Author: kenwoodley3

By Ken Woodley

From blindness to sight. In a flash of light.

A world of darkness dissolves into amazing colors.

Previously, the entire world had been in your imagination—the way everything looked—fed only by what your sense of touch told you about how they might appear if you could only see them.

We can close our eyes and touch a lamp or a chair or another human being and understand their appearance—but only because we have the memory of them in our minds. Someone blind from birth would have nothing at all to go on. 

So imagine how the man felt in the Gospel of John after receiving his sight from Jesus. My imagination can’t come close to appreciating the man’s astonishing experience. 

Jesus had been walking down a road when he saw the man and declared “I am the light of the world.” Then Jesus spat on the ground and made mud with his saliva. He spread the mud on the man’s unseeing eyes and told him to go wash in the pool of Siloam.

Ironically, this man is able to see but many of those around him suddenly suffer from a kind of blindness. The man who was once blind can see them but they cannot see him.

“The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, ‘Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?’” the Gospel of John tells us. “Some were saying, ‘It is he.’ Others were saying, ‘No, but it is someone like him.’”

The once-blind man insists, “I am the man” but some people simply refuse to believe him.

There is an old saying that applies to these doubters: No one is as a blind as those who refuse to see.

Jesus has worked a miracle but some people simply refuse to see it.

That got me thinking about life and my own experiences in this world. It struck me with sudden forcefulness that we, too, are sometimes blind to a miracle that Jesus or God has worked in our own lives.

And what struck me most forcefully was the realization that this blindness doesn’t always come from disbelief. Most of the time, in fact, this form of blindness comes from the fact that we have become too familiar with a miracle. We have lived with it for so long that it no longer strikes us as miraculous. We take it for granted. Like our spouse, for example. Choosing to live with someone, for better or worse, for a lifetime—and then following through with it—is not un-miraculous.

I imagine that within a handful of years, the man in the Gospel of John also came to take his sight for granted. Not intentionally. He wasn’t ungrateful for the miracle that Jesus had worked in his life. Through the years, every day he woke up and saw he sun rise made that new dawn seem gradually less and less miraculous. Every color emerging from the darkness of night was so familiar to him. 

The same thing can happen when Jesus leads us through and out of one of life’s deep, wounding pains. It seems miraculous at first but in time we take the gentle scar for granted. Or, worse, we grump about the scar, forgetting how the wound, itself, felt.

Every now and then it’s a good idea to close our eyes and remind ourselves of a miracle worked in our own lives. Then, keeping our eyes shut, give thoughtful, meditative thanks for that miracle. We might imagine Jesus by our side. We might hear him spit on the ground, and then sense him kneeling beside us, making mud with his saliva. 

We might feel his touch upon our closed eyes, the mud warmed by his caring hands.

Then, when we next open our eyes we might see the miracles in our life more clearly.

That includes the reflection in your mirror.

Jesus calls that person you see looking back at you the light of the world.

By Ken Woodley

From blindness to sight. In a flash of light.
A world of darkness dissolves into amazing colors.
Previously, the entire world had been in your imagination—the way everything looked—fed only by what your sense of touch told you about how they might appear if you could only see them.
We can close our eyes and touch a lamp or a chair or another human being and understand their appearance—but only because we have the memory of them in our minds. Someone blind from birth would have nothing at all to go on.
So imagine how the man felt in the Gospel of John after receiving his sight from Jesus. My imagination can’t come close to appreciating the man’s astonishing experience.
Jesus had been walking down a road when he saw the man and declared “I am the light of the world.” Then Jesus spat on the ground and made mud with his saliva. He spread the mud on the man’s unseeing eyes and told him to go wash in the pool of Siloam.
Ironically, this man is able to see but many of those around him suddenly suffer from a kind of blindness. The man who was once blind can see them but they cannot see him.
“The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, ‘Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?’” the Gospel of John tells us. “Some were saying, ‘It is he.’ Others were saying, ‘No, but it is someone like him.’”
The once-blind man insists, “I am the man” but some people simply refuse to believe him.
There is an old saying that applies to these doubters: No one is as a blind as those who refuse to see.
Jesus has worked a miracle but some people simply refuse to see it.
That got me thinking about life and my own experiences in this world. It struck me with sudden forcefulness that we, too, are sometimes blind to a miracle that Jesus or God has worked in our own lives.
And what struck me most forcefully was the realization that this blindness doesn’t always come from disbelief. Most of the time, in fact, this form of blindness comes from the fact that we have become too familiar with a miracle. We have lived with it for so long that it no longer strikes us as miraculous. We take it for granted. Like our spouse, for example. Choosing to live with someone, for better or worse, for a lifetime—and then following through with it—is not un-miraculous.
I imagine that within a handful of years, the man in the Gospel of John also came to take his sight for granted. Not intentionally. He wasn’t ungrateful for the miracle that Jesus had worked in his life. Through the years, every day he woke up and saw he sun rise made that new dawn seem gradually less and less miraculous. Every color emerging from the darkness of night was so familiar to him.
The same thing can happen when Jesus leads us through and out of one of life’s deep, wounding pains. It seems miraculous at first but in time we take the gentle scar for granted. Or, worse, we grump about the scar, forgetting how the wound, itself, felt.
Every now and then it’s a good idea to close our eyes and remind ourselves of a miracle worked in our own lives. Then, keeping our eyes shut, give thoughtful, meditative thanks for that miracle. We might imagine Jesus by our side. We might hear him spit on the ground, and then sense him kneeling beside us, making mud with his saliva.
We might feel his touch upon our closed eyes, the mud warmed by his caring hands.
Then, when we next open our eyes we might see the miracles in our life more clearly.
That includes the reflection in your mirror.
Jesus calls that person you see looking back at you the light of the world.

By Ken Woodley

There is a flower

from your garden

that blooms

beneath my scars

and carries the whispered song

of sunrise

across the distant place

where I saw your glance

upon the surface

of a stream

as you touched

the petals you had given me

and the light began to sing

in the ripples

of your wake.

By Ken Woodley


There is a flower
from your garden
that blooms
beneath my scars
and carries the whispered song
of sunrise
across the distant place
where I saw your glance
upon the surface
of a stream
as you touched
the petals you had given me
and the light began to sing
in the ripples
of your wake.

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

melt

again and again and again

into your footsteps,

to follow

and perhaps one day

to bloom, somehow,

with you

in the eternal gardens.

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

melt

again and again and again

into your footsteps,

to follow

and perhaps one day

to bloom, somehow,

with you.

in the eternal gardens.

Let The Ashes Remind Us Of The Flame  By Ken Woodley

Ash Wednesday.

Ashes to ashes.

But what of the dust to dust?

The answer is no.

Ashes, yes, and some day our own.

But, not ever dust.

Never dust to dust.

And so our Lenten journey begins this night.

Forty days across the spirit meadows.

And 40 nights over the soul mountains to the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee with its gentle waves reaching toward us even now in its widening embrace.

A high tide of God’s love and grace.

Let us all walk together for these few moments on this day and night of ashes through the bright eternal flame of the life of Jesus, reaching back to the prophecy-filled centuries before his birth up to this very evening, this hour, this minute, this very second among these familiar wooden pews where we gather, not alone.

Never alone.

For there is, as always, one among us whom we cannot see but surely feel.

As sure as you are sitting here, and I am standing here, the Holy Spirit, the grace-filled presence of Jesus is among us, too. As brothers and sisters in Christ we assemble more than ourselves tonight within the outstretched arms of a waiting, loving God.

We each bring a spark of Christ within us to candle-flame the darkness and send it retreating from the face of our own flickering that summons strength for this journey.

Come, our footsteps together begin.

A shoot will come up from the branch of Jesse;

From his roots a branch will bear fruit.

The Spirit of the Lord will rest on him—the
Spirit of wisdom and understanding…

The wolf will lie with the lamb,

The leopard will lie down with the goat,

The calf and lion and the yearling together,

And a little child will lead them.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures,

He leads me beside still waters.

He restores my soul.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil for the Lord is with me.

His rod and staff, they comfort me.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame. 

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.

An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.

But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy for all the people.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“Here is my servant who I uphold, my chosen one in whom I delight. 

I will put my Spirit on him and he will bring justice to the nations.

He will not shout or cry out or raise his voice in the streets.

A bruised reed he will not break

And a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“When he came down from the mountainside, large crowds followed him. A man with leprosy came and knelt before him and said, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.”

Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. 

“I am willing,” he said. “Be clean”

Immediately the man was cured.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my father, and you are in me, and I am in you. “

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour, for the sun stopped shining.

And the curtain in the temple was torn in two.

Jesus called out in a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

When he had said this, he breathed his last.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

Early in the morning, Jesus stood on the shore but they did not realize that it was Jesus.

He called out to them, ‘Friends, haven’t you any fish?”

“No,” they answered.

He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.”

When they did they were unable to haul the net in because of the large number of fish.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us. 

We know that we live in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit…

God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God and God in him.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out all fear.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“But whoever did want him, who believed he was who he claimed and would do what he said, He made to be their true selves, their child-of-God selves. 

These are the God-begotten.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

Ash Wednesday.

Ashes to ashes.

But no dust to dust.

Never dust.

Not ever.

So let the ashes on our foreheads remind us of the flame of Christ inside.

The Jesus mark.

These ashes of the inextinguishable flame.

May our Lenten journey be guided by this inner light toward the resurrection cross of blooming flowers 

and the blossoms of God’s love.

That hallelujah garden our shepherd and savior

shows us has been planted by God and is growing deep inside each of us, 

far beyond the vagaries and calamities of earthly weather.

No bone-dry drought can wither it to dust.

No raging flood can wash it away.

So, yes, let the ashes—and that includes all of the world’s ashes that we brought with us tonight, not simply the thumbprint of ashes crossed upon our foreheads.

Let all of these ashes remind us of the flame

as we leave here, departing on our Lenten journey into the ash-black darkness, but departing filled with light.

By Ken Woodley

Ash Wednesday.
Ashes to ashes.
But what of the dust to dust?
The answer is no.
Ashes, yes, and some day our own.
But, not ever dust.
Never dust to dust.

And so our Lenten journey begins this night.
Forty days across the spirit meadows.
And 40 nights over the soul mountains to the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee with its gentle waves reaching toward us even now in its widening embrace.

A high tide of God’s love and grace.

Let us all walk together for these few moments on this day and night of ashes through the bright eternal flame of the life of Jesus, reaching back to the prophecy-filled centuries before his birth up to this very evening, this hour, this minute, this very second among these familiar wooden pews where we gather, not alone.

Never alone.

For there is, as always, one among us whom we cannot see but surely feel.
As sure as you are sitting here, and I am standing here, the Holy Spirit, the grace-filled presence of Jesus is among us, too. As brothers and sisters in Christ we assemble more than ourselves tonight within the outstretched arms of a waiting, loving God.
We each bring a spark of Christ within us to candle-flame the darkness and send it retreating from the face of our own flickering that summons strength for this journey.
Come, our footsteps together begin.

A shoot will come up from the branch of Jesse;
From his roots a branch will bear fruit.
The Spirit of the Lord will rest on him—the 
Spirit of wisdom and understanding…
The wolf will lie with the lamb,
The leopard will lie down with the goat,
The calf and lion and the yearling together,
And a little child will lead them.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil for the Lord is with me.
His rod and staff, they comfort me.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.
An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.
But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy for all the people.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.


“Here is my servant who I uphold, my chosen one in whom I delight.
I will put my Spirit on him and he will bring justice to the nations.
He will not shout or cry out or raise his voice in the streets.
A bruised reed he will not break
And a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“When he came down from the mountainside, large crowds followed him. A man with leprosy came and knelt before him and said, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.”
Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man.
“I am willing,” he said. “Be clean”
Immediately the man was cured.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my father, and you are in me, and I am in you. “

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour, for the sun stopped shining.
And the curtain in the temple was torn in two.
Jesus called out in a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”
When he had said this, he breathed his last.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

Early in the morning, Jesus stood on the shore but they did not realize that it was Jesus.
He called out to them, ‘Friends, haven’t you any fish?”
“No,” they answered.
He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.”
When they did they were unable to haul the net in because of the large number of fish.

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.
We know that we live in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit…
God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God and God in him.
There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out all fear.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

“But whoever did want him, who believed he was who he claimed and would do what he said, He made to be their true selves, their child-of-God selves.
These are the God-begotten.”

So let the ashes remind us of the flame.

Ash Wednesday.
Ashes to ashes.

But no dust to dust.
Never dust.
Not ever.

So let the ashes on our foreheads remind us of the flame of Christ inside.

The Jesus mark.

These ashes of the inextinguishable flame.

May our Lenten journey be guided by this inner light toward the resurrection cross of blooming flowers and the blossoms of God’s love.

That hallelujah garden our shepherd and savior
shows us has been planted by God and is growing deep inside each of us,
far beyond the vagaries and calamities of earthly weather.

No bone-dry drought can wither it to dust.
No raging flood can wash it away.

So, yes, let the ashes—and that includes all of the world’s ashes that we brought with us tonight, not simply the thumbprint of ashes crossed upon our foreheads.

Let all of these ashes remind us of the flame as we leave this moment, departing on our Lenten journey into the ash-black darkness, but departing filled with light.

By Ken Woodley

The music of the silently singing universe

hums through the deafening gravity of our human chains.

Each atom rising through the iron clouds within us.

and the hunted dreams of every solar system

circling the relentless sun inside us.

A small, streaming voice beyond the universe 

delivers an invitation that flows through our hearts,

splashing its meaning everywhere,

soaking us clear through to the other side of our bones,

filling us with a resonance of no mere reason,

rhyming to infinity with the space inside our souls

where the chains begin pulling against themselves

as our fingers, arms and visions 

reach for the invisible all of everything

that holds gently forever on to us

always.

The sound of God’s lips 

touching our frost where we were most frozen 

and alone

fills the air.

We sip this newfound dew

in communion with each other.

A dove spreads the wings of humanity’s longing

and flies toward the rainbow of our reflection.

Every link in the chain finally snaps when you offer me your hand

and I willingly accept

all of the colors that we share,

kneeling and tasting

your prayers inside me

and all of mine in you,

the chain’s broken links chiming

as they fall into a resurrection

of the flowers we blossom together, 

one petal at a time.

The earth and sky one place now.

A garden again.

By Ken Woodley


The music of the silently singing universe
hums through the deafening gravity of our human chains.
Each atom rising through the iron clouds within us.
and the hunted dreams of every solar system
circling the relentless sun inside us.
A small, streaming voice beyond the universe
delivers an invitation that flows through our hearts,
splashing its meaning everywhere,
soaking us clear through to the other side of our bones,
filling us with a resonance of no mere reason,
rhyming to infinity with the space inside our souls
where the chains begin pulling against themselves
as our fingers, arms and visions
reach for the invisible all of everything
that holds gently forever on to us
always.
The sound of God’s lips
touching our frost where we were most frozen
and alone
fills the air.
We sip this newfound dew
in communion with each other.
A dove spreads the wings of humanity’s longing
and flies toward the rainbow of our reflection.
Every link in the chain finally snaps when you offer me your hand
and I willingly accept
all of the colors that we share,
kneeling and tasting
your prayers inside me
and all of mine in you,
the chain’s broken links chiming
as they fall into a resurrection
of the flowers we blossom together,
one petal at a time.
The earth and sky one place now.
A garden again.

By Ken Woodley

Our orbit through space and time has brought us to this moment.

We see something, you and I, in the depths of the darkness.

Over there, beneath Orion’s Belt but above the Big Dipper.

There is a light coming over the horizon of the wilderness, like planet Earth slowly appearing from behind the dark side of the moon.

A star that twinkles out a Morse Code message, pushing back against the darkness that tries to convince us that there is no God and that we are not—and could never, ever be—loved.

Now something seems to have fallen from that star.

Come from the sky.

Tumbled down from a heaven which the darkness denies.

The darkness trying with all of its might to persuade us that the light we are following is a figment of our imagination.

But the light won’t be stilled or silenced.

You take my hand and we follow.

I hold your hand and we keep on going.

And now, look. The flickering grows brighter, as if our persistent steps have somehow fueled the light’s desperate reach of transcendence.

A desperate reach toward … 

Can it be true?

A desperate reach toward us?

Toward us all?

You bet your life it’strue!

And there is more. 

There is something inside the light.

As if the light has wrapped the greatest gift of all inside its bright shining:

A love brighter than the sun.

A love that has found us.

And will find us soon to be holding candles in a darkness that is becoming, for us, nothing more than a place for the light of this love to shine with deepest effect.

And now—just like that—the wilderness has given way to the straw of a manger.

To a mother and her newborn.

To a father carefully tending the small fire that keeps us all warm as we gather with those who were there in the darkness with us, called by the light to unwrap this love.

A love that breathes.

A love that cries out into our own wilderness until our wilderness begins to heal.

A love that goes by many names, including, quite miraculously, our own.

Our own…..if.

Our own if we let the light of this love reach out through us toward  each other and to those whom the darkness still ensnares with its thorns of intellect, logic, doubt and despair.

If we go out into the wilderness of others and scatter their darkness with this truth:

There is a God.

We are loved.

And this love is forever and for everyone.

A love that is absolutely the only Christmas present that matters. A love the fits us perfectly. A love we will never have to take back to customer service for an exchange. A love we never outgrow.

A love, however, that is waiting for us to unwrap it all the way.

Until there are no more ribbons. Until there are no more bows.

Until there is no more paper. Until there is no more Scotch tape.

Until……….there is only love. 

The love Jesus was born to tell us about. The love that he was willing to die for.

Opening this love, however, is not always so easy. Life has a way of wrapping corners of this Christmas present back up. Stress wraps up a corner here. Anxiety wraps up a corner there.

Things happen in our lives, and in the world around us, that can make us feel that the gift isn’t even there anymore. That some all-powerful Grinch has come and stolen it away.

But this love can never be taken from us. It’s always here. It always will be.

Sometimes, though, we need to unwrap it all over again. And again and again and again. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve had to unwrap the gift of God’s love. But every time that I have it’s been there waiting for me. Any day of every month.

The truth is that Christmas doesn’t have to come once a year. And it really should not be confined to the 25th day of December. Every day can be Christmas Day if we remember to unwrap the gift of God’s love first thing every morning.

And then give it away to everyone we meet.

Because, as we sang together earlier, Love really did come down at Christmas.

But then Love did something way more important.

It stayed.

AMEN

By Ken Woodley

Our orbit through space and time has brought us to this moment.
We see something, you and I, in the depths of the darkness.
Over there, beneath Orion’s Belt but above the Big Dipper.

There is a light coming over the horizon of the wilderness, like planet Earth slowly appearing from behind the dark side of the moon.
A star that twinkles out a Morse Code message, pushing back against the darkness that tries to convince us that there is no God and that we are not—and could never, ever be—loved.

Now something seems to have fallen from that star.
Come from the sky.
Tumbled down from a heaven which the darkness denies.

The darkness trying with all of its might to persuade us that the light we are following is a figment of our imagination.

But the light won’t be stilled or silenced.
You take my hand and we follow.
I hold your hand and we keep on going.

And now, look. The flickering grows brighter, as if our persistent steps have somehow fueled the light’s desperate reach of transcendence.
A desperate reach toward …
Can it be true?
A desperate reach toward us?
Toward us all?
You bet your life it’s true!

And there is more.
There is something inside the light.
As if the light has wrapped the greatest gift of all inside its bright shining:
A love brighter than the sun.
A love that has found us.
And will find us soon to be holding candles in a darkness that is becoming, for us, nothing more than a place for the light of this love to shine with deepest effect.

And now—just like that—the wilderness has given way to the straw of a manger.
To a mother and her newborn.
To a father carefully tending the small fire that keeps us all warm as we gather with those who were there in the darkness with us, called by the light to unwrap this love.

A love that breathes.
A love that cries out into our own wilderness until our wilderness begins to heal.
A love that goes by many names, including, quite miraculously, our own.
Our own…..if.
Our own if we let the light of this love reach out through us toward each other and to those whom the darkness still ensnares with its thorns of intellect, logic, doubt and despair.

If we go out into the wilderness of others and scatter their darkness with this truth:
There is a God.
We are loved.
And this love is forever and for everyone.

A love that is absolutely the only Christmas present that matters. A love the fits us perfectly. A love we will never have to take back to customer service for an exchange. A love we never outgrow.

A love, however, that is waiting for us to unwrap it all the way.
Until there are no more ribbons. Until there are no more bows.
Until there is no more paper. Until there is no more Scotch tape.

Until……….there is only love.

The love Jesus was born to tell us about. The love that he was willing to die for.

Opening this love, however, is not always so easy. Life has a way of wrapping corners of this Christmas present back up. Stress wraps up a corner here. Anxiety wraps up a corner there.

Things happen in our lives, and in the world around us, that can make us feel that the gift isn’t even there anymore. That some all-powerful Grinch has come and stolen it away.

But this love can never be taken from us. It’s always here. It always will be.

Sometimes, though, we need to unwrap it all over again. And again and again and again. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve had to unwrap the gift of God’s love. But every time that I have it’s been there waiting for me. Any day of every month.

The truth is that Christmas doesn’t have to come once a year. And it really should not be confined to the 25th day of December. Every day can be Christmas Day if we remember to unwrap the gift of God’s love first thing every morning.
And then give it away to everyone we meet.

Because, as we sang together earlier, Love really did come down at Christmas.

But then Love did something way more important.

It stayed.

By Ken Woodley

There was darkness all around.

I closed my eyes as tightly as I could to keep from seeing it, but I could hear the darkness breathing.

I felt its touch.

The darkness spoke my name.

My tongue and lips trembled in search of a prayer: an army, please, Lord, with swords raised, spears held high to push back against all of this darkness.

But no thundering hoofbeats came.

There was no clatter of metal weapons.

I was completely on my own.

Totally vulnerable to the darkness that, I felt certain, would soon have its way with me.

I was as helpless as the day I’d been born and reached frantically for the only thing I saw—even with my eyes closed—in a flash of flickering light beside me:

A small shoot had come out from the stump of Jesse.

A branch was growing out of his roots.

I opened one eye to take a peek.

Outside my window, a corner of the dark horizon was turning gray.

The spirit of the Lord began to call, like a single bird on a lonely limb of the last tree standing.

Darkness picked up its chainsaw to finish the job of clearcutting all hope but it was already too late.

A spirit of wisdom and understanding, of counsel and might began to brushstroke traces of pink and orange in the sky.

There was more to the world, after all, than the darkness that had surrounded me.

Shapes began to emerge in the gathering light.

And, even with one eye closed, I saw miracles.

I saw a leaf on a tree.

I saw my own wrinkles and veins.

I saw the wolf lying down with my lamb.

The lion was eating straw like the ox.

And a little child was leading them.

A little child coming from Bethlehem.

No army to the rescue.

No swords and spears.

Just this little child.

And—what amazing grace—I knew his name.

“Jesus,” I called out to him.

And the darkness understood then that it had met its match.

Darkness knew the game was over.

Darkness knew the final score was set in stone for all eternity.

I opened both eyes as wide as I could and there was suddenly light all around. The little child had brought the light that never sets.

A light that could not and would not be extinguished.

A light that hope can trust.

A light that also shines inside us toward others waiting in the darkness.

I could hear the light breathing.

I felt its touch.

The light spoke my name.

My tongue and lips trembled with “Amen.”

And then I cried out, “Hallelujah!”

Its echo became a refrain, and the darkness, itself, had turned to light.

By Ken Woodley

There was darkness all around.
I closed my eyes as tightly as I could to keep from seeing it, but I could hear the darkness breathing.
I felt its touch.
The darkness spoke my name.
My tongue and lips trembled in search of a prayer: an army, please, Lord, with swords raised, spears held high to push back against all of this darkness.
But no thundering hoofbeats came.
There was no clatter of metal weapons.
I was completely on my own.
Totally vulnerable to the darkness that, I felt certain, would soon have its way with me.
I was as helpless as the day I’d been born and reached frantically for the only thing I saw—even with my eyes closed—in a flash of flickering light beside me:
A small shoot had come out from the stump of Jesse.
A branch was growing out of his roots.
I opened one eye to take a peek.
Outside my window, a corner of the dark horizon was turning gray.
The spirit of the Lord began to call, like a single bird on a lonely limb of the last tree standing.
Darkness picked up its chainsaw to finish the job of clearcutting all hope but it was already too late.
A spirit of wisdom and understanding, of counsel and might began to brushstroke traces of pink and orange in the sky.
There was more to the world, after all, than the darkness that had surrounded me.
Shapes began to emerge in the gathering light.
And, even with one eye closed, I saw miracles.
I saw a leaf on a tree.
I saw my own wrinkles and veins.
I saw the wolf lying down with my lamb.
The lion was eating straw like the ox.
And a little child was leading them.
A little child coming from Bethlehem.
No army to the rescue.
No swords and spears.
Just this little child.
And—what amazing grace—I knew his name.
“Jesus,” I called out to him.
And the darkness understood then that it had met its match.
Darkness knew the game was over.
Darkness knew the final score was set in stone for all eternity.
I opened both eyes as wide as I could and there was suddenly light all around. The little child had brought the light that never sets.
A light that could not and would not be extinguished.
A light that hope can trust.
A light that also shines inside us toward others waiting in the darkness.
I could hear the light breathing.
I felt its touch.
The light spoke my name.
My tongue and lips trembled with “Amen.”
And then I cried out, “Hallelujah!”
Its echo became a refrain, and the darkness, itself, had turned tino light.

By Ken Woodley

There was darkness all around.

I closed my eyes as tightly as I could to keep from seeing it, but I could hear the darkness breathing.

I felt its touch.

The darkness spoke my name.

My tongue and lips trembled in search of a prayer: an army, please, Lord, with swords raised, spears held high to push back against all of this darkness.

But no thundering hoofbeats came.

There was no clatter of metal weapons.

I was completely on my own.

Totally vulnerable to the darkness that, I felt certain, would soon have its way with me.

I was as helpless as the day I’d been born and reached frantically for the only thing I saw—even with my eyes closed—in a flash of flickering light beside me:

A small shoot had come out from the stump of Jesse.

A branch was growing out of his roots.

I opened one eye to take a peek.

Outside my window, a corner of the dark horizon was turning gray.

The spirit of the Lord began to call, like a single bird on a lonely limb of the last tree standing.

Darkness picked up its chainsaw to finish the job of clearcutting all hope but it was already too late.

A spirit of wisdom and understanding, of counsel and might began to brushstroke traces of pink and orange in the sky.

There was more to the world, after all, than the darkness that had surrounded me.

Shapes began to emerge in the gathering light.

And, even with one eye closed, I saw miracles.

I saw a leaf on a tree.

I saw my own wrinkles and veins.

I saw the wolf lying down with my lamb.

The lion was eating straw like the ox.

And a little child was leading them.

A little child coming from Bethlehem.

No army to the rescue.

No swords and spears.

Just this little child.

And—what amazing grace—I knew his name.

“Jesus,” I called out to him.

And the darkness understood then that it had met its match.

Darkness knew the game was over.

Darkness knew the final score was set in stone for all eternity.

I opened both eyes as wide as I could and there was suddenly light all around. The little child had brought the light that never sets.

A light that could not and would not be extinguished.

A light that hope can trust.

A light that also shines inside us toward others waiting in the darkness.

I could hear the light breathing.

I felt its touch.

The light spoke my name.

My tongue and lips trembled with “Amen.”

And then I cried out, “Hallelujah!”

Its echo became a refrain, and the darkness, itself, had turned to light.

God is LOVE.

“They brought to him a deaf man who had an impediment in his speech; and they begged him to lay his hand on him. He took him aside in private, away from the crowd, and put his fingers into his ears, and he spat and touched his tongue. Then he looked up to heaven, he sighed and said to him, ‘Ephphatha,’ that is, ‘Be opened.’ And immediately his ears were opened, and his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly.”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

There are times—too many, I’m afraid—when I am just like the deaf man in this story. I cannot hear the voice of God telling me that I am loved. 

Honestly, I think many, if not all of us, experience this deafness from time to time in our lives.

The world has deafened us to the small, quiet voice within us. We can no longer hear it. Our head and heart and our soul are filled with the world’s shouting about anything and everything but God’s love. And we don’t even know it.

We believe that we are still listening to God’s voice of love. We haven’t stopped praying. We haven’t stopped reading scripture. We haven’t stopped our meditation and contemplation. We’re still going to church. We believe we’re just as tuned in to God’s frequency as ever.

But we are not.

The world has become too loud. Sometimes, I think, I mistake something that the world is saying as being the words of God.

But God doesn’t talk to me like that. God never says those sorts of things about me. Words that may make me feel good about myself but don’t bring me peace. Words that might feed my ego and my need for affirmation but are the equivalent of drinking Diet Love or Love-Lite.

I should know better.

There is a distinct difference between the way God assures me that I am beloved and the way the world says, ‘I love you’ one minute then withholds affection in the very next heartbeat, telling me that I am not good enough.

When I am deafened to God’s voice of love, something else happens, too. Just like the deaf man in the Gospel of Mark, I develop an impediment in my speech. 

My voice begins to sound more like it has been taught to speak by the world. I am too prone to mimic the world, rather than articulate the true speech of love that God tries so desperately to teach us by assuring us we are loved. That all of us are.

Truly loved by true love. A love that never demeans or seeks to diminish or lure down false pathways. That never says, ‘I love you’ one minute and then throws you into the recycling bin.

When I recognize the sound of the world speaking in my own voice, I understand that it has happened again—I have become deaf to God’s voice of love. I have closed myself off to that voice of love and begun listening only to the world, and without even realizing it. 

And so I cry out to that love and for that love as the world seems to gather its breath so that it can blow all of that love away. Even the tree limbs begin to sway in the gathering breeze.

It is then that I can suddenly discern that I am no longer hearing the wind in the leaves but, instead, the sound of Jesus beside me. And then he leads me away from the gathering storm.

“Be opened,” he tells me, when we are alone. “Be opened and receive God’s love. Be opened and speak plainly of God’s love. Do not let the world close you up and away from me.”

And so I am here. With you. Speaking of love as plainly as I can. And listening. Listening with all of my heart.

“They brought to him a deaf man who had an impediment in his speech; and they begged him to lay his hand on him. He took him aside in private, away from the crowd, and put his fingers into his ears, and he spat and touched his tongue. Then he looked up to heaven, he sighed and said to him, ‘Ephphatha,’ that is, ‘Be opened.’ And immediately his ears were opened, and his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly.”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

There are times—too many, I’m afraid—when I am just like the deaf man in this story. I cannot hear the voice of God telling me that I am loved.
Honestly, I think many, if not all of us, experience this deafness from time to time in our lives.
The world has deafened us to the small, quiet voice within us. We can no longer hear it. Our head and heart and our soul are filled with the world’s shouting about anything and everything but God’s love. And we don’t even know it.
We believe that we are still listening to God’s voice of love. We haven’t stopped praying. We haven’t stopped reading scripture. We haven’t stopped our meditation and contemplation. We’re still going to church. We believe we’re just as tuned in to God’s frequency as ever.
But we are not.
The world has become too loud. Sometimes, I think, I mistake something that the world is saying as being the words of God.
But God doesn’t talk to me like that. God never says those sorts of things about me. Words that may make me feel good about myself but don’t bring me peace. Words that might feed my ego and my need for affirmation but are the equivalent of drinking Diet Love or Love-Lite.
I should know better.
There is a distinct difference between the way God assures me that I am beloved and the way the world says, ‘I love you’ one minute then withholds affection in the very next heartbeat, telling me that I am not good enough.
When I am deafened to God’s voice of love, something else happens, too. Just like the deaf man in the Gospel of Mark, I develop an impediment in my speech.
My voice begins to sound more like it has been taught to speak by the world. I am too prone to mimic the world, rather than articulate the true speech of love that God tries so desperately to teach us by assuring us we are loved. That all of us are.
Truly loved by true love. A love that never demeans or seeks to diminish or lure down false pathways. That never says, ‘I love you’ one minute and then throws you into the recycling bin.
When I recognize the sound of the world speaking in my own voice, I understand that it has happened again—I have become deaf to God’s voice of love. I have closed myself off to that voice of love and begun listening only to the world, and without even realizing it.
And so I cry out to that love and for that love as the world seems to gather its breath so that it can blow all of that love away. Even the tree limbs begin to sway in the gathering breeze.
It is then that I can suddenly discern that I am no longer hearing the wind in the leaves but, instead, the sound of Jesus beside me. And then he leads me away from the gathering storm.
“Be opened,” he tells me, when we are alone. “Be opened and receive God’s love. Be opened and speak plainly of God’s love. Do not let the world close you up and away from me.”
And so I am here. With you. Speaking of love as plainly as I can. And listening. Listening with all of my heart.