The Prophet of Advent: 2nd Thursday-B

Read Isaiah 14:1-2

I may be wrong, but I don't think the Christ Child is turning over in the manger because I might say 'Happy Holidays' to someone instead of 'Merry Christmas." And I don't believe God loses any sleep over the fact that a school may choose to have a 'holiday' program rather than a Christmas one, or that a business has a 'holiday tree' instead of a Christmas tree.

But I do think that God is bothered by the fact that so many folks choose to spend so much time arguing about which greeting, which phrase, which usage is right - especially when there are so many people in need of a word of hope, of grace, of joy.

I do believe that the Christ Child weeps because we choose to hold so much resentment and express so much anger towards people who don't appreciate the "reason for the season" - as if the reason God became human was to make it okay to speak so judgmentally and unkindly about those who are also God's children.

I am pretty sure the Spirit of Advent must shake her head whenever we try to blame the politicians, the stores, the corporations for 'taking Christ out of Christmas' when so many of us will spend more money in these few weeks than we have probably given all year to feed the hungry, or clothe the naked, or nurse the sick back to health.

We can celebrate the birth of Jesus by continuing to choose blame, anger, resentment, judgment in this holiest of seasons. Or we can, like Isaiah tells us God does, choose to have compassion.

Prayer

We would not like to open our presents on Christmas and discover them filled with the ashes of bitterness, or the scraps of anger from our hearts. So help us, Desire of the Ages, to crave compassion, to wish for wisdom, to glean grace in the coming days, so we might live more like you. Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent: 2nd Wednesday-B

Read Isaiah 12 (don't worry, it's only 6 verses!)

Dusty has moved into our hearts (and home). Though he has only been with us for two days, it seems a lot longer. And while no one will ever be able to replace Cocoa the Wonder Dog, Dusty will have his own adventures, his own personality, his own stories to tell.

Dusty is a 3 1/2 year-old golden retriever who was put up for adoption by his owners because they are moving to a smaller place that cannot accomodate a large dog. We found him through a marvelous rescue group called GRRAND (if you wanted, you could find Dusty's picture on their website www.grrand.org under 'Golden Boys'). The providential part of the story is that Dusty literally lived right around the corner from us. In fact, Cocoa and I used to see him when we would go by his house on our walks.

And as a retriever, Dusty naturally loves water. When he is thirsty, he runs over to his dish and slurps up several mouthfuls, splashing and making a great noise. When he comes in from a long walk, or playing in the backyard, he heads over and drinks deeply from this simple gift, reviving his lagging energy.

Most of the time, when I am fatigued from ministry, from life, from battling the bureaucrats who try to convince me they know what is "best" for Teddy, I revive myself with chocolate or caffeine, not God's living waters. When my soul is running on empty and I thirst for something to fulfill me, it is easy to forget the simple gifts of friendship, of silence, of peace that God gives me, and to turn to things more stimulating.

Maybe this Advent, I need to dip my bucket into the wells of salvation more often and drink more deeply.

Prayer

Am I nervous to stir your living waters, Wellspring of Joy, because I think someone might need to drink before me? Am I afraid to splash and make noise with the salvation you offer to me, because someone might point at me and laugh? Revive me, Tender Heart, that I might sing your praises and give you thanks. Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent: 2nd Tuesday-B

Read Isaiah 11:1-9

Chapter 10 of Isaiah ends with the ax chopping down the forests, leaving a field of stumps. Perhaps, as they heard this pronouncement, the people thought of the stump mentioned by the prophet back in chapter 6 (vs. 13), the stump representing failure, disaster, the reality that all has been lost.

We've all had such stumps littered through our lives, haven't we? Relationships that could not grow; downsizing/redundancy at work; neighbors who built high fences around us; promises that were broken before the words had a chance to be fully heard. We know the sense of loss, of despair, of hopelessness such stumps signify in our lives.

But as we discover over and over again, God cannot remain angry for too long. For in the midst of unbearable despair comes the odd word that God (once again!) is going to do something new.

For from this stump will come that first fragile, green shoot. Yes, it will bend in the winds of the world, but it will not break. Yes, it will struggle against all the terrors of our times, but it will succeed to produce: first one leaf, then another, and a third, a fourth, and so on. Yes, people will laugh and point, and claim that nothing can grow from that old stump. But eventually, in God's good time, it will be the shade where enemies can come out of the heat of anger and fear, and drink a glass of lemonade and begin to talk to one another.

This is how our God always operates. Taking the last and making them first, taking the least and making them the most valuable, taking the lost and carrying them in the divine Heart, taking the little and making them great in the kingdom.

God takes the stump of failure and fear in Judah and creates a new people.

God takes the stump of the cross and bursts forth with new life on Easter morning.

And God will take whatever stump is in your life and will bring forth that shoot of hope, of newness, of grace, of joy.

Prayer

Dissuade us from trying to root out those stumps in our lives, Gardener of Creation, so that you can produce Advent hope, Christmas joy, Easter life, and Pentecostal passion in our hearts. Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent: 2nd Monday-B

Read Isaiah 10:1-4

I have no doubt that God is talking to the politicians here. All those folks who always manage to find the funds for their pet projects, and are not embarassed one bit when they have to cut funding for housing for the homeless, feeding programs for the hungry, medical care for children.

And I am convinced that those faceless bureaucrats who sit in windowless, airless, graceless offices are the ones being condemned here. You know, the people who shuffle folks around as so many pieces of paper; the ones who are trained to deny (routinely) 80% of the insurance claims they process; the folks who spend all day not noticing that their decisions affect real human beings.

Of course, God is singling out the church officials who travel in comfort and eat in fine restaurants; who believe the church is best served by establishing national offices in expensive complexes; who step over the homeless as they go from their hotels to the local conference center for another round of discussions about compassion and hope.

After all, God certainly can't be talking about me, right?

Prayer

I am right, aren't I, Master of the Universe?
You aren't talking about (or to) me (I hope and pray). Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent: 2nd Sunday-B

Read Isaiah 9:2-7

Other than Luke 2:1-14, this may be the most familiar of all the Advent/Christmas passages used by the church. Normally read on ChristmasEve/Day, this beloved poetry helps us to celebrate the birth of the One we call the Christ Child.

And then, like the ornaments on the tree, we put the passage back into its box and store it up in the attic, or down in the basement, to wait in the darkness until it is needed next Advent and Christmas.

But like the Beatitudes, Psalm 23, 1 Corinthians13, and others, isn't this one of those passages that we should read every week in church, if not every day in our private devotions?

After all, is Christmas Eve the only time we find ourselves stumbling in the darkness of our culture, groping our way as we try to find the Light switch?

Is Advent the only season when we hear the boots trampling on the oppressed, when the burdens of our lives stoop our shoulders, when we yearn for that peace which will never end?

Is Christmas Day the only time we need counsel from God; the only day we think justice should be upheld in our society; the only moment we can remember why it is God came to us in that tiny Babe?

Maybe, like the new covenant another prophet speaks about, we need to engrave these words upon our hearts, so they are not just a once-a-year reminder of what God has done for us, and continues to do, in the Child who has been born for us.

Prayer

Holy God, may your passion continue to be multiplied in our lives, not just one day a year, but on all the ones which follow. Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent: First Saturday - B

Read Isaiah 8:16-22

when the crowd is rushing
to get to the malls;

when the television
drowns with ads;

when the songs
on the radio come
one-right-after-the-other
with no silence in between:

i will wait.

when fear sings a lullaby
to my faith;

when worry nibbles at the edges
of my fear;

when doubt becomes a worn slipper
i ease my feet into:

i will hope.

i will wait,
i will hope,
i will . . .

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent: First Friday - B

Read Isaiah 7:10-17

you come . . .
not when
we are ready,
but when our defenses are up,
so you can batter
our hardened hearts;

you come . . .
not when
we deserve it,
but when we are making
mud pies with sin;

you come . . .

not when
we are surrounded
with a host of friends,
but when we are trapped
in the dark soul's loneliness;

you come . . .

not when
we have made the way smooth for you,
but when we have fallen
into the potholes of our pride;

you come . . .

not because you need to,
but because you want to.

so come,
Immanuel,
come.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent: First Thursday of Advent - B

Read Isaiah 6:1-8

Moses is out raking the leaves in his backyard when the tree catches on fire, and he hears God's call to go speak to Pharoah and bring God's children to freedom. Jeremiah is in his room playing video games, when God interrupts to tell him it is time to get to work plucking up and pulling down, planting and building.

But Isaiah? Right out of the starting gate, he's uttering strong words, harsh words, words of terror, words of judgment, words of warning. Condemnation flows easily from his lips, songs of unfaithfulness fill the air, injustice is roundly denounced.

And now, he decides to take a breather and go to church. Certainly there, in the temple, amid the incense, the psalms, the prayers, the priest doing priestly things, Isaiah can find the solace, if not the silence, his soul needs.

But the winged servants of the Master of the Universe disturb his reverie singing of God's holiness. Smoke fills the temple, and the building quakes as if, once more, God is appearing at Mount Sinai. And Isaiah finds himself being called, and responds in the only way he can, "Here am I; send me!"

So God sends him, Not just to speak words, but to model a life; not just to talk about judgment, but to show what grace has done for him; not just to warn the people about the dangers of breaking God's covenant, but to demonstrate how to keep that covenant; not just to condemn a community, but to stand with them, for however long it takes, until God's reconciling love can restore them to wholeness.

Which is what God does in the Child of Bethelehem, isn't it?

Prayer

Here we are, Lord God, send us. Send us to bring hope, to bring joy, to bring peace, to bring wholeness to all those who stand with their hearts and hands open. These are the gifts we have received from you, and would offer to them. Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent First Wednesday of Advent - B

"O house of Jacob,
come, let us walk
in the light of the LORD!"
(Isa. 2:5)

you reached into
the dusk of chaos
and brought out the sun
to warm me on a winter's day;
the moon to illuminate my path
on an evening's walk;
the stars to be my companions
during a sleepless night.

you stretched out your arms
toward the twilight of death,
rolling away the stone
covering it's heart,
so that i could be set free.

you found me huddled
in the murky corner of my despair,
and,
taking me by the hand,
pulled me to my feet,
and we went off skipping
into your kingdom.

i will walk in your light,
my Lord,
i will walk.
Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Do you want me to read to you?

More years ago than either one of us would want to admit, my mother gave me the gift that, as the phrase goes, keeps on giving.

The gift of words.

She started out by reading to me as I snuggled up in her lap, or lay in bed, safe under the covers, and warmed by the love in her eyes, smile and voice. Then, she began to help me sound out the words for myself, and to discover that these 'things' created from 26 letters could be gateways to the world, challenges to the mind, solace for the lonely, comfort for the grieving.

I cannot think of a moment in my life when I did not have (at least) one book within easy reach. Even in college and seminary, when I should have been focusing on textbooks, I was delving into mysteries, thrillers, novels, biographies.

But my mother also took the time to make sure I was introduced to the Word. And as most folks attest, it was a transforming moment, which continues to shape my life, guide my walk, give me hope, and challenge my unwillingness to let go of my all-too-human desires.

And now, as I share words with people through my writings and preaching; as I seek to introduce others to the Word of hope, of joy, of peace; asI try to challenge the unwillingness of others to let go, I am even more grateful for that gift my mother gave me so long ago when she asked,

"Do you want me to read to you?"

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Only a dream?

We were talking about prayer yesterday during the education hour, about forms of prayer, 'tools' for prayer, etc.

I mentioned my 'dream' that somehow, in some fashion, the church could offer a prayer room for folks. It doesn't need to be big and it doesn't need to be fancy (after all - a chair, a table with a Bible and a candle would be all the 'furnishings' most of us would need). But it would need to be solely devoted to the purpose of prayer.

Not a room where debates are held, decisions made, and people's toes might be stepped on. No, a room where hurts are offered for healing, where discernment is sought, where relationships are made whole.

Not a room that which would need to be rearranged (reluctantly) so a few people can pray, but then has to be put back into place right away so a meeting can be held. But a room that might sit empty for days on end, but is available and open when it is most needed.

Not a room where cast-off chairs sit, but a room where the outcast can climb up into God's lap and be loved, welcomed, affirmed.

Not a room where boxes filled with dusty records are stored, but a storehouse of prayer, of silence, of wonder, of awe.

Not a room where that old, out-of-tune piano Aunt Sadie gave to the church years ago can be found, but the hill in Bethlehem where the angels first sang; the sheepfold where the Good Shepherd protects his lambs; the living room where our Parent sits looking out the window, longing to spy all of us prodigals trudging wearily home.

Wouldn't it be nice if every church had such a room?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

One of the reason I put off going to seminary (other than the deep conviction that the phone lines had been crossed when I got the 'call') was my inability with languages other than English, which presented problems of its own.

When I finally did give in to the God-who-is-like-a-tenacious-bulldog and went to seminary, you can imagine my surprise that I not only made it through Greek, but absolutely loved studying Hebrew! In fact, my study of Hebrew gave me a new appreciation for the wonder, the grace, the steadfast love of the God the Chosen revealed to us in the Old Testament. It removed any lingering questions about there being two different gods in the two different testaments.

Take the concept of 'commandment.' I grew up, probably like most folks, believing that the commandments given in the OT, especially the Top Ten, were "orders" given to us by that stern and punishing God who shook the mountains. If I took a candy bar off the shelf, God would turn up the flames in hell a little bit. If I gossiped about a friend, the dial was turned to medium. And if I wanted to sleep in on Sunday instead of going to church - well, I was toast!

Then I learned the Hebrew word 'mitzvah' (which we translate into English as 'commandment'). What a difference! Instead of an order, I discovered a honor and privilege given to us by God who has given us life. Rather than a rule, I found a responsibility that is mine as part of the covenant God has made with me. A burden that was almost impossible to carry became a good deed that I am longing to perform over and over. Grace replaced guilt, love overcame law, faith trumped fear.

No wonder the psalmist could talk about these words being a delight. God gave them to us, not so we would become lawyers, but so we would become lovers.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Rosa Parks

When I was growing up in Alabama, her name was spoken with the same kind of contempt and hatred one would use when uttering a profanity.

For some, it was because she was a woman who did not know her place. For others, it was because she was a black person who did not know her place. For many, it was because she was the one who 'started' all the trouble that plagued the state and the nation. And for just about every one around me, it was because of all three that her name was anathema.

We'll never really know if her feet hurt so much that she couldn't take another step. But we can be certain that her soul ached from years of the pain of people looking down at her because of the color of her skin.

She may not have been so physically tired that she could lift herself from that seat in the front of the bus. But there is no doubt that her heart was weary from all the names she had been called since she was born.

While she could have simply acquiesced to the request to give her seat to a white man (even though the seats on either side of her were empty; but then no white could be seen sitting next to a black person), she simply refused to move . . .

. . . causing a seismic shift in America by her simple act of courage.

This past weekend, the body of Rosa Parks was viewed by thousands in Montgomery, Alabama, where the civil rights movement began. The descendents of her spirit, black and white, came to honor her courage, her character, her witness.

For this former "cuss word" is now the by-word for justice, for hope, for action throughout the world.

And today, her body lies in the Rotunda of the nation's Capitol building, the first woman to be so honored, because she honored us with her grace, her wisdom, her gentleness.

How appropriate that yesterday's Gospel reading contained these words: 'The greatest among you will be your servant. All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.' (Matthew 23:11-12)

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Hangers

I am not sure how it happens, though it seems to take place either at night, while I am sleeping, or during the day, while I am away from the house. But whenever, and however, they reproduce themselves over and over and over.

Hangers.

I bundle up all the clothes-less ones in my closet, and take them to the cleaners to be recycled, and by the time I get home that evening, my closet is overflowing once again. I take them down to the basement, so we can re-use them after doing laundry, and they tip-toe back upstairs in the dead of night.

Just like my prayers.

I go through my list of people I pray for, and by the time I am done, it is time to pray for them all over again. I cross one name off the list because the person has been released from the hospital, and three more calls come into the church about folks. I can stop praying for so-and-so since they have found a new job, and what's-her-name calls to tell me of troubles in the family. I just get through lifting up those who were devastated by Katrina and Rita, and the news comes on about the earthquake in Pakistan and India.

The needs, the hurts, the losses, the hopes, the dreams, the failures - whether it's at night while I am sleeping, or during the day when I am away from the church, they reproduce themselves over and over and over. It doesn't matter how often I try to recycle them, or store them in the basement of my soul. They just keep tip-toeing back into my life.

What's a person to do?

I guess I will keep hanging my prayers on that Rod who comforts us,who hears us, who heals us, who struggles with us, who suffers with us, who is always with us.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Embarassed

Embarassed.

That's how I feel about being a Christian this week. Embarassed by the comments of evangelists and mega-church preachers who are going around claiming that Hurricane Katrina is God's punishment on that "sinful" city called New Orleans. Seems there was an 'unholy trinity' operating down there, comprised of satanists, voodoo worshipers, and homosexuals, according to these folks. I want to ask these folks, 'haven't you ever read Hosea 11:8-9; or Matthew 7:1-5?'

It's embarassing, and frustrating.

Frustrating that these are the folks who get quoted by the media, and not the preachers who are talking about compassion, about grace, about the opportunities we have to minister to those in need, just as God asks us. They don't interview the folks in those churches that continue to serve as shelters for the refugees from Katrina. They won't show the father in my congregation who has gone through Red Cross Disaster training, and who is leaving tomorrow for three weeks of service in Baton Rouge. They won't feature the youth groups, the ministries, the laity who are out there every day, cleaning and rebuilding and serving meals and mending lives.

It's embarassing and frustrating.

And I can only begin to imagine how God must feel . . .

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Every Day Communion

This coming Sunday, October 2, is World Communion Sunday. For me, it is one of the holiest days in the life of the church, ranking behind only Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost.

It is a day when we remember that we do not worship in isolation, even in particular churches, but we gather with Christians around the world, often reading the same scriptures in a Pentecostal chorus of tongues; we sing songs of praise and lament; we tell stories of our hopes, our dreams, our life in God. And we believe that God continues to work in, and for, and through us.

It is a day when we are reminded that there is a unity in Christ that can overcome every division we try to maintain; that there is a Body which welcomes, which affirms, which values each and every member; that there is a place where all people are accepted and loved.

For Presbyterians in the States, it is a day when we are reminded of our calling as peacemakers. We receive a special offering - specifically for Peacemaking. Our portion this year will go to support the work of the Corrymeela Community in Northern Ireland, enabling their work of reconciliation and hope in the midst of divisions and pain.

And as we gather around the Table this Sunday to celebrate God's feast, we will do so with folks whose families came to these shores a very, very long time ago. And we will break bread with folks who have come from Ghana, Cameroon, Germany, and other places. Visible reminders of that day when all of God's people will gather around the Table in the Kingdom and feast together on God's grace and love.

And today, just down the hall from my office, folks from Mexico, from Peru, and from India are sitting around tables with church volunteers, working together to improve the English skills of our newest neighbors.

A visible reminder that 'worldwide communion' doesn't happen just once a year, but every day of our lives.

Thanks be to God!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

My Rambling Boy

On August 12, 1990, I was installed as the pastor of Greenhills Community Church, Presbyterian. My family was here, many of Bonnie's family came, the church family attended and, of course, there were the clergy and laity representing the presbytery for the installation service. Like many such services, there was scripture, singing, prayers, 'charges' to the pastor and congregation. Like many such Presbyterian services, it was done so decently and in such good order, there were no surprises.

The surprise came after the service when a fellow came up to me and introduced himself, "Hello. I'm Robert Keefer, the new associate pastor of Wyoming Presbyterian Church." Now, the surprise was not that he came up and introduced himself; no, it was that he was there at all! In my experience with installation services, the only clergy who attended were those appointed by the presbytery to do so!

But as I have discovered in the last 15 years, that was just Bob being Bob.

Part of his calling as a Minister of Word and Sacrament was to be a faithful presbyter. And so he goes to the ordination and installation services of other pastors. He does it because he is faithful, he does it because he likes the services, he does it because he wants to welcome, to support, to encourage his colleagues.

And he has been a faithful presbyter, and model for me, with his attendance at presbytery meetings, his service on committees and commissions, his sharing his gifts with all of us as Stated Clerk. But especially with his singing. When worship takes place, when the opening hymn is sung, when the Doxology breaks out spontaneously, Bob's voice is loud and clear and beautiful.

He is a gifted pastor and, while most clergy's 'pastor' in a presbytery is one of the executives, I have always thought of Bob as mine, always willing to listen to my whining, my joys, my frustrations, my wild ideas. He is an excellent preacher, a craftsman who shapes words into doorways into God's heart. He is a true Presbyterian minister, committed to careful study, diligent prayer, and continual improvement of his skills.

He is also highly committed to fun, and to activities and interests outside the pastorate. For years, he was a cast member as well as unofficial chaplain for the local Renaissance Festival. He is a diehard Columbus Crew (soccer) fan. He enjoys good food, good beverage, good company, and especially great humor.

And for 15 years he has been God's biggest surprise to me, for I did not expect to find such a gifted, such a good, such a genuine friend. Bob has been there for me in the toughest times we have experienced with Teddy, especially in the months dealing with cancer; he has been there for me in the tough times of the pastorate; and he has been there for all the good times, the celebrations, the laughter, the joy of life and of serving the God we both love. And unless one of us was out of town or on an emergency, we have shared breakfast every week for nearly 15 years, talking shop, sharing gossip, telling about books we have read or movies we have seen, or just sitting in that silence with which God graces true friends.

But now, I will be eating alone, for Bob has been called to be pastor of a church out in Iowa. Joy for the church, sadness for me. I have no doubt that I will be visiting Iowa sometime soon, and that Bob will be through here at some point; there is always email, and phone calls. But nothing will replace 15 years of friendship, of closeness, of gentleness, of sharing, of a indescribable relationship.

Bob and I share a love for traveling by train and, as I was driving away from the restaurant this morning after we said goodbye, the words of the old folk song, 'Rambling Boy,' about two friends who rode the rails together, came to mind:
'He was a man and a friend always,
He stuck with me in the bad old days.
He never cared if I had no dough,
We rambled round in the rain and snow.
So here's to you my Rambling Boy,
May all your rambling bring you joy.
So here's to you my Rambling Boy,
May all your rambling bring you joy.'

As you have brought me.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Just around the corner

Horror; devastation; death; families forced to evacuate and live all over the country, some in shelters, the lucky ones with family, friends, or even compassionate strangers. Children and parents separated and wondering where the other is; pets stuck in styrofoam coolers so they could float on the foul and fetid water. We have been witnesses to tragic, tragic scenes coming from the wilderness created in the wake of Katrina.

But we have also been witnesses to incredible deeds as well. A six-year-old boy leading younger children to safety, because there were no adults around. Helpers, from paramedics to truckers to chaplains to caregivers, arriving on the scene with no other motive than to reach out to those in need. People willing to go door to door, expecting to find the worst, and being surprised by the best in people.

And now, even nature is starting to bear witness.

The fruit trees in Mississippi are starting to bud. A sight one would never expect to see in September, but the leaves on the trees were ripped off by the winds of Katrina, and so the trees believe it is springtime. And if it is spring, it is time to bud, to bear new life, to scent the air with beautiful aroma.

Springtime - a good sign for the people who are seeking to rebuild their lives and their communities.

And if it is springtime, Easter is just around the corner.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

A verb, not just a noun

At Morning Prayer today, we read Psalm 56. The psalmist says, "My vows to you I must perform, O God . . . "

Would that the vows we have made to God be performed, not just spoken! But that's so hard to do these days, with so many demands competing for our time, that we just can't seem to carve out a moment for prayer.

Would that the promises we have made to God be achieved! But in a culture that continually teaches us that the individual reigns supreme, how are we able to fulfill that covenant we made to be as just and compassionate as God?

Would that the affirmations I made to God on that day so long ago continue to percolate in my soul! But with a sermon 'due' every week, with meetings piling up on the calendar, with emergencies knocking at the door, how can I ever love God with all my heart, my soul, my mind, my strength when they are poured out in so many other directions?

Would that we could learn as the psalmist apparently has, that 'vow' is not a noun, but a verb.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

We are what we wear . . .

"Who is your fashion star? Who do you look to in picking out what you will wear each day?" were the questions coming from the talking head on television as I (thankfully!) was walking out the door with Cocoa the Wonder Dog.

I imagine some folks talked about DK, about Ralph, about Tommy, about whoever-is-the-name wherever it is you live. The ones whose names we wear, whose creations we model, whose pockets we fill.

I doubt, however, if anyone talked about that new line coming out of Tarsus, created by P. Diddomy: those shoes of peace which can bring reconciliation wherever we walk; that sash of truth which can confront all the fasle words the world flings at us; the coat of righteousness that always seeks justice for every single one of God's people.

And I am fairly certain that no one mentioned that carpenter turned creator of common couture, who sells that simple little outfit consisting of a bowl, a liter of water, and a towel to wrap around one's waist in order to be a servant.

Pity.

If these were our fashion 'stars,' think of how different our lives, our culture, our world might be.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Just Gone Home

Death.

It's hard enough for adults to understand, to deal with, to handle. But kids? How do we explain death to children?

A father in the church recently lost his grandmother (she was 98, so it was not a sudden loss, but still a loss). And he wanted to be able to talk with his children about the service they would be attending, and why people might be sad.

His six-year-old son, Drew, said, "But Daddy, people shouldn't be sad."

The father asked, "Why not, Drew?"

"Well," this very young, very wise boy replied, "being here on earth is like going to the store. But heaven is home. Great-Grandma has just gone home."

She's just gone home.

Any wonder why Jesus keeps pointing us towards the children when we ask about faith, about the kingdom, about God?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Desperation

He was one of the kindest, gentlest, most compassionate, most Christ-like and Christ-filled people I ever met. He taught at the college I attended, and I always thought of him as someone who could do no wrong. Then, one day, in class, he talked about his experiences during World War II.

He was one of the rare conscientious objectors for that war, and as such 'served' in the military but not in combat. No, he took part in studies the military did on how troops might react in certain situations.

For instance, part of his group would be given incredible amounts of food, while the rest got nothing. Part of the group could have all the water they needed, while others had mere spoonfuls. In the winter, certain folks would have the warm clothing they needed to survive, other soldiers had only their summer gear.

And what happened? Just what you would expect. The CO's - all compassionate, caring, gentle people of faith - stole water, stole clothes, hoarded food. Pushed to the extreme, our professor related, he realized that even he might take a life in order to survive. In the right (or maybe it is really the wrong) circumstances, the most faithful person can become the most desperate person. Placed in situations we do not choose, any one of us can do what we know to be wrong.

So, when I see those folks in New Orleans who are looting stores for food, I hear Professor Smith's voice, and shut my mouth before I put both feet in.

When I see mothers who are filled with anger and violence because they have no diapers, no milk, no water, no food to give their infants, I remember his stories and try not to rush to judgment.

When I see people who are driven to desperation by circumstances they did not choose, I ask God to forgive me for judging their choices, and pray that I will be faithful enough, and that my country will be just as faithful, to make sure this never, ever happens again,

to anyone.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Helpless

Helpless.

That's how I felt when my brother, Steve, was about six or seven and got hit by the flu so bad, and dehydrated so quickly, that we ended up in the ER with him. And I was sure he was going to die.

Helpless.

That's how I felt when we were playing touch football (American style) in the front yard and Steve was running full out with his head down, right into the big oak tree, and bounced off, lying dazed on the ground.

Helpless.

That's how I felt a few years ago when I got a call from Steve telling me he was in the hospital with chest pains. He had been attending his denomination's annual meeting in Louisville (about two hours away), when this happened. I drove down to be with him as he went through all sorts of tests and all (ending up with a diagnosis of about 10% blockage, but nothing required to treat it).

Helpless.

And that's how I felt last night, and feel this morning, and will continue to feel until we hear from him. He and his wife live in Jackson, Mississippi, and other than about a 45 second call to my Mom on Monday night, saying they were 'okay' (and then the call abruptly ended), we haven't had a word.

In the age of instant communication, there is no way to reach him, with 80% of the state without power. In the time of cell phones, emails, internet, Mother Nature has taken control of the situation, and we are all helpless. In a day of being able to talk with strangers halfway around the world, I cannot hear the voice of my younger brother, who is so precious to me.

Helpless.

But not hopeless.

For God is there, and it is in God I place my hope and trust. God is with Steve and Denise, and that is where they place their hope and trust. God is speaking, God is comforting, God is helping, God is reassuring me that whatever happens, my brother, like all the children of God hit by the devastating power of Katrina, are in God's care.

Our help is in the name of the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Maybe it's time

If you promise not to tell my New Testament professors, I will make a confession. I don't always do what they taught me back in seminary. Take today's Gospel reading found in Mark 1:29-45.

As Mark often does, there is a lot of action compressed into a few verses. Jesus heals Peter's mother-in-law; he cures a lot of sick folks and casts out demons; he goes off by himself to pray; he goes around preaching and casting out more demons (I guess I missed that class!); and he heals a leper.

And there it is. In verse 41, where the NRSV says that Jesus is "moved with pity," a little footnote letter appears (in my Bible, it's an'o'). Now, that is a signal to look down at the bottom of the page for a textual variant (in seminary-ese). And, in a highly unusual move for me, I glance down at it, thinking I will find the word 'compassion' or 'sorrow' or some other sympathetic word. But I don't.

I am told that other ancient authorities read 'anger.'

Anger.

I expect Jesus to be compassionate; I expect Jesus to feel sorry for folks; I expect Jesus to be moved with pity. But when he is about to heal someone I don't expect him to be angry. But he is, in some of the ancient readings that were passed around in the early church.

He's not angry at the interruption, but at the disease which is another symbol of the brokeness in God's creation.

He's not angry at being asked to do a healing, but at the misery which comes along with the physical debility.

He's not angry at the leper, but at the powers that continue to defile God's world, that continue to challenge God's justice, that continue to separate people from the One who has created them in the divine image.

And so it is with passion, not pity, that Jesus heals the leper. It is with that holy righteousness that cannot stand to see another suffer, that Jesus brings hope to this outsider. It is with that divine willingness to stand with those who have been cast out by the world, those who have been judged unworthy by society, those who have been condemned because they are not as wealthy or wise or wonderful as we, that Jesus reaches out and touches the man and, in doing so, brings him back into God's family.

We are so easily moved by pity, we find it so easy to feel sorry for others, we complain about compassion fatigue.

Maybe it's time for some passionate anger on behalf of others.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Requiem in pace

I sat next to him one evening after the service was over. His wispy white hair showed the life of service to God's people; his face was etched with the stories of pilgrims; his hands reflected the years of prayer. As a brother translated, I told Brother Roger of Taize of Teddy's pilgrimage through a life of struggle and pain, and heard this gentle man's whispered prayers on behalf of my son.

Brother Roger should have died, with his beloved community surrounding him, singing Nunc dimittis and Ubi caritas. He should have died in his sleep. He should have died in peace.

But he was stabbed to death today during one of the services held in the Church of Reconciliation, surrounded by the community he had called together, and, no doubt, several thousand young people from all over the world. I grieve for the young people, who came to Taize seeking peace and hope in a violent world. I pray for Brother John, Brother Jean-Marie, and all the other brothers who seek to find meaning in their living response to God's call. I think of the father from Holland I met four years ago who, with his now adult daughter, had been going to Taize each year for over 40 years.

All these people responded to Brother Roger's vision of a world that could be healed of its brokenness and warring ways; of communities that could make journeys of reconciliation, Protestants visiting Catholics and so forth, in efforts to understand one another better; of a Church that could set aside its differences and doctrines to live out its common belief in Jesus as Lord.

His voice is gone but lives on in the meditative songs, the prayers, the writings, the silence.

His heart is stilled, but beats on in the thousands and thousands of people throughout the world who seek to bring peace, healing and reconciliation to their neighborhoods, their churches, their families.

His gentle spirit is with God and has been passed on to all the young people who have journeyed to Taize, and will continue to make pilgrimages there, in the simple, yet radical, belief that barriers can be broken down, that unity can be found, that goodness is better than evil, that love is stronger than hate, that peace is the way of all of God's people.

Requiem in pace, Brother Roger.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Wherever Jesus is . . .

The week of Vacation Bible School,
they were there.

The entire month we offered English as aSecond Language classes for children and youth in our school district,
they were there.

Yesterday, when a group from the church went into the city to serve a meal to several hundred homeless folks,
they were there.

Like most teenagers, Lydia and Millen could have been walking out at the mall, talking on the phone, sitting at the pool, shopping. But whenever, and wherever we, as a church, are serving God's children, they are there.

Some would say it is because 4 1/2 years ago, when they and their family immigrated to the States from Eritrea, they needed food, they needed help with their English, they needed folks who reached out to them. So they come out of a sense of gratitude.

Some might say they show up because folks are 'encouraging' them to participate, and so they come out of a sense of obligation.

Me? I think it is because, like most kids and young people, they have distilled the Gospel down to the basics.

Wherever there are hungry people, that is where we will find Jesus. Wherever there are people who need help with their language skills, we will find Jesus there. Wherever there are children to be taught (and shown) how much God loves them, that's where Jesus will be. Wherever there is a mother who needs help with a baby, wherever there is a father struggling to educate his children, wherever there is a grandmother who cannot afford the prescriptions she needs - wherever there are people in pain, in sorrow, in need, that's where Jesus is.

Lydia and Millen have decided that wherever Jesus is, that's where they want to be.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Too Late

Now it's too late.

I first got to know Billy O. Wireman when my campus job had me delivering the mail to all the offices at Florida Presbyterian College (now Eckerd College) in the mid-60's. If his door was open, and it was only closed for the greatest of crises, he would ask how I was doing, genuinely concerned for me as a person.

I came to know him over the next few years as a warm, compassionate, humorous human being. His was not the false bonhomie of a person on the rise, his life was one which truly reflected those fruits of the Spirit Paul talks about. Billy Wireman was a strong Presbyterian, he was an even stronger Christian. I know this because I had the opportunities to see Billy in his professional life, his personal life, and his religious life - and he was the same person in every situation.

He began at FPC as a teacher of physical education and the school's first basketball coach. But his vision, his energy, his commitment to liberal arts education, and especially international education, soon had him coaching a generation of young people to learn, to grow, to lead, to serve. When he was only 35, he became president of the college, the youngest in the States at the time. He led the college out of a financial wilderness into a time of stability and growth - always with good humor, grace, and compassion.

I left college in the middle of my senior year, and probably would not have gone back if not for Billy Wireman. Some four years after leaving, I was back in the area visiting some friends, and we were out on the college campus. They encouraged me to stop by and say hello to Billy. Which I reluctantly did. As usual, his door was open. As usual, we had a great conversation. As usual, he was genuinely concerned for me as a child of God. "What do we need to do to get you back here as a student?" he asked at the end. Which began a process that led to my returning to that campus as a student, and graduating (finally!). One of my great memories of life is receiving my diploma from Billy O. Wireman 10 years after I had started at FPC/Eckerd.

He left Eckerd, and moved on to another small, struggling, church-related college and with his grace, energy, vision, compassion, and faith, transformed it as well, influencing still more and more young people to lives of service and leadership. Over the years, in various denominational publications, I would read about Billy, and make a mental note to myself that I should drop him a letter, I should tell him how he shaped my life, I should tell him what that one little question meant to me. And I always misplaced that note.

Now, it's too late. Billy O. Wireman died this past Saturday after a three-year battle with cancer.

I guess now I will have to write Billy that note by the life I try to lead.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Wait is Over

I was probably about 11 when it happened. I was at the library, checking out some books from the 'juvenile fiction' section. The librarian looked at my choices, and then looked at me."Haven't you read these before?" she asked. "Oh yeah, several times," I replied, "but there aren't any new books out." That's when she opened my world.

"Have you ever read Sherlock Holmes?" I didn'tknow what he wrote, I told her, but I would try anything that had words on paper. She laughed and took me into the holy of holies - the adult section. There, she pulled out a slim volume and handed it to me. "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" by Arthur Conan Doyle. "Give this a try," she said, "and let me know what you think."

Think? The foggy streets of Victorian London; Watson and Holmes calling for a transom cab; wondering who the man with the Twisted Lip really was; imagining how beautiful Irene Adler had to be; shivering in the dark, with Holmes and Watson as they saw the Speckled Band for the first time. Think? It's not rational, but I fell in love with Doyle's creation. So much, that by the time I walked home, I had read the entire book! Only the fact that the library was closed kept me from turning around and going back for more. But I was there the next morning, sitting on the steps when the librarian arrived to open the doors.

For millions of kids (and people who wish they were kids), the wait is over. "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" is finally out, and now the adventure begins. Forget about getting the kids to help with the chores; dinner may be late the next few weeks; the pool water will barely be rippled because everyone is sitting on the sides reading. The adventure of Harry, Hemione, Ron and the wizards and witches of Hogwarts continues.

I love the HP books. While they may not be "great" literature, they are a delight to read. And even more delightful is the fact that they give kids the incentive to read. Like my librarian of long ago, J. K. Rowling has opened up the world of reading to a whole new generation. What a gift!

And, intentionally or not, she reflects many of the gospel values. While not called as such, the characters and stories live out the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There are marvelous accounts of self-denial and sacrifice. There are even those who are willing to lay down their lives for their friends. And through it all is the assurance that evil and death do not have the final word in anyone's life, even that of a young wizard.

So, when I see the kids carrying around their copies, with the books sitting open on their laps as they immerse themselves in that magical world, I will smile and remember the magical world the librarian introduced me to years ago, and give thanks: for her, for Conan Doyle, for J. K. Rowlings, and especially for the gift of words that reflect the Word.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Jack Nicklaus

It was during my second year in the ministry. I was at a presbytery meeting and, at dinner, I was seated next to a female clergy whose father was a "famous" member of this presbytery. He had been there for years, and was well known for his commitment, his passion, his hard work. But his daughter told a different story.

He was so committed to ministry, that he never made it home for a single birthday celebration. He was so passionate about serving God's people, that every anniversary was spent at some meeting, at some event. He worked so hard, that he could not tear himself away to attend either of his daughter's graduations from high school and college.

I thought about that conversation this morning as I watched an interview with Jack Nicklaus. Certainly the best golfer America has ever produced, if not the best in the world, Nicklaus is playing in his final 'major' event, the British Open. He talked with the interviewer about his golf career, his legacy, the tragic drowning of his small grandson earlier this year, about his decision to "put away his clubs."

Then the interviewer asked, "Over the years, with all the tournaments, all the victories, all the tours, it must have meant you missed a lot of family events." To which Nicklaus replied, "Not a one. I was there for every graduation, every birthday, every anniversary. I never missed a football game or any other school event my kids were in." He intentionally arranged his tour and practice schedules so he would be there for his family.

Wow!

Now, I know that he could probably afford to charter a private jet to fly home after a round of golf, attend an event, and fly back in the middle of the night for the next day's round. Even so, it would have been a sacrifice to lose time, sleep, and energy to fulfill that desire to see his kids, to see his wife, to be with his family in such moments. He obviously made some choices, along the way, about tournaments he would willingly miss for the sake of his family.

Committed, passionate, hard working -
I think I know who is the better role model.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Psalm 151

Hallelujah!

Praise God for purple-haired women!
Praise God for teenagers with mohawks!

Praise God with tattooed arms!
Praise God with athritic hands!

Praise God for children with runny noses!
Praise God for parents with pockets
stuffed of hankies!

Praise God with street rap!
Praise God with Bach cantatas!

Praise God in stainedglass sanctuaries!
Praise God in smoky pubs!

Let every living, breathing,
cranky, curmudgeonly,
kindly, loving, gracious,
bigandtall, shortandsmall,
beloved and longing-to-be
creature praise God!

Hallelujah!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Where???

I've been on one of those double-decker buses. I've used the London Underground, and gotten off at King's Cross Station. I've walked the streets where the people were being treated for their injuries.

Maybe that's what makes the images on the television this morning so painful, so personal. Having visited London only once, yet falling in love with it so deeply, I feel violated, I feel wounded, I feel attacked.

Was the worker at the British Museum who was so helpful in answering my questions riding the underground at the moment of the explosion? Was the waitress at the pub where we had lunch on the bus? Were any of the people I know personally over there injured, or worse?

So many questions.

Of course, inevitably the question will be asked: "Where was God in all this?" People will ask us, because we are believers. And even though we are believers, we will ask it as well. "Where were you, God?"

The late Fred Rogers, Presbyterian minister and creator of the marvelous children's show,"Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood," here in the States, knew that children who witnessed such scenes as we see today, were especially frightened because they could not always comprehend what they were seeing. So he always told them to look for the helpers. That when people are hurt, when scary things happen, helpers are always around.

That's what I noticed this morning: the yellow-jacketed police, doing their jobs with heavy hearts; the London Ambulance people, professionally caring for people while nursing their own personal grief; the bystanders who rushed to give aid to their neighbors, even as terror ran along beside them.

Where was God? God was the young paramedic visiting from New Jersey, who helped to give triage to the injured. God was the doctor, who instinctively knew which patients needed her care the most. God was the aid worker handing out blankets to the less-injured. God was the stranger gently wiping the blood off the face of another stranger.

Whenever something happens that frightens us, that we cannot begin to comprehend, we should always look for the helpers, because that is where we will find God.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Do-Rag

We went to a motorcycle rally yesterday. These are great places to take Teddy - there are a lot of motorcycles, making lots of noise; there is live music; there are vendors of all sorts of esoteric items (though the bikers might not use that descriptor) and, of course, there is a lot of food.

Interestingly enough, Teddy ended up wanting to buy only two things (other than food and drink!). First, he got some peel-the-backing-off and stick-on purple and gold flames for the side of my truck (so it would look 'bad'). Then, after seeing all the bikers wearing them, he wanted a 'do-rag.' Now, if you don't know what a do-rag is, it is a scarf-like piece of cloth you place on your head and tie it in the back (think about what the pirates in old movies wore and you will have an idea). And, of course, Mom and Dad had to get one as well.

So, there we were: three Midwestern, middle-class folks trying to 'blend in' with the crowd. Without some sort of leather garment, without a rash of tattoos all over our bodies, without a swagger that cannot be taught, we stuck out like three Midwestern, middle-class folks trying to blend in.

Which was okay with the bikers. No one stared, no one laughed, no one pointed at us. It confirmed what we have learned over the years. Despite their tattoos, their apparel, their swagger, bikers (for the most part) are just like us: good, compassionate, caring people. The only difference is the passion they have for motorcycles.

Want to raise money for a family whose house has burned down? The bikers will be there. Know a kid who has cancer and the family can't pay all the medical bills? The bikers will organize a charity ride, and repeat it as often as needed. Want partners in preventing child abuse, rare diseases, lost causes? Call a local biker club. These folks will show up, work their tails off, and ride off into the distance, without needing a lot of pats on the back.

And on most Sunday mornings, dressed in their leather, sporting their tattoos, riding in on their bikes, and walking in with a swagger, you will find a lot of bikers attending Bikers Church, seeking to be as faithful in following Christ as we are, dressed in our Sunday best, sporting our jewelry, riding in our SUVs, and walking in to be with the God who loves us all - each and every one of us.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

A Glimpse of the Kingdom

It happened again yesterday.

Jesus took two little children and put them among us during worship, and we saw the kingdom around us. Two sisters, one 10 and the other 6, were brought forward to be baptized. The words we speak at every baptism were said, the promises we make at every baptism were made, the Apostles' Creed was affirmed once again.

Then the prayer over the water was made, and the Spirit began to play in it, laughing and splashing in delight. She allowed me to caress the living waters with my hand, and bring them to Caroline and Leigh Ann: a palmful for the God of Grace, a palmful for the Christ of Love, a palmful for the Spirit of Life. And as I touched their heads, I saw the baptismal waters reflected in the tears brimming in the eyes of their parents.

And last night, when Leigh Ann and her Mom were out in the back yard watering the vegetable garden, Leigh Ann (who has some developmental challenges), dipped her hand in the cool water, and placed it on Mom's head three times, repeating the words spoken to her that morning.

No wonder Jesus tells us we have to become like a child in order to enter the kingdom of heaven.

They get it.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Fireflies

When I went out with Cocoa the Wonder Dog last night, for her last piece of business before bed, I saw them . . .

fireflies.

For some folks, it is the last day of school; for others, it is the first day the swimming pool opens; but for me, the first sign that summer has truly arrived are the fireflies.

Flickering off and on in the gathering darkness, playing hide-and-seek in the wildflower garden; trying to see which one can go the highest in the air - I love to watch fireflies on a summer's evening.

As a child, I tried to collect as many fireflies as I could in an old mayonnaise jar (with holes punched in the lid, of course), and would fall asleep by the flickering light the captives cast on my bedroom wall. Now, I just love to stand out on the deck and enjoy their evening dance.

Until Cocoa comes up and nudges me with her nose, and we go in for the last dog treat of the day, go upstairs, curl up on the bed, and fall asleep, the fireflies still dancing in the night.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Grace upon grace

What a gracious God!

Sarah is worried about there being no direct heir for Abraham, so she insists that her maidservant, Hagar, be the bearer of such an heir - and grace upon grace, Ishmael is born!

What a gracious God!

God appears to Abraham and Sarah, sits and talks, eats and drinks, and makes them a promise about a child being born to Sarah - and grace upon grace, Isaac is born!

And, as so happens with so many folks who have been given grace upon grace, Sarah turns into one of the most ungracious people in the Bible. She becomes so jealous of Ishmael (and Hagar), so worried about the share Isaac will get (and her share?), that she insists that Abraham cast them out of the fold.

We can certainly read this story as one of the culture of the times, in which flesh and blood is everything.

But note what a counter-cultural movement God makes - God responds to the cries of the outcasts...God listens to the cries of a woman, as well as a boy who might as well be an orphan. God listens, God saves, God makes a great nation out of the ones cast out by the one who was called to be a blessing to all nations.

We who have been given grace upon grace, we who have been gifted beyond all imagination, we who have been blessed with more than we could ever ask for or expect - how do we respond to such grace? What do we do with all our gifts? How eager are we to become a blessing to others?

And what counter-cultural moves are we, as individuals and churches, willing to make as we look around and cannot fail to see the ones cast out in our societies?

What a gracious God!

Dare we be so gracious?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

At the Abbey of Iona
Posted by Hello

How Ordinary!

I have to admit that on some days, especially Mondays, whenever there is a knock on the door, there is a part of me that says, "I hope it is someone important, some celebrity who is just dropping by to meet me because they've heard what a gifted preacher I am, what a witty conversationalist, what a charming bon vivant."

So when the knock came on the door yesterday morning, I could hope that it was Angelina Jolie, here to talk to me about the latest crisis in her life, or her journeys around the world with her humanitarian work. But it was a single mother from the neighborhood, who wanted to chat about her desire to be married in the church this fall.

And the next time there was someone at the door, I could fantasize that it was the owner of the Cincinnati Reds, come to ask my advice on how to turn his team around. Instead, it was a young man from a couple of streets over, who had just lost his job, his fiancee was struggling with medical issues, and rather than giving in to (as he put it) all the wrong things he could have done to deal with his life, he decided to stop in a church.

I can hope/dream/imagine all I want about the "beautiful people" stopping in for a chat, for advice, for a respite from their lives. But what God sends to me are all those ordinary people with bills to pay, with kids to find child care for during the summer while they work two jobs, with aging parents who worry them with diminishing lives, and all the ordinary, everyday struggles with which celebrities never have to deal.

Ordinary people - like all the tax collectors, sinners, hookers, women, children that Jesus used to hang out with on the street corners, and sit down to eat with at the local greasy spoon.

Ordinary people - like the money launderers, the blue collar Joes, the deniers, the betrayers the ones Jesus called to follow him, and then sent them out to share his good news.

Ordinary people - just like me.

Ordinary . . . and the most beautiful people in the world.

Keep 'em coming, Lord, keep 'em coming!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Face

And there they were.

Those faces we had grown so accustomed to 30+ years ago: the Plumber, the Burglar, the Chief of Staff, the guy who would run over his own grandmother if it would help thePresident, the Trickster - all those folks who put the USA through a constitutional crisis perhaps unparalleled in our history.

And there they were, the same faces, a little more lined, a lot more gray, but the same voices: spinning, justifying, obfuscating, accusing, denying.

But the face I will always remember from theWatergate era is that of Bob. A white-haired fellow in his early 70's, he was a part-timer in the campus post office. He had been through some of the most difficult times in the 20th century: the Depression, World War II, coming home from war to start a life. And because he was of that generation, even in retirement he was always moving. The only time he ever sat down was for coffee in the morning and afternoon, and when he would open up the brown bag lunch his wife lovingly packed him each day.

But when the hearings started to be broadcast on the radio, he started to move a little slower and would do more of his work sitting down. At first, he had the look that most folks had then: disbelief at all the fuss over a minor break-in in some office. But then more and more people testified, more and more was revealed, and Bob's face went through all the classic stages of grief that we are familiar with, until he was sitting there nodding his head in belief at what most of the folks were saying about his government, his president, his leaders.

And when the famous "smoking gun" tape was released, and the proof could no longer be denied, Bob reached over, turned off the radio, got up and went back to work. And while my memory may be a little hazy after 30+ years, I am pretty sure he was humming:

'On Christ the solid Rock, I stand;
all other ground is sinking sand,
all other ground is sinking sand.'

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Remembering and Forgetting

With a parade in every community, with a flag in front of just about every house, with every war movie ever made showing on TV, and every window in the stores promoting Memorial Day sales, it wasn't that difficult to "remember" yesterday (Memorial Day here in the States). In fact, it would have been pretty darn hard to forget what day it was!

But today, it's easier. Going back to work after a three-day weekend, one suddenly realizes the loss of a day to get the work done. With the regular shows and soaps back on TV, it is easier to focus on the struggles of mythical folks than the realities that neighbors face. With all the visual reminders put away until July 4th, the fact that we have young women and men a long way from home and in harm's way can be shoved to the back of our minds.

It's like our relationship with God. When we are in worship, of course we remember to bring our prayers to God. As the hymns are played and sung, we recall the ways that music can heal us and inspire us to go out and serve others. When scripture is read, we remind ourselves that we need to be more faithful in our daily devotions.

But then we leave the sanctuary, and immediately join in a discussion about our favorite sports team, and poof!, there goes that mental 'post-it' to spend more time in prayer. We meet friends for lunch and, whoosh, we forget to say a prayer of thanksgiving, not only for the food, but for the folks who have worked to provide the meal while we were in church. We go home and turn on the TV and the tune of our favorite commercial drives "Amazing Grace" right out of our brain.

It's not the the struggle of remembering that causes me problems, it's the ease of forgetting!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Manna Jar

Usually it's stuck up on the top shelf of the bookcase next to my desk, but lately, I have been keeping my "manna jar" close to my side.

Well, actually it is not a jar, but a Stainsbury's Assorted Biscuits tin from England. And instead of being filled with delicious treats (which are long gone!), it is filled with 'manna,' that bread of heaven, all those gifts from God to remind me that I am God's beloved child.

There are cards from families thanking me for funerals, weddings, or baptisms which I have done; there are crayoned notes from children who now have children of their own; there is a picture of my mother, taken when she was much younger; there are emails from friends and colleagues; there is a ribbon which wrapped chocolate that a dear friend brought back to me from France; there is a stone from Lindisfarne, some sand from Martyr's Bay at Iona, a rock from Omaha Beach, a pressed flower from Taize.

They are reminders of places where God has led me, people whom God has graced me, all the gifts God has poured out upon me over the years. They are, as the liturgy puts it, 'outward and visible signs' of that invisibly and spiritual bread of life God gives to us each and every day, if we only take notice.

When I am spinning and whirling from a life of stress, I open my manna jar and breathe the sweet aroma of the Spirit's healing presence, and it seems my hyperventilating soul begins to calm;

when the demands of ministry have stripped me bare, I touch the words, the paper, the stones - all those inanimate objects that put sinew and muscle back onto my dried bones;

when I hunger for a friend, an affirmation, a reminder that God loves me and cares for me, I feast upon these tender sweets, and my emptiness is filled to overflowing, my broken spirit is made whole.

And I put the lid back on my manna jar, and continue on through the wilderness.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Kids!

There's a part of me that knows I went into ministry to save myself. After all, if I am a minister, I get to go to the head of the line at the pearly gates, don't I?

There's a part of me that knows I went into ministry to save the world. It's a messy job, but somebody has to do it, and who better than someone who is on God's "side?"

There's a part of me that knows I went into ministry to save my denomination. The only place in a bigger mess than the world is a church denomination, and since the whole structure of redemption would crumble without denominations, it's an important job.

There's a part of me that knows I went into ministry to save a church - whichever one I am serving at any particular time. After all, there are always people who need to be healed, problems that need to be solved, budgets that need to be met. And who better to tackle these than an ordained minister?

But now, now, all of me knows that I'm in ministry for the kids. The kids who ask all the questions adults think are too "silly" but are at the heart of the human condition. Like Dennis the Menace yesterday, who asked, "If we're made out of dust, how's come we don't turn to mud when it rains?" kids are willing to put the pastor on the spot with just the right question at the most inconvenient moment.

And kids are willing to learn. Like the sower in Jesus' parable, every pastor learns that kids are the good soil - the place where the seeds of kindness, of justice, of hope, of compassion can be planted; and where they will blossom and flourish - in a year, in 10 years, in a lifetime - but the seeds do not lie fallow in kids.

And kids model the best attributes of God. They are willing to forgive in the heat of the moment, not waiting until the other person is frozen by the cold shoulder of hurt and rejection. They are willing to run up and hug, when you least expect it and most need it. They are willing to love - unconditionally, unsparingly, unfailingly, for all eternity.

Thank God for the kids!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Sabbath

I called another pastor this morning. "Sorry," the secretary said, "she is not in today." "Oh, you mean the pastor takes a day off?" Yes!" the secretary replied, and then added a heartfelt, "Thank God!"

Because of the lectionary readings for this coming Sunday (about God creating and taking the seventh day off) there's been a lot of talk on one of the chat lists I belong to about'sabbath' - about doing it, honoring it, taking it. About how we "need" that time off, how we are "supposed" to take such a break. The conversation with the secretary this morning reminded me that sabbath is not only a break for us, but it is a break "from" us for other people.

Sabbath is a break for the people we work with, whom we often push when we are falling behind, whom we often blame when we are being criticized, whom we often forget when we are being recognized.

Sabbath is a break for the people we live with - when we are intentionally more patient than usual, when we are more loving than we normally show, when we are more focused on our spouses, children, and friends than we are on ourselves, our needs, our petty concerns.

Sabbath is a break for God, as well, when God sees us taking the time (whether it is an hour, an evening, a day) to truly be the people God dreamed of when God scooped up that clay off the floor of the earth, pottered into a familiar form and blew the Spirit into our lungs.

If I keep sabbath only for myself, I continue to be self-centered. If I give others a break from me, then sabbath becomes a gift for everyone, even God.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

On the day after . . .

On the great Day of Pentecost, a mighty wind surged forth from heaven, pushing the followers of Jesus out of the house where they had been hiding, and into the streets. Flames danced above their heads, their tongues began to wag, and people from all over the world heard what they said, no matter what their native language. Peter gave a sermon which would cause Billy Graham to turn green with envy, and 3,000 (!) people were baptized.

The Church of Jesus Christ was born!

On the day after Pentecost:

Peter's wife had to yell at him three times to get out of bed, so that he would get his sermon on the website before 9:00 a.m.;

the deacons grumbled about cleaning out the baptismal pool;

and the apostles began to argue about who got to preach on Trinity Sunday, who would choose the hymns, and who would be stuck chairing the Nominating Committee.

Come, Holy Spirit, with your uniting peace;
come, Holy Spirit, with your gracious language;
come, Holy Spirit, with your passion for all people;
Come, Holy Spirit!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Phobia of the Day

Okay, admit it. You are not superstitious. But, were you afraid to go to work today? Won't go out to eat in a restaurant today? Definitely won't get married today?

If so, you may just suffere from the dreaded paraskevidekatriaphobia (try saying that three times real fast!) But not to worry, you are not alone. In fact, if you suffer from para-----, you are one of 21 million people in the United States alone (or about 8% of the population). What is it?

The fear of Friday the 13th.

We all joke about it; we all laugh at such 'fears,'; we all pooh-pooh such fears. But for a lot of folks, it can be very, very real.

Why Friday? Why 13?

Some say Friday is a bad day, historically. According to tradition, it was on a Friday that Eve enticed Adam with the apple, and they got driven out of Eden on that same day. Another old tales says that God scrambled languages at Babel on a Friday; a similar tradition tells us that the Great Flood came on Friday. And, of course, there is that Friday Christians call "good" when Jesus went to his death.

Friday was considered such a "bad" day, that for centuries, Christians would not begin travel on that day, or initiate new projects. (Of course, I am sure that the fact that Friday comes from the Norse goddess of love and sex, Freya, has nothing do do with our attitude towards the day!)

13 has been seen as a bad luck number for even longer. Hindu lore says that if 13 people gather for a meal together, all will die within a year. Norse mythology tells of the hero Balder being killed by the evil Loki, who crashes a party of the gods, making a total of 13 in attendance. And again, there were 13 gathere at the table at the Last Supper.

13 also figures into the names of folks who are considered to be the epitomes of evil: Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Theodore Bundy, and others all have 13 letters in their names.

Yet, in other cultures, 13 is considered to be a very lucky number. The Chinese have seen it as one of the most favorable numerals.

For the ancient Egyptians, 13 represented the highest goal for a human being. Believing that life consisted of 12 stages, they viewed the 13th (and final) stage as that of life beyond death, when one would be gloriously transformed into the image they would have for all eternity.

Isn't it interesting how, over the centuries, we have corrupted a belief that symbolized reverence and respect for life beyond what we know now, into an attitude that represents the fear of death?

So, maybe we should break the "spell" of Friday the 13th by going out and having a party, inviting 12 of our best friends to a sumptious meal, meeting someone who has 13 letters in their name for drinks after work, laughing in the face of phobias and fears. Isn't that what trust in the risen Christ is all about . . .

. . .or, are we too superstitious?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Veni Sancte Spiritus

I have to admit that I have never had any tongues of fire dancing on my head. Though, come to think of it, there was that time when I was in children's choir at the Christmas Eve service, and the lighted candle in the hand of the little girl behind me got too close to the hair on the back of my head! (But I am not sure if that counts).

I don't recall my folks mentioning anything about a white dove appearing at my baptism and a voice speaking from heaven.

Even though there were several wild geese flying over me on this morning's walk, I apparently don't have the spiritual gift to discern what they were saying.

But, there are those times when Paisley curls up in my lap after a long day, and starts purring, and I feel the healing presence of the Comforter.

In the middle of the night, when I hear Bonnie softly breathing next to me, I am filled with a Peace that is impossible to describe.

And this morning, like every morning, the Holy Spirit bounded up onto the bed and started licking my face, saying, "Come on; get up, lazy bones! Let's go see what God has in store for us today!"

Come, Holy Spirit, come!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

V E Day

I was in France four years ago, when VE Day (the "end" of World War II in Europe) was celebrated. Unlike the United States, it is a national holiday in France, and I was impressed with the reverence with which people treated the day and its meaning.

Now, in 2005, it seems to have special meaning, throughout the world, as we remember the 60th anniversary of this special date in the life of humanity.

And one of the things the anniversary has spurred, at least among us clergy "types," is a discussion about the meaning of war, the validity of war, the value of war, the reality of war. Most of us, however we feel about that war or any other, seem fairly well convinced that our position coincides with the one the Lord had. WWJD? Well, it seems he would do what I would.

But maybe it is not so much what Jesus did that is important, as much as what Jesus knew. Jesus seems to know, more clearly than we seem able, that we are are war - within ourselves.

When I am immersed in Scripture, when I am reading about loving my enemies, it's "Right on! That's the way to live." When Jesus speaks about turning the other cheek, "Amen, brother! I can do that." And when he talks, and walks, about caring passionately and unconditionally about those people who don't give a damn about me, "You go, Jesus!"

Oh yes, when I am deep within Scripture, I can be incredibly brave, unbelievably strong, committed without any sort of reservation or question.

But when I shut the Bible, get up, and walk out the door into my life, I become a wimp with a capital W, I, M, P. With a single bound, I can jump into a conflict adding my anger. I can leap tall steeples to land with my right foot of hostility and my left foot of righteousness into the midst of any debate. I can pick up my weapons of pride and arrogance and do mighty battle with any one, and every one, who dares to disagree with me.

The abyss, cut deep by the raging waters of all our anger, hate and bitterness, between where we want to live and the world we really inhabit is precisely what Jesus came to bridge, that we might follow him across into that peaceable Kingdom of God. And fortunately, in the Spirit he leaves behind, Jesus gives us the tools to keep the bridge standing long after he is gone.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

A Word in Need

when I am lonely, wondering if I have
a friend in the world . . .
. . . it embraces me with its comfort;

when I am prone to ignore the world . . .
. . . it pushes me into its delights;

when I wander the streets of today's culture . . .
. . . it shadows me to keep me out of trouble;

when I think that I have no responsibilities
for those around me . . .
. . . it grabs me and shakes me;

when I am broken by the suffering
of those I love . . .
. . . it caresses me with its peace;

when I strut my arrogant pride . . .
. . . it shatters me into humility;

when I need a Word . . .
. . . God provides it.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Commandment Keeping

For some folks, the Ten Commandments (and all the others) "have" to be followed without question. They are the core of how folks are to live; they are the law; they are the instruments by which we determine who are the really good people, and who are the rotten scoundrels.

For others, the commandments are sort of a moral code which, while not absolute, gives us some guidance on how we should live. Recognizing the times and context in which these 'laws' were first written, and taking into account when and were folks live today, there is a lot of latitude taken in following them.

Yet, for Jesus, keeping the commandments was an act of love! (John 14:15). Not an act of unquestioning obedience; not a philosophical pondering of the relevance of the commandments for ourselves and our times; no, simply the natural result of a life which loves Christ.

Which really shoudn't surprise us. After all, how better to understand and live out the commandment not to kill, then loving the One who taught us to relate to other people, including our enemies? How could we dare to covet all that our neighbor has when we love the One who teaches us to give all that we have and are in service to others? How could we fail to love God with all our heart, our mind, our strength, our soul when Jesus shows us the sort of life we can have through such love? How can we not love our neighbors (and ourselves) when Jesus sees the neighbor in everyone he meets (including us), when Jesus is the neighbor to everyone he meets (including us), when Jesus us loves us more than we can ever love ourselves?

If it is an act of love which leads to a lifetime of giving and receiving love, how can I not want to keep the commandments?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Place

When I was in college, my minister and his family had a place in the mountains of North Carolina. On several spring breaks, a group of us would go there to relax and, of course, study (though for some reason, our books never made it out of the car!). It was a beautiful, peaceful, wonderful spot.

On walks in the area, we came across an undeveloped lot, where the ground was carpeted by the needles from the pines, sunlight filtered through the tall trees, and a small stream softly sang nearby. I decided when the time was right, I would buy that spot and build a house. But the timing was never right, someone else bought it, and built something completely out of character with the location. But for years, that spot was my idea of what heaven would be like.

In John 14, Jesus tells his friends that he is going to prepare a "place" for them. What does your place look like, in your mind's eye?

Is it an old Victorian mansion with big, airy rooms; cobwebs lurking in the corners; heavy drapes cuddling the tall windows; doilies on the arms of the big, comfortable chairs?

Is it a modern, one-level house, where there are no steps to trouble your arthritic knees?

Perhaps you envision a child's room with a mobile of Noah's Ark turning above your bed, and God sitting in a rocking chair by the window, just waiting for you to crawl up in her lap for a snuggle and a bedtime story.

Today, I hope the place that Jesus is getting ready for me looks like the Isle of Iona, with the water and sky constantly changing; with St. Columba's Shrine a space for silence and tranquility; where we gather to share at God's Table, as the Bread of Heaven takes the loaf and hands it to me, saying, "This is my body, for you."

Thanks be to God.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Dandy-lions!

It's dandelion season here in the States, and people are going crazy trying to get rid of this simple, little yellow flower they think litters their lawns, making them unsightly. Pesticides are called into action, folks are out with their trowels trying to dig them up by the roots, and lawn care companies are making a killing.

And it seems like the only ones who find delight in the simple dandelion are the smallest children, who can sit for hours in the grass admiring and playing with these gifts from God.

In other parts of the world, the dandelion is used to make herbal remedies, teas, salads and mild wines that look and taste like summer. Others make muffins using parts of the flower. Some people believe that the dandelion root can be a blood purifier, relieve gout and rheumatism, and be an aid to problems with the liver, stomach, and gall bladder. Not bad for a little flower that so many consider to be a weed.

And who doesn't remember picking the dandelions and blowing their dried, soft petals into the air and watching them dance away on the breath of the wind. Maybe Jesus used to sit in the fields, joining the kids in their joy with the dandelions, reminding them, as he did Nicodemus, that "the spirit blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes."

So, chill out and have a glass of dandelion wine and enjoy this gift from God!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Back of the Line

Over 4 million people in attendace; 200 world leaders; folks of every faith (and none) sitting side by side for 3+ hours; at least 800,000 folks gather for a mass in his native home town of Krakow; billions, probably, watching on televions or the internet, listening on radios.

An amazing funeral, an unbelievable tribute to a man who touched millions and millions of lives - especially young people. A witness to the power of one person of strong faith to minister to people in a way most of us only dare dream about.

And yet, as powerful a figure as he was; as many lives as he touched; as many prayers that he offered for the world; as tireless a worker for human rights and peace as he was, I have a feeling that when John Paul II got to heaven's door, he was not granted first place in line.

If the gospels are correct, the position of honor may have gone to a little girl who shattered her parent's hearts with her innocence when she was born, and left a hole in them when she died of cancer.

If the gospels are correct, the first person in line may have been a 75-year-old survivor of Dachau, who spent the rest of his life telling his story, so that the horror would never be repeated.

If Jesus was correct when he talked about the least, the last, the lost, the little, then the gates open first for all those unknowns who quietly shared their love for their families; for all those mothers who placed their childrens' needs before their own dreams; for all those fathers who worked 2 and 3 jobs so their families could have the simple basics of life; for all those nameless, courageous, faithful people who tried their best to treat everyone fairly, who loved everyone equally, who followed God trustingly.

All those people who have been forgotten by the press, the politicians, the multitudes . . .

. . . but not by God.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Opening Day

This is the day we have all been waiting for!

No, not the first day of spring, silly - Opening Day!
The first day of the brand new baseball season. The sun
is shining, the sky is blue, the birds are singing, and the
Reds are playing baseball!!!

And here in Cincinnati, it is the same as a national holiday.
Call just about any office, any person, and the message is
the same - "sorry, I am working out of the office today;
I won't be in the office today; my apologies, I am not at
my desk today." Right. The critical work that everyone
is "out of the office" for today is baseball. If you don't have
tickets to the game, you are at home, sitting out on your
deck, in your favorite chair, listening to the game on radio.

A local sports writer says that baseball players are luckier
than the rest of us who work. Every year, they have a day
when the slate is wiped clean, when the past is forgotten,
when the future lies before them, when they can write new
statistics, new chapters, a new life. It is called "Opening Day."
Oh, don't we all wish we had an annual Opening Day at our
jobs, in our marriages, in our journeys, in our lives!

For believers, we do.

Because of what God, in Christ, did on that Opening Day
of all opening days, we have that chance to have the pages
torn out of the book of life and new, blank pages put in.
Because of that first Easter, when Jesus strode from the
darkness of death into the new creation, we can walk out
of the shadows of our sin into the future God holds out
to us. Because of that first day of the week, when the
stone was rolled away, and the doors to the Kingdom
were thrown open, our past is behind us, our life is
before us, our journey begins anew!

And now, every morning is Easter; every waking is
a fresh start; every day is Opening Day!

Play Ball!!!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Don't know much about . . .

For our Maundy Thursday service, we try to "re-create" the events of that evening. We begin with the Sacrament of Communion in an "upper room" ( a classroom on our CE wing's second floor). Then, as we sing a Taize song, we go "with" Jesus to the garden (and if the weather permits, we go into our outdoor garden); and after that, we "follow" Jesus to the sanctuary, for the reading of the trial portion of the story, and conclude with a reading of Psalm 22.

Folks who attend always comment on the meaning of the service, and mention how the 'movement' aids in their journey of faith. After tonight's service, someone told me that of all the services during Holy Week, including Easter with all its alleluias, this was the most meaningful. I found that to be an interesting statement, and realized after a bit of thought, that I felt the same way. Why is that?

Well, I don't know what it is like to be asked to bear the sins of the world and to do it all by myself, but I have sat around tables whereI found myself wondering about the motives of some of the other people sitting with me.

I don't know much about death (even though I've conducted a lot of funerals), butI do know a little bit about the struggle to be faithful to God's call to obedience, even when that call leads to pain, to suffering, to death.

I don't know anything (even thoughI trust in the promise) about resurrection, but I do know something about being willing to put my life in God's hands, even when I go into that darkest valley of all.

I don't know where it is all going to end, this journey I am on as I follow Jesus(though I do have some hints, and hopes). But Maundy Thursday reminds me that I am not alone on that journey, even when it looks like I am.

Maybe that is why the day means so much to folks, including me.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Save us!

Save us!

on this day,
hosannas burst from our lips,
and bessings dance around us

while thorns
slowly twist
around our hearts;

on this day,
we eagerly strip off
our cloaks
to pave a gentle path for you

while we hide
grave clothes
behind our backs;

on this day,
we shout your praises
and welcome you
with open arms

while the Evil One
plants nails
in our souls;

on this day
and every day:

save us!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Absolutely!!!

"I lift up my eyes to the hills --
from where will my help come?" (Psalm 121:1)

He arrived in America ten years ago, coming from Cameroon to be a college student. As he prepared to transfer from one airport to another to catch a flight to Cincinnati, he discovered that someone had stolen all his luggage, including the cash and travelers checks he had hidden in them (because someone had warned him about the potential for being kidnapped for his money in America).

But, in faith, he journeyed on to Cincinnati, where he encountered the usual problems so many immigrants do with a new language, a new culture, a new educational system, a new life. But he persisted, in faith, because he knew God was good, and God was faithful, and God would be with him in every circumstance.

He worked hard, he studied hard, he sought to be a good person, a good Christian, a good husband, and eventually, a good father. But the stress of dealing with so much newness, so many struggles caused him to have a stroke when he was in his early 20's. He went home from the hospital to find that his wife had left him, because she didn't want to have to deal with a person with a disability.

But he continued in his journey, in faith, seeking to improve his health, seeking to find the jobs needed to pay off his educational and medical bills, seeking to be a good father to his son. And when his fiance in Cameroon encouraged him to find a good Presbyterian church before she arrived, he came to us. And he and his almost-five son have been a true blessing and gift to us.

Yesterday, he met with the Session of our church to become a member, and as he told his story, of his struggles, his pain, his faith, over and over we heard the phrases, "God helped me, God led me, God was with me, God was faithful."

And then I asked him the three questions we ask new members:
Do you believe in Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?
"Absolutely!"
Do you renounce evil and place your reliance on God's grace?
"Absolutely!"
Do you promise to particpate actively in the life of the church and be involved in its worship and mission?
"Absolutely!"

Not passive "I do's" or "I will's" but strong, strong affirmations from a life that has discovered the answer to the question of the Psalmist:

"My help comes from the Lord
who made heaven and earth." (Psalm 121:2)

Absolutely!!!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Garrison Keillor of the Gospels

This Lenten season, I have come to appreciate John as the Garrison Keillor of the Gospel writers (for those of you unfamiliar with him, Keillor is a radio host here in the States of a radio program called "Prairie Home Companion" which is filled with stories of the human condition.

At the very beginning of his gospel, John tells us that "the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world" (1.9). And how do we know this light has come into the world? John tells us stories to show us.

Jesus begins his ministry at a wedding. And at the worst possible moment of this wonderful, joyous occasion, the wine runs out. And in the midst of a social disaster for an entire village gathered to celebrate, Jesus starts to build his new community. And on Good Friday, the community watches him transform death into life.

Then a wise man, someone who has studied the Bible back and forth, and who has served numerous times on the governing board of his church comes to Jesus with his questions. He wants to believe that what Jesus says and does is true, but since what Jesus says and does goes against all that he has learned and believed, he comes in the shadows of the night and of his soul. And goes away with the light of new knowledge. And on Good Friday, all wise people will discover the truth of the One who comes to save the world.

Jesus then goes into "enemy" territory and has a conversation with an outsider, a non-believer, a woman! They talk about worship, about God, about water, about broken relationships. And the woman goes away, her emptiness gone, her thirst for relationships filled, her despair turned into hope. And on Good Friday, women will stand at the foot of the Cross, as the Living Water cries out, "I thirst."

Jesus meets a man born blind from birth. He refuses to get into a theological or medical discussion about why this happened. He simply makes a muddy paste from the dust of the earth and his spit, coats it on the man's eyes, and tells him to wash it off. And while everyone runs around wanting to know the details, all the man can say is "once I was blind, now I see." And on Good Friday, our blindness is wiped away as we see the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.

Jesus stands at a sealed tomb. And what does he do? He weeps. Imagine that! The Word who called forth all creation into being weeps; the One who flung the stars into the night sky, cannot see them because of his tears; the God who breathed life into humanity cannot catch his breath because of his sobs. And just as on the first morning of eternity, he calls forth life out of the chaos of death and grief.

And on Easter morning, from a shadowed tomb, the Light of the world comes forth, to bring us new life, new hope, new sight, new wisdom, the new kingdom, the new creation of God.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman