda
stayed stayed in bed,'
i muttered to myself
as the hours wore on . . .

until
I noticed your eyes
continually glancing up
toward the hills
outside the city,
as if you
had an appointment
with one of them
and didn't want
to be

late.

© 2012 Thom M. Shuman

God as lighting Director

I imagine many of us are familiar with the idea that in worship the congregation is the cast, God is the audience, and the preacher is simply the stage manager prompting the cast.

Today, in our worship, God showed up as the lighting director.

I knew that the service would go past the 'T'raditional 60-minute deadline. What with palms procession, reading the entire Mark passion, interspersed with special music ( a gorgeous viola rendition, by a young student, of 'Sarabande'), voices 'reflecting' on the passion, spoken responses, as well as communion, it would be a lengthy service.

As we drew to the close, with the reading from Mark about the body of Jesus being placed in the tomb, finishing with the verse 'Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses saw where he was laid' leading into the pastoral prayer, the lights slowly began to dim, creating a solemn atmosphere for the affirmation of faith (Philippians 2:5-11) and the benediction.  The dimness of the sanctuary reinforced the desire that folks leave worship in silence, rather than immediately breaking into conversation.

Several folks complimented me on that 'little touch' of creating such an atmosphere. I appreciated the compliments, but finally had to start admitting that I had nothing to do with it.

It was simply the timer on the lights dimming them as it does every Sunday at 12 noon!

But it couldn't have been better timing if I had planned it!

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman