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.
By Ken Woodley
“You are to be called Cephas,” Jesus told Simon. And thus Peter was “christened” in the most extraordinary way—by Christ. What better “Christener” could there be?
Peter means “rock” in Greek, of course, and Cephas is the Aramaic translation of “rock.” Peter would have had no idea why Jesus suddenly christened him. But Jesus knew Peter would become a rock upon which the Good News of God’s love and grace would survive and then flourish. Traveling all the way to us today.
Nicknames have a long history, but Peter “The Rock” is not the first nickname one encounters in the New Testament. John the Baptist probably has that honor.
I would not be surprised at all if our Good Shepherd—there’s a nickname, too—had an affectionate name for all of his sheep. I wonder what the Lord calls each of us in his heart of hearts?
When I was a very small child my mother read aloud to me and she began calling me “Inkwell” because a story involving an inkwell became one of my early favorites. Pretty prophetic, as it turns out, with over 36 years of journalism, this blog, Forward Day By Day writings and a published book under my belt, among other word-gatherings. I thank God that there is one thing in this world I know how to do with some degree of competency, and it is something I love.
If Jesus called me Inkwell it would probably be because were I writing with an old-fashioned pen I’d certainly have ink all over me and probably most of the furniture.
Jesus barely knew Simon when he changed his name to Peter. Simon’s brother Andrew had spent the day with Jesus, leaving at four o’clock in the afternoon to go find Simon and take him to see the Messiah for himself.
“He brought Simon to Jesus, who looked at him and said … ‘You are Peter.”
There was no preliminary conversation. No chitchat. Jesus didn’t engage in small talk. Not then or ever. Everything Jesus said was BIG. With just one look Jesus knew Simon’s heart and what Simon would mean to the world. Just as Jesus knows what we mean to the world, and to each other. And how that can continue to grow and grow.
Jesus’s instant reaction to Peter shows just how quickly he falls in love with us. It is always love at first sight. Jesus holds nothing back. He doesn’t play it cool or coy. He gives his love in an instant and keeps loving us forever.
And at our deepest level—warts and all.
While I wouldn’t be surprised if Jesus has special names for each of us, I am certain there is one affectionate nickname we all share in the heart of Christ: “Beloved.”
There could be no better nickname in all of the world.
That nickname is our light in the darkness.
A nickname that forever shines from the heart of Jesus into the depths of our journeying souls.
If only all of us—all over the nation and the world—could see each other as Jesus does:
The christening waters from the baptismal font soon dry upon the forehead of every child.
The living water of God’s love never does, and it can never be wiped away.
Even though some people try.
The world would have fewer swords and far more plowshares if we christened and re-christened each other with with that word—beloved.
On every heart-beating corner of this earth.
Every single day.
By Ken Woodley
What a compelling reaction by Mary in Luke’s birth narrative.
She and Joseph are with Jesus in the manger when shepherds arrive, fresh from an encounter with angels. We can imagine them nearly falling over each other to tell Mary and Joseph everything the angels had said about the couple’s son.
“Do not be afraid,” the angels told the shepherds, because this is “good news for all people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.”
The shepherds were then told to go to the manger to see for themselves.
Those listening to the shepherds’ story, Luke tells us, “were amazed.”
But what about Mary? Her reaction, more than the others, deserves our attention. Hers was a deep, silent and thoughtful response.
She “treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.”
And so the mother of Jesus became the first contemplative Christian. She was clearly beginning a meditative journey of contemplation over the meaning of the birth of her son.
Oh, certainly, she had a pretty good idea.
The angel Gabriel, after all, had visited her in Nazareth nine months earlier. You will give birth to a son, Gabriel had told her, conceived by the Holy Spirit, a son to be called Jesus.
“He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David,” Gabriel had further explained, “and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will have no end.”
Mary’s reaction had often left me perplexed. Why did she need to ponder the shepherd’s words? I thought the angel Gabriel had made things clear to her. But then I reconsidered Gabriel’s words to Mary. I realized it was just possible that Mary might have done a good deal of wondering during the nine months of her pregnancy. Anybody would be awash in wondering about an encounter with an angel.
“The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever….”
Might not that have meant her son would some day become an earthly king, sitting upon an earthly throne?
The throne of David, after all, was very much an earthly throne and David was an earthly king.
Mary must have wondered about the precise meaning of those words.
People have been wondering about them ever since.
The earliest disciples and apostles wondered who, or what, precisely had that babe in the manger become.
It is so ironic. The question followed Jesus all of his life.
From the very first hours of his life to the final hours before his death—when Pilate asked him “Are you king of the Jews?”—people have wondered about the true meaning and message of that birth.
In the end, each of us will decide for ourselves what that birth in the manger means to us, who this Jesus is in our lives and how that answer influences they way we see the world, what we see in each other, and how we see ourselves.
We can choose to treasure the answering of that question in our hearts, and ponder it for a lifetime, joining Mary in a contemplative journey.
The nuances and subtleties of our answer will develop in different ways during our lifetimes. A spiritual journey is organic, not static. There will be layers of understanding, flashes of clear insight—as if they were spoken to us by an angel—that may, at times, seem like an uncertain mirage or a dream when our daily lives intrude, pushing them to the side. We may also find that we return to previous understandings, but with deeper insight into them.
But if we treasure this and ponder it in our hearts, as Mary did, it will become both sustenance and light for our journey when we need it most.
By Ken Woodley
’Twas the eve before Christmas, when all through the night
not a creature was stirring in fear or in fright.
The stockings were hung in a world full of cheer,
knowing that peace and that love could be here.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
no nightmare vision haunting their heads.
Their mothers and fathers were safely inside
and no reason at all for any to hide.
When up on the hillside there arose such a noise,
of angels and shepherds all singing of joys.
Away toward that manger we walked through the snow
as if there was no place that we’d rather go.
The moon hung like a stocking high up in the sky
but a star shone far brighter and seemed so nearby.
There were swords turned to plowshares just waiting for spring
as we drew ever nearer a bell-sounding ring.
The chime, we discovered, was deep in our heart,
a carol of music that never would part.
For as long as we wished, we knew it would stay
if we made it a place deep inside us to play.
Closer we came to the manger scene now,
immune to the cold in some way and somehow.
There wasn’t a wise man, no, nowhere in sight,
just ordinary folks feeling love’s holy might.
There was no barn and no stable, no building at all,
but the child still within us did answer the call.
The babe in the manger would find shelter there,
in our hearts, in our souls whenever we care
For others who hurt, for others in pain
and give of ourselves, with nothing to gain
But a turning of cheeks when the anguish is ours
and a field full of thorns then blossoms with flowers.
No room at the inn but room inside we
who give birth to the message and meaning we see
In the love Jesus promised God has for us all,
whether we stand or whether we fall.
Angels we have heard on high
and angels we have felt so nigh.
There is goodwill at this season to cover the Earth
as a present at Christmas for this sacred birth.
But a gift to keep giving across the whole year
would be deeper than cups or bowls of good cheer.
Away in that manger, no crib for a bed,
but born every day in our footsteps, instead.
By Ken Woodley
Christmas is still two weeks away, but oh, what a blessed gift it is to be a fool and yet still loved and saved by God.
What a blessed, blessed gift for us to unwrap.
I read the 35th chapter of the book of Isaiah (New International Version) nearly every morning before sunrise because, in typical Isaiah fashion, everything will be made right:
“The Wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
… Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
and the ears of the deaf unstopped;
then the lame shall leap like a deer,
and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy …
the burning sand shall become a pool,
and the thirsty ground springs of water….”
How wondrously miraculous for us because there are individual, highly personal “wildernesses” through which we all must travel, times when we feel blind, unable to speak or hear, and our hearts weary and broken to the point of lameness.
Sometimes the difficulty is just making it to the starting line through another cold, gray, dark morning that seems to dawn without any promise of a true sunrise.
But that is not all we are left with. That is never all there is, where God is concerned. There is a light that always shines, through any weather and every season—even shining in the seasons deep within other seasons.
How do we journey through our times of great trouble—or minor rough patches—into that spiritual “promised land” where even the driest deserts are turned inside out?
There is a highway, Isaiah assures us, the Holy Way, the way for God’s people, and on that Holy Way none of life’s “ravenous beasts” can stop us unless we let them.
That assurance is wonderful in its own right but the truly glorious thing is this:
“No traveler, not even fools, shall go astray,” we are told by God through the prophet Isaiah in the New Revised Standard Version.
Of that fact I rejoice and cheer until I go hoarse. Even in my most foolish moments—and God knows I’ve had several thousand—God has not let me go truly astray. God’s love and grace have kept me on that Holy Way. Or led back on that path after I’d wandered off.
God knows humanity and understands that all of us will act foolishly at times. Sometimes it’s simply the foolishness of putting our own words into God’s mouth, framing our own expectations as if they were the word of God, and then becoming disheartened when those expectations aren’t met.
I’ve had to remind myself that, with the best of intentions, I put those words in God’s mouth. There is a huge difference between a genuine communication from the Holy Spirit and my own wishful thinking.
If, when that happens, I don’t realize that what I’ve done is perform a ventriloquist act—putting my voice in God’s mouth—then I am the real dummy in the performance.
Ironically, another opportunity for human foolishness is ignoring the voice of God when it does speak to our soul—when it is not us putting words in God’s mouth but actually the Holy Spirit of God communicating with us directly.
Especially when God is recommending a course correction in our lives to keep us on the Holy Way.
But God is ever-forgiving and ever-encouraging, even in the midst of our most foolish moments. God is always with us, speaking ceaselessly through the Holy Spirit until we listen, God promising that our deserts shall rejoice and blossom if we would only follow God’s signposts on the Holy Way.
There will be desert moments in our lives—we cannot avoid them—but, if we persevere, God promises that our troubled hearts shall some day leap like a deer.
Leap like the heart of a little child on Christmas Day.
Leap like a heart that understands the greatest gift of all is far too large to wrap.
Because that gift itself is wrapped around the whole, wide world:
If we’d only all open it together.
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, as the theologian Henri Nouwen wrote in The Inner Voice of Love, my wolf lying down with my lamb.
My 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!”
It’s echo became a refrain, and the darkness, itself, had turned to light.
By Ken Woodley
At the top of this hill
the world is
all around me.
Leaves drop—red-gold and ember-brown—
like autumn snowflakes.
I hear the gentle pattering of their descent
as they brush against
other leaves still clinging to trees and branches.
I see the gravity of their shadows
on the ground
and upon my skin
and sometimes mistake these dark reflections for birds
or butterflies flying southward
before winter can catch them
and keep them here
at the top of this hill,
the world falling all around me.
I hear the leaves touch down gently upon the leaves
that have fallen before them.
I feel one leaf, then another, brush against my cheek,
nudging me to join them
and in that moment I feel myself falling
away with them in the breeze
toward a creek at the bottom this hillside.
When I was a child, I watched my grandfather
carefully construct a small, balsa wood waterwheel
which he placed in the stream for me
so that I could watch it spin with the current and listen to the sound
of its splashing magic.
I feel the touch of his hand now after all these years.
He’s come from heaven, surely.
I turn and look but, no,
it is simply another leaf, instead,
brushing against my outstretched hand,
Then another leaf, and, suddenly,
they are all around me now,
from the top of the hill.
So, I walk on, determined,
listening to my footsteps in the fallen leaves
and the sound of water flowing with a smiling splash beside me
like a prayer
When all the leaves have fallen, I’ll still see them on the trees.
By Ken Woodley
I feel so totally, completely, eternally, irrevocably, money-back-guaranteed, fail-safe, locked-in, buzzer-beating-swish plugged into the warm light of God’s love for all time, for ever and ever amen.
Until life seems to pull me out of the wall.
And I go all dark.
And everything goes all dark around me.
And cold, oh, so cold.
The freezing chill decants me as if I don’t matter and never did matter, and I feel like I suddenly am zero minus infinity to the infinity power.
Until there is nothing left, it seems, but to surrender, surrender so much that I even surrender my surrender flag because there is nothing more to live for.
Nothing more to die for.
And I feel already dead.
And already buried.
And already gone.
…. You are there, Jesus.
The power cord in your hand.
The outlet in your eyes.
The transmission lines in your heart and in your soul that touched me with the warm light of God’s love that you gave me by the Sea of Galilee.
Gave me forever and ever.
Until not even death do us part.
Not even then.
Because in your rising…
In your resurrection…
I am risen.
I am resurrected.
I am plugged in.
Firmament exploding the darkness in an aurora borealis of the soul
that cascades me,
into the rainbow effervescence of your love
after the storming flood of never-lasting darkness.
You plugged us into God and shone the light that grows up from our winters into the spring that is planted so deep inside us that the darkest, coldest day on Earth can never really find it.
The darkness only wants us to believe that we have been unplugged.
But this is the truth: Your love knows no outage.
By Ken Woodley
A bird sang in the darkness outside my window
somewhere under the sky but where I could
not touch the light of the sun or the stars
even though I tried
and where the sun and the stars could
not touch me with their light
even though they tried.
And I felt my soul spread the wings of that bird and fly
from my room up towards heaven,
asking why I cannot touch the sun and the stars
when I am wrapped in darkness
and why they cannot touch me with their light
even though the effort by us all feels desperate and everlasting.
And the bird began to sing
and in its song my soul heard an answer:
that God had been singing to me
outside my window somewhere under the sky
hoping I would reach out to the reaching out of God
—instead of reaching for the sun and the stars—
and find my wings and believe in my song
that God was singing outside my window somewhere under the sky
and far closer to me than the light of the sun and the stars ever could be.
So, with my wings I fly now,
singing the song that God gave me somewhere under the sky
but content to have the sun and the stars above me,
wanting only for all of us to reach out toward each other
and bathe each other with the light we share
—instead of with the darkness—
and shine together night and day
somewhere under the sky
upon this all-too-vulnerable Earth
where we can be brighter than the sun by day
and brighter than the stars by night
for each other
when we reach out to one another with God’s hands
and allow God to reach out to others with ours
like the song of a bird just outside every window,
singing about their wings to those who do not believe they can fly,
and about their light to those who do not believe they can shine,
just as God did for me
in the flightless wilds of my darkened wilderness,
spreading the wings of Jesus into light
somewhere under the sky
all around me.
Somewhere under the sky around us all.
By Ken Woodley
Walking down the trails crossing the meadows and forests at Appomattox Court House National Historical Park, I see the seasons playing jazz again.
There are red notes ringing out from green. Orange and yellow notes trumpeting too.
The world around us is singing a new song to the Lord.
And we have the chance to join in with notes of our own.
Sometimes, of course, the weather here in Virginia seems to have no idea what season it is. One day feels like summer. The next feels like fall. The third day resembles a spring day in March.
Every day can feel like a different season and there are literally some days that feel like three, or even four, seasons in one. In fact, we may now have about 27 seasons instead of just four: all of them hybrids.
I can relate because, like any human being, I have seasons of my own and sometimes they are just as mixed up. In the morning, I may have a summer mood, especially as the caffeine kicks in. But then something may happen to make my happy enthusiasm begin to freeze and snow. Or I might suddenly feel all of my leaves start to fall from their limbs.
So, looking at the world around me as I follow the curving undulations of the land, and see what is fast-becoming one giant stained-glass window of leaf color, I recognize myself in this turn of the season.
The good, the bad, and the ugly.
Some tree limbs are already bare, as if all of their notes have already been played and they are ready to leave the stage for winter.
That’s a sad and pessimistic thought, but not so fast. Bare limbs silhouetted against the sky can play some of the most resonant seasonal notes of all. Let us each learn the lesson of the trees, with our without leaves. We’ve all got a song to sing. Our own particular notes. The unique melody that God has given us to play.
That never stops. Summer, fall, winter and spring. And then round and round the seasons again, all mixed up and maybe all at the same time.
With all due respect to classical composers, the interplay and passage of the seasons—as with the passage of our lives—seems far too improvised to be anything but jazz: play what you feel when you feel it within the basic structure of life’s song.
Certainly, there are specific times when seasons officially begin. That organizational structure does, yes, have a classical ring to it because the seasons can be likened to symphonic movements. But, within those prescribed months when the four seasons are each individually and officially recognized, there is a wide latitude for what the season will actually look and feel like to us and the creatures that share the world with us.
So, the reality is entirely jazz.
On a recent morning before we had all this rain, the drought had one small bird so desperate that I saw it drinking the dew from the roof of my car. I’d never seen that before and it illustrated, even more than the burned-out yards and fields, how dry things had become. So, I decided to rain—that is, I filled a pitcher of water and poured it in the birdbath.
I was able to end the drought, for one small creature and for that brief moment.
Then, yesterday I walked in the late afternoon. The slanting of the sun’s setting rays shone through the leaves of a maple tree. The beauty was compelling. Each leaf was a crown jewel.
The lesson for me was: no matter what season is in the world, or what season I feel on any given day, if I let God shine through my leaves, or on my bare limbs, then I am giving the world the best that I have to give.
Only with God can I do so. Even when I think it’s only me. Even in a drought, God can make me rain for someone somewhere. Just as God as done for me, through others, during my own droughts.
God bringing me summer in the depths of winter. Turning darkness into light because God has transformed someone’s heart into a saxophone and inspired them to play jazz in my life until my season changes.
The grace of it all becomes multiplied when I remember some of their most powerful notes and join them with my own when I next play during a moment of silent winter for someone else, filling them with the blooms of spring.
I’ve learned this to be the truth:
We’re all stained-glass waiting for the sun. Have faith. It will shine through us and for us. God’s love is not a season.