Third Friday of Advent

Our soul waits for the LORD;
     he is our help and shield.
Our heart is glad in him,
     because we trust in his holy name.
Let your steadfast love, O LORD,
         be upon us,
   even as we hope in you.(Psalm 33:20-22)

What kept you from falling asleep quickly last night?  What woke you up in the middle of the night, or got you up an hour earlier than usual?

Worry.

What is it that keeps adding to-dos to your daily list, even though you have run out of paper?

Worry.

What is it that churns our stomachs, grays our hair, wrinkles our faces, fatigues our bodies?

Worry.

It is endemic, and an epidemic, to our souls.

According to a little piece in our newspaper, here is
what most of us worry about:
   things that never happen     40%
   things that can't be changed   35%
   things that turn out better than expected  15%
   petty, useless worries      8%
   legitimate worries           2%

that's right      2%!
So, tear up your lists, give your body a break, roll over and go back to sleep.  Give God the 98% of the things that there is no need to worry about and fret over,

and I'll bet the other 2% is taken care of, as well.

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

First Friday of Advent

Seek good and not evil,
     that you may live;
and so the LORD, the God of
         hosts, will be with you,
     just as you have said.
Hate evil and love good,
     and establish justice in the
          gate;  (Amos 5:14-15a)

You live in a nation where people with the same color of skin as you are treated as second-class, or worse; are kept in devastating and debilitating poverty; are seen as having no true rights, and deserving of none now or in the future.

How do you react?

You are sent to prison for more than 25 years.  You are cut off from your friends and family.  Guards treat you with inhumanity.  You spend much of your time in harsh, back and spirit breaking work of crushing rocks.  You have no freedom and are seen as deserving none now or in the future.

What sort of person do you become?

You could become bitter, angry, hostile.  You could become vengeful, with that deep thirst for an eye for an eye sort of justice which is rooted in such conditions.  You could be filled with hate and let it overflow from you in every conversation, every situation, every encounter with another person.  You could become the role model for every person who longs to respond with violence, with enmity, with utter disregard for the lives of others because of what your life has become.

Or you could become Nelson Mandela.  You could model grace in the most ungracious of situations.  You could respond with love to those whose hate for you is worn on their faces and heard in their voices every day.  You could desire the freedom of your people, and all who are oppressed by systems which have no true humanity.  You could become a role model for non-violence in responding to those with the power to crush everything, and everyone, in their path.

As one commentator said, we don't need to wait for the judgment of history to know of Nelson Mandela's legacy.  We see it every day in people who are more forgiving, because he was willing to forgive; in people who are more gracious, because grace was what you saw on his face and heard in his voice; in people who work for freedom for those who have none, who are a voice for those with no advocate, who are seekers of good, not evil, because that is how he lived.

What a privilege to have been alive in the time of Nelson Mandela.

© 2013  Thom M. Shuman

impaired

Yesterday (Sunday) morning, one of the closing prayers in the Benedictine prayer book I use on a regular basis was:
   You are with us, faithful God, revealing yourself in
   every experience of our lives.  Help us to stand firm
   against all that would take us from you and to rejoice
   in steadfast perseverance, preferring nothing to your
   love.  We ask this inspired by the life of Jesus and
   strengthened by the gifts of the Holy Spirit, one
   God forever.  Amen.
It's a lovely prayer.  Since I have been using this book for a number of years, I imagine I have prayed these words dozens and dozens of times.  It is a prayer which reminds me that God is indeed in every moment, every person of our lives, and longs for us to hold fast to that love of God's which the psalmists repeatedly call 'steadfast.'

But it was not until I was driving down to the church an hour or so later, that it hit me - I had not prayed the words as written on the page!  Instead of "inspired by the life of Jesus" what I had whispered in my mind was impaired by the life of Jesus.  As I mentally kicked myself, or at least as best as I could while steering a car, I put down the misuse of the phrase as a simple case of the tireds.

But I've been wondering . . . am I impaired by Jesus?

If I go through the day WUI (Walking Under the Influence of Jesus), I tend to look at the world with different eyes.  I see the mist over the schoolyard as Maya and I walk by, and I think of how the Holy Spirit hovers over our lives.  I hear the news of another mass shooting somewhere in the world, and breathe a prayer of thanks for all those helpers who show up to bring healing, hope, rescue.  I watch the mother whose bone-weariness from a 14-hour-day is dropped to the ground as she scoops up her toddler who runs into her arms, both laughing in pure delight.

If I go on a bender, drinking in all those parables of Jesus about prodigals who wonder if they will find the door slammed in their face if they dare to return home; about those dreaded outsiders who model God's compassion better than the insiders do; about a kingdom which is filled with the rejects, the losers, the broken, the forsaken, rather than the pious and the platitude speakers, I discover myself noticing people I have overlooked before, wondering what I might be able to learn from them.

If I binge myself on all the passages about the grace and mercy of God, I move through the day just a little bit more gracious; if I stuff myself with all the examples where goodness is exalted over evil, kindness over rudeness, love over hate, I want to holler to those around me, 'come and try some of this!'  If I can't make it one more moment without another story of Jesus' radically inclusive nature, I am less likely to hide in the shadows hoping that person ringing the doorbell of the church will just go away.

Impaired by Jesus?

I can only hope.

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

this morning

I thought of Mr. Grasso this morning.  My fifth-grade teacher, he had a simple rule.  If one could finish their classroom work, you could raise your hand and ask permission to go to the library.  This wasn't a rule for me, it was a gateway!  Zipping through math, filling out the blanks on the social studies sheet, answering the science questions, I would raise my hand, ready to enter that marvelous realm filled with books.  I got done so quickly, and waved my hand so often, that finally Mr. Grasso took me aside and said, 'Look, when you are done with your work, simply get up quietly and go to the library.'

I thought of Mrs. Bledsoe this morning.  In tenth grade English, she challenged me to expand my vocabulary, to step up and read authors who challenged me, to not just read the words on a page, but to think about them, to wonder about them, to reflect on why a particular phrase was chosen over another, why one word was used instead of its synonym, why the author created that particular character.  She guided me to a deeper appreciation of words, of their power, and of their influence.

I thought of Ms. Mozingo and Mr. Leverette this morning.  My social studies teachers in high school, they encouraged me to see that history was more than just dusty accounts of a past that had no part of my life.  They helped me to begin to understand that what happened hundreds of years ago still affected the world today, that what was spoken at a cemetery dedication during a war contained timeless words, that people who had gone before me had passed on their hopes and their dreams, that they might be fulfilled in my generation.

I thought of all these folks, and many more, this morning.

I was out on my morning walk, and just before 7:00 a.m., the car passed me, as it usually does this time of year.  A teacher heading to the primary school just a couple of blocks from our house.  She was arriving more than two hours before any student would walk through the doors.  She got there that early each day so she would be ready - to challenge, to encourage, to prod, to teach.  She would work with kids with different abilities and skills, with different dreams and hopes.  And when the kids left for the day, she would still be there.  As she straightens up the room and works the kinks out of her back, she will think of her kids - the ones who struggle and the ones who are ready to go further; the ones who go to a home where they will get all sorts of help with homework, and the ones who will struggle alone at the kitchen table; the ones who will cry themselves to sleep this night, and the ones who will be taught to be bullies like their parent.  And she will be back tomorrow, to fulfill her calling to teach, to care, to model, to help, to hope.

I thought of teachers this morning, and as I thought, I gave thanks to God for each and every one of them.

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

jitters

I stopped in the preschool classroom yesterday to say good-bye to the half dozen or so kids who would be leaving our program to begin kindergarten this year.  I have been reading to them for the last couple of years, every Thursday morning when there was no conflict (and I always tried to make sure there wasn't!), and have enjoyed their questions, their eagerness, their energy, their delight in the stories.  As they gathered around me to give me a hug, they chattered excitedly about starting kindergarten, but if you looked closely, there was that look in their eyes that said, 'please, tell me it is going to be okay.'

We all have experienced that sort of feeling, haven't we?  The first time we let go of our parent's hand to get on the school bus; moving into our office at the new job, and after putting everything in the desk drawer and on the shelves, looking around and wondering, 'okay, now what?'  That first date; that march down the aisle; hugging everyone at graduation, wondering if we really would stay in touch over the years; standing by the graveside saying good bye to that person who had been our rock, our best friend in the whole world.

I remember leaving for college.  Packing everything in the footlocker, getting my ticket, climbing on the bus for the trip down to the school.  I couldn't wait to get out of my hometown, to begin this new adventure, to finally be out on my own.  But as the miles rolled by under my seat on the bus, as we drew closer and closer, the acid begin to churn in my stomach, my head began to ache, the doubts tightened the muscles in my shoulders, the jitters began their little dance in my soul.

So as I think about my little friends heading off to kindergarten, as I think of the high schoolers whose first classes at the university start this week, for those who might be starting a new position or moving into retirement, for the person going out on a first date this weekend, for everyone who is dealing with uncertainty, with questions, with jitters in their life, I hope they discover the same truth I have over all these years, the truth the psalmist for today affirms that God will be our guide, our companion, forever!

(c) 2013  Thom M. Shuman

God bless you, Dusty!

Dusty the Church Dog never met a bad day.  If it
was snowing, that meant going down to the
nearby elementary school and racing around the
fields; it meant making doggy snow angels in
the front yard, and catching snowballs no matter
how hard they were thrown.  If it was raining,
it meant splashing through puddles, and rolling
in the front yard until he was soaked to the skin.
If it was a crisp fall day, it meant walking down
around the lake (and the campground with the
great smells) looking for the Biscuit Lady, who
always had treats for him.  If it was a clear spring
day, there was nothing better than sitting on
the lawn smelling the leaves uncurling, the
dandelions poking their heads up out of the
sky, the birds building their nests in the trees.

Dusty the Church Dog never met a person
he didn't immediately like and turn into his
new BFF.  From the curmudgeonly neighbor
who always had a frown on his face and a
complaint on his lips to the little kid trying
out his bicycle with training wheels, Dusty
just had to meet them, had to greet them,
had to turn their day into the tail-waggingest
one they had ever had.  He enjoyed meeting
other dogs, especially the little guys in the
neighborhood, and managed to give a wide
berth to any cats he met.  Squirrels always
found a tree to run up, rabbits always seemed
to bounce further when they saw him, and
deer utterly confused him.

Dusty the Church Dog touched lives in ways
in which I can only dream of doing.  He would
turn those big brown eyes towards the face of
the woman sitting in the hallway at the nursing
home, and her face would beam with delight.
He read books by the dozens to kids on Thursday
mornings and taught them how much fun it was
to catch a carrot in midair and crunch it to pieces.
He showed incredible patience in waiting for his
turn at the ice cream place (but don't try to jump
the line in front of him!), and he gave unconditional
love and acceptance to everyone he met, even if
simply passing on the street.

Dusty the Church Dog was my confidant, my trusted
companion, my faithful sidekick, my window into
the the grace, the love, the wonder, the power, the
joy of God which is always around us.  He was the
one who got me out of bed to listen to the geese
flying south.  He was the one who taught me that
there is always something to experience, someone
to meet, some marvelous delight just waiting around
the next corner.  He was the one who couldn't wait
to experience the next moment which was coming
into his life.  He was the one who got me through
some of the toughest days of ministry, of our
struggles with Teddy, of life itself.

Sadly, Dusty the Church Dog finally met something
that didn't love him, that wouldn't give in to his
silly smile and gentle nature, that wouldn't let him
keep going through this life.  A tumor on his spleen
that was causing internal bleeding meant that those
who loved him so much and would miss him beyond
any possible words could describe, had to help him
cross that Rainbow Bridge into peace, gentleness,
and everlasting joy.  So, about an hour ago, we held
him, hugged him, whispered our thanks to him as
he closed his eyes once last time this side of life.

And you will never, ever convince me that the wet
streets and sidewalks we discovered when we
came out of the vet's office were simply from a
passing rain shower.

© 2013  Thom M. Shuman

The Flip Side

Like the psalmist, I pant . . .
   for more intimate time with God,
   for fewer distractions,
   for a life that is more settled and focused.

I think that is why, when I had the chance years ago, to begin my renewal time with a month at the Abbey of Gethsemane; why I try to return there at least once a year; why I try to carve out more silence for myself (but often fail in the attempt!).  That's probably why I try to intentionally build silence into any worship service.

Yet I am starting to recognize that in promoting such silence, in holding up the reading from First Kings 19 as 'The Template' for such a desire and longing in one's life, that I am saying to people that the only way to hear God, the only place to find God, is in the silence. 

It was true for Elijah in that moment, place, and time in his life.  It is true for me in moments at the Abbey and on quiet walks.  But it is not true for every moment, every place, every time, every person. 

Sometimes I need the tempests of God, which rattle the windows of my soul and wake me up in the muddle of the night.  Sometimes I need God to grab my heart and shake me until all the 'stuff' I have accumulated over the years falls off the shelves and breaks.  Sometimes I need the heat of God's passion for the poor, the lost, the oppressed to sear my jaded conscience and get me working for justice and righteousness.

When I was a teenager, and listening to the radio, the disc jockey would sometimes play a record.  I might like the song, it might speak to me, it might bore me to tears.  But then came those magical words, 'and now, on the flip side . . .'

Sometimes God speaks in the wind, the earthquake, the fire.  And then there is silence - that marvelous, gorgeous, longed-for gift - which I couldn't understand if I didn't listen to the flip side as well.
(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

Thank God for teachers!

From kindergarten through graduate school, they are the ones who shaped me, challenged me, transformed me, gifted me.

Teachers.

They are underpaid, unvalued, unappreciated. They have become one of the political 'footballs' for all those who are looking for a scapegoat on which to pin all the ills of society.  They are mocked for having a job which gives them a 3-month 'vacation.'  They are demeaned and derided every time a vote comes up on a school levy.

Yet, a teacher is the one who will reach into his own nearly empty wallet and pay the school fees for several of his students, so they can participate in all the activities.  A teacher is the one who will stay after school has ended because the parent of one of her kids is running late, but forgotten to call and tell the school.  A teacher is the one who will befriend the loneliest kid in the school, making sure that they know they are valued by someone.  A teacher is the one who will challenge all us 'high potential, low achievers' to discover our gifts.

Teachers are the ones who go about the vocation of educating our children, with one hand tied behind their backs by all the experts who have never stepped foot into a classroom, by all the politicians who wouldn't last one day in a room full of 6-year-olds.  They are mandated to train kids to pass test after test, when all they want to do is introduce kids to the power of words, the intricacies of numbers, the incredible wonders of the universe, the complexity of the world in which we live.

Teachers are the ones who, while on this 'extended vacation' can be found most days in their school building, preparing for the coming year, learning about the children who will be a part of their lives in the coming school year, who will be sending notes to their students encouraging them to read, to explore, to expand their minds during the summer months.  Teachers are the ones who will haunt the yard sales, the dollar stores, the flea markets looking for those supplies that the school cannot afford to supply.

And when a 200+ mile-an-hour tower of terror comes hurling at the school, it is teachers who will set aside their own fears (and worries about their own families) to calm their students and lead them to where they are supposed to shelter.  It is a teacher who, with life growing inside of her, will way her body across her wards to protect them.  When a mentally ill person with a gun comes to a school, it is teachers who will respond before the first responders ever get a call, shepherding the little ones they love so much into closets and whispering to them 'I love you'; it is a teacher who will step between the gunman and the children. 

Believers or not, they are the ones who, day in and day out, year after year, live out Christ's calling to love others so much that we would lay aside our lives for others.

So, as the school year comes to an end, let me simply say - to the teachers, aides, subsitutes, and volunteers; to those who drive the buses, fix the meals, maintain buildings; to the secretaries, the OTs/PTs, the nurses, the psychologists and counselors; to all who impact lives of children and young people in ways you will never know (but we will, always!):

THANK YOU!

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

Imago Dei

I sat down on the front pew to listen to the postlude played by our guest musician, a concert pianist.  As the music began to flow, I was close enough to observe the delicacy of his fingers on the softer notes, and the arching hands that gave force to the stronger.  The piece echoed in the sanctuary as he continued to play, without any music in front of him, simply from memory.

How does it happen?

How is it that one person hears notes in their head, where I only hear noise, and puts them down on sheets of paper, shaping them into a piece that endures through the centuries?  How does one memorize the complexity of the notes, and then send them down to her fingertips, playing them in such a way that still echoes in hearts hours and days later?  I could pick out the notes on a piano, but could never put them together so that people's lives are changed.

How is it that I can look at a field and see trees, grass, a couple of horses, a sky with clouds gathering darkly, and a Constable sees 'The Hay Wain'?  How is it that I can put words together in a rambling sentence, and a poet can take those same words and produce something that calls you to sit in silence?

How is it that I can look at a scene and quickly dismiss it as every day ordinary, and a photographer snaps a picture and through her eyes that same image resonates with thousands of people?  How is it that I can see an injustice and write a letter to the editor, and a Lincoln can pen his 'House Divided' speech?

More and more, it is in the notes in the musician's head and hands, it is the internal eyes of the painter and photographer, it is in the  dexterity of the wordsmith that I find confirmation that we are indeed created in the image of God, the Master Artisan.

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

The Lord is

The Lord is a first responder
   who runs towards the blast
   not away from it;

the Lord is a trauma nurse
   who is in her car in the parking lot
   ready to go home after her shift,
   but goes back in when she sees
   the ambulances arrive;

the Lord is employees
   who turn their restaurant
   into a shelter for the injured
   and frightened;

the Lord is a mother
   who makes sure her home
   is secure and then checks
   on her neighbors;

the Lord is a father
   who comforts his children
   while his own fears
   assail him . . .

in the darkest of valleys,
the Lord is
always with us.

 (c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman
   

Play ball!!!

A reading from Revelation 23:

Then I saw a new game on a new day, for yesterday's game was over, relegated to the stat books forever. And I heard a loud voice from the press box announcing, "See, the place of God is among the fans. God will wipe away the tears when the team loses, regrets and recrimination will be no more, all time has ceased in this place, for the past season has passed away. "

The one of the four umpires, who had the bags containing the game balls came and said to me, "Come, I will show you the line-up cards for this game." And he carried me to the dugouts, showing me the holy city the Ballpark, coming down out of heaven from God.

It has the glory of blue skies, with bright sun shining down upon the players and fans, with a radiance like a very rare jewel, an emerald clear as crystal. It has high walls around the outfield, with lower walls where the tribes of the teams sit to watch the game. The walls are inscribed with the jerseys of former players who have gone through the great ordeal of playoffs, emerging with clean uniforms.

The angel who talked to me had a measuring rod of gold to measure the dimensions of the field: left field is 328', with the power alley stretching 379'; dead center is 404' from home plate, with the right field power alley is 370' and the right field wall is 325'. The ballpark has entrance gates which allow the fans to enter from all directions. Then the angel showed me the sweet nectar of heaven being dispensed from the taps at the concession stands, with manna from heaven (red hots with sauerkraut, pizza, popcorn and cracker jack) available to all the fans.

And the one who was seated behind home plate said, 'See, I am making all games new. Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true. When you strike out swinging, you get another chance in your next at bat; when you are charged with an error, you have an opportunity the next time the ball is hit to you; if you lose every game in every season, I will still be your God and you will be my team."

Then, with a bite of the bratwurst slathered with mustard and topped with kraut and a sip of his cold brew, God settled back in the seat, hollering at the ump, "you call that a strike!? Are you serious or just delirious?"

(c) 2010  Thom M. Shuman

mornings

yesterday
morning came:
i put the leash on Sadness
and took him for a walk in the rain;
i put the kettle on and
and watched my hopes steam away;
i stirred my life
and gorged on its bitterness.

tomorrow
morning will come:
the job will shove me
out of bed;
the dirty laundry will trip me
on my way to the shower;
tv's talking heads
will remind me how terrible life is.

but this morning?
this morning
daffodils spread their petals
for
the one who comes weeping for her
Lord;

this morning
angels laugh
as death is kicked
out
of the tomb;

this morning
Jesus
does cartwheels through the
graveyard,
splashing
through the puddles of our tears
into our
hearts.

Alleluia! Amen!

© Thom M. Shuman

???

Blessed is the one who comes in the name
          of the LORD.
    We bless you from the house of
          the LORD. Psalm 118:26

Who was it this past week: the person who slammed the door in your face, or the class mate who ignored you when you said 'hi' in the hallway?  The co-worker who grabbed the credit for your work, the friend who forgot your birthday? The neighbor who turned and walked the other way when you stepped out on your porch, the stranger who gave you the finger after cutting you off in traffic? Who was it that made life more miserable than it already was?

God throws wide the doors of the kingdom, inviting us in, sitting us down at the table, pouring us a cup of tea, and asking, 'What's going on in you life?' Then God sits there, gently nodding, listening, embracing our days.

After some silence, God tenderly begins to probe, to help us see those others in our lives, the people we perhaps didn't notice.

Who was it that blessed you over the last few days: the stranger who gave you a smile, the little kid who came up and hugged you to pieces? Who told you how special you are without uttering a single word, who made you laugh when the tears were about to spill over? Who wrapped you in that shawl of compassion when heartache chilled your soul, who was at your side when you walked down Lonely Drive?

And then God asks, "Whose name/face will you put in the blank,
  'Blessed is __________________ who came in the name of the Lord?'"

(c) 2013  Thom M. Shuman

if

When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, "Where have you laid him?" They said to him, "Lord, come and see." Jesus began to weep.
 John 11:32-35
- - - -

if only
you
were here, Lord:

you could mentor
schoolyard bullies
to treat others
with
respect and civility;

oppressors
would find you
listed on their daily
appointment sheet,
until they changed
their practices;

the poor
would see you
advocating for them from
your seat on
the city council;

you would visit
the homeless sleeping
under bridges and on sidewalk
grates,
taking them by the hand
to lead them to
shelters open
all hours, and soup
kitchens
serving three meals
a day;

if only . . .

. . . and you begin
to weep
whispering,
'i am here,
in you.'

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

24

24 hours of roller coasting through life, from the wonder of a gentle dog who ran with tail wagging to help read to little kids (and shower them with unconditional love) to a clearly aging dog with health problems that might mean his never getting to read, or run, or wag, or walk, or chase squirrels again; from the joy of a dog who loves to sit in his yard and ponder the great mysteries of squirreldom, to a dog lying so still, taking shallow breaths, a glazed and disoriented look in his eyes; from the tears of trying to say good-bye to a friend whose faithfulness and steadfast love mirror that of the One who created him to tears of joy and heart depth laughter over more hours and days ahead together.

What precious gifts were the e-notes, the texts, the calls, the prayers, the encouragement, the support, the love from all over the world for a "dumb animal" and those who are foolish enough to bond with him, letting him minister to them with grace and gentleness.  Gifts from people who only know him from pictures and from scraps of writing, but who know about such things as fear, loss, heartbreak, and tears.

Isn't this what community, about faith, about being people of faith is all about - this sharing, this bonding, this care? Some of the best things people of faith do is to reach out to those who are suffering; to pray for those in the valleys of doubt and who are seeking to climb the mountains of transformation; to be voices for those who no one else wants to listen to; to be advocates for all who are rejected by the world; to care about folks they will never meet this side of the kingdom as if they were their closest kin; to simply be there for others when those others just have trouble with all that life throws at them.

I feel sorry for people who do not have such a community, and even sorrier that we haven't done a better job of letting people know where they can find such folks.

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

remnant

So too at the present time there is a remnant chosen by grace. Romans 11:5

those who cannot

see past the end

of broken promises

will find themselves bumping

into your

hopes;

those who stumble along,

twisting their ankles in

despair's potholes,

will discover you

on your knees,

a trowel in your hand

smoothing out the cement

poured

into the cracks in their

lives;

those who carry one

kid on their

hip, with another

about to burst out,

will be invited

to your play

group;

those who populate

the walls

at proms, and the

young men with two

left feet

will win the ballroom

competition;

those who can't carry

a tune

(and haven't for the last

60 years or so)

will record a CD

with Susan Boyle;

those who always

see their glass half

empty

and about to be

knocked over,

will do a cannonball

into your pools of

pure grace.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

footloose

But how are they to call on one in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him? And how are they to proclaim him unless they are sent? As it is written, "How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!" Romans 10:14-15
- - - - -

words of judgment
and recrimination,
or
those of acceptance
and grace:
what do people
hear from
us?

quotations from a
dozen experts
(each with a different opinion),
or songs from the deep
wells within us:
how do others
learn from
us?

sprinters trying to reach
the finish first,
or long-distance
runners:
who do those
around us
see?

if we don't act as if we
really believe,
if we can't speak as if we
do know,
if we can't walk as if we
have the map in hand,
then

how?

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

please and thank you

I grew up in a time when manners were considered to be important. Through parents, teachers, and others, you learned to say 'please' and 'thank you,' you learned not to interrupt another person when they were speaking, you learned to respect the opinions of others, you learned to be courteous towards everyone.

But not anymore. On television, members of so-called panels spend the time talking over each other, never letting someone finish their thought, much less their sentences. On the radio, a caller's opinion is treated with derision, laughter, and outright profanity. People shove their way through crowds to get a better position, one rarely hears the word 'please' any more, and 'have a good one' has replaced the 'thank you' that clerks used to say to customers.

Maybe it is time to practice the spiritual discipline of courtesy once again.

Yes, a spiritual discipline. Think about how courteous God is towards us.  God speaks to us in beauty, truth, and grace, sometimes using words, as St. Francis used to say. God treats all of us with respect, letting us know that we are valued and honored. God continues to accept us, despite our best efforts to reject God. God's love is unconditional, steadfast, eternal.

What would our world, our communities, our families be like if we followed God's example of the courteous life. Imagine how people might feel if they heard words of beauty, truth, and grace coming from our lips. What might it mean to someone with whom we fundamentally disagree, if they saw respect on our faces, and heard it in our voices? What lives might be changed if the other felt valued and honored by us, what young person who feels rejected by everyone around her might discover that she is accepted by us? And who among us can't use more unconditional love, much less offer it to others?

Julian of Norwich used to speak of "our courteous Lord," a reminder of the One who walked among us, bringing hope, treating others with respect, speaking words of hope and grace to those he encountered.

Maybe today, we can be just a little more courteous.

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

sightless

I lift up my eyes to the
          hills -
from where will my help
    come?
My help comes from the
          LORD,
who made heaven and
          earth. Psalm 121:1-2
- - - -

keeping my eyes
peeled
for the next
big thing,
i may overlook
the Grace sisters
joining hands in a
circle around me,
singing a song of your joy;

letting my gaze
slide over
Lady Lust
as she sashays
just in front of me,
i brush aside
the shaded glasses
you offer me
to protect me from
the allure;

standing on my tiptoes,
rubbernecking until i can
get a glimpse
of all the pandering
possibilities
parading
down the street,
i may not feel
your hand grabbing
my arm, right before
i step into
the Pit.

© 2013 Thom M. Shuman

freedom

For though I am free with respect to all, I have made myself a slave to all, so that I might win more of them.  Ist Corinthians 9:19
- - -

at liberty
         to do whatever I please,
   will i continue to wander
                down those endless
                                    paths
           that dead end at Sin Street,
      or might i turn
                down that less wandered
                                       way
                      pointing to those
                      left behind?

free
         to hang out with anyone
                                    i choose,
      will i want to go through
                     the initiation
                  to join that gang
                  which hoards
                         everything
                         for themselves,
   or will i join the folks
        demanding justice for all,
        an end to poverty,
           mothballing of all of war's weapons?

able
         to go anywhere i want,
                   whenever i want,
   will i purchase a home
                           on some exotic
                    island,
      or move into poverty row,
          to be with those
          who are longing for
                    a few of God's
       friends to finally show up?

(c) Thom M. Shuman