When Jesus Walked Into My Room On The Way To Calvary

By Ken Woodley

Cast against the walls of this room

by one lamp’s mute tongue of flame,

my shadow describes all of me

that I have ever known.

It’s all anybody thought I could ever be.

And all I ever thought of myself.

Blow out this flame

and I would be gone entirely,

swallowed by the darkness

of their predictions

and my faith

in their lack of faith

in me.

But that shadow’s definition disappeared

like a reflection on a wave

the moment you walked into the room

and your silhouette joined mine.

Loneliness became oneness.

You sat down beside me

in a room that was no longer empty.

You poured some wine and broke some bread.

You asked about the mountains I had climbed

and understood when I told you about my valleys.

Even the deepest and most dark.

You said there was one last mountain

left for me to scale

and then you would have to go.

That mountaintop, you said, is these seven words:

You are the light of the world.

And believing that truth, you added, is the only way up.

I could tell that you were serious

so I began to climb them without waiting

and you smiled at me.

Astonishingly, I did not fall.

When I reach the summit, you promised

as you rose and turned to go,

I will have also scaled my shadow valleys.

Where are you going? I asked,

as you walked through the door into the rest of the world.

You had, I heard you answer, one more mountain

of your own to climb.

Receiving ‘Communion’ During COVID-19: We Can Do This For The Remembrance Of Him

By Ken Woodley
The image of the human palm, evidencing an open hand, is a powerful symbol. A hand willing to give and to receive, to accept, to welcome, to open doors. Open hands most often reflect an open heart, as well.
An open-handed Savior was riding into Jerusalem 2,000 years ago with a heart opened wider than the world.
Appropriately, there were palms along his path, pulled from trees and laid before him, and also the palms of those reaching out toward him as he rode purposefully forward.
But there were plenty of fists awaiting him at the end of his journey, too. Hammering fists and nailing hearts.
What a stunning “crossroads” of human reaction to a message of love and redemption.
And now here all of us are, striding through our own sort of Jerusalem “crossroads” moment toward Easter. We’ve been experiencing Palm Mondays and Tuesdays. Palm Wednesdays and Thursdays. Palm Fridays and Saturdays, too. COVID-19 has created its own recreation of Palm Sunday every day.
In so many ways, the world around us seems to have closed its hand and made a fist. We reach out for a “savior.” Anyone or anything to rescue us from the hammering fear and nailing heart of this pandemic.
But we’ve endured pandemics before. COVID-19, in fact, is merely sharing the stage with others that have plagued humanity for centuries: pandemics of racism, intolerance, hate, greed, apathy…the list is quite nearly endless.
And we’ve never found a vaccine for any of them.
One day, we shall find a vaccination for COVID-19 but as this Easter approaches there seems no hope at all for halting the ravages of those other pandemics.
Or is there?
Jesus, in fact, gave his life delivering the “good news” that a cure for all of those pandemics of the human heart are right here, right now—that they are, in fact, right inside the human heart, itself.
Before the palm of any open hand becomes a closed fist, instead, a human heart has already closed tightly into a weapon of pandemic possibilities. Making a fist of the human heart has always been the worst pandemic of all. But, thankfully, we have the cure right here in the open palm of our hand.
That is why Jesus gave his heart to change ours.
To have communion with us in the turning of another cheek, the re-shaping of a single sword into just one more plowshare.
That is why Jesus rode through the back gates of Jerusalem while the might of Rome galloped through the front gate.
On the night when a human heart betrayed him, Jesus made one simple request of his disciples—and of us: He initiated a final “communion” with his disciples by sharing bread and wine, and he asked them—he asks us—to “do this for the remembrance of me.”
Cancelled church services should not stop us from sharing this communion with Jesus, especially during Eastertide. We can’t let COVID-19 have that much power over us.
All of us can—yes, we certainly can—celebrate “communion” with Jesus in our own homes. By ourselves, if we live alone, or as a family. With wine or grape juice (whatever feels right to you) and bread, along with simple prayers, we can do what Jesus asked us to do. And safely. Each of us with our own cup and our own piece of bread.
Some may have the Book of Common Prayer at home and the Bible, of course, is rich with words we can choose to celebrate this “communion.” Though never discount the power of the words you find in your own heart at that moment.
We, as lay people, won’t be making any claims about turning the wine into the blood of Christ or the bread into the body of Jesus. Instead, we will let the Holy Spirit translate this “communion” deep within our soul.
The experience will undoubtedly differ from faithful heart to faithful heart, but nobody could ever get me to believe that by accepting his invitation we’re not opening the door for Jesus to join us.
We may just discover, in fact, that COVID-19 deepens the intimacy of our relationship and journey with Jesus. With his death and resurrection, Jesus tears the curtain of the temple which had been separating us from the “Holy of Holies.” Clearly, he wants us to step inside.
As Jesus tells us in the Gospel of John, “On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.”
In those words, Jesus describes the deepest possible “communion.”
Even were every church service cancelled forever, the only real barrier to our “communion” with a loving God is ourselves.
Let us receive the “communion” Jesus offers and do so for the remembrance of him.
That sacramental moment is a gift from Jesus to us all.

Leaving The Shadow Of COVID-19

By Ken Woodley

The tomb-like shadow of COVID-19 is all around us, getting closer and closer. Headlines wash over us like a tidal wave of bad news getting worse.
So much of our daily life seems to have died already. Basic stuff. Schools are closed. We can’t shake a stranger’s hand, or that of a friend. With Easter approaching, we can’t even go to church anymore.
But there is something we can do:
We can wait with Lazarus in Bethany.
In faith.
With certainty.
COVID-19 isn’t the only thing coming over the horizon and around the bend.
Jesus is coming, too.
Jesus is on the way.
Look into the distance and see the dust rising from the road, punctuating his approach on foot.
His footsteps are a drumbeat of purpose.
We didn’t have to strain to hear Martha and Mary dictating their message to Jesus. “Lord, they whom you love are dead,” they had told him.
They were talking about us.
You and me.
We’ve been in the shadowy “tomb” of COVID-19 for days and days and days.
Mary and Martha have, in fact, given up hope.
Martha runs to meet Jesus at his approach.
“Lord, if you had been here,” we hear her tell him, “my brothers and sisters would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.”
We look at each other.
You and me together in this “tomb.”
Our eyes meet.
Our hearts know the answer.
Martha is right.
Now, Mary joins her, kneeling at the feet of Jesus.
“Lord, if you had been here, my brothers and sisters would not have died,” she tells him, speaking of you and me, together in this tomb, knowing both Mary and Martha are correct.
But Jesus is here now. And with Jesus it is never too late.
“Where have you laid them?” Jesus asks, wondering where he will find us, you and me together in this “tomb.”
Jesus is deeply moved. He weeps. The tears roll down his cheeks.
Now he stands there, just outside our “tomb.”
Remove the stone, Jesus tells them. The stone that seals us in this “tomb.”
We don’t just see the stone being removed—we feel it. The lifting of the shadow’s weight that was so ponderous, the burden we found hard to bear, the mountain-high shadow that held us prisoner in this “tomb.”
Jesus now calls us. “Come out,” he cries.
And we do.
We move into the light of his presence, the light of his love.
“Unbind them,” Jesus says, speaking of you and me, “and let them go.”
We are, in that moment, resurrected from our places of fear. You and me. Freed from this “tomb” and able to rise back into the fulness of our spiritual journey, able to see through the shadow of COVID-19 to the other side.
That is the promise that Jesus offers everyone.
Hear him speaking these words:
“Leave now.
“It’s time to go.”
And he’s right.
It is.
I don’t know what’s around the next bend in this road, but I do know that I am not alone.
Neither are you.
Come on. Let’s go. It’s time to be leaving this shadowy tomb.

Mary Magdalene Dreams Of Words She Will One Day Write In The Snow

By Ken Woodley

Every pore

yearns for starlight

to flicker in the darkness

of my solitude.

I am frozen by suns of mourning,

praying only to melt

into your earth

and that place

where the ice of this despair

cannot find me,

where I could still feel child-painted,

as you showed me,

and see the living colors

so outrageously miraculous

and snowing all around me

like a shimmering aurora borealis

wind-blown from the sky

so that I can


again and again and again

into your footsteps,

to follow

and perhaps one day

to bloom, somehow,

with you

in the eternal gardens.

The Faith of Abraham AND Sarah

By Ken Woodley
What would happen if we walked away from everything we’ve ever known in life because we believed God told us to?
Suppose God said: “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you….”
That’s exactly what God did tell Abraham in Genesis.
What a terribly frightening decision. Yet, Abraham and—let’s be honest here—his wife, Sarah, both had the courage and faith to make the God-led choice. Abraham traditionally receives all of the faith kudos but half the credit surely must go to Sarah.
Abraham’s country, kindred and father’s house were everything to him. His known universe. His life orbited constantly among his kindred, in and out of his father’s house, forever in his own country. His place of comfort, safety and love.
Sarah’s too.
But God told him—told them—to leave all of that behind.
Every day of his life, Abraham had awoken in his own country, among his kindred and his father’s house. He worked there. Laughed and cried there. He planted roots so deep that one can hardly imagine the effort required to pull them up and plant them somewhere else. Or, if the roots stayed put, the courage necessary to turn and leave them all behind.
But that is exactly what Abraham did, with Sarah, who must have had some definite say in the matter, patriarchal society or not. For too long we’ve given Abraham all of the credit for this leap of faith into an uprooting journey of faith. Sarah’s role needs equal emphasis because anytime one spouse faces an extreme God-led decision, the other spouse faces it too.
We all know that to be true.
Few of us will ever have to endure the completely uprooting experience of Abraham and Sarah but there are times in our lives when it might have felt as if we’d left what had become our known universe behind. When we move to another community, or another state, when we change jobs, or feel God telling us to leave a job. There are many life experiences that are leaps of faith, that find us leaving our known universe and journeying to a totally new way of life. In effect, a new country.
Leaps of faith aren’t straightforward journeys because they don’t come with roadmaps. We can’t Google or ask Siri for directions. We leap into the unknown.
Fortunately, however, we are hardly ever asked to make such leaps alone. Sarah journeyed with Abraham. I can totally relate, having made life journeys into the unknown with my wife, Kim, just as I have journeyed by her side.
But she has not been my only companion, nor I hers.
As all of us journey from one known universe to another, there may come a time when we question our ability to persevere. There surely must have been occasions when Abraham and Sarah thought to themselves—or spoke aloud—“Okay, God, you told us to leave everything behind: our country, our kindred and our father’s house. We obeyed but now we feel lost. Where are you?”
Asking that question is no sin, nor is it a lack of faith. Asking a question allows God to answer. Asking a question demonstrates faith that God will answer.
The key to everything that happens next on the journey is the direction taken by our eyes—which means our mind, heart and soul—after we ask for help. Where do we look? If we look down all that we see is the mud and the rocky ground. But if, as described in Psalm 121, we raise them to the hills—that is, if we incline our mind and heart and soul to a new horizon—then we more clearly feel the presence of God by our side.
When we look with hope through the eyes of God’s promise, ripples of light spread out into the darkness. We notice something we didn’t sense before: God has been there the whole time.
“… The Lord himself watches over you;” Psalm 121 assures us.
the Lord is your shade at your right hand,
So that the sun shall not strike you by day,
nor the moon by night….
The Lord shall watch over your coming out and your coming in,
from this time forth for evermore.”
When we keep faith with God, God is able to keep faith with us. God is able to bless us and, crucially, make us a blessing to others. That was God’s promise to Abraham and Sarah. That is God’s promise to us. When we make a leap of a faith in response to God’s call, a faithful landing awaits.
And when we get there, those who truly love us will have remained by our side. Just as we have remained by theirs.

Bears In Our Wilderness

By Ken Woodley

If I had a dime for every time I’ve thought a squirrel scampering through dry leaves in the woods was a bear, my pockets would sound like a tambourine.
The leaves of long gone autumns amplify the sound of a squirrel until it takes on Jurassic Park-like qualities. Especially if you’re deep in the woods, alone with your thoughts and the sound of birds tuning their violins and violas. The sudden “eruption” of a happy squirrel hoping to hide a nut from its friends can cause whiplash.
Eventually, however, one learns to smile, or perhaps even chortle. Nope, not falling for the old squirrel-in-the-leaves again. That’s no bear. Hahahaha.
Until, one day, it is.
That happened to me last summer. There I was, coming to the end of a hike. There was the highly-traveled two-lane highway going past Appomattox Courthouse National Historical Park. I could see it through the trees. There was the parking lot. I could see it through the trees. There was my car in the parking lot. I could see it through the trees. And there was the bear. I could see it, skidded to a halt 40 feet away from me, through the trees.
We stood staring at each other. I’m not sure which one of us was more surprised.
I’d read in a newspaper once that if you don’t project fear and panic and, instead, make yourself loud and large, a bear will leave you alone.
Loud and large? My fear was loud and large. Don’t project panic? I was almost projectile vomiting panic.
There was only one thing to do and I admit, on the purely musical level, it wasn’t the best choice: I began singing “Jimmy Crack Corn And I Don’t Care” and waving my hiking stick in the air as I walked away. (To this day, I have no idea why that song came into my head).
As I emerged from the trees, two people were just getting out of a car. They must have thought me insane. There I was almost screaming “Jimmy Crack Corn And I Don’t Care” and waving a large stick around as if I was being attacked by bees. Or was John the Baptist on a particularly “Oh-you-brood-of-vipers” day.
They backed away, dread showing in their eyes. The man reached for his wallet and I think the woman was about to dial 9-1-1. I tried explaining the whole bear situation. I am certain they did not believe me.
I share this story because all of us find ourselves, like Jesus in today’s Gospel lesson, in the wilderness from time to time. Unlike Jesus, we don’t directly encounter the devil but we do run into “bears.” And I am not speaking of the animals with four legs.
Things happen to us that can provoke an initial “in the wilderness” reaction of fear, perhaps even panic—whether it’s a health issue, job related or a personal relationship. We are tempted to give into our fears and worries and allow them to morph into panic. Then, like Jesus, we need to hold on tightly to our faith in God. We need to let our souls be loud and large—even if that means singing “Jimmy Crack Corn And I Don’t Care” at the top of our lungs. When we do, we realize that, whatever song we choose to help us journey through our wilderness of fear, God is singing harmony. The angel of his presence is with us.
And sometimes in the wilderness—not always, but occasionally—we discover that it was only a squirrel scampering through the leaves.

The Transfiguration Mountain Within Us

By Ken Woodley
What a transcendent moment it was for us on a day toward the ending of winter. The holy silence was dotted with birdsong and our own labored breathing as Jesus led me and James and Peter up to the top of a high mountain. Looking down, we felt like birds, ourselves, gazing upon the world below. A world where we our soles had just been standing.
Suddenly Jesus was transfigured, right before our eyes. His face shone like the sun and his clothes were a dazzling white. The chorus of birds rose like a choir and there were notes we’d never heard before and butterflies everywhere that we had supposed were only the blooms of flowers just a moment before. Perhaps they had been. Perhaps we had been, too. I don’t know. It was so like a dream. Even I felt wings I couldn’t see.
Then Moses and Elijah appeared and we next heard the voice of God. I swear this is the truth. And it still is true. That’s what we tried to explain to the other disciples left below and to everyone else when Jesus sent us off to spread the Good News.
We hoped to make it clear to them that transcendent moments also await everyone upon their own “holy mountain”—the places where they feel most connected to God’s holy spirit. Where they experience a spiritual understanding or revelation, an answer to prayer.
Nurturing and cultivating these moments is essential. Peter, James and I still try to re-capture our mountaintop moment. Sometimes we come close, but close is still amazing. By regularly and consistently setting aside time for God—quieting yourself with prayerful meditation—you offer an invitation that has already been accepted.
The three of us re-learn that lesson every day. It takes discipline and faith.
Don’t assume that God is distant. I used to. We all did. But Jesus changed that. So, expect God to be there beside you. Talk to God—silently or aloud. I promise a moment will come when you sense the Holy Spirit telling you something. You’ll feel a nudge in your soul or, as Peter describes it, “the morning star” rising in your heart. I loved it when Peter came up with that description. It’s the peace that passes all understanding.
No, it is not always the answer that we expect or, perhaps, even want. But there are bends in the road around which only God knows what is waiting. God is with us on the way to that bend in the road, and God will remain with us after that bend has become the next straight stretch of our lives.
You know what? Come on. Right now. Join us. We’re not really only a dozen disciples, you know. On some days there are so many people following along that there isn’t enough food to go around. That’s when Jesus gathers the loaves and fishes one more time. And one more time after that. There’s enough Holy Spirit to feed us all. I promise.
So, let’s go climb a “holy mountain” together with Jesus and see what we find there, discover what happens. Right now. Seriously. The truth is that we don’t need to go anywhere because the “holy mountain” most worth climbing is the one deep inside us, that special place in our soul where we are revealed as our deepest, child-of-God selves.
There, with Christ, we are transfigured. I’ll never forget Mary Magdalene telling me about the moment of her own transfiguration with Jesus. She told me it had felt like the sun was rising and setting inside her at the same time. She felt a sky of great beauty in her soul, and where there had only been darkness before.
No, your face may not shine like the sun. Mine didn’t. And your clothes probably won’t become dazzlingly white. Mine never look that clean. But you will feel the voice of God telling you that you, too, are beloved. And that love transfigures our inner landscape, transforms the topography of our soul.
The feeling that we have heard God’s answering voice, and the spirit of Jesus, may only last a second, but the echoes go on and on and on…

Deep Into The Puddles Of Dawn

By Ken Woodley
The darkness is turning into light all around me.
Silhouettes of trees appear along the eastern horizon.
The watercolor of dawn is being painted before my eyes.
Rain had fallen all day yesterday in an unrelenting downpour but the clouds today are white flecks of canvas waiting for the brushstrokes of sunrise.
I look up at the sky and see it all unfolding.
Then, I look down into a large puddle by the side of the road and, rather than muddy water, I still see the sky putting on the day.
In that reflection, I think of God.
I feel the tide of Christ rising with the sun because down is often up, with Jesus, instead of down and out.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth….”
Yes, down is somehow up.
The poor in spirit ascend.
Those who mourn are lifted.
The meek rise.
Swords become plowshares.
Cheeks are turned.
Two cloaks are given when one is sought.
A mustard seed can dream big and mighty dreams and those big and mighty dreams won’t maybe come true. Those big and mighty dreams certainly will come true in the way God knows is best.
God turns things inside out and upside down. Jesus did that all the time with his parables and the guiding light of his words, such as the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount.
One of the greatest speeches of all time wasn’t delivered, as one might expect, on a grand stage that raised the speaker above everyone else.
On the contrary, the Sermon on the Mount was delivered sitting down. Jesus goes up a mountain, but instead of standing on the summit, lording himself over everyone else, he sits down to teach, in the rabbinical tradition.
And then he tells the people to look down into the puddled tears of their lives and discern their own reflections.
But discern something else there, too.
The sky—the Kingdom of Heaven—is right over their shoulder.
Right over our shoulder, too.
Down is very up.
And the Sea of Galilee is whatever color the sun and clouds are painting it as we gather around Jesus and feel his words wash like a wave across the beaches of our soul.
Anything is possible—everything is possible—through God. The established order of things means nothing.
God is not bound by the way things used to be.
Neither, thankfully, are we, if we are wise enough to be foolish for God.
Poor enough in spirit to receive the Kingdom of Heaven and share it with others.
Comforted enough to mourn.
Meek enough to inherit the earth.
Let’s sit down with Jesus and see what happens next.

Blessed Are Those Who Rain

By Ken Woodley
Blessed are the winter trees, for they shall see leaves.
Blessed are the fallow fields, for the harvest is theirs.
Blessed are the empty skies, for they shall be given wings.
Blessed are the darkened days, for the light is coming toward them.
Each of us has winter trees inside us, even if they are rooted in the past.
At some point, everyone feels like a fallow field.
And very lucky indeed is the human being who hasn’t felt a moment of desolation beneath a sky that seemed too empty for words.
Sometimes a sharp spearpoint of pain stabs us out of the blue, turning azure into obsidian.
Something of deep sadness happens that we just didn’t see coming and we don’t simply cry inside, or with tears streaming down our cheeks.
There are days when we rain, our sadness erupting like a cloudburst, drenching us in mourning for what we have lost.
We are not alone.
“Blessed are those who mourn,” Jesus said, “for they will be comforted.”
That is one of our most common English translations of that famous line from the Beatitudes. But a French translation of the New Testament that I have doesn’t employ the word “mourn.” Instead, it uses a word that is a form, to my mind, of the word “rain.”
“Blessed are those who rain…” Whether that is literally an accurate translation, or my own interpretation, it speaks a profound truth.
Those who have truly mourned will immediately relate to “rain.” If we “rain” we aren’t simply crying. When we are so inundated by sadness that we “rain” then we are like a cloud that is capable of one thing and one thing only: rain.
We have become the rain—we have become sadness—itself.
But Jesus doesn’t make an idle promise. Those who rain will be blessed because they will be comforted.
In such moments of desolation our guard is down and we are utterly vulnerable. Completely vulnerable to the darkness surrounding us, yes, but also totally vulnerable to the promised light of comfort and consolation.
Even the darkest days that surround us are a blessing, in their own way, because they do set the stage and draw back the curtain for the promised light.
It is darkness, after all, that illuminates light.
True, when the light comes we will see our own shadows. But we mustn’t act like spiritual groundhogs and run back into our holes of hurt and sadness because that will only bring us six more weeks—or longer—of whatever is wintering our souls.
Our shadows, when the light comes, are only shadows.
They testify to the darkness which has fled and the light which now embraces us.
But reaching that “now” doesn’t happen all at once. It takes time. One step, one moment, one day, and then one week, at a time.
Like the slow but inexorable approach of spring.
Winter is still all around us but the days are growing a little bit longer and the longest night is slowly receding.
Just as our “rain” gradually clears into sunshine.
The inner journey takes time but our spiritual footsteps don’t represent the only movement. We can take heart, knowing the “light” of comfort and consolation is on an intersecting journey toward us.
Our rain is not in vain. It summons the sun.

The Shore Where Jesus Stands Waiting

By Ken Woodley

The crescent moon was brilliantly visible in the low horizon early Tuesday morning, more than an hour before dawn. The perspective was unlike I’d ever seen before. The shining sliver of moon resembled a boat floating just above, and in the middle of, the road in front of our house.
As I walked our dog, Pugsley, in the freezing darkness, the moon seemed to be lighting the way. Giving me direction and encouragement. Offering a path.
I could not help but think about Jesus.
What an astonishing “light” it must have been to encounter Jesus in person.
Not exactly like the crescent moon I saw this week, but just as real.
This must have been a light that one felt inside. Surely there was a “lightness” about Jesus that was acutely perceptible to those of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke:

“Land of Zebulun and Naphtali,
on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles—
the people who sat in darkness
have seen a great light,
and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death
light has dawned.”

What a light. We get a clue to its brightness through the actions of the two brothers, Simon and Andrew, Jesus encountered at the beginning of his ministry. Their lives depended on the ability to catch enough fish, and then sell them, to make ends meet.
Fishing was all they knew. The Sea of Galilee was full of fishing boats. Boats floating in darkness. Fishermen hearing, not seeing, the lapping waves on the sides of their fishing boats.
That is the world that Peter and Simon knew—fishing in the darkness. Casting their nets when the sun was gone because that is when fishing was done on the Sea of Galilee. At night.
What a sight it must have been on nights when the moon was blooming into fullness, its light dancing across the water like words of love whispered in the darkness.
But then Peter and Andrew saw Jesus and they experienced a different kind of light altogether.
What else could have led them—without warning, thought, debate, or consideration for the consequences—to abandon their careers and all hope of any means to assure their daily bread?
They simply dropped their nets. Left their boat on the shoreline. And followed Jesus.
Just like that.
“Follow me,” Jesus told them, “and I will make you fish for people.”
“Immediately,” the Gospel of Matthew tells us, “they left their nets and followed him.”
What a light they must have felt exuding from the spirit of Jesus. They could feel it within the look in his eyes, hear it in the sound of his voice. It was just there. This light simply was.
A light that did not rise and did not set.
A light the clouds could do nothing to obscure.
A light that makes the shadows flee from the region of death.
And I thank God for those two men. I owe those simple fishermen my life.
Had they not dropped their nets and followed Jesus, I might never have felt this light myself. I might still be sitting in darkness, waiting in Zebulun and Naphtali. And so might you.
In making them fishers of people, Jesus enabled Peter and Andrew—and others who followed him and spread his Good News of God’s love and grace—to catch us gently in their nets and bring us to the shore where Jesus stands, waiting.
Lighting the way.