By Ken Woodley
We are too late. The crowds are gone and so is Jesus. We will never hear what what he had to say on the hillside by the Sea of Galilee. Our eyes will never see him near us.
The Emmaus Road comes from, and goes to, everywhere, but our long, difficult journey seems to have come to nothing.
Wandering off and feeling lost, we find a trail. We follow it first with our eyes and see its winding undulations.
The breeze is strong here. It caresses our cheeks as we hear a distant voice, as if the sky, itself, is speaking. “Blessed are the poor in the spirit for theirs is the kingdom of God.”
The shadow of an eagle crosses our steps. We look up and spot it not far above us. We stop to watch its journey, which doesn’t feel so different than our own.
Flying in circles, the eagle rises higher and higher in the sky until it disappears from view, lost in the sun, our eyes almost aching from the brightness.
We reflexively look away and then down and see our own shadows, wingless and lying on the ground, as far away from the sky as they could possibly be.
We spread our arms and so our shadows do, too. Our arms look nothing like wings. We move them, mimicking the eagle, but we stay rooted to the ground with our shadows, accepting that no wings of ours will ever touch the sky.
Our journey is on the ground where at any moment we may trip on a root or stumble on a rock, but we take the next step anyway, hearing the same voice tell us, “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.”
Our footsteps continue on and we see that the trail will wind around a wide hummocky field, dotted with trees and tall grasses.
In the distance, we see leaves sailing on a soft but steady breeze. We are drawn to the leaves somehow and stand where we are, watching.
The leaves are coming in our direction, far away but getting closer and closer. We have a curious feeling that there is some message in them for us. Nearer and nearer they come until we reach out and each of us catches one in our hands.
The leaves were green last summer, then painted red, yellow and orange in the fall. The past winter has left them brown and brittle and easily blown by any breeze.
As we think of all the seasons and the faces that have come and gone and will never come again, we hear the same voice, sounding somehow closer now. “Blessed are those who mourn,” it tells us, “for they will be comforted.”
There is a turning in the trail now, away from the meadow and down a tree-lined path. Mid-way, not far from the woods, we find a butterfly captured in a spider’s web, caught tight with no hope of escape for this beautiful and fragile creature.
There is no movement. We fear that it is dead but we can’t bear the thought of it being eaten by the spider.
Using twigs, we carefully free it from the web. It is still wrapped up in webby strands as we place it gently on the ground. With as much delicacy as we can, we pull the strands off, fearful that we will damage its delicate wings.
Miraculously, those wings begin to flutter, awkwardly at first, but soon it takes flight up into the leaves of a small nearby tree. To rest from its ordeal, we suspect, but it is free to continue its journey.
As we look toward the place where we saw it last, we hear the voice as if it’s just beyond the trees. “Blessed are the merciful,” it says, “because they will be shown mercy.”
We find ourselves wishing we could free every creature, every person caught in whatever web has bound the wings of their hopes and dreams.
Tears run down our cheeks and we hear the voice, almost inside us, say, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”
And there, fluttering in front us, is the butterfly we had just freed. Its wings of stained glass keep it flying close to us, instead of flying off and away.
It circles you and I and we have the uncanny sensation of it unwrapping the webs that have bound our own wings for so long as it flies around and around us, unwrapping more and more of us from those bonds.
The path leads into the edge of a forest filled with blooming dogwood trees among the budding leaves of oaks and maples.
As we journey on the butterfly flies before us, leading us on, the path ringed with wildflowers. The tall arching trees create a cathedral effect.
We look up in wonder as the butterfly rises through and then over the trees.
The air seems to ripple and shimmer around us and the restless leaves sound like waves spreading across the sand of a distant sea.
And then he is there, walking toward us. Dressed simply: a knee-length tunic covered by a prayer shawl, sandals on his feet. A smile on his face that would light up the sun.
“Blessed are the pure in heart,” Jesus tells us, a gentle and transcendent love shining from his eyes as he completes the sentence.
“Because,” he tells us, “they willsee God.”
And then he seems to vanish from our sight, along with the forest and we are suddenly wherever life finds us at this moment.
The rising tide of Galilee in our hearts and in our souls.
This morning.
Right here.
Right now.
By Ken Woodley
We are too late. The crowds are gone and so is Jesus. We will never hear what what he had to say on the hillside by the Sea of Galilee. Our eyes will never see him near us.
The Emmaus Road comes from, and goes to, everywhere, but our long, difficult journey seems to have come to nothing.
Wandering off and feeling lost, we find a trail. We follow it first with our eyes and see its winding undulations.
The breeze is strong here. It caresses our cheeks as we hear a distant voice, as if the sky, itself, is speaking. “Blessed are the poor in the spirit for theirs is the kingdom of God.”
The shadow of an eagle crosses our steps. We look up and spot it not far above us. We stop to watch its journey, which doesn’t feel so different than our own.
Flying in circles, the eagle rises higher and higher in the sky until it disappears from view, lost in the sun, our eyes almost aching from the brightness.
We reflexively look away and then down and see our own shadows, wingless and lying on the ground, as far away from the sky as they could possibly be.
We spread our arms and so our shadows do, too. Our arms look nothing like wings. We move them, mimicking the eagle, but we stay rooted to the ground with our shadows, accepting that no wings of ours will ever touch the sky.
Our journey is on the ground where at any moment we may trip on a root or stumble on a rock, but we take the next step anyway, hearing the same voice tell us, “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.”
Our footsteps continue on and we see that the trail will wind around a wide hummocky field, dotted with trees and tall grasses.
In the distance, we see leaves sailing on a soft but steady breeze. We are drawn to the leaves somehow and stand where we are, watching.
The leaves are coming in our direction, far away but getting closer and closer. We have a curious feeling that there is some message in them for us. Nearer and nearer they come until we reach out and each of us catches one in our hands.
The leaves were green last summer, then painted red, yellow and orange in the fall. The past winter has left them brown and brittle and easily blown by any breeze.
As we think of all the seasons and the faces that have come and gone and will never come again, we hear the same voice, sounding somehow closer now. “Blessed are those who mourn,” it tells us, “for they will be comforted.”
There is a turning in the trail now, away from the meadow and down a tree-lined path. Mid-way, not far from the woods, we find a butterfly captured in a spider’s web, caught tight with no hope of escape for this beautiful and fragile creature.
There is no movement. We fear that it is dead but we can’t bear the thought of it being eaten by the spider.
Using twigs, we carefully free it from the web. It is still wrapped up in webby strands as we place it gently on the ground. With as much delicacy as we can, we pull the strands off, fearful that we will damage its delicate wings.
Miraculously, those wings begin to flutter, awkwardly at first, but soon it takes flight up into the leaves of a small nearby tree. To rest from its ordeal, we suspect, but it is free to continue its journey.
As we look toward the place where we saw it last, we hear the voice as if it’s just beyond the trees. “Blessed are the merciful,” it says, “because they will be shown mercy.”
We find ourselves wishing we could free every creature, every person caught in whatever web has bound the wings of their hopes and dreams.
Tears run down our cheeks and we hear the voice, almost inside us, say, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”
And there, fluttering in front us, is the butterfly we had just freed. Its wings of stained glass keep it flying close to us, instead of flying off and away.
It circles you and I and we have the uncanny sensation of it unwrapping the webs that have bound our own wings for so long as it flies around and around us, unwrapping more and more of us from those bonds.
The path leads into the edge of a forest filled with blooming dogwood trees among the budding leaves of oaks and maples.
As we journey on the butterfly flies before us, leading us on, the path ringed with wildflowers. The tall arching trees create a cathedral effect.
We look up in wonder as the butterfly rises through and then over the trees.
The air seems to ripple and shimmer around us and the restless leaves sound like waves spreading across the sand of a distant sea.
And then he is there, walking toward us. Dressed simply: a knee-length tunic covered by a prayer shawl, sandals on his feet. A smile on his face that would light up the sun.
“Blessed are the pure in heart,” Jesus tells us, a gentle and transcendent love shining from his eyes as he completes the sentence.
“Because,” he tells us, “they will see God.”
And then he seems to vanish from our sight, along with the forest and we are suddenly wherever life finds us at this moment.
The rising tide of Galilee in our hearts and in our souls.
Right here.
Right now.
Ken Woodley 